Sitting beside the fire one evening, enjoying the profound calm of the place, attending from time to time to my little coffee-pot on the hob, and slowly turning the pages of a favorite author, I luxuriate in a state of mind half idle, half studious.  Leaving off presently to listen to some sound which I hear, or fancy I hear, in the adjoining room, I wonder for the twentieth time whether Hortense has yet returned from her long day’s teaching; and so rise—­open my window—­and look out.  Yes; the light from her reading-lamp streams out at last across the snow-laden balcony.  Heigho! it is something even to know that she is there so near me—­divided only by a thin partition!

Trying to comfort myself with this thought, I close the window again and return to my book, more restless and absent than before.  Sitting thus, with the unturned leaf lingering between my thumb and forefinger, I hear a rapid footfall on the stairs, and a musical whistle which, growing louder as it draws nearer, breaks off at my door, and is followed by a prolonged assault and battery of the outer panels.

“Welcome, noisiest of visitors!” I exclaim, knowing it to be Mueller before I even open the door.  “You are quite a stranger.  You have not been near me for a fortnight.”

“It will not be your fault, Signor Book-worm, if I don’t become a stranger au pied de la lettre” replies he, cheerily.  “Why, man, it is close upon three weeks since you have crossed the threshold of my door.  The Quartier Latin is aggrieved by your neglect, and the fine arts t’other side of the water languish and are forlorn.”

So saying, he shakes the snow from his coat like a St. Bernard mastiff, perches his cap on the head of the plaster Niobe that adorns my chimney-piece, and lays aside the folio which he had been carrying under his arm.  I, in the meanwhile, have wheeled an easy-chair to the fire, brought out a bottle of Chambertin, and piled on more wood in honor of my guest.

“You can’t think,” said I, shaking hands with him for the second time, “how glad I am that you have come round to-night.”

“I quite believe it,” replied he.  “You must be bored to death, if these old busts are all the society you keep. Sacre nom d’une pipe! how can a fellow keep up his conviviality by the perpetual contemplation of Niobe and Jupiter Tonans?  What do you mean by living such a life as this?  Have you turned Trappist?  Shall I head a subscription to present you with a skull and an hour-glass?”

“I’ll have the skull made into a drinking-cup, if you do.  Take some wine.”

Mueller filled his glass, tasted with the air of a connoisseur, and nodded approvingly.

“Chambertin, by the god Bacchus!” said he.  “Napoleon’s favorite wine, and mine—­evidence of the sympathy that exists between the truly great.”

And, draining the glass, he burst into a song in praise of French wines, beginning—­