The regular patrons begin to come in.  The poor professor, after his unprofitable labours of the day, enters, and bows to the landlady, who is cordial or severe in her greeting according to the items on the little slate which records her accounts.  He begins his meal.  “He has soupe aux croutons, veau a la Marengo, pommes frites, a small portion of Gruyere, and a bottle of wine.  He eats appreciatively after the manner of a bon vivant; he uses his napkin gently and frequently; he glances blandly at the surroundings; watching him, you would suppose the viands were the choicest of the season, exquisitely prepared, while, in reality, they are poor and unsubstantial stuff, the refuse, perhaps, of better restaurants.  Having finished the edibles, he calls for a ‘gloria,’ that is, black coffee and cognac; and, sipping this, he communes with his fancies which come and vanish in the blue waves of cigarette smoke.  His aspect bespeaks perfect complacency—­Fate cannot harm me; I have dined today.”

To Mr. Rideing we are indebted for certain items indicating the very moderate scale of prices at the Restaurant du Grand Vatel.  Outside there was a sign that read:  "Tous les plats, eight cents; plats extra varies; cafe superieur, three cents; cafe au lait, five cents.”  Here is a list of some of the dishes and their cost:  Soup and a plate of beef and bread, ten cents; soupe aux croutons, five cents; boeuf, legumes, ten cents; veau a la Marengo, twelve cents; mouton a Ravigotte, ten cents; ragout de mouton aux pommes, eight cents; boeuf braise aux oignons, ten cents; macaroni au gratin, six cents; celeri salade, six cents; compote de pommes, four cents; fromage Neufchatel, three cents; Limbourg, four cents; Gruyere, three cents; bread, one cent.  Thus, Mr. Rideing figured out, the professor’s dinner, wine included, cost him the sum of forty cents, and with five cents added for a roll and a cup of coffee in the morning, his daily expenditure for food was less than half a dollar.

The trails of Bohemia, or of pseudo-Bohemia, have never been so flaming and flagrant as they are today.  From that corner of the Avenue facing the Arch cross the Square diagonally to the head of Washington Place.  A hundred yards to the west lies the Lane of the Mad Eccentrics.  Two or three years ago the little triangle of a park known as Sheridan Square was surrounded by structures of red brick that dated from the days when Greenwich Village preserved something of its proud individuality.  Then a plan of transformation, involving a new avenue, cleared a wide path with the suddenness of a Kansas cyclone.  Bits of the picturesque past went tumbling down before the onslaught of the demolishers.  But in various nooks and corners that remained there sprang up bits of a picturesque although probably ephemeral present.