“What do you think of this vintage?” says he.
“Very good,” I answered. “Come and dine with me to-morrow and I will
give you the mate to it.”
“What—at the d’Orient?”
“Yes, at the d’Orient.”
“Preposterous!”
Nevertheless, he came. When the wine was poured out he took a sip.
“By ——!” he exclaimed. “That is good, isn’t it? I wonder where they got
it? And how?”
During the week after we had it every day. Then no more. The
headwaiter, with many apologies, explained that he had found those few
bottles in a forgotten bin, where they had lain for years, and he
begged a thousand pardons of monsieur, but we had drunk them all—_rien
du plus_—no more. I might add that precisely the same thing happened to
me at the Hôtel Continental. Indeed, it is not uncommon with the French
caravansaries to keep a little extra good wine in stock for those who
can distinguish between an _ordinaire_ and a _supérieur_, and are
willing to pay the price.