“Struve is a critic,” said Gaillard in a vicious voice; “he is one of the sorrows of art. I do not know what criticism is coming to. Have you seen that article in the _Tribune_ on Mallarmé?—Mallarmé, that divine shadow moving in the twilight of the gods, even he is not safe from their mud. But what is this, Toto, you say about help and advice? Are you being worried by some woman? Is your mother tormenting? Unfold yourself to me.” “Look here, Gaillard: you are a man of sense, you have sympathy. I am sick of life, living like a cabbage, and I want to live really, I want to be famous without the assistance of anyone; I have a talent.” “You have an undoubted genius.” “And I want to use it. I go to Struve, and he sneers at me, tells me to grind a coffee mill.” “Oh, that Struve!” mourned Gaillard. “What led you to a critic for advice or sympathy? He told you to grind a coffee mill? Give me a cigarette, Toto; my case is empty; I will take three. He told you that! They fancy their cheap wit kills, these critics do; but you are not alone, Toto. Did you see the critique on my little poem ‘Satanitie’ in the _Écho de Paris_? Well, that is what they fling nowadays at an artist, and call it wit. But Pelisson is replying by a counterblast in the _Débats_. Dear old Pelisson! He knows no more of poetry than a rhinoceros; but he roars, and he has reduced the art of slaying a critic to a fine edge.” “Yes, yes,” said Toto, trying to lead Gaillard from himself for a moment; “but what do you think of my plan? I am going to take an attic and work in a blouse—I _am_; and, besides, do you know, Gaillard, I have met the most charming girl. She lives in an attic on three sous a day with a lark; she trims hats, and she has eyes just the color of Neapolitan violets. I have never loved a woman before.” “You love her?” cried Gaillard, “and you would leave the world for her to live in an attic? Oh, _mon Dieu_! what a romance you might make of life! And is that idea all your own? _Mon Dieu!_ you, a Prince, rich and young and charming, beloved by all the women of Paris—the very entry of such an idea into your brain proclaims you an artist. It is like the Prince in my little forest tale who renounced the world for a wood-nymph—my little tale called ‘Nymphomanie.’ You have read it.” “No, I haven’t.” “But I gave you a copy.” “Oh, yes, I remember now—the nymph who turned into a sow. It was a beautiful story; but never mind it for a moment. Tell me, Gaillard: you are not saying that just to please me?” “I,” said Gaillard; “I am charmed with the idea, the originality of it, the color of it. It has a perfume of violets—those violets that come in autumn as if to increase the sadness of the withered leaves. De Musset might have written a play upon it. I, ha! I will—I will write a poem on it.”