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Updated: June 16, 2025
I was too much accustomed to analytical labors to be baffled by so flimsy a veil. I determined to probe the mystery to the bottom. "Simon," I said, gayly, "let us forget all this over a bottle of Burgundy. I have a case of Lausseure's Clos Vongeot down-stairs, fragrant with the odors and ruddy with the sunlight of the Cote d'Or. Let us have up a couple of bottles. What say you?"
In the window recess behind are shields and horns. In the next enclosure are three foot figures of the end of the fifteenth century and commencement of the sixteenth century; the first holds a long-handled axe as used for encounters on foot in champ clos. The second holds a two-handled sword.
At dinner, over the General's wonderful Clos Vougeot, the Major again returned to the subject and felt that his words of advice fell upon somewhat indifferent and uncomprehending ears. It was the General's boast that he had never feed a doctor in his life, and his impression that a sound resort for any kind of invalid is a lethal chamber....
It was eaten readily and relished heartily. Nothing could be more exquisite than his calf's foot jelly liquefied and prepared by gas heat, except perhaps his meat biscuits of preserved Texas beef and Southdown mutton. A bottle of Château Yquem and another of Clos de Vougeot, both of superlative excellence in quality and flavor, crowned the repast.
The queen was singing, and the tones of her soulful voice resound still in my heart. The song was this: 'Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupiere, Tes cris me dechirent le coeur: Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre mere A bien assez de sa douleur. And while she sang she turned her head toward her son, who listened to her motionless and as if enchanted.
Smithson's own particular champagne and the claret grown in his own particular clos in the Gironde, had been sent down for the feast. No common cuisine, no common wine could be good enough; and yet there was a day when the cheapest gargote in Belleville or Montmartre was good enough for Mr. Smithson.
"My young mistis des seein' her mammy 'bout her clos," replied the quick-witted Zany. "I thought I yeared voices down by the run." "Reck'n you bettah go see," said Zany in rather high tones. "What the dev what makes yer speak so loud? a warnin'?" "Tain' my place ter pass wuds wid you, Marse Perkins. Dem I serbs doan fin' fault." "I reckon Mr. Baron'll do mo'n find fault 'fore long.
And this walk, strewn with river-pebbles and edged with flowers, shut in on one side by the Abbey and the novices' schools, on the left overlooked a precipice down to the Butte des Charbonniers, and below that again, the Rue de la Couronne; while beyond lay the grass lawns of the Clos Saint Jean, the line of the railroad, labourers' hovels, and convent buildings.
I shall content myself with enumerating the well-known names of the Count de Caylus, of the Abbe de la Bleterie, Barthelemy, Reynal, Arnaud, of Messieurs de la Condamine, du Clos, de Ste Palaye, de Bougainville, Caperonnier, de Guignes, Suard, &c. without attempting to discriminate the shades of their characters, or the degrees of our connection.
"I do," said Cassy, to whom a room with this man said only boredom and who liked to see what was going on. Then when, presently, they were seated at a table, to which the chastened captain of the ham-and-egg night had piloted the way, Cassy beheld what she had never beheld before, and what few mortals ever do behold, a cradled bottle of Clos de Vougeot.
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