Gaillard went off feeling rather huffed at the summary manner in which De Nani had dismissed him. His hatred of the old man, which had vanished before the champagne and the knowledge of his downfall, returned somewhat. He determined, having nothing better to do, to betake himself to Toto’s atelier, and spend the afternoon smoking cigarettes and talking to Célestin about his poems. Célestin made an admirable audience for a minor poet, even although she was an illiterate woman and scarcely knew how to read. She had the power of sympathy, and she listened to Gaillard just as she listened to Dodor and Toto. When Gaillard would spout a sonnet, and then abuse it, declaring that it was too full of color, or too sharp in sound, or destitute of perfume, and that he wished he had never written it, Célestin, raising her eyes from her work, would cry, “Oh, but I am sure it is beautiful. It could not be more beautiful. I seem to see those roses you speak of. And how sad, the roses were unhappy! That seems so dreadful, does it not, Désiré?” And then Toto, if he were busy, would give a grunt, and Gaillard would repeat again the sonnet, and declare that the roses were glad now because Célestin had pitied them. But she would gladden no roses to-day. “She has a cold,” said Toto, pointing to the closed bedroom door. “She got her feet wet yesterday. How glad I am that you have come!” He was sitting near the stove, and he rose and put on his hat. Someone had a fit of coughing in the bedroom, and Gaillard stood staring at the tulip manufactured by Gamier as though it were a dragon. “Surely, my dear Désiré, you have not descended to things like these!” He touched the pot warily with the point of his stick, as if fearful of infection. “Oh, that!” said Toto carelessly. “It is not mine; it is Célestin’s. Do not touch it; she is awfully proud of it. Come out with me; I want to talk to you.” In the street Toto took Gaillard’s arm. “I am so glad you have come. I am in need of a friend. I am in a state of misery. What shall I do with that girl?” “Why, has she been troubling you? _Mon Dieu!_ Désiré, tell me, what is this?” “No,” said Toto, “she has not been troubling me. I only wish she had, I only wish she had. That woman—pah! she is not a woman, she is an angel.” “So are all women till you find them out. But go on, Désiré. Why all this terrible excitement?” “Why? My God! it is very easy for you to talk. She loves me. Well, then, what am I to do? I have been nearly mad these last few days, and not a soul to speak to. You don’t care. You have been off to the Moulin Rouge and Heaven knows where every night!”