Some go away on leave, or disappear without leave; they make excursions beyond the ramparts, or shut themselves up in the billiard-room of some cafe.

Many make during the course of the day frequent visits to the innumerable canteens, which succeed each other almost without interruption along the Rue des Ramparts.

Here old women have lit a few sticks under a pot, and sell, for a penny the glass, a horrible brew called 'petit noir,' composed of sugar, eau de vie, and the grains of coffee, boiled up together.

Behind there is a line of cook shops, the proprietors of which announce that they have been commissioned to provide food.

These speculators offer for sale greasy soup, slices of horse, and every species of alcoholic drink.
Each company has, too, its cantiniere, and round her cart there is always a crowd.