Boucard had finished his bill. He smelt the fragrance of his
chocolate, rose from his cane armchair, went to the chimney-piece,
looked the old man from head to foot, stared at his coat, and made an
indescribable grimace. He probably reflected that whichever way his
client might be wrung, it would be impossible to squeeze out a
centime, so he put in a few brief words to rid the office of a bad
customer.

"It is the truth, monsieur. The chief only works at night. If your
business is important, I recommend you to return at one in the
morning." The stranger looked at the head clerk with a bewildered
expression, and remained motionless for a moment. The clerks,
accustomed to every change of countenance, and the odd whimsicalities
to which indecision or absence of mind gives rise in "parties," went
on eating, making as much noise with their jaws as horses over a
manger, and paying no further heed to the old man.

"I will come again to-night," said the stranger at length, with the
tenacious desire, peculiar to the unfortunate, to catch humanity at
fault.

The only irony allowed to poverty is to drive Justice and Benevolence
to unjust denials. When a poor wretch has convicted Society of
falsehood, he throws himself more eagerly on the mercy of God.

"What do you think of that for a cracked pot?" said Simonnin, without
waiting till the old man had shut the door.

"He looks as if he had been buried and dug up again," said a clerk.