The Count of Monte Cristo

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in his rides about Paris, recollected the Bell and Bottle inn; he
turned around, saw the sign by the light of a reflected lamp, and having
dismissed the child, giving him all the small coin he had about him, he
began knocking at the door, very reasonably concluding that having now
three or four hours before him he had best fortify himself against the
fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep and a good supper. A waiter
opened the door.

"My friend," said Andrea, "I have been dining at Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and
expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but like a fool
I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours in the
forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which overlook the
court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux." The waiter
had no suspicions; Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he had a cigar
in his mouth, and his hands in the pocket of his top coat; his clothes
were fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots irreproachable; he
looked merely as if he had stayed out very late, that was all. While