So busied was the household in attending to the travellers who arrived “extra post,” that none condescended to notice me, till at last, as the tumult subsided, a venerable old waiter approached me, and said, in a half friendly, half rebukeful tone, “It is at the 'Swan' you ought to be, my friend, the next turning but two to the left hand, and you 'll see the blue lantern over the gateway.” “I mean to remain where I am,” said I, imperiously, “and to remember your impertinence when I am about to pay my bill. Bring me the _carte_.” I was overjoyed to see the confusion and shame of the old fellow. He saw at once the grievous error he had committed, and was so overwhelmed that he could not reply. Meanwhile, with all the painstaking accuracy of a practised _gourmand_, I was making a careful note of what I wished for supper. “Are you not ashamed,” said I, rebukefully, “to have _ortolans_ here, when you know in your heart they are swallows?” He was so abject that he could only give a melancholy smile, as though to say, “Be merciful, and spare us!” “Bohemian pheasant, too,--come, come, this is too bad! Be frank and confess; how often has that one speckled tail done duty on a capon of your own raising?” “Gracious Herr!” muttered he, “do not crush us altogether.” I don't think that he said this in actual words, but his terrified eyes and his shaking cheeks declared it. “Never mind,” said I, encouragingly, “it will not hurt us to make a sparing meal occasionally; with the venison and steak, the fried salmon, the duck with olives, and the apricot tart, we will satisfy appetite, and persuade ourselves, if we can, that we have fared luxuriously.” “And the wine, sir?” asked he. “Ah, there we _are_ difficult. No little Baden vintage, no small wine of the Bergstrasse, can impose upon us! Lieb-frauen-milch, or, if you can guarantee it, Marcobrunner will do; but, mind, no substitutes!” He laid his hand over his heart and bowed low; and, as he moved away, I said to myself, “What a mesmerism there must be in real money, since, even with the mockery of it, I have made that creature a bond slave.” Brief as was the interval in preparing my meal, it was enough to allow me a very considerable share of reflection, and I found that, do what I would, a certain voice within would whisper, “Where are your fine resolutions now, Potts? Is this the life of reality that you had promised yourself? Are you not at the old work again? Are you not masquerading it once more? Don't you know well enough that all this pretension of yours is bad money, and that at the first ring of it on the counter you will be found out?” “This you may rely on, gracious sir,” said the waiter, as he laid a bottle on the table beside me with a careful hand. “It is the orange seal;” and he then added, in a whisper, “taken from the Margrave's cellar in the revolution of '93, and every flask of it worth a province.” “We shall see--we shall see,” said I, haughtily; “serve the soup!”