No More Learning

Bon-Bon, as far as I can
learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute investigation;--nor
do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it
is not to be supposed that the restaurateur would lose sight of that
intuitive discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the
same time, his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin de
Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for
the Cotes du Rhone. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to
Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel
an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of
Chambertin. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety
had attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly
alluded--but this was by no means the case. Indeed to say the truth,
that trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to
assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared
deeply tinctured with the diablerie of his favorite German studies.

To enter the little Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was, at the period
of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man
of genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have
told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and
forebore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His
large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach
of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of
deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw
not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this
habitual respect might have been attributed to the personal appearance
of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to
say, have its way even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much
in the outward man of the restaurateur calculated to impress the
imagination of the quadruped.
There is a peculiar majesty about the
atmosphere of the little great--if I may be permitted so equivocal an
expression--which mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times
inefficient in creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in
height, and if his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible
to behold the rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence
nearly bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men
must have seen a type of his acquirements--in its immensity a fitting
habitation for his immortal soul.

I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of habiliment,
and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I might
hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over
his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and
tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those
worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day--that the sleeves
were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted--that the
cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with
cloth of the same quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more
fanciful manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa--that his slippers
were of a bright purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been
manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and
the brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery--that his breeches
were of the yellow satin-like material called aimable--that his sky-blue
cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all
over with crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like
a mist of the morning--and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the
remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that
it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of
Paradise, or rather a very Paradise of perfection. " I might, I say,
expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,--but I forbear, merely
personal details may be left to historical novelists,--they are beneath
the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.

I have said that "to enter the Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was to
enter the sanctum of a man of genius"--but then it was only the man
of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign,
consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of
the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pate. On the back
were visible in large letters Oeuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately
shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique
construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the Cafe. In
a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army
of curtains, together with a canopy a la Grecque, gave it an air at once
classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary opposite, appeared,
in direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the
bibliotheque.