“Why—why—what is the matter?” stammered Ventrillon.
“You are invited to Madame Sutrin’s on Wednesday afternoon, and you say, ‘What is the matter?’ It is you who are the droll of a type to ask it.”
“But of course I shall not go.”
“Then you will be an imbecile. It is the chance of your life. All Paris will be there. Does that mean nothing to you—tout Paris?”
Tout Paris! A definite social unit, it is a social unit without definition. Many belong, but more do not. If one goes where tout Paris goes, does what tout Paris does, says what tout Paris says, knows the people tout Paris knows, does not know the people tout Paris does not know, then one is of tout Paris. But if one is not of tout Paris, one can do none of these things. One does not know how. Tout Paris is success, it is failure, it is the heights, it is the depths, and it is always seeking a new sensation. Without laws, it is of fashion the law, and is of the greatest importance; for if the newspapers say, “tout Paris was there,” that settles the matter. But, above all, tout Paris can applaud, and the applause of tout Paris can more quickly than anything else fill the empty pockets. The pockets of Ventrillon were usually abysmally empty, as he again remembered.
“And do you not know who is this Gabrielle of whom she spoke?” Savillhac continued. “The great Gabrielle Belletaille herself, nom de dieu! The most extraordinary woman in Paris. And you heard what Madame Sutrin said? If the Belletaille becomes interested in you, she will soon introduce you to everybody of any importance. Think of the marvellous portraits you can paint, and the prices you can charge! Perhaps she may even allow you to paint her portrait! Who knows? Then you will be in a position to refuse kings and queens.”
Gabrielle Belletaille, the prima donna of the Opéra Comique, was, as everybody knew, the idol of tout Paris. There was nobody like her. Where she led, tout Paris followed. Where tout Paris leads, all the world follows. Ventrillon stood for a moment silent. His clear, deep eyes held a wonder such as one sees in the eyes of those who pause upon the thresholds of strange palaces.
“But,” he said at last, “I shall not know what to say to her, even if I see her.”
“Say anything but the name of Fanny Max,” said well-posted Savillhac. “She is beginning to attract attention, and you can understand what that means to the Belletaille.”
“But——” said Ventrillon again. Ruefully he looked down at his own baggy corduroys, his cracking shoes, his threadbare coat, and the rusty, black felt hat he held in his hand. Then he considered the slimly clad, gray-striped legs of the impeccable Savillhac, the glistening footgear, the smart morning coat with a gardenia in its lapel, the shining top hat. Savillhac was fashion itself, the embodiment in one person of tout Paris. Ventrillon reflected.