The Revolt of the Angels by Anatole France

Profoundly distressed by the dark utterances of young Maurice, Monsieur Sariette took a motor-omnibus, and went to see Pere Guinardon, his friend, his only friend, the one person in the whole world whom it gave him pleasure to see and hear. When Monsieur Sariette entered the shop in the Rue de Courcelles, Guinardon was alone, dozing in the depths of an antique arm-chair. His face, surrounded by his curly hair and luxuriant beard, was crimson in hue. Little violet filaments spread a network about the fleshy part of his nose, to which the wines of Burgundy had imparted a purple tint; for there was no longer any disguising the fact, Pere Guinardon drank. Two feet away from him, on the fair Octavie's work-table, a rose, all but withered, drooped in an empty vase, and in a basket a piece of embroidery was lying unfinished and neglected. The young Octavie's absences from the shop were growing more and more frequent, and Monsieur Blancmesnil never called when she was not there.

The reason of this was that they were meeting three times a week at five o'clock in a house close to the Champs Elysees. Pere Guinardon knew nothing of that. He did not know the full extent of his misfortune, but he suffered.