“I have nothing!” cried the unfortunate Gaillard, and he began, as was his wont, to turn his pockets inside out; then he remembered Célestin. “My publisher was out when I called upon him. My dear To—Désiré, how much have you?” “Nineteen francs,” said Toto with a diabolical grin as he produced his money, “and a sou.” Célestin laughed and felt in her pocket for her little shabby purse, but Toto said “No.” “We are rich. Poets and painters, you know, Célestin, have a way of getting along on air, like the birds—haven’t we, Gaillard?” But Gaillard only made a noise like a groan. “I know what we’ll do. But first come, and we will have our _petit déjeuner_ at the little _crémerie_ in the Rue du Mont Thabor. You remember the _crémerie_ where we breakfasted yesterday, Célestin?” “That delicious little _crémerie_!” murmured Célestin, and they started. They crossed the Place de la Concorde, Célestin laughing, Toto talking, and Gaillard walking silent like a froward child. He would have returned to the Rue de Turbigo had he not been absolutely penniless, for the five francs had all vanished, devoured by a rose, a cigar, and a cab. “I will be silent,” thought Gaillard, “and spoil this wretched Toto’s pleasure; I will turn his feast into a funeral. Nineteen francs, _mon Dieu!_ and three people, and a day in the country! The mind revolts!” But ten minutes later he was calling for honey, declaring that he could not eat his roll and butter without it, and joining in the conversation. He could no longer endure the agony of holding his tongue; besides, he remembered the thousand francs Toto had promised him if he conducted himself decorously and with discretion. “I know where we will go!” cried the Prince. “Barbizon?” queried Gaillard, putting six lumps of sugar in his coffee. “No, Montmorency; the chestnut trees will look splendid to-day. They are not in flower yet; but no matter—one cannot have everything.” “True,” said Gaillard, trying to ogle Célestin and failing, for she was entirely engrossed with Toto and the bread and butter; “one cannot have everything. We will go to Montmorency, and sit beneath the chestnut trees and tell each other fairy tales.” “Oh, how delightful!” murmured Célestin. “I will tell you the tale of the giant and the dwarf,” resumed Gaillard. “It is my own—one of a series of _fin-de-siècle_ fairy tales I am writing for Lévy. There is a terrible battle in it, and the giant beats the dwarf. In the olden tales the dwarf beats the giant invariably, but I have changed all that. The giant in my story is the type of sin; he pelts the dwarf with roses, nothing more; the dwarf replies with mud; he is Virtue, and has a hump, and is hairy. Rousseau had a châlet at Montmorency; it is there still. I will leave you two amongst the primroses whilst I go and cast a stone at it—wretched man, murderer of his own children, destroyer of the _haute noblesse_, progenitor of the bourgeoisie!”