“Don’t want to; but he will find me interesting, for I will pay him to see about the place and have it cleaned up.”
“But Fanfoullard——” said the poet, stopping to scratch his head, for there was no Fanfoullard; he was a mythical creature that had escaped through one of the cracks in Gaillard’s skull; he had never lived in the Rue de Perpignan, nor journeyed forth to sell fans in the dark with his eyes shut for fear of the frightful people one sees in omnibuses. It seemed almost a pity. “But Fanfoullard——” said his creator. “Ah, well; yes, let us go to my rooms and see if he has arrived.”
They made for the Rue de Turbigo, for Gaillard condescended to live in the Rue de Turbigo. Here he kept his Muse, or, to speak more correctly, she kept him, assisted by Toto, Pelisson, Struve, De Brie the editor, and a host of others.
“Tell me about this Fanfoullard,” asked Toto. “Is he a respectable sort of person?”
“Oh, eminently. My dear Toto, why walk so fast? I shall have indigestion.”
“He doesn’t practice on the violin or come in drunk, does he?”
“Never. Toto, tell me about this charming girl who has taken your heart; tell me her name?”
“Célestin.”
“Ah, mon Dieu! Célestin! What a name!—full of light.”
“Would you like to see her? Well, come to-morrow morning. I am going to meet her in the Champs Élysées at eight, and I’ll tell you what: we will all go and breakfast together, and then we will take a trip into the country. You will do for a chaperon; you can watch about and meet us as if by accident—will you?”