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, three even.

He drank them in little sips, feeling slowly rise within him the cerebral rapture of the powerful liquor.

Let those who are happy blame him if they will! It was there, leaning upon the marble table, looking at, without seeing her, through the pyramids of lump sugar and bowls of punch, the lady cashier with her well oiled hair reflected in the glass behind her--it was there that the inconsolable widower found forgetfulness of his trouble.