“It was the Prince, who laughed joyously, and placed the little pan upon the floor, whilst he shook the interviewer warmly by the hand.” The whole thing had a most horribly actual air. The teeming brain of Wolf had supplied little details impossible, one would say, to be false. The foolish lovers who had renounced, one her home, the other his world, for the sake of art and love in an attic, stood before one in the flesh. Wolf, inspired by champagne and the dictation of his editor, had worked with the fervor and insight of a poet; and one almost wept over the struggling pair, till one remembered that the Prince was worth half a million of money, and then one laughed till one’s sides ached. “We are very happy,” said the Prince, at the conclusion of this weird interview. “Tell all my friends to come and see me, now that you have found me out. Tell them also that there is only one true happiness—to be young and poor, and mated to the woman one loves.” “That last line,” had murmured De Nani to himself, “will, I have no doubt, vastly amuse Mme. la Princesse and Mlle. Powhair.” Toto let _Pantin_ drop, and turned his white face to the window, as if he expected to see all Paris looking in and laughing. He knew, as indeed was the fact, that men were tumbling out of bed bursting with laughter, and running into their wives’ bedrooms _Pantin_ in hand; that starch-faced valets were shaking under their starch, as they handed _Pantin_ to their masters on silver salvers with cups of chocolate; that young De Harnac, who was more English than his own bulldog, was crying “My Gawd!” and kicking his legs about in bed with delight as he read _Pantin_; that Mme. la Princesse was prostrated, and Mlle. Powhair—he could not imagine what Helen Powers was saying or thinking. The thought of her was somehow the worst part of all this trouble. His lips were dry, and they felt as if they never could become moist again. He was quite calm, but this calmness of Toto’s would have frightened his mother to behold. He neither shrieked nor tore his hair; but, indeed, the latter feat would have been impossible, for a fortnight ago he had had it cropped to the bone in imitation of Garnier.