By James Stevenson
It was now his custom to sit there. The world has its habits，why should a man not have his？ The earth rolls out of light andinto darkness as punctually as a business man goes to and fromhis office； the seasons come with the regularity of automata，and go as if they were pushed by an ejector； so， night afternight， he strolled from the Place de l’Observatoire to the FontSt. Michel， and， on the return journey， sat down at the sameCafé， at the same table， if he could manage it， and ordered thesame drink.
So regular had his attendance become that the waiter wouldsuggest the order before it was spoken. He did not drink beerbecause he liked it， but only because it was not a difficultthing to ask for. Always he had been easily discouraged， andhe distrusted his French almost as much as other people hadreason to. The only time he had varied the order was to request“un vin blanc gommée，” but on that occasion he had beenserved with a postage stamp for twenty-five centimes， and hestill wondered when he remembered it.
He liked to think of his first French conversation. He wantedsomething to read in English， but was timid of asking for it.
He walked past all the newspaper kiosks on the Boulevard，anxiously scanning the vendors inside—they were usually verystalwart， very competent females， who looked as though theyhad outgrown their sins but remembered them with pleasure.
They had the dully-polished， slightly-battered look of a modernantique. The words “M’sieu， Madame” rang from them as frombells. They were very alert， sitting， as it were， on tiptoe， andtheir eyes hit one as one approached. They were like spiderssquatting in their little houses waiting for their daily flies.
He found one who looked jolly and harmless， sympatheticindeed， and to her， with a flourished hat， he approached. Saidhe， “Donnez-moi， Madame， s’il vous pla？t， le Daily Mail.”
At the second repetition the good lady smiled at him， a smilecompounded of benevolence and comprehension， and instantly，with a “V’la M’sieu，” she handed him The New York Herald.
They had saluted each other， and he marched down the roadin delight， with his first purchase under his arm and his firstforeign conversation accomplished.
At that time everything had delighted him—the wide，well-lighted Boulevard， the concierges knitting in theirimmense doorways， each looking like a replica of the other，each seeming sister to a kiosk-keeper or a cat. The exactlycourteousspeech of the people and their not quite so
rigorously courteous manners pleased him. He listened to thevoluble men who went by， speaking in a haste so breathlessthat he marvelled how the prepositions and conjunctions stuckto their duty in so swirling an ocean of chatter. There wasa big black dog with a mottled head who lay nightly on thepavement opposite the Square de l’Observatoire. At intervalshe raised his lean skull from the ground and composed a lowlament to an absent friend. His grief was respected. The folkwho passed stepped sidewards for him， and he took no heed oftheir passage—a lonely， introspective dog to whom a caress ora bone were equally childish things： Let me alone， he seemedto say， I have my grief， and it is company enough. There wasthe very superior cat who sat on every window-ledge， winkingat life. He （for in France all cats are masculine by order ofphilology）， he did not care a rap for man or dog， but he likedwomen and permitted them to observe him. There was the manwho insinuated himself between the tables at the Café， holdingout postcard-representations of the Pantheon， the Louvre，Notre Dame， and other places. From beneath these cards hisdexterous little finger would suddenly flip others. One saw ahurried leg， an arm that shone and vanished， a bosom that fledshyly again， an audacious swan， a Leda who was thoroughlyenjoying herself and had never heard of virtue. His looksuggested that he thought better of one than to suppose thatone was not interested in the nude. “M’sieu，” he seemed tosay， with his fixed， brown-eyed regard， “this is indeed a leg， anauthentic leg， not disguised by even the littlest of stockings；it is arranged precisely as M’sieu would desire it.” His sorrowas he went away was dignified with regret for an inartisticgentleman. One was en gar？on， and yet one would not look atone’s postcards！ One had better then cease to be an artist andtake to peddling onions and asparagus as the vulgar do.
It was all a long time ago， and now， somehow， the savourhad departed from these things. Perhaps he had seen them toooften. Perhaps a kind of public surreptitiousness， a quite openfurtiveness， had troubled him. Maybe he was not well. He satat his Café， three quarters down the Boulevard， and before hima multitude of grotesque beings were pacing as he sipped hisbock.
Good manners decreed that he should not stare too steadfastly，and he was one who obeyed these delicate dictations. Alas！
he was one who obeyed all dictates. For him authoritywore a halo， and many sins which his heyday ought to havecommitted had been left undone only because they were notsanctioned by immediate social usage. He was often saddenedwhen he thought of the things he had not done. It was the onlysadness to which he had access， because the evil deeds whichhe had committed were of so tepid and hygienic a characterthat they could not be mourned for without hypocrisy， andnow that he was released from all privileged restraints andoverlookings and could do whatever he wished he had no wishto do anything.