“You don’t mean to say he has gone on with that foolishness?” asked Struve, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands in his pockets.
“I do indeed. It is a great piece of madness; but what is to be done?”
“Leave him alone.”
“But he will starve to death.”
“A little starvation will do him a lot of good; he has too much kick in him. The man is tired of playing the devil. He has tried everything, and now he is trying work. He will be back in a fortnight, a greater devil than ever. I like Toto. He is such a fool; but it’s rather a pity. You see, he is a moon, and he wants to be a sun. He is tired of shining by the reflected glory of his fortune, and he wants to shine by his own light. He hasn’t any to shine by, and there you are.”
“He has certainly no genius, but he is a very facile painter.”
“Facile rubbish! He can’t paint.”
“Do you not think, Otto, if you were to call upon him, and speak to him, and explain——”
“Gott im Himmel! what do you think my time is made for? Here am I behindhand with my book, and Flammarion like a caged tiger waiting for it. Go and tell his mother, go and tell his aunt, go to the devil, go anywhere, but don’t bother me about it. I have no time to be running after Totos; I am not a wet-nurse. Go and get a perambulator and wheel him home. How is Pantin?”
“Pantin is very well. Has not Pelisson offered you the art criticisms?”