They had reached the Café de la Paix; De Nani and Wolf were there already. “For goodness’ sake, Pelisson,” said Gaillard, “give this wretched Wolf his hundred francs, or he will be making innuendoes all dinner-time! It is a way he has; he is most spiteful and has no reserve.” Wolf was a journalist, with a long black beard, a high forehead, and spectacles. His forte was interviewing. He entered one’s house like a wolf, and swallowed one—house, wife, furniture, and all; the backyard and the front garden were not beneath him. Then he vomited the remains into the columns of fifty papers, and went and devoured someone else. But he was a good-natured wolf, ready to lend to a friend in distress, but a terrible creditor, for, to use Gaillard’s expression, he tortured one so. Pelisson drew him aside and promised him payment, and then they dined, the journalist sketching out his plan between the courses to the delight of his listeners, excepting Toto. The wretched Toto had no part in the scheme; they asked him for money to help them, but they did not invoke his brains. He felt the slight, but not severely; literature was not his path. He had no hankering after distinction as a journalist, so he agreed to supply the hundred thousand francs, if he could get them. “I will give you bills at three months, and leave you to discount them. I am going to Corsica to shoot moufflon.” And he touched Gaillard’s foot under the table to remind him of Célestin and the attic in Bohemia. “But,” said De Nani, who had remained sober, for the gout was threatening, and, besides, there seemed to be a chance of money in all this, “what is the name of this journal to be?” “_Pantin_,” replied Pelisson. “I have sifted a hundred thousand names in my head during the last three days, and _Pantin_ is the only one that stuck. It fits my idea like a glove; it has several meanings. It is like a stroke on a gong.” _Pantin’s_ health was drunk, then the conversation ran on, everyone talking except Toto, who was drinking. Toto, to do him credit, rarely drank much; he drank to-night because the joy of the others depressed him. He could not share their excitement; he felt himself to be the drone in this hive; they were all famous in their way, these men, except De Nani. He and De Nani, the representatives of birth—what a pair! He drank double on account of De Nani. They all rose from the table and trooped out, Pelisson’s hand on everybody’s shoulder, Wolf with his spectacles glittering in the gaslight, Gaillard gesticulating, De Nani sniggering, Toto smoking. They were going to Pelisson’s rooms to formulate their plans on paper. Unhappy Toto, had he known the nasty trick _Pantin_ was destined to play him! CHAPTER IV. RECEIPT FOR STUFFING A MARQUIS. Some days later Gaillard was lying in bed. It was noon, and the blinds of his room were down. Toto burst in. “Go away, Toto,” said the poet in a feeble voice. “I am dying.” “What are you dying of?”