“Oh, bother Rousseau!” cried the Prince, helping Célestin to more honey. “We don’t want to think of him; we want to be happy.” “True,” said Gaillard; “you are young—we are all young; May is coming in. Désiré, a great idea has struck me: we will have a picnic. The inn at Montmorency may not be a good inn; I have my doubts about it. My children, listen to me: we will dine on the grass beneath those chestnut trees.” “But——” objected Toto. “Hear me out. I have a friend; we will call her Églantine. Do not laugh, Désiré. My friend lives close by; she is, in fact, very well-to-do, and owns a café. I will go to her, and she will pack me a luncheon basket, and so we will be at the mercy of no landlord.” “Well, go,” said Toto, “but do not be long.” “Half an hour is all I ask,” replied the poet, rising in a great hurry and departing. CHAPTER II. FÊTE CHAMPÊTRE. He passed almost at a run down the Rue St. Honoré. A friend tried to stop him. “I am busy,” cried Gaillard; “do not detain me! _Mon Dieu!_ I will pay you to-night! Meet me at eight at the Café de la Paix.” Then, at a run, round the corner of the Rue Royale and into a large café just waking up: “Du Pont! Du Pont! Where is M. Du Pont?” The proprietor, a large black-whiskered man in shirt-sleeves, appeared from the back premises, wiping his mouth with a serviette. This was Églantine. “My dear Du Pont,” cried Gaillard, “here am I nearly mad! M. le Prince has arranged a little picnic, and Sarony has forgotten to send the luncheon basket.” Du Pont flung up his hands as if the world had fallen in. “Can you arrange a basket for three—cold fowl, tongue, and some _pâté de foie gras_, also champagne?” “How many for—three?” cried M. du Pont, holding up three fingers. “_Tenez!_” and away he rushed. In ten minutes the basket arrived, borne by a waiter; it was a capable-looking basket, and seemed heavy. “At least, we shall not starve,” murmured Gaillard. “Charge it to M. le Prince, Du Pont. Adieu!” And he drove away in an open fly with the basket beside him, remembering, when it was too late, that he ought also to have ordered a box of cigars. He met his companions in the Rue Mont Thabor; they had left the _crémerie_, and were walking up and down in the sun. Then the trio, with the luncheon basket in their midst, drove off, and were deposited at the Gare du Nord, that dreary station with its multitudinous platforms and engines that do not whistle healthily, but toot mournfully with a suggestion of phantom horns. Here in the hurry and hubbub the poet could express his ideas on the third-class tickets which Toto insisted on buying, without fear of Célestin overhearing his plaints. “My dear Toto, do not do this disgraceful thing. Consider my position in the world, if you forget your own. Should anyone see me, _mon Dieu!_ it will be all over Paris, and they will say my books are not selling. Already they are saying that the editions are being faked. I will go back, I will commit suicide——”