rounds
it with such visible splendor?

And he went back musing, almost ashamed, as if he had intruded into a
temple where he had, no right to enter.

WAITER, A "BOCK"

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."

I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des Barrets, my old college chum.

I seized him by the hand, and was so dumbfounded that I could find
nothing to say. At length I managed to stammer out:

"And you, how goes it with you?"

He responded placidly:

"I get along as I can."

"What are you doing now?" I asked.

"You see what I am doing," he answered quit resignedly.

I felt m