to the house, there is no little comfort within its limits that you may not command. The waiter becomes less republican in his manners; the freshest of the morning's fish, the best of the day's meat, the choicest of the cellar's wine, will be recommended to you. Your favourite newspaper will be found by the side of your plate at breakfast; the warmest-placed table will be reserved for you in winter, and the coolest-situated one in summer will be tabooed to others, until your usual hour being long past, the people of the establishment begin to think you are not coming that day. You will eat partridges when others have to put up with fowl for their roast; will be told when the first quails of the season find their way to the larder; and will have twenty-four hours' notice of the first asparagus being brought from the market. To a Parisian restaurant un habitué de la maison is a sacred being, and one to whose comfort everything and everybody must give way. The longer you frequent the house, the better you will be treated. I once knew a French gentleman who for twenty odd years of his life had breakfasted and dined every day at a restaurant in the Rue de Bacone of the houses burnt down in May 1871 by the amiable patriots of the Commune. After frequenting this restaurant for nearly a quarter of a century, the habitué came to grief in money matters. He wished for the future to eat at a less-expensive establishment, and told his host So. But the latter would not hear of his leaving. To lose an habitué, he said, would be a lasting dishonour to his house; and so he insisted upon his customer remaining, eating and drinking of the best in the establishment, and only paying as much for his meals as they would have cost at the cheapest gargote. And this singular arrangement continued for ten years, until the habitué had to leave Paris for another world. When he was buried at Père la Chaise, the master of the restaurant made the usual speech over the grave; and to this day he and Madame boast that they once had an habitué who for thirty-five years of his life eat and drank at their establishment, and only left them to go to where there was neither dining nor giving of dinners, and where even the chef of a Paris restaurant may repose in peace. M. LAING MEASON. VILLAGE TYRANTS Dramatic Story BY JOSEPH HATTON ACT III. SCENE I. THE SQUIRE'S RETURN. THE morning after the burglary broke fair and bright over Combe Dingle. Autumn has its clear breezy days, almost like spring. A blue sky with light fleecy clouds, and a fresh wind that sends them scudding along the wide firmament. Flocks of birds drift with the wind. Thin blades of grass have toned the roughness of the stubble fields. The trees are a deeper hue than that which varies their colour in spring-time; but they look too beautiful for decay. Nature seems hopeful and full of life; it is the last flicker before Death comes, strong and powerful, and lets down the storm and flood, and blots out the glorious picture. Kate Meadows, by the advice of Mr. North, went to bed after the robbery. He said he would sit up with his wife. Kate needed rest, and she could return to the sick-room in the morning. If Mr. North wanted her in the night he would call her. Kate, glad of a respite from the inquiring glance of the farmer, and anxious to be alone with her thoughts, had gone to bed. By and by, in spite of her anxieties and trouble, she fell asleep, and slept well until the sun was full upon her window. She rose with a heavy heart. The scene of the night before was not a dream. She tried for a moment to think it was; but the terrible reality soon overshadowed her, and she saw the dreadful face of Tom North looking upon her with defiant cruel eyes, that seemed to burn into her soul. While she was dressing, the bells of the parish-church broke out into a merry peal. She flung open the window and listened. The wind carried the music hither and thither. The clouds were racing across the sky. A lark was singing overhead. Shadows were chequering the aftermath. The stubble fields were green and golden in the morning light. The trees were brown and yellow, and green and gray. Combe Dingle, even to Kate, who had lived there all her life, looked like the picture of some artist's dream. The bells clashed and chattered, and their music rippled in the crisp fresh air, and all at once Kate remembered a rumour that the Squire was expected home again that very day. He had come. The Manor House had received back the wanderer. |