"Monsieur means t'at it might pe sold?"
"Undoubtedly."
"But monsieur does not know—does not understand. Tis—all t'is—iss my life; eet iss here t'at I liff—not out t'ere," with a gesture of disgust toward the door. "I could no more liff wit'out t'is t'an wit'out my head!"
Rushford, looking at him curiously, saw that he was in deadly earnest.
"Really," he said, "you surprise me, Pelletan. I had never suspected in you such depth of soul."
"Besides, monsieur," added Pelletan, leaning forward, "t'ese t'ings are not all what t'ey seem—t'is dragon, par exemple, ees not off bronze, but off t'e plaster of Paris—yet I lofe eet none t'e less—more, perhaps, because off t'at fery fact."
"And these—ah—females," said Rushford, and waved his hand at the serried photographs, "I suppose even they are necessary to your existence."
"I lofe to look at t'em, monsieur," confessed Pelletan.
"Personal acquaintances, perhaps."
"Not all of t'em, monsieur; but t'ey haf about t'em t'e flavour off Paris—off t'at tear Paris off which I tream each night; t'ey recall t'e tays off my yout'!"