[1] Bavarian beer.
Why on this particular evening, did I enter a certain beer shop?
I cannot explain it. It was bitterly cold. A fine rain, a watery mist floated about, veiling the gas jets in a transparent fog, making the pavements under the shadow of the shop fronts glitter, which revealed the soft slush and the soiled feet of the passers-by.
I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having a short walk after dinner. I had passed the Credit Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, and several other streets. Suddenly I descried a large cafe, which was more than half full. I walked inside, with no object in mind. I was not the least thirsty.
By a searching glance I detected a place where I would not be too much crowded. So I went and sat down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be old, and who smoked a half-penny clay pipe, which had become as black as coal. From six to eight beer saucers were piled up on the table in front of him, indicating the number of "bocks" he had already absorbed. With that same glance I had recognized in him a "regular toper," one of those frequenters of beer-houses, who come in the morning as soon as the place is open, and only go away in the evening when it is about to close. He was dirty, bald to about the middle of the cranium, while his long gray hair fell over the neck of his frock coat. His clothes, much too large for him, appeared to have been made for him at a time when he was very stout. One could guess that his pantaloons were not held up by braces, and that this man could not take ten paces without having to pull them up and readjust them. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of his boots and the feet they enveloped filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs were as black at the edges as were his nails.
As soon as I had sat down near him, this queer creature said to me in a tranquil tone of voice:
"How goes it with you?"
I turned sharply round to him and closely scanned his features, whereupon he continued:
"I see you do not recognize me."
"No, I do not."
"Des Barrets."
I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des Barrets, my old college chum.
I seized him by the hand, so dumfounded that I could find nothing to say. I, at length, managed to stammer out:
"And you, how goes it with you?"
He responded placidly:
"With me? Just as I like."
He became silent. I wanted to be friendly, and I selected this phrase:
"What are you doing now?"
"You see what I am doing," he answered, quite resignedly.
I felt my face getting red. I insisted:
"But every day?"
"Every day is alike to me," was his response, accompanied with a thick puff of tobacco smoke.
He then tapped on the top of the marble table with a sou, to attract the attention of the waiter, and called out:
"Waiter, two 'bocks.' "
A voice in the distance repeated:
"Two 'bocks,' instead of four."
Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:
"Here they are, sir, here they are."
Immediately there appeared a man with a white apron, carrying two 'bocks,' which he set down foaming on the table, the foam running over the edge, on to the sandy floor.
Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the table, sucking in the drops of beer that had been left on his mustache. He next asked:
"What is there new?"
"I know of nothing new, worth mentioning, really," I stammered:
"But nothing has grown old for me; I am a commercial man."In an equable tone of voice, he said:
"Indeed--does that amuse you?"
"No, but what do you mean by that? Surely you must do something!""What do you mean by that?"
"I only mean, how do you pass your time!""What's the use of occupying myself with anything. For my part, Ido nothing at all, as you see, never anything. When one has not got a sou one can understand why one has to go to work. What is the good of working? Do you work for yourself, or for others? If you work for yourself you do it for your own amusement, which is all right; if you work for others, you reap nothing but ingratitude."Then sticking his pipe into his mouth, he called out anew:
"Waiter, a 'bock.' It makes me thirsty to keep calling so. I am not accustomed to that sort of thing. Yes, I do nothing; I let things slide, and I am growing old. In dying I shall have nothing to regret. If so, I should remember nothing, outside this public-house. I have no wife, no children, no cares, no sorrows, nothing. That is the very best thing that could happen to one."He then emptied the glass which had been brought him, passed his tongue over his lips, and resumed his pipe.
I looked at him stupefied and asked him:
"But you have not always been like that?""Pardon me, sir; ever since I left college.""It is not a proper life to lead, my dear sir; it is simply horrible. Come, you must indeed have done something, you must have loved something, you must have friends.""No; I get up at noon, I come here, I have my breakfast, I drink my 'bock'; I remain until the evening, I have my dinner, I drink 'bock.' Then about one in the morning, I return to my couch, because the place closes up. And it is this latter that embitters me more than anything. For the last ten years, I have passed six-tenths of my time on this bench, in my corner; and the other four-tenths in my bed, never changing. I talk sometimes with the habitues.""But on arriving in Paris what did you do at first?""I paid my devoirs to the Cafe de Medicis.""What next?"
"Next? I crossed the water and came here.""Why did you take even that trouble?"
"What do you mean? One cannot remain all one's life in the Latin Quarter. The students make too much noise. But I do not move about any longer. Waiter, a 'bock.' "I now began to think that he was making fun of me, and Icontinued:
