CHAPTER I.

ADAM FROISSART.

Nothing in particular had happened to Gaillard, yet the poet was in tribulation. To begin with, all his friends were too busy to attend to or amuse themselves with him. Struve was writing his book, or, rather, correcting the proof sheets, an employment that kept him short of temper and time; Pelisson had only one idea—_Pantin_; Toto was crabbedly finding out his own stupidity in the Rue de Perpignan; whilst De Brie had turned very acid over his connection with the new journal, and flung him commissions for little articles or volumes for review as if they were bones to a dog.

Then his publisher had informed him, with a very long face, that only three hundred copies of “The Fall of the Damned” had sold in three weeks, whereas three thousand of “Satanitie” had gone off in the same time.

To make matters worse, Papillard had stopped working; De Nani had frozen him. De Nani he felt to be the cause of all his misfortunes, and he only continued to exist—so he told himself—that he might witness De Nani’s downfall.

You may imagine, then, how pleased he felt when, on the morning after the same showery day that drenched Célestin, Pelisson appeared in his rooms before eight o’clock, and pulled up his blinds.

“Wake up! I want Adam Froissart’s address,” cried Pelisson, standing over the poet, and poking him with his stick to rouse him.

“Froissart!” cried Gaillard, rubbing his eyes. “He is not in Paris.”

“Where is he, then?”

“He is in—Amiens,” said Gaillard.

Froissart was a spiteful genius who possessed the unsavory humor of Papillard. No one had ever seen him, and his sole title to consideration lay in three malevolent articles leveled against De Brie and his political tendencies. They had been submitted to Pelisson by Gaillard, and so had found their way into the _Débats_. Pelisson, who noted down everything, had made a memorandum of this gentleman’s abilities. De Brie had done likewise, and though he hated this unknown journalist, he would have given a good deal to secure him as a member of his staff. He had expressed the desire in the hearing of Gaillard, and he might have obtained his wish, only that Froissart’s genius for malevolence was useless when expended against anyone else than De Brie.

Needless to say, there was no Froissart. He belonged to the shadowy band that included Fanfoullard, Mirmillard, Papillard, Églantine, and Angélique.

“This is a great nuisance,” grumbled Pelisson, rubbing his chin.

“What do you want of Froissart?”

“I am going to sack De Nani, and I want a man to take his place.”

Gaillard’s countenance became glorified.

“But, my dear Pierre, why seek for Froissart? Are there not plenty of men of ability in Paris to take the place of this silly old villain of a De Nani?”

“Hundreds, but no use to me. I don’t want one of your bright diamonds—I want a man in the rough; I don’t want an editor—I want a creature, a clever one, too, now: for, upon my soul, I am becoming exhausted between keeping _Pantin_ and De Nani going at the same time. You said this Froissart was poor.”

“Frightfully.”

“That’s just what I want.”

“But I believe he has an aunt who is very rich, and I heard she was dying some little time ago. I would not seek Froissart, Pierre; believe me, he is a very acid man, and quite unfit for an editor. If you want the sort of person you say you want, why not try me? I will do whatever you wish, and write whatever you wish.”

“No, no!” cried Pelisson hastily; “it would not do. You are a poet—stick to your last. Besides, I have been bombarded with your creditors; I’ve had enough of that. That is one of the reasons I am sacking De Nani. The old fool has burst the bladder. Someone went to Auteuil to make inquiries, and found he was living in three rooms, and owed money to his laundress. You can fancy how the news has flown amongst his creditors. Next thing someone will find out that he is a fool.”

“But why not edit the thing yourself?”

“So I do; but I want a shield. _Pantin_ will begin to bellow soon. Well, no matter; I am off for Amiens. I won’t be back till to-morrow. What’s this man’s address?”

“He lives in a cottage near the railway station; you will easily find it—there are roses on the porch. But, see here; who’s taking charge till you return?”

“De Nani, nominally; he cannot do any harm in one day. Besides, I have left everything cut and dried.”

“Does he know he is getting the sack?”

“I should think so. He and I have been at the office all night talking things over. He is quite resigned—going to cut and run. I left him asleep on the sofa. Now good-by. The cottage near the railway station, you say. _Mon Dieu!_ I will scarcely have time to catch the train.”

He darted off, and Gaillard sank down again in bed filled with the bliss of satisfied hatred. De Nani was down at last; the little world of æsthetic people who required “Satanities” and “Falls of the Damned” would now, perhaps, give their Gaillard undivided attention. He never once thought of Pelisson gone off on a wild-goose chase to Amiens, and soon he forgot even De Nani, immersed in visions of an impossible Gaillard worshiped by an impossible world.

