prepared--let us finish the picture.

If they drink at Guillotin's they eat also, and the mysteries of the
kitchen of this place of delights are well worthy of being known. The
little father Guillotin has no butcher, but he has a purveyor; and in his
brass stewpans, the verdigris of which never poisons, the dead horse is
transformed into beef a-la-mode; the thighs of the dead dogs found in Rue
Guénegaud become legs of mutton from the salt-marshes; and the magic of a
piquant sauce gives to the _staggering bob_ (dead born veal) of the
cow-feeder the appetizing look of that of Pontoise. We are told that the
cheer in winter is excellent, when the rot prevails; and if ever (during
M. Delaveau's administration) bread were scarce in summer during the
"massacre of the innocents," mutton was to be had here at a very cheap
rate. In this country of metamorphoses the hare never had the right of
citizenship; it was compelled to yield to the rabbit, and the rabbit--how
happy the rats are!

* * * * *

Father Guillotin consumed generally more oil than cotton, but I can,
nevertheless, affirm, that, in my time, some banquets have been spread
at his cabaret, which, subtracting the liquids, could not have cost more
at the café Riche, or at Grignon's. I remember six individuals, named
Driancourt, Vilattes, Pitroux, and three others, who found means to
spend 166 francs there in one night. In fact, each of them had with him
his favourite _bella_. The citizen no doubt pretty well fleeced them,
but they did not complain, and that quarter of an hour which Rabelais
had so much difficulty in passing, caused them no trouble; they paid
like grandees, without forgetting the waiter. I apprehended them whilst
they were paying the bill, which they had not even taken the trouble of