I was not listening. A third glass of port had wafted me to Paradise itself. The warm restaurant atmosphere went to my head. I thought with some disdain of my prospects of yesterday, with its poor man's education, its fellowships, the Heads of the four Faculties and the Vice-Rector in his room in the Rue des Écoles. These fashionable women and young men of the world who flittered round me under the lights reminded me of the cold passages of the Sorbonne and Henri Martin's fresco of Anatole France, dressed as an explorer in a landscape dotted with flowers, explaining to a dozen ill-dressed young graduates his personal conception of human destiny. There is the true conception of life, I thought, gazing admiringly at Clotilde, who was pinning the mauve and green bouquet to her white fur. 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,
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