Mme. Plon came in and placed _Pantin_ on the foot of his bed, and a letter in a blue envelope. The letter looked like a bill, so he left it whilst he glanced at the journal with languid interest. Then he picked up the letter, which had been left by a messenger, and, to his surprise, found that it was from De Nani.

“My Dear M. Gaillard [said De Nani]: May I ask you to call upon me immediately on receipt of this? It is of the utmost importance that I should see you without a moment’s delay.”

It was written upon the office paper, bearing the stamp “_Pantin_, No. ——, Rue Drouot. Rédacteur, M. le Marquis de Nani. Cable and telegraphic address: ‘Pouf.’ Telephone: No. 1654320.” Over all, the motto and watchword of the journal: “_Qui vive?_”

“Now, what can he want?” murmured Gaillard. “It is like his impertinence to send for me as if I were his footboy. I shall not go.”

And he turned over on his side. But no mongoose was ever of a more inquisitive nature than our friend Gaillard. What could De Nani want, and without a moment’s delay? He tried to imagine and failed, and then arose and dressed.

M. le Marquis de Nani was in the inner office. Since the night of Toto’s dinner-party at the Grand Café he had grown fat, or, at least, decidedly fatter. His raiment was superb; he had adorned his stomach with a gold and platinum watch-chain. He wore a shawl waistcoat, and his cuff-links, of dull gold, were enameled with pictures of tiny champagne bottles and opera dancers.

He was standing before the indifferent looking-glass that adorned the mantel, examining his face and informing Scribe, the cashier, that _Pantin_ had given him ten new wrinkles. A café near by had just sent in _déjeuner_ for two and a bottle of Pommery.

“I am expecting M. Gaillard to breakfast,” explained De Nani. “A most promising young man, whose interests I have at heart.”

Scribe bowed and left the room. He was a shock-headed man, with musical instincts and a genius for figures; he held the Marquis in great reverence, and had an implicit faith in him that somewhat troubled Pelisson. Yet what could Pelisson do? You cannot tell the cashier to beware of the editor? This implicit faith of Scribe’s was perhaps one factor in the sacking of De Nani, although goodness knows there were others enough.

“You sent for me, I believe,” said Gaillard rather stiffly, as he entered the inner office and made a little bow to his editor, whilst he glanced at the nice little _déjeuner_ on the table.

“_Ma foi_, yes; I trust you will excuse the _brusquerie_ of my note, my dear M. Gaillard. Will you not join me at breakfast? That is right. I will explain myself as we eat; we shall not be interrupted, for Pelisson has gone off somewhere for the day.”

“Pelisson will not be back till to-morrow,” said Gaillard, thawing visibly as he flung a bundle of papers off a chair and took his seat at the table. “He has gone to Amiens.”

De Nani hid his satisfaction at this remark, as he unwired the champagne. Then the two, hobnobbing across the table, shared a Perigord pie, and conversation became general; it swiftly became indelicate, and then confidential.

“You are right,” said the Marquis, in answer to a remark dropped by his _vis-à-vis_. “Pelisson has his limitations—ahu!”

“Pelisson is a journalist, a recorder of this ill-written tragedy which we are condemned to act in, and which we call, for want of a better name, ‘life.’ Oh, this life that they are always prating about! A scoundrel only the other day accused me of insincerity to life. Could he have paid me a higher compliment?”

“No, egad. Ha! the infernal scamp said that, did he? What will you have?—they must have ‘copy’; that is the watchword of this villainous world, that stinks of printer’s ink. ‘Copy, copy’—I will give them some copy. A word in your ear, M. Gaillard.”

“I am all attention.”

“I feel safe in admitting you into my little secret, for you are a man of honor. I feel safe in admitting you into the secret of my little surprise, inasmuch as it concerns Pelisson, who is not your friend, M. Gaillard.”

“Have you heard him saying things about me?” asked Gaillard, who was under the fixed belief that one half of the world spent its existence in slandering his works to the other half.”

“I have heard him say——”

“Yes?”

“No matter; what is the use of repeating the words of a man like Pelisson—ahu! They are like the crackling of thorns under a pot, as that delightfully humorous book, the Bible, has it. I should not have mentioned the chattering of this magpie. Fill your glass, M. Gaillard.”

“But, my dear Marquis, I implore you to tell me what this Pelisson has been uttering about me; it is always well to know one’s friends.”

