After _déjeuner_ he taught his hostess how to make cat’s cradles, and Dodor’s history was told to him whilst he sat on the couch and nursed his knee and smoked his villainous cigarettes of Caporal. The guitar was taken down from the wall, and he played _café-chantant_ songs, things with the ghost of an air moving in a whirl of sound, and sang the “Girls of Avignon” with tears in his eyes, that seemed to behold the whirl of the farandole, the white road to Arles, the moonlight, the fireflies, and the orange trees shivering in the mistral. Altogether it was a most enjoyable afternoon, and the excitement and laughter left Célestin quite spent. A fit of coughing seized her when the time came for them to go out to dinner, and she declared that she must lie down. So she lay down on her bed, and Toto covered her up with a shawl, and gave her one of the lozenges Mme. Liard had placed in her trunk to suck. Then he went out with Garnier, and they dined at a little café for two francs each, wine included. “I found this little café only three months ago,” said Garnier. “It is a wizard café. I dine here as often as I can, for some day I expect to find it vanished. Those whom the gods love die young, and I am sure the gods must love this little café. I cannot tell how they give one such a dinner for two francs, including a bottle of Maconolais. That hare soup was a miracle. I suspect the miracle to be cats. But no matter; the taste was right. I save up on week-days, and dine here on Sundays.” “How long have you been working at art?” “Five years.” Toto felt rather aghast. “Have you been working at Melmenotte’s atelier all that time?” “Oh, no; for the last two years I have been in his private studio; it is being altered just now, so I just come to herd with the rest to keep my hand in. I must be doing something.” “Have you exhibited yet?” “No; Melmenotte will not let me. I am to next year; I shall have a picture in the Salon next year.” “How sure he is of himself!” thought Toto. “And how dull he must be to have worked five years without exhibiting!” Then to Garnier: “One of the fellows told me one could live by selling pot-boilers.” “Yes; one could live by house-painting, for the matter of that. Who was it told you?” “That young fellow with the long hair—Jolly you called him, I think.” “He is an awful wretch, that man, but a fine artist. Beware of him; do not ask him to your home. I never speak bad of people; but Jolly is not a person: he is a genius who will die in a jail or a lunatic asylum. I’ve told him so often. It would not do for him to make the acquaintance of Mlle. Célestin.” Garnier gave a little sigh as he ate a lark on toast, which he declared he suspected of being a rat. He seemed thinking a great deal of Célestin. The talk wandered over a number of topics, but somehow always back to or near Célestin.