aid not a syllable in disparagement of the house yelept Doree!
Is it not there that we eat of the crab of Bordeaux, succulent and
roseate? Is it not there that we drink of Veuve Cliquot the costly, and
of that Johannisberger, to which all other hocks are vinegar and water?
Never let it be said that Franz Mueller, being of sound mind and body,
did less than justice to the reputation of the _Maison Doree_."

"To the _Maison Doree_, then," said Dalrymple, "with what speed and
appetite we may! By Jove! Herr Franz, you are a _connoisseur_ in the
matter of dining."

"A man who for twenty-nine days out of every thirty pays his sixty-five
centimes for two dishes at a student's Restaurant in the Quartier Latin,
knows better than most people where to go for a good dinner when he has
the chance," said Mueller, philosophically. "The ragouts of the
Temple--the _arlequins_ of the _Cite_--the fried fish of the Odeon
arcades--the unknown hashes of the _guingettes_, and the 'funeral baked
meats' of the Palais Royal, are all familiar to my pocket and my palate.
I do not scruple to confess that in cases of desperate emergency, I have
even availed myself of the advantages of _Le hasard_."

"_Le hasard_." said I. "What is that?"

"_Le hasard de la fourchette_," replied the student, "is the resort of
the vagabond, the _gamin_, and the _chiffonier_. It lies down by the
river-side, near the Halles, and consists of nothing but a shed, a fire,
and a caldron. In this caldron a seething sea of oleaginous liquid
conceals an infinite variety of animal and vegetable substances. The
arrangements of the establishment are beautifully simple. The votary
pays his five centimes and is armed by the presiding genius of the place
with a huge two-pronged iron fork. This fork he plunges in once;--he may
get a calf's foot, or a potato, or a sheep's head, or a carrot, or a
cabbage, or nothing, as fate and the fork direct. All men are gamblers
in some way or another, and _Le hasard_ is a game of gastronomic chance.
But from the ridiculous to the sublime, it is but a step--and while
talking of _Le hasard_ behold, we have arrived at the _Maison Doree_."

CHAPTER XIX.

A DINNER AT THE MAISON DOREE AND AN EVENING PARTY IN THE QUARTIER LATIN.

The most genial of companions was our new acquaintance, Franz Mueller,
the art-student. Light-hearted, buoyant, unassuming, he gave his animal
spirits full play, and was the life of our little dinner. He had more
natur