“Not he; he was as sane as I am—saner; for I believe I am cracked. No matter, it’s not my fault; I did not make myself.”
“Paint his face and wear stays and ashamed of being a banker,” murmured Garnier. “You are not making an April fish of me? No, you can’t be, for it is the second of June.”
“No, I wish I was; but I have a lot more to tell. You know I came down here to paint and live in the Rue de Perpignan a little more than a month ago. Well, I thought I was going to be a great artist. No, worse than that: I thought I was a great artist.”
“So do we all, till we find out the right side of our palettes,” said Garnier.
“Well, I am only a dauber; don’t say no—I have been finding it out in the last week. I didn’t want that fellow Jolly to tell me; that’s what made me so angry, I suppose, for I knew he was telling me the truth. Well, I am sick of it all; the pleasure is all gone from my life. I have a lot of anxieties; it is like being in prison. When I go out on the street, even here in this quarter, where I am not likely to come across anyone, I have to be always on the watch for fear of meeting anyone I know; I always look down a street before I walk down it.”
“Ah, yes! I know that feeling. There are three streets forbidden to me just at present; they are barricaded by creditors.”
“Oh, it is not creditors I fear.”
“What then?”
“Mon Dieu! what a funny man you are! What is there pleasanter to meet than a friend?”