“Alas!” cried Gaillard, drinking off a glass of brandy, “I am touched at the soul. Toto, my Toto, our Toto, _do_ not grieve. I, too, will write a little poem, and it will make your picture famous. Where is that wretch? Kick him, Pelisson!” “Don’t let the waiters in,” choked Toto. “It’s only stupidity”—sniff, sniff—“the old fellow is drunk; don’t kick him, P-P-Pelisson, he’s an old man. I p-picked him up at my mother’s; he’s only stupid. There, I’m all right.” “Oh, dear me!” sighed Struve; “we are all right now, let us play baccarat.” “I am desolated,” mourned Gaillard, who had now to be comforted. “And my little poem is spoiled.” He looked at his shirt cuffs and broke into tears. CHAPTER III. THE FAG END OF A NIGHT AND THE BEGINNING OF A MORNING. When Gaillard was at last comforted and set writing poems in a corner, the waiters were admitted, the table was cleared, and cards produced. “Shall we go to the club?” asked Toto. “No, play here,” answered Struve. They played loo, and Pelisson kicked the senseless body of De Nani, which had been pushed right under the table for propriety’s sake, when luck went against him. Toto played furiously, partly to drown the remembrance of his unmanly tears, partly to be successful. His eyes burned, his cheeks were like carnations, and his luck was frightful; but he played with the dogged determination peculiar to him in little things, the pig-headed obstinacy which, had it been allied with talent and poverty, might have landed him in the Ministry or Academy. A few men dropped in now and then, glanced at the play, saw that the stakes were small,—for Pelisson kept them down,—and yawned out again. “Toto,” said Struve, as the clock struck twelve, “you’ll be ruined at this rate; better stop.” “Go on! go on!” cried Toto, like a man pursued by wolves. “The luck will turn.” It turned a bit, but not for long, and the play went on till a voice under the table asked “Where am I?” and then began moaning for a grilled bone. “It’s four o’clock!” cried Pelisson, glancing at the timepiece on the mantel, as Gaillard, waking in his corner, rubbed his eyes. “It’s four o’clock, and here comes M. le Marquis de Nani from under the table. _Bon jour_, Marquis; I thought there was a dog under the table, and I have been kicking at him for the last hour.” “I dreamt I was being kicked by a mule,” said the Marquis, rising erect and buttoning his waistcoat. “Who will dispute the truth of dreams after this?” and he looked at his false teeth in the mirror upon the wall. The _garçon de nuit_ entered with the bill—a yard long. “I have only a five-franc piece,” said Toto. “Let it stand, and bring us up some supper, some coffee and some champagne; also cigarettes—I want a cigarette. _Ai de mi!_ what a duffer I am! I cannot even win at cards.”