CHAPTER I.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.

The next morning broke fair. The sky over Paris held the blue of forget-me-nots, and the wind from the west, lazy and warm, ruffled the lilac of the Seine with streaks of sismondine. It was the summer end of April; she had still five days’ tenancy, and here May had arrived before her time, flushed and warm from her journey, but seemingly unspeakably happy.

“Ah, _mon Dieu!_ ’tis like an old Italian picture!” cried Gaillard as he opened his lattice in the Rue de Turbigo.

“Oh, _ciel_!” cried Célestin far away near the Rue de Babylone, as she stood by her open window and clasped her hands before all this beauty, whilst Dodor gave praise from the parrot cage till the brown sparrows, grubbing in the street below, cocked their impudent heads on one side, as if to say “What’s that? Who is making that noise?”

Célestin had been dreaming of Toto, and praying before she slept that the morrow might be fine and that he would not forget. What a day had come in answer to her prayers! She fully believed that her prayers had brought this angelic morning, tripping with blue parasol outspread across the fields of light, across the hills of dreams and the country of impossible primroses. Then the artist turned from the window and from heaven, and flung herself into a hat.

It had got the better of her yesterday. She had stared vainly at the foundation. Nothing came, only the vision of Toto beating the beggar man, Toto drinking his coffee, Toto declaring himself an artist, Toto’s eyes, Toto’s nose, the coat he had worn, his beautiful hands, his hair so well groomed, his white teeth, and his angelic smile. You cannot put these things into a hat—that is to say, immediately; but now, after twenty-four hours nearly had elapsed, the miracle was accomplished.

The result was a confection that made Princesse Klein look ten years younger at the Countess Prim’s garden party. She did not know that she was wearing Toto upon her head, Toto idealized and converted into a hat by the joint endeavors of love and April, assisted by the fingers of Célestin Sabatier.

The doing of it took but an hour, and then she held it out on the point of her finger and smiled; Dodor broke into a song of triumph, and the little American clock on the shelf struck seven.

So she breakfasted—a cup of milk and a Vienna roll eaten in haste—and gave Dodor his morning fly round the room. Then she started, closing the door carefully for fear of Mme. Liard’s cat, and all the way down the steep and dusty stairs Dodor’s voice pursued her, seeming to cry “Come back! come back!”

Toto had dressed himself in his oldest suit of tweed; he wore also a revolutionary-looking felt hat. A Prince cannot break into a blouse in one morning any more than a tree can cast its leaves in one night, but he was advancing. He had also been waiting since ten minutes to eight—that is to say, exactly five minutes—for at five minutes to eight Célestin appeared beneath the trees of the Avenue Champs Élysées, and Toto, who had been standing close to one of the little kiosks, came to meet her.

She wore a bunch of blue violets in her bosom, an artless adornment bought for a sou at the corner of the Rue de Varennes. She was in exactly the same dress as that she had worn on the previous morning, but her hands were gloved in honor of Toto.

They shook hands and laughed a little, and inquired after each other’s health. Then Toto led her to some chairs placed close to one of the little kiosks.

“Don’t let us sit on those,” said Célestin; “they charge for them. I once sat on a little chair just here, and a man came out and asked me for a sou; there was nothing to be done but pay him.”

“Never mind,” said the Prince; “let us be extravagant for once in our lives. Célestin, I have a treat for you—guess what it is.”

Célestin thought vaguely of what it could be; she could imagine nothing but a breakfast, hot rolls and butter and coffee, but somehow she did not care to tell of this imagining. She shook her head.

“I am going to take you for a day in the country and show you the flowers and things—that is, if you will come. Will you come, Célestin?”

“Oh, Désiré!” cried the girl. She could say no more; she held out both hands to Toto; her soul was in a tumult, and her eyes filled with tears of pure delight. The country, the mysterious country, the long-dreamt-of country, that land of her dreams compounded of old visions of Champrosay and the shrill sweetness of Dodor’s song! Had Israfel appeared before her offering a trip to the fields of heaven, I doubt if his offer would have been received with such delight.

