CHAPTER XII
At the Cafe Jourdain
Fifty-four West Houston Street, just three blocks south of Washington
Square, was a narrow, four-storied-and-basement building, of gray
brick with battered brown-stone trimmings--at one time, perhaps, a
fashionable residence, but with its last vestige of glory long since
departed. In the basement was a squalid cobbler's shop, and the
restaurant occupied the first floor. Dirty lace curtains hung at the
windows, screening the interior from the street; but when I mounted
the step to the door and entered, I found the place typical of its
class. I sat down at one of the little square tables, and ordered a
bottle of wine. It was Monsieur Jourdain himself who brought it: a
little, fat man, with trousers very tight, and a waistcoat very
dazzling. The night trade had not yet begun in earnest, so he was for
the moment at leisure, and he consented to drink a glass of wine with
me--I had ordered the "superieur."
"You have lodgings to let, I suppose, on the floors above?" I
questioned.
He squinted at me through his glass, trying, with French shrewdness,
to read me before answering.
"Why, yes, we have lodgings; still, a man of monsieur's habit would
scarcely wish----"
"The habit does not always gauge the purse," I pointed out.
"That is true," he smiled, sipping his wine.
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