“You are always so much in evidence,” said Struve. “That’s where the mischief is; you cut such antics that people have no time to observe your serious attempts. You have got a frightful lot of energy, and you are a Prince—that’s what is wrong with you; you must be doing, you are tired of the club, the Bois, cock-fighting at Chantilly. By the way, I see your name in the _Figaro_ this morning under a thin disguise—Longchamps and all the rest of it. Your volcano is bunged up by ennui; you want a new opening for the lava to escape. Well, take my advice: move in the plane of least resistance; buy a coffee mill and grind it.” “Do be serious,” said Toto; “I come to you as a friend.” “Toto,” said the critic, “I am very serious, else I would not advise you to leave art alone. What’s the use? This, great, beautiful Moloch wants a whole life to eat, or nothing. There are a thousand men in Paris who have flung their all into this furnace. What will come out of all this forlorn thousand? Half a dozen, and they will be filled with despair. The walls of the Musée de Louvre are painted with the blood of men, and that’s success. What of the failures? Their story would shock creation. Art lives on failures; they keep the paint shops going, and serve as a background to three or four stars. Now go away. God in heaven! it’s four, and the post for Germany goes out at six.” “You are never so stupid as when you are serious,” blurted out Toto, as he rose and flung his cigarette-end into the grate. But Struve did not even answer; he was writing away. Toto then met the young Prince de Harnac, who invited him to dine at the Mirlitons; he refused, alleging a headache. Then he called on Pelisson, and found him out. He was wearily entering the Place de l’Opéra, when the devil flung him into the arms of Gaillard. Gaillard’s collar seemed higher than ever, and he had a distracted air. “I am running about looking for my dinner,” said Gaillard. “That infernal De Brie has gone off to his country house, and forgotten my check and left me to starve. I will turn an editor, and write no more poetry nor little articles for his journal. Dear Toto, come and give me my dinner, and lend me a thousand francs, and comfort me. Sit here with me, and have an absinthe, and look at Paris as it passes; and then we will go to the Maison Dorée and dine.” “You are just the man I want,” said Toto, as they took their seats at a café, where the marble-topped tables had ventured out now that the weather was fine, and even a bit warm. “I want your help and advice. I’ve been with that villain Struve, and he has depressed me, and flung cold water on me.”