“My father was a prince of the Roman Empire. I am the same, of course, now that he is dead.”
“But, my dear child!” cried the Provençal, to whom a Prince was a Prince, no matter what empire he belonged to, “what made you come amongst us at Melmenotte’s? it is like what one reads in a romance, all this. I could not have believed it. And what made you come to live in the Rue de Perpignan? And Célestin! Ah, ciel! I see it all now: she is a Princess; that is what makes her different from other people. A Princess! she has made me coffee, whilst I have talked to her as to a child. I have carved for her a tulip out of a turnip, and I never guessed who she was, when it was plain before me written all over her——”
“You are wrong,” said Toto in a troubled voice. “She is not a Princess; I wish she were. Listen, my friend, and I will tell you all. I want your advice.”
He told the little story of his meeting with Célestin, everything; he sketched rapidly a portrait of his mother; then he paused to let the tale sink in, and Garnier rubbed his chin.
“But what made you do all this?” asked the painter at last. “You could have painted at home.”
“I don’t know; I was so sick of it all. I wanted a change, I wanted to do for myself; it seemed so jolly to have an atelier, and live in a blouse and work; then, besides—I can’t explain exactly, but I felt as if I wanted to grow: a lot of people had deceived me. They did not mean it, I suppose, but they praised my work; besides, I felt that they were laughing at me behind my back.”
He told the story of De Nani, and the truth that had escaped from him in drink; he felt no shame in confiding his troubles to Garnier. All great-minded people have this in common. They resemble priests; we confess to them openly what we would not whisper to little minds.
“Ah, well,” said Garnier, “there are rogues in every trade, and that old man is a rogue. Mon Dieu! I am not straitlaced; but there are two things I cannot stand by and see: an old man drunk, and an old man following a woman. Do not think of him, but tell me now, what does it feel like to be a Prince? Oh, I should like to be a Prince just for an hour! I would dress myself in ermine and walk down the Rue de Rivoli. Ah! you are laughing, but I would. I would call my servants and give them orders, just to hear them call me M. le Prince. I would call at Melmenotte’s, and walk about the atelier trailing my skirts. Mon Dieu! yes, I should like to be a Prince just for an hour.”
“And then?”
“Oh, I would kick off my togs and come back and be an artist. Just as you will kick off your togs and go back to be a Prince; one always returns to one’s trade.”