Standing beside me, he filled our glasses, the Duke’s, that of St. Maur, and last his own. Pierce and I rose with the rest. The Duke said, "The King, to his memory." and threw the glass over his shoulder, that no meaner toast might be drunk from it. I glanced at Pierce, and we did as they had done. "It shows its age." said Des Illes, "but still holds its bouquet. Fading—fading!" "One would scarce know it for the wine we knew when it and we were young," said the Duke. "Know it?" said Des Illes. "Ah me, dear Duke, if you yourself, aged twenty-five, were to walk in just now and say, ’_Bon jour_, Duke, how is myself,’ would you know him, think you?" "_Pardie_, my friend; you have ghostly fancies. Give us some younger wine and a gayer jest." "With all my heart," said Des Illes. "Let it be the Clos Vougeot of ’20," said the younger St. Maur. "It was with that wonderful vintage that I made my first entry into the highest society of the great wines." "A fine seigneur is that," said Des Illes. "It reminds me rather of some grande dame," returned St. Maur. "There is something haughty about the refinement of a high-caste Burgundy: a combination of decisive individual quality with good manners." "How pretty that is!" said Pierce. "The good manners of a wine!" "And is n’t champagne just a bit like a grisette?" laughed the Duke. "But a Margaux like this, or the Romance I see yonder, are grandees, as my friend has said; and there might be more to say of them, but I leave the rest to your fancy. A little more Burgundy, Monsieur?" As is, alas, true concerning most of the pleasant meals I remember, I can recall but faint reminiscences of the bright talk of that memorable supper. The younger St. Maur told us a pretty story of a vineyard wooing; a thing so delicate and idyllic that I shall not dare to take it out of its social frame for you. Later, Des Illes stood up and in a queer, creaky tenor sang (and by no means ill) the song the girls sing when they trample out the juice of the grapes in the great vats. Upon this Pierce quoted: Pink feet that bruise The gold-green grapes of Andalouse. I rashly tried to put it into French, and was much complimented upon what I knew to be a sorry failure. I have a misty recollection of what came after, of old-time jests, of levities as to the Corsican, and, too, a pretty story the Duke told us of the fairy vineyards near to Dijon, which only a woman who loves has ever seen. I seem now, as I write of this delightful night, to see it all again: the little old gentleman; the clear-cut face of the Duke; his son, cynical and handsome; the sheen of jet; the somber, picturesque dresses; thief François behind Des Illes’s chair, ruddy, gaunt, not less than ninety, with a smile of the same age. As I try to recall it, I remember—do I remember?—the flavor of that Clos Vougeot, and hear again the courteous voice of the Duke: "A little more Burgundy, Monsieur?"