“But, mademoiselle——”
“She has already suggested anywhere; she is indifferent.”
“Well,” said Gaillard, who had the day’s festivity already sketched out in his head, “I would propose a petit déjeuner now, then drop in to the Louvre and look at the Primitives, then I would propose déjeuner. After that, why not let us go to Montlhéry; we can take the train from the Gare d’Orléans. There is an old tower at Montlhéry that I love. We will dine at the Chat Noir; they have some very fine carp in a pond there, we will get the landlord to kill one and cook it for us. He knows me, and he manufactures a most delicious white wine sauce for carp. Well, then we will have a carriage back and supper at Foyot’s, in the Rue de Tournon.”
“That might do for M. Rothschild, but it is not simple enough for us,” said Toto, making suppressed grimaces at the poet. “If I had sold a picture even lately, but I haven’t.” A blank look began to overspread Gaillard’s face; he had not reckoned on this. “So we must be very economical. How much money have you?”
“I have nothing!” cried the unfortunate Gaillard, and he began, as was his wont, to turn his pockets inside out; then he remembered Célestin. “My publisher was out when I called upon him. My dear To—Désiré, how much have you?”
“Nineteen francs,” said Toto with a diabolical grin as he produced his money, “and a sou.” Célestin laughed and felt in her pocket for her little shabby purse, but Toto said “No.”
“We are rich. Poets and painters, you know, Célestin, have a way of getting along on air, like the birds—haven’t we, Gaillard?” But Gaillard only made a noise like a groan. “I know what we’ll do. But first come, and we will have our petit déjeuner at the little crémerie in the Rue du Mont Thabor. You remember the crémerie where we breakfasted yesterday, Célestin?”
“That delicious little crémerie!” murmured Célestin, and they started.
They crossed the Place de la Concorde, Célestin laughing, Toto talking, and Gaillard walking silent like a froward child. He would have returned to the Rue de Turbigo had he not been absolutely penniless, for the five francs had all vanished, devoured by a rose, a cigar, and a cab.
“I will be silent,” thought Gaillard, “and spoil this wretched Toto’s pleasure; I will turn his feast into a funeral. Nineteen francs, mon Dieu! and three people, and a day in the country! The mind revolts!”