“Well, egad, he said so much I have forgotten half of it. One day—it was last week—he said, ‘This Gaillard thinks himself a poet.’ Harmless words, but it was the tone of his voice that set all the office laughing. I did not laugh, it was bad form; but there is no form in this journalistic world. I am leaving it, I have had words with Pelisson; and before I take my departure it is my humble ambition to make Pierre Pelisson dance.”

“He ought to be dancing on an organ,” said Gaillard in a bitter voice. “It is all he is fit for.”

“He ought to be dancing on an organ, as you very truly remark; but I will endeavor to find a broader platform from whence to amuse Paris. And he will not dance a waltz, M. Gaillard, nor yet will he indulge his limbs in the graceful movements of the mazurka. He will dance the can-can, will Pierre Pelisson—ahu!”

“You are going to play a practical joke on him?”

“Oh, no! I am only going to make him dance for my amusement; but to do so, I want Prince Toto’s address. He is in Paris?”

“He is living at No. 10, Rue de Perpignan,” said Gaillard, finishing the champagne. “But I doubt if he will help you.”

“I don’t want him to,” said De Nani, entering the address in his tablets. “I only want the number of the house and the name of the street.”

“I ought not to have told you!” cried Gaillard, suddenly remembering his promise to Toto.

“Why not?”

“He made me promise to tell no one where he is living, nor about Célestin.”

“Ah, have no fear!” said De Nani, making another entry in his tablets. “Toto will not object to my knowing his address; he knows that I am a safe man, a man to be trusted—ahu, _ventre St. Gris_! Could I tell you, M. Maillard——”

“Gaillard.”

“Paillard,” continued De Nani, who, now that he had obtained all or nearly all the information he wanted, began to put on frills and forget names. “Could I tell you, M. Paillard, how I love this dear Toto, you might with your genius make from it a little poem; it transcends the love of David for Jonathan, this affection of mine for Toto. He is so joyous, he is so young, he is such a charming host. You remember that delightful dinner where we first made acquaintance; I feel I can never repay Toto for that piece of hospitality. But I will try, as far as in me lies—I will try.”

“I tell you what,” said Gaillard, putting on his hat and lighting a cigarette: “you would do Toto a great service if you could induce him to leave that wretched hole he is in, and give up art and all that nonsense.”

“And Célestin?”

“Yes; she is worse than art. Between you and me, I don’t know how he can stand it, living with an illiterate woman like that; she has not two ideas in her head. I don’t believe she can read, and, what is worse, I don’t believe she wants to. They do their own cooking. Imagine a man of Toto’s position in the world—faugh! it makes me ill.”

This was an untruth—cooking was rarely done in the atelier of Toto, for Célestin was the worst cook in the world, excepting perhaps Toto; but it was true enough for De Nani.

“And this Célestin—what was she before Toto took her from the mud?”

“She was a hat-maker—she is still. Trims hats and that sort of thing.”

“Whilst Toto paints those delightful pictures of his?”

“Yes. But the worst is, he cannot sell them,—I know by his face,—and he is frightfully hard up.”

“Soon,” said De Nani, with a horrid leer, “our friend Toto will cast his brushes aside, and live upon the diligence of this pretty Célestin. It is what all these artists do when unsuccessful. We must save him from this.”

“I wish you would.”

“Before to-morrow evening,” said De Nani, “I hope to cure this charming Toto of his fever for fame and his hunger for art. Who is this? Why, it is M. Wolf. I must bid you now good-day, M. Gaillard, as I have some matters of importance to transact with M. Wolf.”

Wolf came in, hat in hand and spectacles gleaming, as Gaillard went out. De Nani removed the remains of the _déjeuner_ from the table onto the floor, and greeted the newcomer.

“You are just the man I want,” said the Marquis. “I have an interview to write, and I want you to assist me. I have all the facts. That is right, take a seat and a pen.”

Gaillard went off feeling rather huffed at the summary manner in which De Nani had dismissed him. His hatred of the old man, which had vanished before the champagne and the knowledge of his downfall, returned somewhat. He determined, having nothing better to do, to betake himself to Toto’s atelier, and spend the afternoon smoking cigarettes and talking to Célestin about his poems. Célestin made an admirable audience for a minor poet, even although she was an illiterate woman and scarcely knew how to read. She had the power of sympathy, and she listened to Gaillard just as she listened to Dodor and Toto. When Gaillard would spout a sonnet, and then abuse it, declaring that it was too full of color, or too sharp in sound, or destitute of perfume, and that he wished he had never written it, Célestin, raising her eyes from her work, would cry, “Oh, but I am sure it is beautiful. It could not be more beautiful. I seem to see those roses you speak of. And how sad, the roses were unhappy! That seems so dreadful, does it not, Désiré?” And then Toto, if he were busy, would give a grunt, and Gaillard would repeat again the sonnet, and declare that the roses were glad now because Célestin had pitied them.

