“She has a cold,” said Toto, pointing to the closed bedroom door. “She got her feet wet yesterday. How glad I am that you have come!”
He was sitting near the stove, and he rose and put on his hat. Someone had a fit of coughing in the bedroom, and Gaillard stood staring at the tulip manufactured by Gamier as though it were a dragon.
“Surely, my dear Désiré, you have not descended to things like these!” He touched the pot warily with the point of his stick, as if fearful of infection.
“Oh, that!” said Toto carelessly. “It is not mine; it is Célestin’s. Do not touch it; she is awfully proud of it. Come out with me; I want to talk to you.” In the street Toto took Gaillard’s arm. “I am so glad you have come. I am in need of a friend. I am in a state of misery. What shall I do with that girl?”
“Why, has she been troubling you? Mon Dieu! Désiré, tell me, what is this?”
“No,” said Toto, “she has not been troubling me. I only wish she had, I only wish she had. That woman—pah! she is not a woman, she is an angel.”
“So are all women till you find them out. But go on, Désiré. Why all this terrible excitement?”
“Why? My God! it is very easy for you to talk. She loves me. Well, then, what am I to do? I have been nearly mad these last few days, and not a soul to speak to. You don’t care. You have been off to the Moulin Rouge and Heaven knows where every night!”
“I swear, Désiré,” cried Gaillard, “I have been in a worse condition than you. I have been on the edge of suicide. Moulin Rouge! I have not been to the Moulin Rouge. I took to my bed three days ago to read ‘Aucassin and Nicolete’ and try to forget that I was alive. I have not eaten—morphia and cigarettes alone have passed my lips during the last forty-eight hours. Then I thought of you; then I came, and for reward I am accused like this! No matter.”
“If she were an ordinary girl,” said Toto, disregarding Gaillard’s fantasies, “I would give her five thousand francs and set her up in business, and there would be an end of it.”