“She was a hat-maker—she is still. Trims hats and that sort of thing.”
“Whilst Toto paints those delightful pictures of his?”
“Yes. But the worst is, he cannot sell them,—I know by his face,—and he is frightfully hard up.”
“Soon,” said De Nani, with a horrid leer, “our friend Toto will cast his brushes aside, and live upon the diligence of this pretty Célestin. It is what all these artists do when unsuccessful. We must save him from this.”
“Before to-morrow evening,” said De Nani, “I hope to cure this charming Toto of his fever for fame and his hunger for art. Who is this? Why, it is M. Wolf. I must bid you now good-day, M. Gaillard, as I have some matters of importance to transact with M. Wolf.”
Wolf came in, hat in hand and spectacles gleaming, as Gaillard went out. De Nani removed the remains of the déjeuner from the table onto the floor, and greeted the newcomer.
“You are just the man I want,” said the Marquis. “I have an interview to write, and I want you to assist me. I have all the facts. That is right, take a seat and a pen.”
Gaillard went off feeling rather huffed at the summary manner in which De Nani had dismissed him. His hatred of the old man, which had vanished before the champagne and the knowledge of his downfall, returned somewhat. He determined, having nothing better to do, to betake himself to Toto’s atelier, and spend the afternoon smoking cigarettes and talking to Célestin about his poems. Célestin made an admirable audience for a minor poet, even although she was an illiterate woman and scarcely knew how to read. She had the power of sympathy, and she listened to Gaillard just as she listened to Dodor and Toto. When Gaillard would spout a sonnet, and then abuse it, declaring that it was too full of color, or too sharp in sound, or destitute of perfume, and that he wished he had never written it, Célestin, raising her eyes from her work, would cry, “Oh, but I am sure it is beautiful. It could not be more beautiful. I seem to see those roses you speak of. And how sad, the roses were unhappy! That seems so dreadful, does it not, Désiré?” And then Toto, if he were busy, would give a grunt, and Gaillard would repeat again the sonnet, and declare that the roses were glad now because Célestin had pitied them.
But she would gladden no roses to-day.