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In one of the finest houses of the rue Neuve-des-Mathurins, at half-past eleven at night, two young women were sitting before the fireplace of a boudoir hung with blue velvet of that tender shade, with shimmering reflections, which French industry has lately learned to fabricate.
"Could you tap a bottle of Chablis, with a few dozen oysters, and a filet saute with mushrooms to follow it?" said Laurent, who wished to win the postman's valuable friendship. "At half-past nine, when my round is finished Where?" "At the corner of the Rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin and the Rue Neuve-des-Mathurins, at the Puits sans Vin," said Laurent.
Between the rue Basse-du-Rempart and the rue Neuve-des-Mathurins, Raoul had, on the third floor of an ugly and narrow house, in the Passage Sandrie, a poor enough lodging, cold and bare, where he lived ostensibly for the general public, for literary neophytes, and for his creditors, duns, and other annoying persons whom he kept on the threshold of private life.
"Could you tap a bottle of Chablis, with a few dozen oysters, and a filet saute with mushrooms to follow it?" said Laurent, who wished to win the postman's valuable friendship. "At half-past nine, when my round is finished Where?" "At the corner of the Rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin and the Rue Neuve-des-Mathurins, at the Puits sans Vin," said Laurent.
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