He would have burnt Papillard’s stories, but they brought him money—much more money than “Satanitie” or “Nymphomanie” or “The Poisoned Tulip” or “The World Gone Gray” had ever brought him; and Gaillard was a sieve for gold—at the mercy of every woman he met, who robbed him of the money that ought to have gone to his tailors, bootmakers, hatters, and hosiers. Lately, indeed, he would have gone very much to pieces only for the fantastic labors of Papillard, and for these benefits he was ungrateful. You know the maxim of Rochefoucauld. He handed Toto his coffee, and, to turn the conversation, reminded him of the loan of a thousand francs which he had requested on their first meeting that evening. “It is indispensable to me,” said Gaillard. “I will let you have it,” replied the Prince, “but not now. If you had money now, you would be off to the Moulin Rouge, and I should not see you in the morning. I will let you have it to-morrow evening when we come back.” “But I have not a centime!” cried Gaillard, turning out his waistcoat pockets in despair. “And how can I meet you, how can I get to the rendezvous, in this condition?” “It’s better for you to come like that than come, perhaps, tipsy. Besides, I will pay all expenses, and I will give you five francs now; that will pay your cab to the Champs Élysées in the morning. Stay at home and write poetry just for to-night, and think of all the fun you will have to-morrow night.” “_Mon Dieu!_” said Gaillard, as the vision of the Moulin Rouge vanished before him into thin air. Part II. CHAPTER I. IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. The next morning broke fair. The sky over Paris held the blue of forget-me-nots, and the wind from the west, lazy and warm, ruffled the lilac of the Seine with streaks of sismondine. It was the summer end of April; she had still five days’ tenancy, and here May had arrived before her time, flushed and warm from her journey, but seemingly unspeakably happy. “Ah, _mon Dieu!_ ’tis like an old Italian picture!” cried Gaillard as he opened his lattice in the Rue de Turbigo. “Oh, _ciel_!” cried Célestin far away near the Rue de Babylone, as she stood by her open window and clasped her hands before all this beauty, whilst Dodor gave praise from the parrot cage till the brown sparrows, grubbing in the street below, cocked their impudent heads on one side, as if to say “What’s that? Who is making that noise?” Célestin had been dreaming of Toto, and praying before she slept that the morrow might be fine and that he would not forget. What a day had come in answer to her prayers! She fully believed that her prayers had brought this angelic morning, tripping with blue parasol outspread across the fields of light, across the hills of dreams and the country of impossible primroses. Then the artist turned from the window and from heaven, and flung herself into a hat.