And the bitter old pamphleteer, for all that
his ears had been cropped and his cheeks branded by the Star Chamber,
lived to be nearly seventy. Jules Noriac was never to be seen abroad
until noon. His breakfast, like that of most Frenchmen, was
inordinately prolonged; and afterwards rehearsals, business
interviews, dinner, and the play would occupy him until nearly
midnight. His delight was to accompany some friend home, and then
walk the friend, arm-in-arm, backwards and forwards in front of his,
the friend's, door, discoursing of things sublunary and otherwise
until two in the morning. Then he would enter his own house and sit
down, pipe in mouth, to the hard labour of literature until six or
seven in the morning. What kind of slumber could a man, leading such
a life as this, be expected to enjoy? On the whole, it would appear
that M. Jules Noriac's habits were diametrically opposed to the
preservation of health and the prolongation of life, and that he died
quite as much from too much Boulevard and too much night work, as
from too much smoking. There are vast numbers of French journalists
and men of letters who, without being necessarily "Bohemians,"
consume their health and shorten their lives by this continuous and
feverish race against time. Their days are spent chiefly on the
Boulevards or in the cafes, and it is only at the dead of night that
they devote themselves to serious work.
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