The infrequent carriages, the high, barred windows of the ground floors, the odor of fresh drugs, of pharmaceutical preparations, imparted to that narrow little Rue Blondel a vague resemblance to certain streets in Basle or Zurich.
The brewery was managed by a Swiss and crowded with men of that nationality.

When the door was opened, through the smoke-laden atmosphere, dense with the accents of the North, one had a vision of a vast, low room with hams hanging from the rafters, casks of beer standing in a row, the floor ankle-deep with sawdust, and on the counter great salad-bowls filled with potatoes as red as chestnuts, and baskets of pretzels fresh from the oven, their golden knots sprinkled with white salt.
For twenty years Risler had had his pipe there, a long pipe marked with his name in the rack reserved for the regular customers.

He had also his table, at which he was always joined by several discreet, quiet compatriots, who listened admiringly, but without comprehending them, to the endless harangues of Chebe and Delobelle.

When Risler ceased his visits to the brewery, the two last-named worthies likewise turned their backs upon it, for several excellent reasons.

In the first place, M.
Chebe now lived a considerable distance away.