which I saw him partaking on repeated visits. Occupied from
morning till night in the prosecution of his studies--in a quarter of Paris
extremely secluded--he appears to be almost unconscious of passing
occurrences without;[158] except it be of the sittings of the _Institute_,
which he constantly attends, on Fridays, as one of the Secretaries. I have
twice dined with him; and, each time, in company with the Abbe Betencourt,
his brother Secretary at the Institute; and his old, long-tried, and most
intimate friend.

The Abbe BETENCOURT was not unknown to me during his late residence in
England, as an Emigre: but he is still-better known to our common friend
* * *, who gave me the letter of introduction to Dom Brial. That mutual
knowledge brought us quickly together, and made us as quickly intimate. The
Abbe is above the middle height; wears his own grey hair; has an expressive
countenance, talks much; and well, and at times drolly. Yet his wit or
mirth is well attempered to his years. His manner of _rallying_ his
venerable friend is very amusing; for Dom Brial, from his deafness, (like
most deaf men) drops at times into silence and abstraction. On each of my
dinner-visits, it was difficult to say which was the hotter day. But Dom
Brial's residence, at the hour of dinner, (which was four--for my own
accommodation) happened luckily to be in the _shade_. We sat down, three,
to a small circular table, (in the further or fourth room) on the tiled
floor of which was some very ancient wine, within the immediate grasp of
the right hand of the host. An elderly female servant attended in the
neighbouring room. The dinner was equally simple, relishing, and abundant;
and the virtues of the "old wine" were quickly put into circulation by the
Benedictin founder of the feast.

At six we rose from table, and walked in the Luxembourg gardens, hard by.
The air had become somewhat cooler. The sun was partially concealed by
thin, speckled clouds: a gentle wind was rising; and the fragrance of
innumerable flowers, from terraces crowded with rose-trees, was altogether
so genial and refreshing, that my venerable companions--between whom I
walked arm in arm--declared that "they hardly knew when the gardens had
smelt so sweetly." We went straight onward--towards the _Observatoire_, the
residence of the Astronomer Royal. In our way thither we could not avoid
crossing the _Rue d' Enfer_, where Marshal Ney was shot. The spot, which
had been stained