in a high, portly voice, and pointing to my japanned box, which I had
slung upon a curtain-hook. "Monsieur is not an attaché of the house.
Monsieur is doubtless an herb-doctor."

[Illustration: SUCKLED IN A CREED OUTWORN.]

There are charlatans who pervade the provincial parts of France,
stopping a month at a time in the taverns, and curing the ignorant
with samples according to the old system of _simulacra_--prescribing
kepatica for liver, lentils for the eyes and green walnuts for vapors,
on account of their supposed correspondence to the different organs.
I settled my cravat at the mirror to contradict my resemblance to a
waiter, threw my box into a wine-cooler to dispose of my identity with
the equally uncongenial herbalist, and took a seat. Nodding paternally
to the coat of Prussian blue, I proceeded to order Bordeaux-Léoville,
capon with Tarragon sauce, compôte of nectarines in Madeira jelly--all
superfluous, for I was brutally hungry, and wanted chops and coffee;
but what will not an unsupported candidate for respectability do when
he desires to assert his caste? I was proceeding to ruin myself
in playing the eccentric millionaire when the door opened, giving
entrance to a group of breakfasters.

"There he is--that's the man!" said the homoeopathist, much excited,
and indicating to the blue coat a brisk, capable-looking gentleman of
thirty-two in a neat silver-gray overcoat. The latter, after slightly
touching his nose, nodded to the Scotchman, who in return drew himself
up to his full height and formally wiped his mouth with a napkin, as
if preparing himself for an ovation. Happily, he contented himself
with rubbing his own nose with each hand in turn, and bowing so
profoundly that he appeared ready to break at the knees.