world; he dreams of the beautiful women who will use them as he lies there unknown in his bed. Life is full of poetry; we find it in the most unexpected places. Well, the room below that of Fanfoullard is unlet—it was so, at least, a week ago; we will take it; it has a little room adjoining that will do for a bedroom. We will go hunting for the furniture, you and I, to-morrow.” “But, see here, Gaillard: I am not playing at this, and I must be economical. I’m going to start on three or four thousand francs, and make that do. I’m deadly in earnest.” “You are right,” said the poet. “It would be absurd to live in an attic with a bank-book; besides, you can always apply to your mother, Mme. la Princesse, should the wolf scrape too loudly at the door.” “Oh, good gracious, you will drive me mad! If I don’t succeed I will hang myself; I would never have the face to come back; and what I mean by success is, success without help. I am stiff with sitting still and being waited upon; I want to _be_.” And Toto’s eyes gleamed madly in the gaslight, whilst Gaillard felt a decided shiver. Then he remembered Toto’s general eccentricities, and rubbed his chin, making his thin beard crackle. “It will last a month,” thought he; “and then we shall all drive home in a cab very hungry, and the Princesse will kill the fatted calf, and the girl will be pensioned.” “Gaillard, what are you thinking of?” demanded Toto. “I was thinking that I should like to be young again like you,” burst out Gaillard, a lot of lunatic ideas waking up and dancing like Bacchantes around the lie. “And be loved by a beautiful girl, and work for her, and fail, and die in her arms; those are the happiest lives, after all, failure ending in death with one’s beloved. Success ruins one’s life. I have never been happy since I met it, when I was young; but I was never young, I sucked nepenthe with my mother’s milk. I do not believe I was ever born; I was found in some field of poppies, and they hid the fact. When I have written my last song I shall drop in some field of poppies. Ah, me, wretched body of mine! Toto, let us go and dine and forget ourselves; let us become beasts for an hour, and then you will come to my rooms. Fanfoullard may be there; he always crawls out at dark and rides to the Rue de Rivoli in an omnibus with his eyes shut, for fear of seeing the terrible people who make use of those vehicles. They put him out in the Rue de Rivoli, and he opens his eyes. Should he have any fans finished, he takes them to Nadar, who monopolizes his work; then he always comes to my rooms and smokes—I leave tobacco for him on the mantel. He is my familiar. For days sometimes we do not meet, when I happen to be out, but I always know that he has been; he leaves a smell of withered flowers behind him. All my greatest poems are due to Fanfoullard. You remember, Schiller could never compose without rotten apples in his desk. Fanfoullard is my rotten apple. Come, let us go to the Maison Dorée.”