“You don’t mean to say he has gone on with that foolishness?” asked Struve, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands in his pockets. “I do indeed. It is a great piece of madness; but what is to be done?” “Leave him alone.” “But he will starve to death.” “A little starvation will do him a lot of good; he has too much kick in him. The man is tired of playing the devil. He has tried everything, and now he is trying work. He will be back in a fortnight, a greater devil than ever. I like Toto. He is such a fool; but it’s rather a pity. You see, he is a moon, and he wants to be a sun. He is tired of shining by the reflected glory of his fortune, and he wants to shine by his own light. He hasn’t any to shine by, and there you are.” “He has certainly no genius, but he is a very facile painter.” “Facile rubbish! He can’t paint.” “Do you not think, Otto, if you were to call upon him, and speak to him, and explain——” “_Gott im Himmel!_ what do you think my time is made for? Here am I behindhand with my book, and Flammarion like a caged tiger waiting for it. Go and tell his mother, go and tell his aunt, go to the devil, go anywhere, but don’t bother me about it. I have no time to be running after Totos; I am not a wet-nurse. Go and get a perambulator and wheel him home. How is _Pantin_?” “_Pantin_ is very well. Has not Pelisson offered you the art criticisms?” “Yes; but I am too busy to be bothered by _Pantins_.” “You are right. Pelisson makes a rotten editor; he gives out books for review as if they were clothes for wash. And De Nani——” “I know; he is an old fool. But do leave me now, like a good fellow,” lisped Struve. “My head is so full of saints, it has no room for De Nanis.” Gaillard went off in a huff, but at the entresol returned to borrow a few cigarettes, for Struve’s cigarettes were a dream. “I forgot to tell you,” said Gaillard as he lighted one, “not to say a word to anyone about Toto and his attic; he made me swear to tell no one.” “Then why did you tell me, you infernal idiot!” cried Struve, half laughing, yet nearly weeping at all these interruptions to his work. “I quite forgot,” said Gaillard, running off to confide his troubles to someone else, whilst the critic locked his door and bolted it. The poet turned into the offices of _Pantin_ in the Rue Drouot.