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, I do
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