“Pelisson is a journalist, a recorder of this ill-written tragedy which we are condemned to act in, and which we call, for want of a better name, ‘life.’ Oh, this life that they are always prating about! A scoundrel only the other day accused me of insincerity to life. Could he have paid me a higher compliment?” “No, egad. Ha! the infernal scamp said that, did he? What will you have?—they must have ‘copy’; that is the watchword of this villainous world, that stinks of printer’s ink. ‘Copy, copy’—I will give them some copy. A word in your ear, M. Gaillard.” “I am all attention.” “I feel safe in admitting you into my little secret, for you are a man of honor. I feel safe in admitting you into the secret of my little surprise, inasmuch as it concerns Pelisson, who is not your friend, M. Gaillard.” “Have you heard him saying things about me?” asked Gaillard, who was under the fixed belief that one half of the world spent its existence in slandering his works to the other half.” “I have heard him say——” “Yes?” “No matter; what is the use of repeating the words of a man like Pelisson—ahu! They are like the crackling of thorns under a pot, as that delightfully humorous book, the Bible, has it. I should not have mentioned the chattering of this magpie. Fill your glass, M. Gaillard.” “But, my dear Marquis, I implore you to tell me what this Pelisson has been uttering about me; it is always well to know one’s friends.” “Well, egad, he said so much I have forgotten half of it. One day—it was last week—he said, ‘This Gaillard thinks himself a poet.’ Harmless words, but it was the tone of his voice that set all the office laughing. I did not laugh, it was bad form; but there is no form in this journalistic world. I am leaving it, I have had words with Pelisson; and before I take my departure it is my humble ambition to make Pierre Pelisson dance.” “He ought to be dancing on an organ,” said Gaillard in a bitter voice. “It is all he is fit for.” “He ought to be dancing on an organ, as you very truly remark; but I will endeavor to find a broader platform from whence to amuse Paris. And he will not dance a waltz, M. Gaillard, nor yet will he indulge his limbs in the graceful movements of the mazurka. He will dance the can-can, will Pierre Pelisson—ahu!” “You are going to play a practical joke on him?” “Oh, no! I am only going to make him dance for my amusement; but to do so, I want Prince Toto’s address. He is in Paris?” “He is living at No. 10, Rue de Perpignan,” said Gaillard, finishing the champagne. “But I doubt if he will help you.” “I don’t want him to,” said De Nani, entering the address in his tablets. “I only want the number of the house and the name of the street.” “I ought not to have told you!” cried Gaillard, suddenly remembering his promise to Toto. “Why not?” “He made me promise to tell no one where he is living, nor about Célestin.”