Rain streamed down the windows of a small café where a man sat, drowning himself in absinthe.  His head was tilted slightly toward where I stood, cold and wet, and even from outside, I could almost hear the soft groans he made.  No doubt he was some sort of criminal, perhaps even a part of the revolution brewing in the bistros of the city.  I could have easily arrested him, ended his hellish slumber, but something made me hesitate.  There I stood, before the doorway, gazing in at the man whose fate I held in my decision.  If I arrested him, what then?  This man, so childishly sleeping, would be sent to the chain gang at Toulon, and his life would be over.  I pushed open the door.  Everything in the room seemed bathed in a smoky haze.  I walked over to the man, sat beside him, and nudged him slightly.  He offered me a drink of his absinthe, and I took it.