He ran into Célestin’s room with the bunch of grapes, and Toto heard his voice murmuring to her, mixed with Dodor’s voice trying over a few bars of a song in a despondent sort of manner; for Célestin’s illness seemed to have put him out of heart during the last couple of days. Then Garnier came back, closing the door softly behind him, and raising up his hands at Célestin’s weakness.
“Say, my dear friend,” said Garnier, “do you not think a doctor ought to see her? As for me, I do not believe in them, but still—but still——”
He stopped speaking, and followed the direction of Toto’s frozen stare.
At the door of the atelier, just pushed open, appeared the semi-hysterical figure of Gaillard, his hat tilted back, his long frock-coat hanging loose, and his necktie hastily put on. He had evidently dressed in a hurry, for he wore odd boots—one patent leather and the other plain kid.
“Do you see that man?” said Toto, clutching Garnier’s arm. “Do you see that man?”
“Mais oui.”
“Then you see the biggest scoundrel in Paris,” said Toto, and he struck a match and lit a cigarette to show his coolness, averting his eyes at the same time from the apparition at the door.
Gaillard raised up his two hands like one of Struve’s stained-glass saints, and then dropped them with a flop. He did not cross the threshold, for he was perhaps afraid of being kicked out.
“Do not be afraid to come in,” said Toto; “I will not assault you. I am too utterly lost in admiration of your charming insolence—it is a masterpiece.”
“Afraid!” said Gaillard, coming in very slowly. “Afraid—afraid of what? I have no fear left; Toto, Désiré, my friend, we are all ruined. Pelisson is in despair; Wolf is committing suicide—I saw him myself being held down by four men. That villain—that villain—that villain of a De Nani, the cause of it all, has vanished. All the money is gone from the safe; Scribe is in a state of dementia. I escape from this inferno and rush to you for sympathy, and I am greeted as a scoundrel!”