He kissed Célestin without fervor, and then, pulling Garnier aside by the arm, invited him to come outside for a moment and have a glass of beer, and give his advice about a picture.
“I have had a row at the studio,” said Toto, when they were in the street.
“Eh! what? with Melmenotte?”
“No, that fool Jolly. I knocked him down.”
“What! you did that? Boufre! but it will do him a lot of good, that same Jolly. I have often wished to do so myself, but I am too big, and he is too small. You are more of his size. And why did you knock him down?”
“He told me I wasn’t able to paint, that any demi-mondaine had more art in painting her face than I had in painting a picture.”
“But that is nothing; we all tell each other things like that.”
“Yes, but he meant it; and, he said it in such an insulting manner, and, besides, he only said it because I had refused to lend him more money.”
“So you knocked him down!” cried Garnier, breaking into a roar of laughter. “Mon Dieu! and I missed it! I would have given five francs to have been there.”