Ribeyre and his friends being at length of one mind we took a taxi which put us down in the Place Gaillon at the door of some restaurant, the name of which I have forgotten. Within, heavy hangings shut off the dining-room from the prying eyes of passers-by. Surville knew the place and led us to a small private room where five covers were soon laid. I sat next to Clotilde, or rather (a matter of more concern to me) the woman who bore that name. I may as well say I have completely forgotten what we had at this famous meal. Everything was unquestionably highly spiced, for we drank like fishes. "You must give me _carte blanche_," said Ribeyre, with a mocking glance first at Clotilde, then at Surville. A diminutive black waiter took our orders in the grand manner. I'm not certain but I think Ribeyre had met him before. "No champagne," he had said. I know no more. We began with a little Pouilly, dry as frost, to accompany the oysters. Then Mouton-Massé, who hailed from that region, suggested some '92 Saint-Emilion, whereupon Clotilde insisted upon Beaune, the wine of her own country. I did not lose this opportunity of winning her favour and ventured to ask the waiter to bring the best. Then Ribeyre improved the occasion by ordering Wolscheim in one of those long-necked, narrow-mouthed bottles. I should add that the greatest triumph was mine in winding up with the suggestion of a wine from the sandy Landes. None of the others had ever tried this formidable juice of grapes which on our barren dunes drink in the pale yellow rays of an ocean sun--a drink which leaves your head clear and your body active but plays the devil with your legs. Surville and Mouton-Massé kept me in small talk. Clotilde called me Raoul and made me promise to send her postcards. Ribeyre, stronger in the head, never stopped talking to the little black man except to signal, "Don't you worry," with his eyes. I felt a god, with the extra joy of being aware of my rapid ascent. I saw again the miserable boneshaker which had borne me two days before to the God-forsaken station in the Landes. One small lamp in the darkness; and wind, real wind, wind from the sea. Within me even blacker darkness. The Sauterne, liquid gold, sparkled in the glasses. The shades of the lights were reflected in it like little crimson tulips. I saw Clotilde's teeth shine on the glass from which she sipped, with little laughs that made her white throat shake. Her hand on mine communicated to me the tremors of that yielding, artless creature. Ribeyre was in the highest spirits. Mouton-Massé was busy with _crêpes-au-Kirsch_; Surville was drinking. There was a scene when the liqueurs came and Surville insisted on claret glasses.