Toto felt an extraordinary little thrill run through him as he took her hands. No one had ever called him Désiré before in a voice like that; women, when they knew him well enough, always called him Toto, generally with a little laugh—men too. Here was a being, lovely and lovable, who called him by his right name, and, oh, with what sweetness! It was a new revelation of himself; it was as if, glancing in a mirror, he saw, reflected in a new way, a face very much more handsome and manly than his own, and yet the true reflection of his face. He would have loved that mirror and disliked the false mirrors he had been accustomed to, just as he was beginning to love Désiré—I mean Célestin. He kissed each little hand and put them back in her lap, where they rested as if satisfied.

“But where shall we go?” asked Toto, glancing round to see if he could make out any sign of Gaillard, and almost hoping that he had overslept himself.

“Oh, anywhere,” said she. “What matter where, so that it is the country, where the trees are and the flowers? There is nothing so beautiful in the whole world as the trees; I dream of them sometimes, and they are lovely. Oh, see that white butterfly, white as an angel of heaven! he seems so glad, and he seems to know.”

“Bother!” said Toto.

“What?” asked Célestin, coming back from heaven.

It was Gaillard in the distance. The poet had dressed himself for pastoral pleasures; he wore a gray frockcoat, a white waistcoat, and a straw hat—one of those straw hats they manage better in France: it was soft, and the brim curled. He had also a green necktie, to be in keeping with the grass, a rose in his buttonhole, and a large stick with a crook handle.

“Ah, my dear Désiré!” screamed the poet when in speaking distance. He had been schooled overnight to forget the odious little name Toto. “I despaired of seeing you; you were not to be seen, and now I find you sitting on a seat.” He removed his hat and bowed low to Célestin.

“This is my friend M. Gaillard, the famous poet,” said Toto, putting in “the famous poet” as a sort of excuse for the gayety and _bizarrerie_ of his friend’s dress, which he felt might frighten Célestin. But Célestin was not in the least frightened, though somewhat awed by the grandeur and white waistcoat of Gaillard. She had heard Mme. Liard speak of poets, wonderful and fabulous beings who lived in the country. The country seemed coming to her in bounds, the gods descending in showers, the birds singing louder in the trees of the Champs Élysées as if to welcome God Gaillard. She felt very happy.

“I am char-r-r-med,” said Gaillard, bowing again and sinking into a chair. “Charmed to make Mlle. Célestin’s acquaintance. I have not been to bed. To—Désiré, I have passed the night pen in hand; the dawn came in upon me as I worked; then it was too late.”

He told this frightful lie with unction, for he had been, not only in bed, but snoring, when Mme. Plon, the concierge, tipped overnight by Toto, had actually come into his room and threatened to strip the clothes off him if he did not get up to go and meet Prince Cammora.

“_Mon Dieu_, monsieur!” had cried Mme. Plon. “Where will you get that hundred and ten francs you promised me for the rent but yesterday, should you fail to meet M. le Prince, and put His Highness in a bad temper?”

“How wonderful that is,” said Célestin timidly, “to be a poet!”

Gaillard swelled a bit under his white waistcoat; then he laughed a dreary little laugh.

“Ah, mademoiselle, on a morning like this, yes, it is a wonderful thing to be a poet; but the world is not always May, the world is not always May. Mademoiselle has, perhaps, never read my——”

“No, of course she hasn’t,” cut in Toto. “At least—but that’s not the question; tell me, where shall we go? We want a pleasant day. Now, what do you suggest?”

“But, mademoiselle——”

“She has already suggested anywhere; she is indifferent.”

“Well,” said Gaillard, who had the day’s festivity already sketched out in his head, “I would propose a _petit déjeuner_ now, then drop in to the Louvre and look at the Primitives, then I would propose _déjeuner_. After that, why not let us go to Montlhéry; we can take the train from the Gare d’Orléans. There is an old tower at Montlhéry that I love. We will dine at the Chat Noir; they have some very fine carp in a pond there, we will get the landlord to kill one and cook it for us. He knows me, and he manufactures a most delicious white wine sauce for carp. Well, then we will have a carriage back and supper at Foyot’s, in the Rue de Tournon.”