But she would gladden no roses to-day.

“She has a cold,” said Toto, pointing to the closed bedroom door. “She got her feet wet yesterday. How glad I am that you have come!”

He was sitting near the stove, and he rose and put on his hat. Someone had a fit of coughing in the bedroom, and Gaillard stood staring at the tulip manufactured by Gamier as though it were a dragon.

“Surely, my dear Désiré, you have not descended to things like these!” He touched the pot warily with the point of his stick, as if fearful of infection.

“Oh, that!” said Toto carelessly. “It is not mine; it is Célestin’s. Do not touch it; she is awfully proud of it. Come out with me; I want to talk to you.” In the street Toto took Gaillard’s arm. “I am so glad you have come. I am in need of a friend. I am in a state of misery. What shall I do with that girl?”

“Why, has she been troubling you? _Mon Dieu!_ Désiré, tell me, what is this?”

“No,” said Toto, “she has not been troubling me. I only wish she had, I only wish she had. That woman—pah! she is not a woman, she is an angel.”

“So are all women till you find them out. But go on, Désiré. Why all this terrible excitement?”

“Why? My God! it is very easy for you to talk. She loves me. Well, then, what am I to do? I have been nearly mad these last few days, and not a soul to speak to. You don’t care. You have been off to the Moulin Rouge and Heaven knows where every night!”

“I swear, Désiré,” cried Gaillard, “I have been in a worse condition than you. I have been on the edge of suicide. Moulin Rouge! I have not been to the Moulin Rouge. I took to my bed three days ago to read ‘Aucassin and Nicolete’ and try to forget that I was alive. I have not eaten—morphia and cigarettes alone have passed my lips during the last forty-eight hours. Then I thought of you; then I came, and for reward I am accused like this! No matter.”

“If she were an ordinary girl,” said Toto, disregarding Gaillard’s fantasies, “I would give her five thousand francs and set her up in business, and there would be an end of it.”

“Ah, Désiré! ah, Désiré!” gasped Gaillard, like a man trying to speak in a shower bath. “Can it be that at last you are going to return to us? Can——”

“Call me Toto,” cried the Prince. “I hate that vile name Désiré. I put it on with this foolishness—this rotten art business. Don’t mind me, my dear fellow; let me rave. I have had no one to talk to for days but Garnier and Célestin. They do not understand me.”

“Go on, go on,” said Gaillard, as if Toto had swallowed poison and he was urging him to vomit. “Speak away, it will do you good; relieve your mind—it will save you perhaps from madness. Ah, I can understand—I can understand what you must have suffered, my poor Toto! I have been through it all myself.”

“Come in here,” said Toto, stopping at a small café; “we can sit down and talk.”

“Yes, let us enter,” said Gaillard. “No, do not touch absinthe in a place like this; if you wish to die, choose an easier poison. Beer? Yes, let us have some beer. And now, Toto, continue your troubles.”

“I have only one trouble,” said Toto, “and that is Célestin.”

“Ah, _mon Dieu!_ that is a trouble easily got rid of.”

“How?”

“Leave Célestin to me.”

“What would you do with her?”

“I?—nothing. I would simply say, ‘Mlle. Célestin, M. Désiré has been called away to the death-bed of an aunt in the country. She will leave him her entire fortune if he marries at once and according to her desires.’ Then I would say, ‘The girl upon whom his aunt has fixed——’”

“Oh, rubbish! I could do that myself. Do you think if I wanted to I could not kick Célestin over in half an hour? You do not understand. She is like no one else. She is like a child. I cannot hurt her. She would haunt me forever, she and that lark. Oh, why did I ever meet her? But for her I would have been back days ago out of this abominable Rue de Perpignan. If it had not been for her, I would never have come here at all. She drove me on to this stupidity, I don’t know why.”

“If,” said Gaillard rather stiffly, “you still love this girl so much——”

“But I don’t. I mean this: I thought I was in love with her, and, somehow, now everything seems to have gone to pieces all at once; the pleasure went out of my life all at once. I am lingering on in this infernal part of the town like a thing with a broken back. I don’t know what I am to do.”

