“A _pompon_ is a thing women wear in their hats—a little fluffy feather, an absurdity, but it supports Angélique. In this world, Toto, some fate ordains that men live on each other’s absurdities. Absurdity is to men as grass to cattle, air to life. Could you place a great cupping-glass over Paris, and, with an air-pump, remove all its absurdity, the place would fall to pieces; ten thousand men would starve; the journals would wither like autumn leaves; Struve, Pelisson, De Brie, and a thousand others would vanish; women would no longer wear _pompons_ in their hats, and poor little Angélique would die from want of folly in others. Angélique has a lame brother who lives at Villers Cotterets; he is a great trial to us—an incessant drain. You often laugh at me for my expenses; the fact is, Toto, I am always being tapped, like a person with the dropsy. The affection between this brother and sister is a poem; I weep my money away over it. Now you are casting in your lot with art, Angélique rises up in my mind, and I hear her say “What will become of me?” I will not hide it from you that you have, through me, been the mainstay of an unfortunate man. Angélique knows it. Well, I want you to leave in my hands a certain provision for these people before you cut yourself off from your resources.” “I’ll give you some money to-morrow; I want you to come and see me started.” “Where shall I call for you?” “At the Boulevard Haussmann.” “In the morning?” “Yes, and be sure that you say nothing of all this; I want no one to know what I am doing.” “But your mother?” “She does not care so long as the American does not know.” “Do not yawn so, Toto.” “I can’t help it; it’s the thought of my mother, and old De Nani, and all the lot. Do you know, some day or another I would have cut my throat if I had not met Célestin; she was like a breath of air—she understands me because she loves me. Oh, I’m so sick of women _grinning_ at me; Célestin is the only woman I have ever seen smile. Mlle. Powers is a nice girl; she means what she says, but she always talks to me as if I were her grandchild, and she calls me Toto. Won’t it be a joke when my mother finds out that I have given old Pelisson a hundred thousand francs! I am fond of Pelisson, he’s the best of the lot; I’d do anything for him.” “Pelisson has his limitations,” said Gaillard, and Toto yawned again. CHAPTER VI. THE DEPARTURE. Gaillard, who was somewhat of a philosopher, had once divided sorrow under two heads—the sorrows of life and the sorrows of art. He reckoned the necessity of getting up early chief amidst the mundane sorrows, and accepted it in a grumbling spirit; but this morning he did not grumble. He dressed rapidly and sadly, and departed for the Boulevard Haussmann, refusing the coffee and roll and butter offered to him by Mme. Plon. “I cannot eat,” said Gaillard. “I am deeply disturbed.”