“Oh, Doctor, that reminds me; what is O-t-a-r-d, pray?”

“Otard is poison.”

“Shocking.”

“Yes, and I think I had best remove it from the room forthwith,” replied the sage, in a business-like manner putting the bottle under his arm; “I hope you never use Cologne, do you?”

“What—­what is that, Doctor?”

“I see.  You never heard of the senseless luxury—­a wise ignorance.  You smelt flowers upon your mountains.  You won’t want this, either;” and the Cologne bottle was put under the other arm.  “Candle—­you’ll want that.  Soap—­you want soap.  Use the white cake.”

“Is that cheaper, Doctor?”

“Yes, but just as good as the other.  You don’t ever munch sugar, do you?  It’s bad for the teeth.  I’ll take the sugar.”  So the paper of sugar was likewise dropped into one of the capacious coat pockets.

“Oh, you better take the whole furniture, Doctor Franklin.  Here, I’ll help you drag out the bedstead.”  “My honest friend,” said the wise man, pausing solemnly, with the two bottles, like swimmer’s bladders, under his arm-pits; “my honest friend, the bedstead you will want; what I propose to remove you will not want.”

“Oh, I was only joking, Doctor.”

“I knew that.  It’s a bad habit, except at the proper time, and with the proper person.  The things left on the mantel were there placed by the landlady to be used if wanted; if not, to be left untouched.  To-morrow morning, upon the chambermaid’s coming in to make your bed, all such articles as remained obviously untouched would have been removed, the rest would have been charged in the bill, whether you used them up completely or not.”

“Just as I thought.  Then why not let the bottles stay, Doctor, and save yourself all this trouble?”

“Ah! why indeed.  My honest friend, are you not my guest?  It were unhandsome in me to permit a third person superfluously to entertain you under what, for the time being, is my own roof.”

These words came from the wise man in the most graciously bland and flowing tones.  As he ended, he made a sort of conciliatory half bow towards Israel.

Charmed with his condescending affability, Israel, without another word, suffered him to march from the room, bottles and all.  Not till the first impression of the venerable envoy’s suavity had left him, did Israel begin to surmise the mild superiority of successful strategy which lurked beneath this highly ingratiating air.

“Ah,” pondered Israel, sitting gloomily before the rifled mantel, with the empty tumbler and teaspoon in his hand, “it’s sad business to have a Doctor Franklin lodging in the next room.  I wonder if he sees to all the boarders this way.  How the O-t-a-r-d merchants must hate him, and the pastry-cooks too.  I wish I had a good pie to pass the time.  I wonder if they ever make pumpkin pies in Paris?  So I’ve got to stay in this room all the time.  Somehow I’m bound to be a prisoner, one way or another.  Never mind, I’m an ambassador; that’s satisfaction.  Hark!  The Doctor again.—­Come in.”