“We will plant it!” cried Garnier, running about with the red-tile pot in his hand, and looking for some place in which to throw the dead flower. There was a sink outside the door; he cast it there. Then they planted the new tulip, pressing the mold tightly around the base of the stick, and hardly was the thing accomplished when Toto entered, looking worried, and as if he had been walking in a hurry. “Yes, it is very nice,” said Toto in the manner of an absent-minded parent as they called upon him to admire their handiwork. He kissed Célestin without fervor, and then, pulling Garnier aside by the arm, invited him to come outside for a moment and have a glass of beer, and give his advice about a picture. “I have had a row at the studio,” said Toto, when they were in the street. “Eh! what? with Melmenotte?” “No, that fool Jolly. I knocked him down.” “What! you did that? _Boufre!_ but it will do him a lot of good, that same Jolly. I have often wished to do so myself, but I am too big, and he is too small. You are more of his size. And why did you knock him down?” “He told me I wasn’t able to paint, that any _demi-mondaine_ had more art in painting her face than I had in painting a picture.” “But that is nothing; we all tell each other things like that.” “Yes, but he meant it; and, he said it in such an insulting manner, and, besides, he only said it because I had refused to lend him more money.” “So you knocked him down!” cried Garnier, breaking into a roar of laughter. “_Mon Dieu!_ and I missed it! I would have given five francs to have been there.” They entered a little café, and Toto called for two bocks. “I am very unhappy,” said Toto as he sipped his beer. “What! about that rascal Jolly?” “Oh, no; it is not that. I am unhappy about a lot of things. I wish I had never come to the Rue de Perpignan.” “Oh!” “Yes, tell me something seriously. How long do you think it will be before I am able to exhibit?” Garnier shifted about in his seat. He did not know exactly what to say; he had never considered Toto’s art seriously. His father had a shop, and the son, after dabbling a while with art, would doubtless end happily behind the counter. He was having his _Wanderjahr_ now. Even at the worst he might become a great artist. Who could tell? And who was Garnier that he should throw water on another man’s aspirations?