"Well, sir, the man told me that you were very rich . . . and very generous. . . . And I thought that you might possibly . . ." He broke off short, incapable of uttering the word of prayer and humiliation. Sernine went up to him. "M. Gérard Baupré, did you not publish a volume of poetry called _The Smile of Spring_?" "Yes, yes," cried the young man, his face lighting up. "Have you read it?" "Yes. . . . Very pretty, your poems, very pretty. . . . Only, do you reckon upon being able to live on what they will bring you?" "Certainly . . . sooner or later. . . ." "Sooner or later? Later rather than sooner, I expect! And, meantime, you have come to ask me for the wherewithal to live?" "For the wherewithal to buy food, sir." Sernine put his hand on the young man's shoulder and, coldly: "Poets do not need food, monsieur. They live on rhymes and dreams. Do as they do. That is better than begging for bread." The young man quivered under the insult. He turned to the door without a word. Sernine stopped him: "One thing more, monsieur. Have you no resources of any kind?" "None at all." "And you are not reckoning on anything?" "I have one hope left: I have written to one of my relations, imploring him to send me something. I shall have his answer to-day. It is my last chance." "And, if you have no answer, you have doubtless made up your mind, this very evening, to . . ." "Yes, sir." This was said quite plainly and simply. Sernine burst out laughing: "Bless my soul, what a queer young man you are! And full of artless conviction, too! Come and see me again next year, will you? We will talk about all this . . . it's so curious, so interesting . . . and, above all, so funny! . . . Ha, ha, ha, ha!" And, shaking with laughter, with affected bows and gestures, he showed him the door. "Philippe," he said, admitting the hotel-servant, "did you hear?" "Yes, governor." "Gérard Baupré is expecting a telegram this afternoon, a promise of assistance. . . ." "Yes, it's his last hope." "He must not receive that telegram. If it comes, intercept it and tear it up." "Very well, governor." "Are you alone at your hotel?" "Yes, with the cook, who does not sleep in. The boss is away." "Good. So we are the masters. Till this evening, at eleven. Be off." Prince Sernine went to his room and rang for his servant: "My hat, gloves, and stick. Is the car there?" "Yes, sir." He dressed, went out, and sank into a large, comfortable limousine, which took him to the Bois de Boulogne, to the Marquis and Marquise de Gastyne's, where he was engaged for lunch. At half-past two he took leave of his hosts, stopped in the Avenue Kléber, picked up two of his friends and a doctor, and at five minutes to three arrived at the Parc des Princes.