“I know,” said Gaillard.

“What?”

“Take a little cottage in the country and put your Célestin there with her lark.”

“Yes, I might do that; only I will have to go there every day or live there.”

“In the name of Heaven, why?”

“Because it will break her heart if I leave her. I tell you you do not know her. She has wound herself round me.”

“Well, unwind her.”

“She lives for me—I can see it. I did not know that there were such women in the world, and, of course, it is my luck to meet one of them and get myself in this tangle with her. It is very easy for you to sip your beer and say ‘Unwind her.’ Suppose a child were to run up to you and put its arms round you, could you box its ears? And, besides, I have wound myself a bit round her. I have an affection for her, though I am weary of this love business. I do love her as a child, but then one does not want to spend one’s life in the nursery.”

“Take a little cottage,” reiterated Gaillard; “place her in it. We will go down together, you and I, each day for a fortnight. Then we will drop a day by degrees, and wean her, so to speak. It will take you the whole summer. Well, it is an idealistic way of spending the warm weather. We will have a cottage with clematis on the porch, and a garden filled with old-fashioned flowers. There she will, so to speak, gain her legs, and when she is able to run alone, trust her, she will find a playmate.”

“The first thing to be done,” said Toto thoughtfully, “is to get away from this part of the town before anyone finds out I am here. I do not want this affair advertised all over Paris. You are certain that no one knows about it. You have hinted it to no one?”

“Absolutely certain—no one. You are in Corsica; that is enough.”

“Have you seen my mother lately?”

“I dined with her only yesterday.”

“Why, I thought you said you had been in bed for the last four days.”

“So I have; but I got up yesterday evening and called upon Mme. la Princesse in reply to a summons. She detained me to dinner.”

“What did she want?”

“Only to make inquiries as to you.”

“And you said?”

“Oh, I said you were progressing charmingly.”

“I hope no one else was there?”

“No, we dined _tête-à-tête_.”

“Well, I think it is the best thing I can do.”

“What?”

“That idea of yours about the country. I could take rooms for a while somewhere. The only thing is, Célestin cannot be moved till this cold is better. Isn’t it vile luck? It will mean several days before I can get away from this place.”

“Could you not move her in a cab?”

“No, she is not strong, and if she got another cold on top of this one it might kill her.”

“Have you given her any medicine?”

“I gave her some lozenges, and Garnier brought her some sugar-candy.”

“Who is Garnier?”

“He is a painter.”

“Oh, one of these wretched _rapins_. Take my advice, Toto, and have a doctor in; he will cure her more quickly than if she were left alone.”

“I wanted to, but she implored me not. She has a horror of doctors and medicine.”

“Have you put poultices on her chest?”

“Mercy, no!”

“You ought to poultice her. I frequently suffer from colds in the early spring, and Mme. Plon declares that I would not be alive but for her poultices. It will cut it short. Have you a bronchitis kettle?”

“No; she hasn’t got bronchitis; she has only got a cough and a pain in the side.”

“No matter; it would stop her from getting bronchitis. You ought also to give her sweet spirits of niter. I assure you, Toto, you never can tell what a cold turns to; and this girl, should she get really ill, may keep her bed for a month, and then where would you be? In cases like this, we ought to act on the principle of the firemen, who play on unconsumed buildings in order to prevent them from catching fire. If I were you, I would insist on a doctor. Well, well, I do not press the point—she is not mine. Let us talk on other things. Have you heard that Pelisson has cut De Nani adrift? No, of course you have not.”

“How can I know what is going on in this place?”

“True; but, even so, it only occurred last night. De Nani seems quite resigned, but I would not wonder if he played some trick upon our friend Pelisson. He wanted your address.”

“Pelisson?”

“No, De Nani,” said Gaillard, who almost bit his tongue for letting this cat out of its bag.

“I hope you did not give it to him.”

Gaillard shrugged his shoulders.

“For that old man is my evil star. I do not believe I would have been here now but for his insult that night. You remember? Well, I am going back to the atelier.”

“How much money have you left, Toto?”

“I have only five hundred francs.”

“You had better let me bring you some more. Give me a check. You have not your check-book? Well, write one out for five hundred francs on a piece of paper, and I will take it and cash it for you, and bring you the money to-morrow.”

“You will not turn up again if I let you have all that.”

“Toto!”

“I know you so well. See here, what time will you promise to turn up, if I give you my check?”

Gaillard debated with himself.

“I will be at your atelier at one o’clock, punctually.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”