Goujaud expanded his chest.
"As a matter of fact," he announced languidly, "I possess five hundred francs." And so dignified was his air that Tricotrin came near to believing him.
"You possess five hundred francs? You? How? No, such things do not occur! Besides, you mentioned a moment since that you were short of shirts."
"It is true that I am short of shirts, but, nevertheless, I have five hundred francs in my pocket. It is like this. My father, who is not artistic, has always desired to see me renounce my profession and sink to commerce. Well, I was at the point of yielding—man cannot live by hope alone, and my pictures were strangely unappreciated. Then, while consent trembled on my lips, up popped this Eau d'Enfer! I saw my opportunity, I recognised that, of all men in Paris, I was the best qualified to execute the poster. You may divine the sequel? I addressed my father with burning eloquence, I persuaded him to supply me with the means to wield my brush for a few months longer. If my poster succeeds, I become a celebrity. If it fails, I become a pétrole merchant. This summer decides my fate. In the meanwhile I am a capitalist; but it would be madness for me to purchase shirts, for I shall require every son to support existence until the poster is acclaimed."
"You have a practical head!" exclaimed Tricotrin admiringly; "I foresee that you will go far. Let us trust that the Willing Hand will prove the ante-chamber to your immortality."
"I have no faith in your Willing Hand," demurred the painter; "the criminal classes are not keen on sitting for their portraits—the process has unpleasant associations to them. Think again! I can spare half an hour this morning. Evolve a further inspiration on the subject!"
"Do you imagine I have nothing to do but to provide you with a model? My time is fully occupied; I am engaged upon a mystical play, which is to be called The Spinster's Prayer or the Goblin Child's Mother, and take Paris by storm. A propos—yes, now I come to think of it, there is something in Comoedia there that might suit you."
"My preserver!" returned Goujaud. "What is it?"
Tricotrin picked the paper up and read:
WANTED: A HUNDRED LADIES FOR THE STAGE.—Beauty more essential than talent. No dilapidations need apply. Agence Lavalette, rue Baba, Thursday, 12 to 5.