r brother, to whom retirement
from active service had proved a fatal blow, he would probably grow an
old man when he could no longer come from his home to the ministry, sit
in the same chair and copy a certain number of pages. Poiret's eyes were
dim, his glance weak and lifeless, his skin discolored and wrinkled,
gray in tone and speckled with bluish dots; his nose flat, his lips
drawn inward to the mouth, where a few defective teeth still lingered.
His gray hair, flattened to the head by the pressure of his hat, gave
him the look of an ecclesiastic,--a resemblance he would scarcely have
liked, for he hated priests and clergy, though he could give no reasons
for his anti-religious views. This antipathy, however, did not prevent
him from being extremely attached to whatever administration happened to
be in power. He never buttoned his old green coat, even on the coldest
days, and he always wore shoes with ties, and black trousers.

No human life was ever lived so thoroughly by rule. Poiret kept all
his receipted bills, even the most trifling, and all his account-books,
wrapped in old shirts and put away according to their respective years
from the time of his entrance at the ministry. Rough copies of his
letters were dated and put away in a box, ticketed "My Correspondence."
He dined at the same restaurant (the Sucking Calf in the place du
Chatelet), and sat in the same place, which the waiters kept for him. He
never gave five minutes more time to the shop in the rue Saint Antoine
than justly belonged to it, and at half-past eight precisely he reached
the Cafe David, where he breakfasted and remained till eleven. There
he listened to political discussions, his arms crossed on his cane, his
chin in his right hand, never saying a word. The dame du comptoir, the
only woman to whom he ever spoke with pleasure, was the sole confidant
of the little events of his life, for his seat was close to her counter.
He played dominoes, the only game he was capable of understanding. When
his partners did not happen to be present, he usually went to sleep
with his back against the wainscot, holding a newspaper in his hand, the
wooden file resting on the marble of his table. He was interested in the
buildings going up in Paris, and spent his Sundays in walking about to
examine them. He was often heard to say, "I saw the Louvre emerge from
its rubbish; I saw the birth of the place du Chatelet, the quai aux
Fleurs and the Markets." He and his