the old Erard
piano, upon which Louise, an accomplished performer, now was playing a
set of Beethoven's waltzes and Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words."
This poor old servant now had only the shrill, trembling tones of a
harmonica.

The poor artist grew old, and he was uneasy as to the future; for he
had not known how to manage like his school-friend, the intriguing
Damourette, who had formerly cheated him out of the 'prix de Rome' by
a favor, and who now played the gentleman at the Institute, in his
embroidered coat, and received all the good orders. He, the simpleton,
had saddled himself with a family, and although he had drudged like
a slave he had laid nothing aside. One day he might be stricken with
apoplexy and leave his widow without resources, and his two daughters
without a dowry. He sometimes thought of all this as he filled his pipe,
and it was not pleasant.

If M. Gerard grew gloomy as he grew older, M. Violette became mournful.
He was more than forty years old now. What a decline! Does grief make
the years count double? The widower was a mere wreck. His rebellious
lock of hair had become a dirty gray, and always hung over his right
eye, and he no longer took the trouble to toss it behind his ear. His
hands trembled and he felt his memory leaving him. He grew more taciturn
and silent than ever, and seemed interested in nothing, not even in his
son's studies. He returned home late, ate little at dinner, and then
went out again with a tottering step to pace the dark, gloomy streets.
At the office, where he still did his work mechanically, he was a doomed
man; he never would be elected chief assistant. "What depravity!" said
one of his fellow clerks, a young man with a bright future, protected by
the head of the department, who went to the races and had not his equal
in imitating the "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,
thre