I smiled at my friend Gordon, the distinguished painter, lifting up my glass and taking a sip of the _table d'hote_ claret, which the Widow Camus supplies with her famed sixty-five cent repast. It is, I must acknowledge, a somewhat turbid beverage, faintly harsh to the palate, and yet it may serve as a begetter of pleasant illusions. While drinking it, I can close my eyes, being of an imaginative nature, and permit its flavor to bring back memories of ever-blessed _tonnelles_ by the Seine, redolent of fried gudgeons and mirific omelettes, and felicitous with gay laughter. "Well, you old stick-in-the-mud," said my companion, "what are you looking so disgruntled about? I was under the impress…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.