Pelisson did not much care what he got on credit, for he was editor only in name. If he lasted over the season it would be quite enough, for _Pantin_ would then be well rooted, and any fiasco of bankruptcy would only make _Pantin_ bloom the more. One might fancy that the bankruptcy of the editor would shake the paper in the eyes of the bourgeoisie, but the wise Pelisson knew better. “There is nothing,” said he, “that a tradesman enjoys more than seeing another tradesman let in.” _Pantin_, be it observed, was now read, not only by the shopkeepers, but by the _beau monde_. Through its starch people observed a secret spirit at work. Its heavy sledge-hammer articles were supposed to be molding a crown. The journal was evidently a hit at the existing state of things; it was also strangely well informed, and the Ministry felt somewhat as a master might feel who suspected his butler of being a rogue, but could not prove the fact. Amidst De Nani’s other vagaries, affairs with women figured chief, so you may imagine Pierre Pelisson had his hands full, and no ears for Gaillard’s tale of tribulation about Toto. But De Nani had; he was sitting in a room adjoining the inner office, and heard the whole story—everything, in fact, but Toto’s address. CHAPTER III. THE SORROWS OF ART. Like Pelisson, the atelier in the Rue de Perpignan had its limitations; like Pelisson, it was also at times noisy. From the Gare de Sceaux at night and in the early morning came the sounds of shunting and the plaintive “toot-toot” of locomotives, whilst the top light seemed the chosen rendezvous of all the cats of the neighborhood who were in love. “Those frightful cats!” would murmur Célestin, trembling beside Toto lest his sleep should be broken. There were also draughts not specified in the lease, and the sink had a habit of getting stopped up at least once a day; then there was sometimes a smell of cooking from the rooms below. Toto grumbled a little sometimes, but not much at first. The new life was so entirely different from the life he had led heretofore, so free, and withal so joyous, that for a little while he did not trouble himself as to the morrow. The only rose leaf that disturbed his rest during the first fortnight was the atelier of Melmenotte—art, in short. Melmenotte had the air and aspect of a _vieux sabreur_. He inspected a picture as an infantry colonel inspects a regiment of the line, generally with a frown, sometimes with a few cutting words, sometimes with dead silence. He had inspected Toto’s attempts with a damnatory sniff and passed on.