“This is my friend M. Gaillard, the famous poet,” said Toto, putting in “the famous poet” as a sort of excuse for the gayety and _bizarrerie_ of his friend’s dress, which he felt might frighten Célestin. But Célestin was not in the least frightened, though somewhat awed by the grandeur and white waistcoat of Gaillard. She had heard Mme. Liard speak of poets, wonderful and fabulous beings who lived in the country. The country seemed coming to her in bounds, the gods descending in showers, the birds singing louder in the trees of the Champs Élysées as if to welcome God Gaillard. She felt very happy. “I am char-r-r-med,” said Gaillard, bowing again and sinking into a chair. “Charmed to make Mlle. Célestin’s acquaintance. I have not been to bed. To—Désiré, I have passed the night pen in hand; the dawn came in upon me as I worked; then it was too late.” He told this frightful lie with unction, for he had been, not only in bed, but snoring, when Mme. Plon, the concierge, tipped overnight by Toto, had actually come into his room and threatened to strip the clothes off him if he did not get up to go and meet Prince Cammora. “_Mon Dieu_, monsieur!” had cried Mme. Plon. “Where will you get that hundred and ten francs you promised me for the rent but yesterday, should you fail to meet M. le Prince, and put His Highness in a bad temper?” “How wonderful that is,” said Célestin timidly, “to be a poet!” Gaillard swelled a bit under his white waistcoat; then he laughed a dreary little laugh. “Ah, mademoiselle, on a morning like this, yes, it is a wonderful thing to be a poet; but the world is not always May, the world is not always May. Mademoiselle has, perhaps, never read my——” “No, of course she hasn’t,” cut in Toto. “At least—but that’s not the question; tell me, where shall we go? We want a pleasant day. Now, what do you suggest?” “But, mademoiselle——” “She has already suggested anywhere; she is indifferent.” “Well,” said Gaillard, who had the day’s festivity already sketched out in his head, “I would propose a _petit déjeuner_ now, then drop in to the Louvre and look at the Primitives, then I would propose _déjeuner_. After that, why not let us go to Montlhéry; we can take the train from the Gare d’Orléans. There is an old tower at Montlhéry that I love. We will dine at the Chat Noir; they have some very fine carp in a pond there, we will get the landlord to kill one and cook it for us. He knows me, and he manufactures a most delicious white wine sauce for carp. Well, then we will have a carriage back and supper at Foyot’s, in the Rue de Tournon.” “That might do for M. Rothschild, but it is not simple enough for us,” said Toto, making suppressed grimaces at the poet. “If I had sold a picture even lately, but I haven’t.” A blank look began to overspread Gaillard’s face; he had not reckoned on this. “So we must be very economical. How much money have you?”