“Well, perhaps it is, in parts. De Nani, for instance; beware of that old man, Toto. He is the type of excess. An old man drunk and a drunken old man are two different people. De Nani is a habitual drunkard; I can read it in his eye. He is more dangerous than a cartful of women. Still, despite the fact of De Nani and a thousand like him, I have a childish faith in the world. I believe in humanity, or what I can see of it through the misery and mystery of life. I believe in flowers, I believe in trees. Have you read my ‘Rose Worship’? Mon Dieu! what was that? Only a dog we have run over. Animals, too, are part of my creed. I am thinking of having a book of my belief published, with colored plates. It would be the bible of childhood. Flowers, beasts, birds, and insects would be as the four Apostles. I was saved from atheism by a butterfly. It flew into my rooms in the Rue de Turbigo one day last August. Everyone was at the seaside; I was alone in Paris. De Brie had refused to advance me the money for a trip to Normandy. You, Toto, were at Trouville. The day was sultry, and, to add to my pain, a barrel-organ played in the street outside. Mme. Plon brought me a letter. It was a draft from my sister for five hundred francs. As I cast my eyes over it, a white butterfly flew in through my window, thrice around the room, and out again. It was the voice of the Unseen, saying ‘I am here.’ Yes, I believe—I believe in your Célestin. She is all nature, and to be loved by such a woman is a benediction.”
La Princesse de Cammora’s carriage was at the door. She had just returned from shopping, and tea was being served to her in the drawing room.
Gaillard loved tea and Princesses,—even Princesses of fifty,—so he left Toto to go upstairs and change, whilst he found his way to the drawing room.
The Princesse was not alone—Pelisson was with her. He had come to find Toto. His head looked larger than ever; it seemed bursting with some great idea, and, true to his nature, he was making a noise. He was also making the Princesse laugh. The tears were in her eyes as Gaillard entered.
Gaillard sipped his tea whilst the journalist finished his story. It was about an actress. Then the Princesse drew Gaillard into a corner, leaving Pelisson to look over a bundle of engravings till the coming of Toto.
“Oh, M. Gaillard,” said the great lady in a motherly yet playful voice, “how naughty it is of you to lead my Toto astray! No, no, do not speak; it is not you I fear; but I have heard—no matter: a little bird told me. Now, this journey to the country. Who is she, M. Gaillard?”
“Madame, I swear to you——”
“Nay, nay, I do not want you to tell tales out of school; but you have been seen—the three of you—this morning at the Nord. Tell me, now—her name!”
“Madame, be assured, it was a most innocent freak. She is a most charming and innocent girl.”
“Oh, this is dreadful!” murmured the Princesse. “M. Gaillard, I speak to you as a mother to a son. I do not mind Toto’s Mimis and Lolottes,—one cannot keep a young man in a cage,—but I dread these innocent girls. I have seen, alas! so much of life. They come to the house and make disturbances; they have relations, old men from the country, who come and sit in one’s hall till a sergent-de-ville is called. One need not be straitlaced, but one need not beat a tin pan over one’s indiscretions. Besides, Toto is at a very critical age. I have a match at heart for him, a girl pure and beautiful as an angel. But she is an American, and they do not understand the little ways of young men. She is also a good match, even for Toto. So you see it is a mother’s heart that speaks. I pray you tell me her name.”