Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the table.  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 to assert?  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 whiskers, he called out anew: 

“Waiter, a ‘bock.’  It makes me thirsty to keep calling so.  I am not accustomed to that sort of thing.  Yes, yes, I do nothing; I let things slide, and I am growing old.  In dying I have nothing to regret.  If so, I should remember nothing, outside this public house.  I have no wife, no children, no cares, no sorrows, nothing.  That is the very best thing that could happen to one.”

He then emptied the glass which had meanwhile been fetched to him, passed his tongue over his lips, and resumed his pipe.

I looked at him stupefied.  I asked him: 

“But you have not always been like that?”

“Pardon me, sir; ever since I left college.”

“That is not a proper life to lead, my dear sir; it is simple horrible.  Come, you must indeed have done something, you must have loved something, you must have friends.”

“No; I get up at noon, I come here, I have my breakfast, I drink my ‘bock,’ I remain until the evening, I have my dinner, I drink ‘bock.’  Then about one in the morning, I return to my couch, because the place closes up.  And it is this latter that embitters me more than anything.  For the last ten years, I have passed six years on this bench, in my corner; and the other four in my bed, never changing.  I talk sometimes with the habitues.”

“But on arriving in Paris what did you do at first?”

“I paid my devoirs to the Cafe de Medicis.”

“What next?”

“Next?  I crossed the water and came here.”

“Why did you even take that trouble?”

“What do you mean?  One cannot remain all one’s life in the Latin Quarter. 
The students make too much noise.  But I do not move about any longer. 
Waiter, a ‘bock.’”

I now began to think that he was making fun of me, and I continued: 

“Come now, be frank.  You have been the victim of some great sorrow; despair in love, no doubt!  It is easy to see that you are a man whom misfortune has hit hard.  What age are you?”