Gnouf! gnouf!" of Grassot, the actor. "A man of his age does not decline
so rapidly without good cause. It is not natural!" What is it, then, that
has reduced M. Violette to such a degree of dejection and wretchedness?

Alas! we must admit it. The unhappy man lacked courage, and he sought
consolation in his despair, and found it in a vice.

Every evening when he left his office he went into a filthy little cafe
on the Rue du Four. He would seat himself upon a bench in the back of the
room, in the darkest corner, as if ashamed; and would ask in a low tone
for his first glass of absinthe. His first! Yes, for he drank two, three
even. He drank them in little sips, feeling slowly rise within him the
cerebral rapture of the powerful liquor. Let those who are happy blame
him if they will! It was there, leaning upon the marble table, looking
at, without seeing her, through the pyramids of lump sugar and bowls of
punch, the lady cashier with her well oiled hair reflected in the glass
behind her--it was there that the inconsolable widower found
forgetfulness of his trouble. It was there that for one hour he lived
over again his former happiness.

For, by a phenomenon well known to drinkers of absinthe, he regulated and
governed his intoxication, and it gave him the dream that he desired.

"Boy, one glass of absinthe!"

And once more he became the young husband, who adores his dear Lucie and
is adored by her.

It is winter, he is seated in the corner by the fire, and before him,
sitting in the light reflected by a green lampshade upon which dark
silhouettes of jockey-riders are running at full speed, his wife is
busying herself with some embroidery. Every few moments they look at each
other and smile, he over his book and she over her work; the lover never
tired of admiring Lucie's delicate fingers. She is too pretty! Suddenly
he falls at her feet, slips his arm about her waist, and gives her a long
kiss; then, overcome with languor, he puts his head upon his beloved's
knees and hears her say to him, in a low voice: "That is right! Go to
sleep!" and her soft hands lightly stroke his hair.

"Boy, one glass of absinthe!"

They are in that beautiful field filled with flowers, near the woods in
Verrieres, upon a fine June afternoon when the sun is low. She has made a
magnificent bouquet of field flowers. She stops at intervals to add a
cornflower, and he follows, carrying her mantle and umbrella. How
beautiful is summer and h