“Do I ever spend money? I spend my life paying it out, it seems to me; but how much do I spend on myself, how much have I for pleasure? Not a denier. I assure you, Toto, if I have three francs in my pocket people seem to smell it. No sooner had I got home the other day than Mme. Plon appeared with a bill, which I had imagined paid. Then Brevoart attached me for seven hundred and fifty. It was my fault for dealing with a German tailor; he got an order against me, and would have attached my royalties had I not paid. People think you are in Corsica, and so they make raids on me—then there is Angélique.” “But, see here: I am very hard up myself. You know I determined to do on three thousand; well, I have spent over five hundred in a fortnight.” “Only five hundred!” “But think what that means; if I go on at this rate, in a couple of months I shall have nothing.” “Toto,” said Gaillard earnestly, “I speak to you as a friend: Why pursue this course? Were I an enemy of yours I would urge you on, and then, when you came to grief, laugh at your sufferings. I am your friend, and I say stop. You are a fine artist, and for that very reason you must fail in this course. Genius was never intended to buffet with the world, to pay rent and fight with tradespeople; it is always allied to a fine nature, and I predict the most horrible sufferings for you should you continue this fictitious and insane battle with the world. It is only the duffers and the dullards who succeed in this game; they have blunt noses, and they do not feel blows. Look at De Nani, a miserable wreck without an idea, of whom all Paris is talking. Look at me. Could I tell you one-half the hardships I have undergone in my struggle for art, you would stop your ears. Well, then, I say desist; you can only live once: why make a hell of life? Come back to us; you have made an experiment in life. It is like a curious philosophical experiment that dirties one’s hands; well, then, let us wash our hands, and turn down our cuffs again.” “Even if I wanted to stop this life, which I do not,” said Toto, playing with Gaillard’s bait, “I couldn’t—sooner do anything than that.” “Nobody knows; it’s a matter between you and your conscience; _I_ will never speak. You come back from Corsica in a hurry; well, what of that? it is a whim, and admirably in keeping with your character. Do, for Heaven’s sake, Toto, consider your position; and mine, for I feel that I am in some sort responsible for this act of yours, but I have been at least discreet, and, as I said before, nobody knows.” “My mother knows.” “What is a mother, if not a confidante of our little eccentricities?” “And the American girl knows.”