“What’s wrong with him? Has he been butted by a moufflon?”
“Toto is not in Corsica; Toto is in Paris.”
“Oh, he’s come back, is he?”
“Do attend to me, Struve. Toto is in an attic.”
“What is he doing in an attic?”
“He is painting pictures.”
“Has he gone mad?”
“No, he is not mad; but I fear he will make a very great fool of himself.”
“I always said he would do that,” granted Struve, examining attentively a tiny colored picture of St. Cecilia that was destined to adorn “The Saint in Art.”
“I fear, if he is not stopped, he will make a very great mess of himself. He has taken only three thousand francs of his patrimony, and he swears that if he does not succeed on it he will cut his throat.”