Bahorel was the man to see for good humor and bad company; he was brave, hopeless with money, profligate verging on generous, chatty verging on eloquent, bold verging on provocative; he was the best bastard that ever there was; he wore loud waistcoats and flaming red opinions to match; he was a great one for noise, which was to say he liked nothing more than a good brawl except a riot, and nothing more than a riot except a revolution; always ready to throw a cobblestone through a window, then to tear up the whole street, then to tear down a government, just to see the effect; a student of the nursery school, always playing up. He sniffed around the law for a bit, but he never did it. He had taken as his motto: never a lawyer be. Every time he went past the law school, which was rarely, he would button up his redingote, and he would take hygenic precautions.
Bahorel was a capricious man and spread himself thin over several cafés; the others had habits, he had none. He strolled. To err is human, to stroll, Parisian. At bottom, a penetrating mind and more of a thinker than he let on.