Chapter 9

ISRAEL IS INITIATED INTO THE MYSTERIES OF LODGING-HOUSES IN THE LATIN QUARTER.

Closing the door upon himself, Israel advanced to the middle of the chamber, and looked curiously round him.

A dark tessellated floor, but without a rug; two mahogany chairs, with embroidered seats, rather the worse for wear; one mahogany bed, with a gay but tarnished counterpane; a marble wash-stand, cracked, with a china vessel of water, minus the handle. The apartment was very large; this part of the house, which was a very extensive one, embracing the four sides of a quadrangle, having, in a former age, been the hotel of a nobleman. The magnitude of the chamber made its stinted furniture look meagre enough.

But in Israel’s eyes, the marble mantel (a comparatively recent addition) and its appurtenances, not only redeemed the rest, but looked quite magnificent and hospitable in the extreme. Because, in the first place, the mantel was graced with an enormous old-fashioned square mirror, of heavy plate glass, set fast, like a tablet, into the wall. And in this mirror was genially reflected the following delicate articles:—first, two boquets of flowers inserted in pretty vases of porcelain; second, one cake of white soap; third, one cake of rose-colored soap (both cakes very fragrant); fourth, one wax candle; fifth, one china tinder-box; sixth, one bottle of Eau de Cologne; seventh, one paper of loaf sugar, nicely broken into sugar-bowl size; eighth, one silver teaspoon; ninth, one glass tumbler; tenth, one glass decanter of cool pure water; eleventh, one sealed bottle containing a richly hued liquid, and marked “Otard.”

“I wonder now what O-t-a-r-d is?” soliloquised Israel, slowly spelling the word. “I have a good mind to step in and ask Dr. Franklin. He knows everything. Let me smell it. No, it’s sealed; smell is locked in. Those are pretty flowers. Let’s smell them: no smell again. Ah, I see—sort of flowers in women’s bonnets—sort of calico flowers. Beautiful soap. This smells anyhow—regular soap-roses—a white rose and a red one. That long-necked bottle there looks like a crane. I wonder what’s in that? Hallo! E-a-u—d-e—C-o-l-o-g-n-e. I wonder if Dr. Franklin understands that? It looks like his white wine. This is nice sugar. Let’s taste. Yes, this is very nice sugar, sweet as—yes, it’s sweet as sugar; better than maple sugar, such as they make at home. But I’m crunching it too loud, the Doctor will hear me. But here’s a teaspoon. What’s this for? There’s no tea, nor tea-cup; but here’s a tumbler, and here’s drinking water. Let me see. Seems to me, putting this and that and the other thing together, it’s a sort of alphabet that spells something. Spoon, tumbler, water, sugar, —brandy—that’s it. O-t-a-r-d is brandy. Who put these things here? What does it all mean? Don’t put sugar here for show, don’t put a spoon here for ornament, nor a jug of water. There is only one meaning to it, and that is a very polite invitation from some invisible person to help myself, if I like, to a glass of brandy and sugar, and if I don’t like, let it alone. That’s my reading. I have a good mind to ask Doctor Franklin about it, though, for there’s just a chance I may be mistaken, and these things here be some other person’s private property, not at all meant for me to help myself from. Cologne, what’s that—never mind. Soap: soap’s to wash with. I want to use soap, anyway. Let me see—no, there’s no soap on the wash-stand. I see, soap is not given gratis here in Paris, to boarders. But if you want it, take it from the marble, and it will be charged in the bill. If you don’t want it let it alone, and no charge. Well, that’s fair, anyway. But then to a man who could not afford to use soap, such beautiful cakes as these lying before his eyes all the time, would be a strong temptation. And now that I think of it, the O-t-a-r-d looks rather tempting too. But if I don’t like it now, I can let it alone. I’ve a good mind to try it. But it’s sealed. I wonder now if I am right in my understanding of this alphabet? Who knows? I’ll venture one little sip, anyhow. Come, cork. Hark!”