He never gave five minutes more time to the shop in the rue Saint Antoine than justly belonged to it, and at half-past eight precisely he reached the Cafe David, where he breakfasted and remained till eleven.

There he listened to political discussions, his arms crossed on his cane, his chin in his right hand, never saying a word.

The dame du comptoir, the only woman to whom he ever spoke with pleasure, was the sole confidant of the little events of his life, for his seat was close to her counter.
He played dominoes, the only game he was capable of understanding.

When his partners did not happen to be present, he usually went to sleep with his back against the wainscot, holding a newspaper in his hand, the wooden file resting on the marble of his table.

He was interested in the buildings going up in Paris, and spent his Sundays in walking about to examine them.