“Alas!” cried Gaillard, drinking off a glass of brandy, “I am touched at the soul. Toto, my Toto, our Toto, do not grieve. I, too, will write a little poem, and it will make your picture famous. Where is that wretch? Kick him, Pelisson!”
“Don’t let the waiters in,” choked Toto. “It’s only stupidity”—sniff, sniff—“the old fellow is drunk; don’t kick him, P-P-Pelisson, he’s an old man. I p-picked him up at my mother’s; he’s only stupid. There, I’m all right.”
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Struve; “we are all right now, let us play baccarat.”
“I am desolated,” mourned Gaillard, who had now to be comforted. “And my little poem is spoiled.” He looked at his shirt cuffs and broke into tears.
CHAPTER III.
THE FAG END OF A NIGHT AND THE BEGINNING OF A MORNING.
When Gaillard was at last comforted and set writing poems in a corner, the waiters were admitted, the table was cleared, and cards produced.
“Shall we go to the club?” asked Toto.
“No, play here,” answered Struve.