Antoine was an excellent specimen of the
Parisian waiter. He could carry plates burning
with soup without spilling a single drop;
he could fill a coffee-cup blindfold; he could
hear the faintest whisper of a guest; and he
could tell you the amount of your addition in
a few seconds. You might forget his fee four
or five times, yet he would be always civil,
always obliging. If you were accompanied
by a lady, he had always a stool for
her feet. If you were undecided as to the
nature of the refreshment you would take,
he was full of excellent suggestions.
Would monsieur have a choppe; or some
groseille; or an ice half vanille and half
strawberry; or some cognac and seltzer-water?
Antoine could recommend the cutlets
with asparagus, or the salmon with
truffles. He knew exactly the strong points
of each day's bill of fare. And the master
he served was an excellent master, having
been an excellent servant in his time. He
had begun life as under-cook in a nobleman's
house. In this capacity he had saved a good
round sum of money. With this money,
aided by a friend, he had taken a restaurant,
and was, when Antoine became his servant,
worth one hundred thousand francs. Nor
did Antoine look upon his master's fortune as
anything extraordinary. It appeared to him
to be the necessary consequence of a prudent
waiter's life. Not one in twenty of the Paris
waiters spends all he earns.

He began his life at a very early age as a
servant boy in a public school. He was compelled
to rise at five in the morning, and to work
hard at the drudgery of the establishment
until six at night. In this situation his wages
amounted to two hundred francs a year.
Out of this sum he contrived to save one
hundred francs annually. At last, after four
or five years' service, he managed to improve
his condition by obtaining the situation of
sommelier or butler in a large restaurant.
He filled this post, as Antoine would
fill any post of trust, with honour. He
was a favourite with all the patrons of
the establishment; and when he left to
become head-waiter in a still larger
establishment, his departure was accompanied
with the regrets of his fellow-servants. It
was as head-waiter to this great establishment
that I first knew Antoine. I can
bear witness to his agility, to his grace, and
to his good-humour. The careless
confidence with which his fortunes and
misfortunes were freely told to his guests; the
pleasant anecdotes he always had ready; the
judgment with which he gave his advice
as to the evening's amusement, combined to
recommend him as a favourite waiter. But
Antoine was not to remain during his life
the contented distributor even of refreshment
so attractive as punch à la Romaine.
He was formed for better things.

For two or three years I had lost sight
of Antoine. He had left the establishment
of which he was the ornament; and in
answer to my inquiries, the master sulkily
told me that he knew nothing about him.
There had evidently been a quarrel. Well,
I gave up Antoine; and months passed
before the memory of Antoine was
reawakened within me.

One spring morning, attracted by stories
I had heard about the chiffonniers of Paris
and their haunts, I strolled towards the
Montagne de Sainte Geneviève. There, in the
narrow lanes at the back of the great library,
I was soon satisfied. The chiffonniers were
to be seen in every stage of intoxication. Rags
hung from every window; heaps of bones were
at some doors; at others, soles of old boots
were stacked. Here, women were sitting
sorting rags and paper, and watching the
drunken revels of their mates; there, huge
waggons were being loaded with enormous
bales of chiffons. For olfactory reasons I
did not long remain on the Montagne Sainte
Geneviève; on the contrary, I hastened
forward, past the Place Maubert: only
glancing into the horrible dark hole called
Le Drapeau, where the chiffonniers spend
their money in an adulterated spirit, which
they call canfre. My road towards the city
gate of the Two Mills, lay through one of the
poorest parts of Paris; through choked-up
alleys, and past people of wretched aspect. Still
hastening onward through a narrow street
where the wine-shops were separated from
each other only by occasional rag and old
clothes shops of the lowest class, I was
suddenly attracted by a sign that looked English.
To see the rude representation of a very fine old
oak suspended above a doorway in this
situation was a strange sight. The establishment,
regarded from the street, had not
an inviting aspect. I suspected at once
that it was a chiffonniers' ball-room. Under
the sign, was an announcement to the
effect that the price of admission was six sous,
which six sous included consommation to
that value. I approached the entrance; it
had all the melancholy air about it that
pervades a place of entertainment when no
entertainment is going on. But the rows of
copper vessels were bright; the little brandy
and wine measures were in excellent condition;
the floor was neatly sanded; and
a clean, bright-eyed woman was sitting at
work behind the huge leaden counter. A
voice from the room behind, called to her.
Surely, that was a familiar voice! Within
a minute afterwards, Antoine made his
appearance, with a huge bundle of keys.
He was pleased to see me, and began the story
of his life from the point at which he had
stopped when he used to talk to me at the
great restaurant.

The story was one of which Paris furnishes
many parallels. The prudent waiter as
inevitably becomes the prosperous restaurateur,
as a king's son obtains a colonelcy in the
army. Antoine, in his twenty-seventh year