“But you will lend me the two hundred francs,” he asked, “and give it to that boy for his picture?” How much a boy that boy seemed now: he was just the boy that Cartaret had been in the long ago time that was yesterday!
“Since you insist; but truly, my dear monsieur, myself I was about to weaken and purchase the terrible thing when you interrupted and saved me.” ...
The money from Seraphin’s latest magnum opus not being yet exhausted, Seraphin’s friends were lunching at the Café Des Deux Colombes, with little Pasbeaucoup fluttering between them and the kitchen, and Madame, expressionless under her mountain of hair, stuffed into the wire cage and bulging out of it. The company rose when they espied Cartaret, the cadaverous poet Garnier picking up his plate of roast chicken so as not to lose, in his welcoming, time that might be given to eating.
Cartaret felt at first somewhat ashamed before them. He felt the contrast between his changed fortunes and their fortunes unchanged. At last, however, the truth escaped him, and then he felt more ashamed than ever, so unenvious were the congratulations that they poured upon him.
Devignes’ round belly shook with delight. Garnier even stopped eating.
“Now you may have the leisure for serious work, which,” squeaked Varachon through his broken nose, “your art has so badly needed.”
Seraphin said nothing, but put his hand on Cartaret’s shoulder and gripped it hard.
Houdon embraced the fortunate one.
“Did I not always tell you?” he demanded of Seraphin. “Did I not say he was a disguised millionaire?”
“But he has but now got his money,” Seraphin protested.