“I know nothing about painting,” she rumbled on, “and I do not like yours; but I like you, though your clothes are abominable. Come to my house Wednesday afternoon. It will be a dancing. Do you fox trot? But it does not matter. Smile at everybody the way you are smiling at me, and grow a moustache as soon as you can.” She turned to Savillhac. “If Gabrielle sees him, his fortune is made. You know how she goes in for the young ones. But those clothes will never do. I’ll wager he hasn’t a sou. But make him sell his bed and buy something that wouldn’t shame a cab driver.” Then abruptly she shook hands with both the young men and, swinging her skirts, waddled her way. “A droll of a type,” commented Ventrillon. “_Sacré nom de dieu!_” breathed Savillhac, staring at him aghast. “Why--why--what is the matter?” stammered Ventrillon. “You are invited to Madame Sutrin’s on Wednesday afternoon, and you say, ‘What is the matter?’ It is _you_ who are the droll of a type to ask it.” “But of course I shall not go.” “Then you will be an imbecile. It is the chance of your life. All Paris will be there. Does that mean nothing to you--_tout Paris_?” _Tout Paris!_ A definite social unit, it is a social unit without definition. Many belong, but more do not. If one goes where _tout Paris_ goes, does what _tout Paris_ does, says what _tout Paris_ says, knows the people _tout Paris_ knows, does not know the people _tout Paris_ does not know, then one is of _tout Paris_. But if one is not of _tout Paris_, one can do none of these things. One does not know how. _Tout Paris_ is success, it is failure, it is the heights, it is the depths, and it is always seeking a new sensation. Without laws, it is of fashion the law, and is of the greatest importance; for if the newspapers say, “_tout Paris_ was there,” that settles the matter. But, above all, _tout Paris_ can applaud, and the applause of _tout Paris_ can more quickly than anything else fill the empty pockets. The pockets of Ventrillon were usually abysmally empty, as he again remembered. “And do you not know who is this Gabrielle of whom she spoke?” Savillhac continued. “The great Gabrielle Belletaille herself, _nom de dieu_! The most extraordinary woman in Paris. And you heard what Madame Sutrin said? If the Belletaille becomes interested in you, she will soon introduce you to everybody of any importance. Think of the marvellous portraits you can paint, and the prices you can charge! Perhaps she may even allow you to paint _her_ portrait! Who knows? Then you will be in a position to refuse kings and queens.” Gabrielle Belletaille, the prima donna of the Opéra Comique, was, as everybody knew, the idol of _tout Paris_. There was nobody like her. Where she led, _tout Paris_ followed. Where _tout Paris_ leads, all the world follows. Ventrillon stood for a moment silent. His clear, deep eyes held a wonder such as one sees in the eyes of those who pause upon the thresholds of strange palaces.