But the strangest _habitues_ of the restaurant are certain stalwart, middle-aged men, who seem to consider that their function in life is to grieve over their country, and to do nothing else for it.
They walk in as though they were the soldiers of Leonidas on the high road to Thermopylae--they sit down as though their stools were curule chairs--they scowl at anyone who ventures to smile, as though he were guilty of a crime--and they talk to each other in accents of gloomy resolve.

When anyone ventures to hint at a capitulation, they bound in their seats, and cry, _On verra_.

Sorrow does not seem to have disturbed their appetites, and, as far as I can discover, they have managed to escape all military duty.

No human being can be so unhappy, however, as they look.

They remind me of the heir at the funeral of a rich relative.
Speaking of funerals reminds me that the newspapers propose that the undertakers, like the butchers, should be tariffed.