“But your mother?”
“She does not care so long as the American does not know.”
“Do not yawn so, Toto.”
“I can’t help it; it’s the thought of my mother, and old De Nani, and all the lot. Do you know, some day or another I would have cut my throat if I had not met Célestin; she was like a breath of air—she understands me because she loves me. Oh, I’m so sick of women grinning at me; Célestin is the only woman I have ever seen smile. Mlle. Powers is a nice girl; she means what she says, but she always talks to me as if I were her grandchild, and she calls me Toto. Won’t it be a joke when my mother finds out that I have given old Pelisson a hundred thousand francs! I am fond of Pelisson, he’s the best of the lot; I’d do anything for him.”
“Pelisson has his limitations,” said Gaillard, and Toto yawned again.
CHAPTER VI.
THE DEPARTURE.
Gaillard, who was somewhat of a philosopher, had once divided sorrow under two heads—the sorrows of life and the sorrows of art. He reckoned the necessity of getting up early chief amidst the mundane sorrows, and accepted it in a grumbling spirit; but this morning he did not grumble. He dressed rapidly and sadly, and departed for the Boulevard Haussmann, refusing the coffee and roll and butter offered to him by Mme. Plon.
“I cannot eat,” said Gaillard. “I am deeply disturbed.”