He slipped away from his chair as if sucked down by a whirlpool. A roar of laughter went up that shook the ceiling, and then, to everyone’s horror, Toto the debonair, the hero of cock-fights and what not, broke into tears.
At this extraordinary sight Gaillard first gazed with a grin, and then burst out like a firework touched off, wringing his hands and calling upon God.
“Devil take that old scoundrel!” cried Pelisson, kicking at the body of De Nani, which seemed quite flaccid now that the truth had got out of it. “Where did you pick him up?—he’s a scamp, he’s a scamp!”
“Toto, my dear Toto,” lisped Struve, “paint a picture to-morrow, and I’ll make it famouth for you. So help me God! I will, or my name’s not Struve.”
“Alas!” cried Gaillard, drinking off a glass of brandy, “I am touched at the soul. Toto, my Toto, our Toto, _do_ not grieve. I, too, will write a little poem, and it will make your picture famous. Where is that wretch? Kick him, Pelisson!”
“Don’t let the waiters in,” choked Toto. “It’s only stupidity”—sniff, sniff—“the old fellow is drunk; don’t kick him, P-P-Pelisson, he’s an old man. I p-picked him up at my mother’s; he’s only stupid. There, I’m all right.”
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Struve; “we are all right now, let us play baccarat.”
“I am desolated,” mourned Gaillard, who had now to be comforted. “And my little poem is spoiled.” He looked at his shirt cuffs and broke into tears.
THE FAG END OF A NIGHT AND THE BEGINNING OF A MORNING.
When Gaillard was at last comforted and set writing poems in a corner, the waiters were admitted, the table was cleared, and cards produced.
They played loo, and Pelisson kicked the senseless body of De Nani, which had been pushed right under the table for propriety’s sake, when luck went against him.
Toto played furiously, partly to drown the remembrance of his unmanly tears, partly to be successful. His eyes burned, his cheeks were like carnations, and his luck was frightful; but he played with the dogged determination peculiar to him in little things, the pig-headed obstinacy which, had it been allied with talent and poverty, might have landed him in the Ministry or Academy.
A few men dropped in now and then, glanced at the play, saw that the stakes were small,—for Pelisson kept them down,—and yawned out again.