They hazed him at first, but he did not lose his temper, so they left him alone; besides, he showed no talent, therefore created no envy, hatred, or malice. But Garnier, the man who worked on his right, took an interest in him just, perhaps, because the others voted him uninteresting and his work hopeless. It was Garnier’s way; he was a friend of failures, and took an interest in the forlorn. Sparrows, stray cats, or people like Toto appealed to him strangely. He was an immense fellow, with Southern blood in his veins and hopes of humanity, and his secret ambition in life was to be a politician and set the world to rights. Nature, however, the sworn foe of secret ambitions, had placed all his talents in his eyes and fingers, insisting that this wayward child should be no politician, but a divine artist. He had a great reputation as a scamp. He swore terrifically, and could out-talk a washerwoman. He was always borrowing, and spending, and lending, and giving, and he boasted that he kept a mistress. No one ever saw her; he kept her jealously hid, for she was eighty. He had, in fact, met her one day on one of the bridges crossing the Seine, and pensioned her forthwith because she reminded him of his mother, whom he had never beheld. He was a love-child, it seems, and certainly a most terrible mixture as far as mind and morals were concerned, for his ideals were always very high, and his ideas often very low, and his language very often pornographic. To complete himself, he always stank of garlic, and his pockets were generally stuffed with cheap cigarettes and sweets, which he dispensed open-handed to his friends. “Thanks,” said Toto, taking a cigarette from a dozen held out by Garnier. It was the third morning of his attendance at the studio, and he was feeling depressed; he was also putting away his things, for it was Saturday, and work stopped at twelve. “I,” said Garnier, “am going to enjoy myself, but the question is, How? Shall I go home and go to bed and read Eugène Sue, or shall I go to the Tobacco-Pot and play dominoes? Jolly, have you any money?” “None,” answered a lank-haired and evil-faced youth, darting out of the room, and clattering away down the stairs after the others. “I have,” said Toto. “How much?” inquired Garnier, with the air of a judge. “Ten francs.” “That settles it. We will go to the Tobacco-Pot. Ten francs, and this is Saturday! _Mon Dieu_, what a Rothschild you must be! Where did you get your money from?” “My father.” “What is he?” “He keeps a shop.” “Happy for you. You can paint away, and the old bird feeds you. Oh, I should like a shop—a little shop, where I would sell sweets and cigarettes, and live in my shirt-sleeves, and read the _Ami du Peuple_ and kick my heels.” “What do you think of my work?” asked Toto, glancing at the mediocre drawing upon his canvas.