[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."