“Misery,” murmured Gaillard, turning his face to the wall. Toto pulled up the blind. “Never mind the misery. Get up and come out; I want you. What’s the matter?” “The world; it comes upon me like this sometimes, the horror of the whole thing. Besides, someone stole all my money last night. Where is God? I do not know. Go away, and leave me to myself.” “You haven’t taken poison or anything, have you?” “No—not yet.” “Well, get up, and I will give you some money, and we will go and have _déjeuner_.” Gaillard moved uneasily. “Do be quick, or I will go without you.” The poet rose rapidly, and began to dress. “I have seen Célestin,” said Toto, standing by the window, and looking out on the street. “Ah, that charming Célestin!” sighed Gaillard, putting on his trousers with a weary air. “And I have taken an atelier in the Rue de Perpignan. I spent the whole afternoon yesterday hunting for that fool Fanfoullard; no one knew of such a person, but I found very nice rooms.” “Fanfoullard has left Paris—gone to Nîmes. But, Toto, what is this you tell me? Are you really going to start on this crusade—become a painter?” “I am a painter.” “I mean, live in this dreadful way? Toto, I predict that there will be great trouble. Your mother is very anxious; she is anxious for you to make a good match.” “That’s all right.” “How all right?” asked Gaillard, scratching his head. “I saw the American girl yesterday, and told her what I was going to do. She is going to keep my mother quiet; she fell in with the idea at once. She is the only person who understands me.” “Did you tell her of Célestin?” “No, of course I did not; I am not that sort of person. I never talk of one woman before another. Go on dressing.” “And I suppose you will end by marrying the beautiful American, when you are famous?” “I will never marry anyone but Célestin. She is the only woman I have ever loved.” “But, _mon Dieu_! you are not going to marry her?” “No; I would if she wanted to, but she doesn’t. A priest mumbling over us will not make us love each other any more. Don’t put on that awful green necktie, for goodness’ sake; take that plaid one, it looks better.” “And you are going to start your _ménage_ to-morrow?” asked Gaillard, putting on the desired necktie carefully before the glass. “Yes, and that is what I am going to start on.” He held out three bank-notes for a thousand francs each. “It won’t last you a month.” “It will have to last me a year.” “Toto, are you serious?” “What the deuce!” blazed out Toto. “Everyone asks me that when I want to do anything that is not foolish. When I took to painting first, that fool De Harnac raised his stupid eyebrows and said: ‘Toto, are you serious?’ When I told Helen Powers yesterday, the first thing she said was, ‘Toto, are you serious?’ And now you. Am I a buffoon? And stop calling me by that odious name: I am Toto no longer—I am Désiré. Are you dressed? Let us go, then.”