“Hundreds, but no use to me. I don’t want one of your bright diamonds—I want a man in the rough; I don’t want an editor—I want a creature, a clever one, too, now: for, upon my soul, I am becoming exhausted between keeping _Pantin_ and De Nani going at the same time. You said this Froissart was poor.” “Frightfully.” “That’s just what I want.” “But I believe he has an aunt who is very rich, and I heard she was dying some little time ago. I would not seek Froissart, Pierre; believe me, he is a very acid man, and quite unfit for an editor. If you want the sort of person you say you want, why not try me? I will do whatever you wish, and write whatever you wish.” “No, no!” cried Pelisson hastily; “it would not do. You are a poet—stick to your last. Besides, I have been bombarded with your creditors; I’ve had enough of that. That is one of the reasons I am sacking De Nani. The old fool has burst the bladder. Someone went to Auteuil to make inquiries, and found he was living in three rooms, and owed money to his laundress. You can fancy how the news has flown amongst his creditors. Next thing someone will find out that he is a fool.” “But why not edit the thing yourself?” “So I do; but I want a shield. _Pantin_ will begin to bellow soon. Well, no matter; I am off for Amiens. I won’t be back till to-morrow. What’s this man’s address?” “He lives in a cottage near the railway station; you will easily find it—there are roses on the porch. But, see here; who’s taking charge till you return?” “De Nani, nominally; he cannot do any harm in one day. Besides, I have left everything cut and dried.” “Does he know he is getting the sack?” “I should think so. He and I have been at the office all night talking things over. He is quite resigned—going to cut and run. I left him asleep on the sofa. Now good-by. The cottage near the railway station, you say. _Mon Dieu!_ I will scarcely have time to catch the train.” He darted off, and Gaillard sank down again in bed filled with the bliss of satisfied hatred. De Nani was down at last; the little world of æsthetic people who required “Satanities” and “Falls of the Damned” would now, perhaps, give their Gaillard undivided attention. He never once thought of Pelisson gone off on a wild-goose chase to Amiens, and soon he forgot even De Nani, immersed in visions of an impossible Gaillard worshiped by an impossible world. Mme. Plon came in and placed _Pantin_ on the foot of his bed, and a letter in a blue envelope. The letter looked like a bill, so he left it whilst he glanced at the journal with languid interest. Then he picked up the letter, which had been left by a messenger, and, to his surprise, found that it was from De Nani. “My Dear M. Gaillard [said De Nani]: May I ask you to call upon me immediately on receipt of this? It is of the utmost importance that I should see you without a moment’s delay.”