“Go into the country and make love to a milkmaid.” “Never done that,” said Toto reflectively. “I did once when I was young. _Mon Dieu!_ she followed me to Paris. No, I would advise you to leave that alone; nothing clings like a milkmaid. Try, try, try a glass of absinthe.” They stopped at a café and had a glass of absinthe, for which Toto paid. “I would like to get drunk on absinthe and die in my cups,” said De Nani, who was a man of original sins, frost-bound by poverty, but blossoming now under the warm influence of Toto. “Let’s,” said the Prince, beginning to laugh. “Now I have made you laugh!” cried the old fellow triumphantly. “And here we are at the Grand Café. No, my Toto, we will not die just yet, while there are Grand Cafés, and good dinners, and pretty girls adorning the world. Tu, tu, tu! how the lights flare!” They entered, the old man following Toto and pursing out his hideous old lips. One could see his stomach working through his face as they passed first to the lavatory with the frescoed ceilings, where Toto washed himself vehemently with his coat off, and De Nani looked on. Then, led by the assistant head-waiter, they ascended to the private room where the Prince’s friends were waiting. Three men only—Pelisson, of the _Journal des Débats_; Gaillard, a mystical poet, pantheistic, melancholic, with no very fixed belief in anything, save, perhaps, the works of Gaillard; and Otto Struve, the art critic. Pelisson, a powerfully built fellow, singularly like De Blowitz, even to the pointed whiskers, was of the type of man who pushes the world aside with his shoulders, whilst he pushes it forward with his head. Gaillard, who was remarkable for his high collars, pointed beard, and the childish interest he took in little things unconnected with his profound art, sat astride a chair watching Pierre Pelisson juggling with a wine-glass, a fish-knife, and a serviette. By the fireplace stood Otto Struve, a man with a hatchet-shaped face, who seemed in the last stages of consumption, and weighed down by the cares of the whole world, which he bore with suppressed irritation. Toto’s entrance was the entrance of money. Everyone forgot everyone else for a moment; the electric lamps seemed to blaze more brightly; waiters suddenly appeared, mutes shod with velvet and bearing the _hors d’œuvre_. “M. le Marquis de Nani,” said Toto, introducing his friend; and they took their seats.