“I was not exactly boasting,” said Toto, knocking the ash off his cigarette in a nervous manner. “My father made all his money out of a bank.” “You don’t mean to say he is a banker!” said Garnier, opening his eyes in astonishment, for a banker to Garnier was a much more extraordinary person than even one of those cherubs he talked about. “No; not exactly a banker: he was a partner in a great bank. He was always awfully ashamed of the bank. He is dead, you know.” “Ashamed of being a banker!” gasped Garnier. “What sort of man was he?” “He was an awfully funny old fellow. I can just remember him. He scarcely ever spoke to me; he was very stiff and straight, and he used to paint his face and wear stays.” “He was mad, then?” said Garnier. “Not he; he was as sane as I am—saner; for I believe I am cracked. No matter, it’s not my fault; I did not make myself.” “Paint his face and wear stays and ashamed of being a banker,” murmured Garnier. “You are not making an April fish of me? No, you can’t be, for it is the second of June.” “No, I wish I was; but I have a lot more to tell. You know I came down here to paint and live in the Rue de Perpignan a little more than a month ago. Well, I thought I was going to be a great artist. No, worse than that: I thought I was a great artist.” “So do we all, till we find out the right side of our palettes,” said Garnier. “Well, I am only a dauber; don’t say no—I have been finding it out in the last week. I didn’t want that fellow Jolly to tell me; that’s what made me so angry, I suppose, for I knew he was telling me the truth. Well, I am sick of it all; the pleasure is all gone from my life. I have a lot of anxieties; it is like being in prison. When I go out on the street, even here in this quarter, where I am not likely to come across anyone, I have to be always on the watch for fear of meeting anyone I know; I always look down a street before I walk down it.” “Ah, yes! I know that feeling. There are three streets forbidden to me just at present; they are barricaded by creditors.” “Oh, it is not creditors I fear.” “What then?” “Friends.” “_Mon Dieu!_ what a funny man you are! What is there pleasanter to meet than a friend?” “Yes; but don’t you understand? I don’t want my friends to know that I am an artist.” “And, for Heaven’s sake, why not?” “Well, for one thing, they would laugh at me.” “Laugh at you for being an artist! Sacred Heaven! what a funny man you are, and what funny friends you must have! And why should they laugh at you for being an artist?” “Well, you see, they don’t know anything about art, for one thing.” “Ah, I can see those friends of yours!” said Garnier, with an inspired air. “Old religious ladies, aunts, and what not,—they drive in carriages with pug dogs,—and old gentlemen with the Legion of Honor.” “Not at all; my friends are quite young.” “Who are they, then?” “Well, there is Eugène Valfray, son of the railway man.” “Never heard of him.”