“Yes, yes,” said Toto, trying to lead Gaillard from himself for a moment; “but what do you think of my plan? I am going to take an attic and work in a blouse—I am; and, besides, do you know, Gaillard, I have met the most charming girl. She lives in an attic on three sous a day with a lark; she trims hats, and she has eyes just the color of Neapolitan violets. I have never loved a woman before.”
“You love her?” cried Gaillard, “and you would leave the world for her to live in an attic? Oh, mon Dieu! what a romance you might make of life! And is that idea all your own? Mon Dieu! you, a Prince, rich and young and charming, beloved by all the women of Paris—the very entry of such an idea into your brain proclaims you an artist. It is like the Prince in my little forest tale who renounced the world for a wood-nymph—my little tale called ‘Nymphomanie.’ You have read it.”
“But I gave you a copy.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now—the nymph who turned into a sow. It was a beautiful story; but never mind it for a moment. Tell me, Gaillard: you are not saying that just to please me?”
“I,” said Gaillard; “I am charmed with the idea, the originality of it, the color of it. It has a perfume of violets—those violets that come in autumn as if to increase the sadness of the withered leaves. De Musset might have written a play upon it. I, ha! I will—I will write a poem on it.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t!” said Toto in alarm. “I want no one to know. With my blouse I become a man like other men; I give myself a year, and then—we will see what Otto Struve and De Nani say.”
“But you are not serious, Toto?” cried Gaillard, who was now the man alarmed, for Toto was a little income to him, a cigarette mine, and a most joyous companion. “You would die, my child, under the hardships of such a life; you were not born to the blouse, you were born to the purple.”
“I am serious!” cried the Prince, greatly exasperated; “you are as bad as the rest of them. You are——”
“I am not; mon Dieu! do not freeze me, Toto, with that face. I was but thinking of your health; you have cast frost upon me, and I was feeling so happy; besides, a garret may be made most comfortable—it may indeed: you can have a little charcoal-fire when the weather is cold, and a garret need not be ugly. I saw an old oak chest in the Rue Normandie to-day; it cried out to me to buy it, but I had not the money; we will buy it to-morrow. We will not have the walls papered; most have, but we need not be vulgar though we are poor. Oh, Toto, poverty is a romance if it is taken in the right way; we will teach the poor how to endure their poverty romantically. No, we will not have paper—plain plaster and an etching or two of Albrecht Dürer’s, a little library confined to one bookshelf. Loti, Baudelaire, and a few mystics; a lark to sing to one whilst one paints or writes; a girl with blue eyes to love; a pipe to smoke—what more does one want? In the name of Heaven, what more does one want? I call upon Heaven to witness. I think the problem of modernity solved in the one word ’simplicity.’ We are too be-scented, embroidered, and diffuse; we eat too much and love too broadly; we want concentration. Genius is like a burning-glass; it must be focused so that the rays come together in a narrow point, else the rays will not burn. I saw a stove in bronze of Henri Quatre; we will get that—it’s in the same place, Rue de Normandie. Did you see that girl pass by? She pulled up her dress to show me her ankles; they were like cow heels. Some people have no discretion; they show what they ought to hide, and hide what they ought to show. I have noticed it in everything, even conversation. Well, we will get the stove and some other things—it will be like making a nest; and when all is ready you will spread out your wings and sing, and the female bird will come. Heavens! I know just the place you want, in the Rue de Perpignan. I have a friend there, a genius, but very weird; they call him Fanfoullard, no one knows his real name. He is one of the mysteries of Paris; he subsists by painting fans, and will not get out of bed till dusk; he says inspirations come to him only when he is in bed. That necessarily imposes limitations on his art, but his fans are poems; he spreads them with autumn and spring, and sends them fluttering over the world; he dreams of the beautiful women who will use them as he lies there unknown in his bed. Life is full of poetry; we find it in the most unexpected places. Well, the room below that of Fanfoullard is unlet—it was so, at least, a week ago; we will take it; it has a little room adjoining that will do for a bedroom. We will go hunting for the furniture, you and I, to-morrow.”