the plaster Niobe that adorns my
chimney-piece, and lays aside the folio which he had been carrying under
his arm. I, in the meanwhile, have wheeled an easy-chair to the fire,
brought out a bottle of Chambertin, and piled on more wood in honor
of my guest.

"You can't think," said I, shaking hands with him for the second time,
"how glad I am that you have come round to-night."

"I quite believe it," replied he. "You must be bored to death, if these
old busts are all the society you keep. _Sacre nom d'une pipe_! how can
a fellow keep up his conviviality by the perpetual contemplation of
Niobe and Jupiter Tonans? What do you mean by living such a life as
this? Have you turned Trappist? Shall I head a subscription to present
you with a skull and an hour-glass?"

"I'll have the skull made into a drinking-cup, if you do. Take some
wine."

Mueller filled his glass, tasted with the air of a connoisseur, and
nodded approvingly.

"Chambertin, by the god Bacchus!" said he. "Napoleon's favorite wine,
and mine--evidence of the sympathy that exists between the truly great."

And, draining the glass, he burst into a song in praise of French wines,
beginning--

"Le Chambertin rend joyeux,
Le Nuits rend infatigable,
Le Volnay rend amoureux,
Le Champagne rend amiable.
Grisons-nous, mes chers amis,
L'ivresse
Vaut la richesse;
Pour moi, des que le suis gris,
Je possede tout Paris!"

"Oh hush!" said I, uneasily; "not so loud, pray!"

"Why not?"

"The--the neighbors, you know. We cannot do as we would in the Quartier
Latin."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow. You don't swear yourself to silence when you
take apartments in a _hotel meuble_! You might as well live in a
penitentiary!--

'De bouchons faisons un tas,
Et s'il faut avoir la goutte,
Au moins que ce ne soit pas
Pour n'avoir bu qu'une goutte!'"

"Nay, I implore you!" I interposed again. "The landlord ..."

"Hang the landlord!

'Grisons-nous--'"

"Well, but--but there is a lady in the next room ..."

Mueller laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

"_Allons done_!" said he, "why not have told the truth at first? Oh, you
sly rogue! You _gaillard_! This is your seclusion, is it? This is your
love of learning--this the secret of your researches into science and
art! What art, pray? Ovid's 'Art of Love,' I'll be sworn!"

"Laugh on, pray," I said, feeling my face and my temper growing hot;