They had reached a gloomy street sprinkled with a few shops, and filled with the boom of an adjacent factory. A gloomy house of four stories was the house where Célestin lived. “Now I shall know where to find you in case you fail to meet me to-morrow,” said Toto, as they shook hands. “I will not fail,” she replied. “I have never broken a promise in my life—only once.” “When was that?” “This morning, when I promised Dodor to be back in half an hour.” Then he kissed her hand just as the old gentleman with the red rosette had done, and wandered away, his head filled with thoughts of her. For it was a peculiarity of Célestin’s that, whilst she must have appealed to the angels in heaven, she also appealed strongly to Porte St. Martin minds. CHAPTER V. GAILLARD THE COMFORTER. Then he went home, and bathed and dressed and said “The club” when his mother, in _peignoir_ and morning paint, asked him where he had spent his night with that good, dear Marquis de Nani. Later in the day he wandered into Struve’s rooms. “Go away, Toto,” said Struve, who was busy writing at his table. He supplied seven journals with his ideas, from the _Fremdenblatt_ to the _Figaro_, and he seemed now engaged in writing for the whole seven at once. One could see nothing of the lisping, melancholy Struve of the night before in this lightning scribe. “Go away. I have no time for Totos. Come in three hours’ time.” “What are you at?” inquired Toto, sinking into a chair and lighting a cigarette. “Praising a man I hate.” “See here: stop writing your gibberish for five minutes; I want to speak to you.” Struve took out his watch and laid it on the table. “I am listening.” “You once said that if a man of talent were to start in Paris with three thousand francs and his ten fingers,—those were your words,—that if he did not get on he deserved to fail.” “So he does; what more?” “I have been thinking of having a try, working like a devil, and kicking over all this absurdity.” “Do; it won’t do you any harm. What at—politics?” “Oh, you owl!” cried Toto. “Politics—what do I care for politics! Art, that’s the only thing I care a button for. I’m going to dress in a blouse, and work like a common man—make my name off my own bat, as they say in England. I’m utterly sick of doing nothing; I must move—I must.” And Toto moved his arms. “And I am tied; no one takes me seriously. Look at old De Nani, praising me one moment, and then the next——Faugh! I’m a Prince; I am worth ten million francs when my mother dies. I play with art, that’s enough for people; they don’t see my work, they see me.”