No More Learning

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. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser.
Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics--there a kettle of dudecimo
melanges. Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with
the gridiron--a toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of
Eusebius--Plato reclined at his ease in the frying-pan--and contemporary
manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.

In other respects the Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little
from the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite
the door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a
formidable array of labelled bottles.