THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
experience once we avoided a repetition. My room in the house was, according to my notions, quite comfortable. To be sure, the windows did not open on the side of the Seine, but they looked into a narrow and dirty side street. In order to reach my room I had to go up several stairs and to go down several other stairs, and to wander through a long, dark corridor and to turn various corners; but that did not disturb me. It was rather spacious, had a floor of red tiles, upon which there were a few diminutive pieces of carpet, several chairs fit for use, a round table, a fireplace, a wardrobe for my clothes, and even a piano, which was indeed very old and bad, but might have been worse. My bed stood in an alcove, and by means of chintz curtains I could hide it from the gaze of visitors, so that my room looked not like a bedchamber, but like a little salon, which I was quite proud of. For this dwelling I had to pay a rent of thirty francs a month, a sum rather high for me; but I thought that the character of the house would otherwise help me to save. My first breakfast consisted of a cup of coffee, which I prepared myself, or a glass of wine and a piece of bread, sometimes with butter. After having worked at my writing-table until noon I took a second breakfast or lunch that never was to exceed one-half franc in cost, in some restaurant of the Latin Quarter, and in the evening I dined in an eating-house kept in the Rue Saint-Germain l'Auxerois near the Louvre, that was kept by a socialistic association of cooks, the Association Fraternelle des Cuisiniers réunis. Cooks, waiters, and guests addressed one another according to the model of the French Revolution, “Citoyen,” and this pride of civic equality showed itself also in the circumstance that the citoyen-waiter accepted no tip from the citoyen-guest. These citoyens furnished for one franc a very simple but very substantial and good meal, including even a “confi-
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