I ran home, clutching the ten delicious, crisp hundred pounds, and
the dear little fifty which made up the account. I flew through
the streets again. I got to my chambers. I bolted the outer
doors. I sank back in my great chair, and slept. . . .

My first thing on waking was to feel for my money. Perdition!
Where was I? Ha!--on the table before me was my grandmother's
snuff-box, and by its side one of those awful--those admirable--
sensation novels, which I had been reading, and which are full of
delicious wonder.

But that the guillotine is still to be seen at Mr. Gale's, No. 47,
High Holborn, I give you MY HONOR. I suppose I was dreaming about
it. I don't know. What is dreaming? What is life? Why shouldn't
I sleep on the ceiling?--and am I sitting on it now, or on the
floor? I am puzzled. But enough. If the fashion for sensation
novels goes on, I tell you I will write one in fifty volumes. For
the present, DIXI. But between ourselves, this Pinto, who fought
at the Colosseum, who was nearly being roasted by the Inquisition,
and sang duets at Holyrood, I am rather sorry to lose him after
three little bits of Roundabout Papers. Et vous?



Bourgonef


I

AT A TABLE D'HOTE