CHAPTER III.

THE SORROWS OF ART.

Like Pelisson, the atelier in the Rue de Perpignan had its limitations; like Pelisson, it was also at times noisy. From the Gare de Sceaux at night and in the early morning came the sounds of shunting and the plaintive “toot-toot” of locomotives, whilst the top light seemed the chosen rendezvous of all the cats of the neighborhood who were in love.

“Those frightful cats!” would murmur Célestin, trembling beside Toto lest his sleep should be broken.

There were also draughts not specified in the lease, and the sink had a habit of getting stopped up at least once a day; then there was sometimes a smell of cooking from the rooms below.

Toto grumbled a little sometimes, but not much at first. The new life was so entirely different from the life he had led heretofore, so free, and withal so joyous, that for a little while he did not trouble himself as to the morrow. The only rose leaf that disturbed his rest during the first fortnight was the atelier of Melmenotte—art, in short.

Melmenotte had the air and aspect of a _vieux sabreur_. He inspected a picture as an infantry colonel inspects a regiment of the line, generally with a frown, sometimes with a few cutting words, sometimes with dead silence. He had inspected Toto’s attempts with a damnatory sniff and passed on.

For this reason Toto avoided the atelier on the days when Melmenotte went round; for this reason, though he had dwelt now with art only a fortnight, he had, when Gaillard made his proposition of return, almost nibbled at it. Melmenotte and his crew had somewhat disillusioned him. They were such a coarse lot. Their conversation was generally silly, sometimes absolutely vile; they pelted him with bits of bread when Garnier was not looking, and even the little loans he made to them did not buy him much esteem. It leaked out that his father had a shop; not that that fact would have influenced the students much one way or the other had he possessed talent, but, lacking talent, they saw in him an inevitable counter-jumper, and as a result would have made his life a misery to him but for Garnier, whose word was law, both on questions of art and conduct.

But Célestin knew nothing of these worries. She knew nothing and cared nothing about anything except Toto; she did not even know his surname, for, though he had told it to her once, she had forgotten it.

Neither did she inquire about his past. She knew in a vague sort of way that he had always lived in Paris, studying art, and being without guile, as a flower, she never made that hackneyed old inquiry, “Tell me, have you ever loved a woman before?”—to be answered by that hackneyed old lie, “Never.” Then, with that instinct which orders what we might call the good manners of love, she never loved him to weariness; she knew the psychological moment for a kiss, the right time for silence, and when to get upon his knee and cheer him up, and talk to him in the language she used to Dodor. Always pretty, she had almost in a night become beautiful. Toto had presented her with this added charm, but he did not perceive it; this extra beauty made up for the amount she had lost by surrendering herself to him.

One day Mme. Liard called to see how they were getting on, and brought a box of Choiseul’s cough lozenges for Célestin as a sort of wedding gift. The good woman was greatly taken with the atelier, the couch which she sat on to sample and declared to be a marvel, and the great empty canvas on one of the easels.

“That is for his great picture,” said Célestin proudly. “Isn’t it beautiful? and will it not be large? And see our tulip”—pointing to the flower in the pot, which had burst into bloom. “Is it not beautiful? But Dodor is so jealous of it.”

“Tulips die so soon,” said Mme. Liard, who was a bit of a pessimist. “Give me a double geranium. But flowers—bless you! I cannot keep them, for no sooner do I get a flower than Mimi scratches it up.”

“Ah, Mimi!” said Célestin; “tell me how she is.”

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.