Why did I go into that beer hall on that particular evening? I do not
know. It was cold; a fine rain, a flying mist, veiled the gas lamps with
a transparent fog, made the side walks reflect the light that streamed
from the shop windows--lighting up the soft slush and the muddy 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. I suddenly descried a large beer hall which was more than
half full. I walked inside, with no object in view. I was not the least
thirsty.
I glanced round to find a place that was not too crowded, and went and
sat down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be old, and who was
smoking a two-sous clay pipe, which was as black as coal. From six to
eight glasses piled up on the table in front of him indicated the
number of “bocks” he had already absorbed. At a glance I recognized
a “regular,” one of those frequenters of beer houses who come in the
morning when the place opens, and do not leave till evening when it is
about to close. He was dirty, bald on top of his head, with a fringe
of iron-gray hair falling on the collar of his frock coat. His clothes,
much too large for him, appeared to have been made for him at a time
when he was corpulent. One could guess that he did not wear suspenders,
for he could not take ten steps without having to stop to pull up his
trousers. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of his boots and of
that which they covered filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs were
perfectly black at the edges, as were his nails.
As soon as I had seated myself beside him, this individual said to me in
a quiet tone of voice:
“How goes it?”
I turned sharply round and closely scanned his features, whereupon he
continued:
“I see you do not recognize me.”
“No, I do not.”
“Des Barrets.”