And Mme. Liard plunged into the inexhaustible subject of her cat.
Gaillard came down on them now and then like the wolf on the fold, and ate up a great deal of provisions. In return, he taught them how to make coffee and told them fairy tales. He also borrowed little sums at parting, but that goes without saying. He also acted as a sort of intermediary between Toto and his mamma, and one day he brought them a ham from that lady, omitting to mention from whence it had come, presenting it as a gift of his own, in fact, and borrowing an extra five francs on the strength of it. He also brought to the Rue de Perpignan all his troubles, including the books for review doled out by Pelisson, and horrible stories about De Nani. The “Fall of the Damned” had been furiously attacked by a friend in the columns of the Libre Parole, yet it was far from flourishing. He brought a copy dressed in a fawn-colored wrapper, and adorned with red devils tumbling head over heels, and presumably into the pit.
“The cover,” said Gaillard, “has spoiled the sale a good deal. You have no idea of the influence of a cover on a book: devils have gone out of fashion in the last month. It’s all owing to that exposure of the Satanists—silly fools!—and of course it is just my luck, for I have a little brochure in proof called ‘Bon Jour, Satan.’ Well, then, I must change the title, and what does that mean? Why, rewriting the book. People are turning religious, it seems; that is where art hits one. The silly public takes a whim into its head; the artist must meet it or starve. I had a meeting with Chauvin, my publisher, to-day. You should have seen his face. He declares the market for poetry is dead, and the silly fool wants me to write him something manly and religious. We nearly came to words, but we made it up. I am actually like a rat in a horrible trap. Do, Toto, act as a friend in this matter, and till the end of the month, when my royalties are due——”
“It is absolutely disgusting,” Gaillard would murmur to himself as he made for home after these expeditions. “It is like asking a loan from a laborer. He takes out a few francs and looks at them as if they were his last, and that little Célestin, I believe she puts him up to resist lending; I believe she puts all his spare money into the money-box of that wretched lark. I believe she is in love with that great fat beast who smells of garlic, and who always runs away when I come, as if he feared the presence of a gentleman; that is the lark she is saving up for. Yes, some day Toto will wake up to find nothing but a smell of garlic and Célestin flown. It will serve him right.”
Yet, were Toto out when he called at the atelier, he would lay his troubles on the back of Célestin, always sure of attention and commiseration. And smoking his eternal cigarettes, he would pour into her ear the horrors of life, the futility of Pelisson, the detestable nature of De Brie, and the villainy of De Nani. Sometimes Toto, returning after one of these séances had lasted an hour or so, would find Célestin looking almost old, and with tears in her heavenly eyes.
“I have been telling her a society fairy tale,” would say Gaillard.
CHAPTER IV.
BOURGEOIS—BANKER—PRINCE.
It was now June, and lately Toto had become subject to moods, or, to speak more correctly, fits of moodiness. He had now for a month or more been living face to face with Art, and the prolonged interview with that lady was bearing fruit in his manners and customs.