They found a café-restaurant, and were shown to a private room.
"Order whatever you choose," said Auguste to Cherami; "I have breakfasted."
"You too? In that case, it was hardly worth while to come here."
"I beg your pardon; I am going to write, I must write, two letters; then I will leave you. So, eat at your leisure; you have no occasion to hurry."
"Very good.—Waiter! Let me see, what can I take—something light, to give me an appetite? Ah! I have it. Bring me a good slice of pâté de foie gras, and a bottle of very old Beaune; we will toy with that, and then we'll see."
Cherami was duly served. Meanwhile, Auguste had seated himself at another table and was writing.
Madame Duponceau's breakfast did not interfere with Cherami's enjoyment of the foie gras, which he watered with frequent draughts of Beaune, saying to his neighbor from time to time:
"Pray drink a glass of this wine; it's old and very good; there won't be any left in a moment; however, we can remedy that by ordering another.—Waiter, bring me some kind of cheese and a second bottle of this Beaune."
Auguste had ceased to write; he sealed the two letters and handed them to Cherami.
"Will you kindly take these letters, my dear monsieur? one is for my wife, Madame Monléard; the address is written on it."