It was written upon the office paper, bearing the stamp “_Pantin_, No. ——, Rue Drouot. Rédacteur, M. le Marquis de Nani. Cable and telegraphic address: ‘Pouf.’ Telephone: No. 1654320.” Over all, the motto and watchword of the journal: “_Qui vive?_” “Now, what can he want?” murmured Gaillard. “It is like his impertinence to send for me as if I were his footboy. I shall not go.” And he turned over on his side. But no mongoose was ever of a more inquisitive nature than our friend Gaillard. What could De Nani want, and without a moment’s delay? He tried to imagine and failed, and then arose and dressed. M. le Marquis de Nani was in the inner office. Since the night of Toto’s dinner-party at the Grand Café he had grown fat, or, at least, decidedly fatter. His raiment was superb; he had adorned his stomach with a gold and platinum watch-chain. He wore a shawl waistcoat, and his cuff-links, of dull gold, were enameled with pictures of tiny champagne bottles and opera dancers. He was standing before the indifferent looking-glass that adorned the mantel, examining his face and informing Scribe, the cashier, that _Pantin_ had given him ten new wrinkles. A café near by had just sent in _déjeuner_ for two and a bottle of Pommery. “I am expecting M. Gaillard to breakfast,” explained De Nani. “A most promising young man, whose interests I have at heart.” Scribe bowed and left the room. He was a shock-headed man, with musical instincts and a genius for figures; he held the Marquis in great reverence, and had an implicit faith in him that somewhat troubled Pelisson. Yet what could Pelisson do? You cannot tell the cashier to beware of the editor? This implicit faith of Scribe’s was perhaps one factor in the sacking of De Nani, although goodness knows there were others enough. “You sent for me, I believe,” said Gaillard rather stiffly, as he entered the inner office and made a little bow to his editor, whilst he glanced at the nice little _déjeuner_ on the table. “_Ma foi_, yes; I trust you will excuse the _brusquerie_ of my note, my dear M. Gaillard. Will you not join me at breakfast? That is right. I will explain myself as we eat; we shall not be interrupted, for Pelisson has gone off somewhere for the day.” “Pelisson will not be back till to-morrow,” said Gaillard, thawing visibly as he flung a bundle of papers off a chair and took his seat at the table. “He has gone to Amiens.” De Nani hid his satisfaction at this remark, as he unwired the champagne. Then the two, hobnobbing across the table, shared a Perigord pie, and conversation became general; it swiftly became indelicate, and then confidential. “You are right,” said the Marquis, in answer to a remark dropped by his _vis-à-vis_. “Pelisson has his limitations—ahu!”