The poet rose rapidly, and began to dress.
“I have seen Célestin,” said Toto, standing by the window, and looking out on the street.
“Ah, that charming Célestin!” sighed Gaillard, putting on his trousers with a weary air.
“And I have taken an atelier in the Rue de Perpignan. I spent the whole afternoon yesterday hunting for that fool Fanfoullard; no one knew of such a person, but I found very nice rooms.”
“Fanfoullard has left Paris—gone to Nîmes. But, Toto, what is this you tell me? Are you really going to start on this crusade—become a painter?”
“I am a painter.”
“I mean, live in this dreadful way? Toto, I predict that there will be great trouble. Your mother is very anxious; she is anxious for you to make a good match.”
“That’s all right.”
“How all right?” asked Gaillard, scratching his head.
“I saw the American girl yesterday, and told her what I was going to do. She is going to keep my mother quiet; she fell in with the idea at once. She is the only person who understands me.”