Arrived at the top, the wine-merchant cast one last long look into the cellar, then turned round like one fully resolved, locked the secret door, took out the key, and laid it solemnly in Anton's hand.

"There is the key of your property.

Our accounts are settled.

Fare you well, gentlemen." Slowly and with bent head he went through the ruined cloister, looking, in the gray light of the early morning, like the ghost of some ancient cellarer still haunting the relics of his past glory.
The agent called after him, "But our breakfast, Mr.Wendel!" The old man shook his head, and made a gesture of refusal.
Yes, indeed, the breakfast.

Every transaction was drowned in wine in this town.