“That might do for M. Rothschild, but it is not simple enough for us,” said Toto, making suppressed grimaces at the poet. “If I had sold a picture even lately, but I haven’t.” A blank look began to overspread Gaillard’s face; he had not reckoned on this. “So we must be very economical. How much money have you?”

“I have nothing!” cried the unfortunate Gaillard, and he began, as was his wont, to turn his pockets inside out; then he remembered Célestin. “My publisher was out when I called upon him. My dear To—Désiré, how much have you?”

“Nineteen francs,” said Toto with a diabolical grin as he produced his money, “and a sou.” Célestin laughed and felt in her pocket for her little shabby purse, but Toto said “No.”

“We are rich. Poets and painters, you know, Célestin, have a way of getting along on air, like the birds—haven’t we, Gaillard?” But Gaillard only made a noise like a groan. “I know what we’ll do. But first come, and we will have our _petit déjeuner_ at the little _crémerie_ in the Rue du Mont Thabor. You remember the _crémerie_ where we breakfasted yesterday, Célestin?”

“That delicious little _crémerie_!” murmured Célestin, and they started.

They crossed the Place de la Concorde, Célestin laughing, Toto talking, and Gaillard walking silent like a froward child. He would have returned to the Rue de Turbigo had he not been absolutely penniless, for the five francs had all vanished, devoured by a rose, a cigar, and a cab.

“I will be silent,” thought Gaillard, “and spoil this wretched Toto’s pleasure; I will turn his feast into a funeral. Nineteen francs, _mon Dieu!_ and three people, and a day in the country! The mind revolts!”

But ten minutes later he was calling for honey, declaring that he could not eat his roll and butter without it, and joining in the conversation. He could no longer endure the agony of holding his tongue; besides, he remembered the thousand francs Toto had promised him if he conducted himself decorously and with discretion.

“I know where we will go!” cried the Prince.

“Barbizon?” queried Gaillard, putting six lumps of sugar in his coffee.

“No, Montmorency; the chestnut trees will look splendid to-day. They are not in flower yet; but no matter—one cannot have everything.”

“True,” said Gaillard, trying to ogle Célestin and failing, for she was entirely engrossed with Toto and the bread and butter; “one cannot have everything. We will go to Montmorency, and sit beneath the chestnut trees and tell each other fairy tales.”

“Oh, how delightful!” murmured Célestin.

“I will tell you the tale of the giant and the dwarf,” resumed Gaillard. “It is my own—one of a series of _fin-de-siècle_ fairy tales I am writing for Lévy. There is a terrible battle in it, and the giant beats the dwarf. In the olden tales the dwarf beats the giant invariably, but I have changed all that. The giant in my story is the type of sin; he pelts the dwarf with roses, nothing more; the dwarf replies with mud; he is Virtue, and has a hump, and is hairy. Rousseau had a châlet at Montmorency; it is there still. I will leave you two amongst the primroses whilst I go and cast a stone at it—wretched man, murderer of his own children, destroyer of the _haute noblesse_, progenitor of the bourgeoisie!”

“Oh, bother Rousseau!” cried the Prince, helping Célestin to more honey. “We don’t want to think of him; we want to be happy.”

“True,” said Gaillard; “you are young—we are all young; May is coming in. Désiré, a great idea has struck me: we will have a picnic. The inn at Montmorency may not be a good inn; I have my doubts about it. My children, listen to me: we will dine on the grass beneath those chestnut trees.”

“But——” objected Toto.

“Hear me out. I have a friend; we will call her Églantine. Do not laugh, Désiré. My friend lives close by; she is, in fact, very well-to-do, and owns a café. I will go to her, and she will pack me a luncheon basket, and so we will be at the mercy of no landlord.”

“Well, go,” said Toto, “but do not be long.”

“Half an hour is all I ask,” replied the poet, rising in a great hurry and departing.