“Those? They are insult added to an injury—books for review, and such books! See here Fourrier’s ‘Social Economy’; I am to write a trenchant quarter-column review of it, and abuse it, for that will please the bourgeoisie. I know nothing of social economy, so how can I abuse it? I could praise it, for then Fourrier, whoever he is, would not reply; besides, one can praise a book with one’s eyes shut—bah! See here, a brochure on the American sugar trust. _Mon Dieu!_ does Pelisson take me for a grocer? And here, again, a drama called ‘Henri Quatre,’ by some silly beast called Chauveau; all the lines limp, it is written in five-footed hexameters; and I am to praise it with discretion. With discretion, mind you! I wrote him a little poem for his abominable _Pantin_; it was called ‘Carmine-Rouge.’ You know I scarcely ever touch color in poetry; but I made an exception for once. He would not publish it; it was indecent, forsooth, and would bring the blush to the cheek of the bourgeoisie. Between the bourgeoisie on one hand and De Nani on the other, I feel as if I were in a terrible nightmare.” “Have you heard anyone speak of me?” “No one; they think you are in Corsica. But I have seen Mme. la Princesse; she sent for me to inquire after your health, and how you were progressing.” “And you said——” “Oh, I said ‘Admirably’; it was the best thing to say. I promised to call again and inform her of your progress; she entreated me to implore you not to discard your woolen vests. There was also a message about an overcoat, which I have forgotten; it was either to wear one or not wear one, but I cannot tell which: you know a mother’s ways. Toto, I feel hungry; have you anything to eat in this atelier of yours?” Toto got together some bread and butter, half a cold tongue, and a bottle of wine. Gaillard turned up his nose at the feast provided for him, but began to eat. “Toto, how much longer are you going to remain in this wretched Rue de Perpignan? Everywhere I go the cry is ‘Where is Toto?’ or ‘When will Toto be back?’” “Why, you said a moment ago nobody asked for me.” “Neither do they, but they speak of you, nevertheless; they do not ask for you because they imagine you in Corsica, but they mourn your absence.” “Oh, bother them—let them mourn!” said Toto in a gruff voice, chewing his cigarette in an irritable manner. “And how is Art going on?” asked Gaillard, casting his eyes about as if he were looking for her. “All right; don’t bother me. I’m sick of talking art; tell me, How is Struve?” “Struve is very well, though he declares that De Nani makes him sick.” He finished the wine in the bottle, and proceeded to the question of a loan. “But,” said Toto in horror, “you surely have not spent all that three thousand francs I gave you?” Gaillard laughed harshly.