“Say, my dear friend,” said Garnier, “do you not think a doctor ought to see her? As for me, I do not believe in them, but still—but still——” He stopped speaking, and followed the direction of Toto’s frozen stare. At the door of the atelier, just pushed open, appeared the semi-hysterical figure of Gaillard, his hat tilted back, his long frock-coat hanging loose, and his necktie hastily put on. He had evidently dressed in a hurry, for he wore odd boots—one patent leather and the other plain kid. “Do you see that man?” said Toto, clutching Garnier’s arm. “Do you see that man?” “_Mais oui._” “Then you see the biggest scoundrel in Paris,” said Toto, and he struck a match and lit a cigarette to show his coolness, averting his eyes at the same time from the apparition at the door. Gaillard raised up his two hands like one of Struve’s stained-glass saints, and then dropped them with a flop. He did not cross the threshold, for he was perhaps afraid of being kicked out. “Do not be afraid to come in,” said Toto; “I will not assault you. I am too utterly lost in admiration of your charming insolence—it is a masterpiece.” “Afraid!” said Gaillard, coming in very slowly. “Afraid—afraid of what? I have no fear left; Toto, Désiré, my friend, we are all ruined. Pelisson is in despair; Wolf is committing suicide—I saw him myself being held down by four men. That villain—that villain—that villain of a De Nani, the cause of it all, has vanished. All the money is gone from the safe; Scribe is in a state of dementia. I escape from this inferno and rush to you for sympathy, and I am greeted as a scoundrel!” “What do I care about De Nani?” inquired Toto. “Look at that.” “Yes,” said Gaillard, “look at that; but I have no need to look at that—it is burnt into my brain. I could have slain Wolf with my two hands when he confessed an hour ago, but, _ma foi!_ he was too much slain already; besides, it was not his fault. Whose fault? Why, De Nani’s. Pelisson left him in charge; did I not tell you so yesterday?” “De Nani?” “Yes. Wolf has confessed he wrote the article under the inspiration of that scoundrel. The old man dictated it word for word; it was a parting shot at Pelisson. My back feels broken. Why, who is this?” A sound of cackling laughter came from outside, and the foolish and foppish form of young De Harnac appeared at the door, followed by the figure of Valfray, his little black mustache twisted up at the ends and his eyeglass in his eye. They saw Toto seated on the chintz-covered couch beside Gaillard, a momentary vision ere they found themselves being led like two naughty children across the dusty landing towards the stairs by a huge man with a Provençal accent. “It is not good to laugh at one’s friends when they are in trouble,” said Garnier in his large way, and with a perfume of garlic. “You will go, please, immediately, and call another day. These are the stairs—yes, _if_ you please.”