CHAPTER V.

THE SHOWER.

“Dodor, we are very poor,” said Célestin next morning. She had taken the lark from its cage, and was holding the little warm, brown body to her breast.

Toto had gone out to slink about the streets in a miserable state of mind. He was deadly tired of his atelier—Art had pulled his ears; yet he was ashamed to go home. Besides, how about Célestin?

He felt like a child who had stolen a fiddle, unable to play on it, tired of it, afraid to return it, and wavering for a moment ere he throws it into the nearest ditch. It was ten o’clock in the morning.

“So,” continued Célestin, putting the lark back in its cage, “I am going to make some money.”

Her head was full of echoes begotten of Toto’s words last night, “I am very poor,” and plans begotten of the echoes. She had all her life been well-to-do; by some special provision of God’s, instead of her seeking work, work had always stolen to seek her fingers; the winds had blown tulle and artificial roses across her path; Mme. Hümmel had supplied her with foundations, and art had done the rest.

So it was a new sensation to hear the wolf scratch at the door, rather fearful, yet almost pleasurable: for was not Toto with her, and so long as they loved each other what did anything matter?

She had three hats finished—four, in fact, but only three for sale. For the fourth was the one she had made that morning,—the morning of the honeymoon,—and it was not for sale. She could not think of allowing another woman to wear it, so she put it on her head, determining to wear it herself.

She had on a dress of lilac-colored nun’s cloth. She made the three hats up in a parcel, and then drew on a pair of lilac-colored gloves.

“How grand Mme. Hümmel will think I have become!” said Célestin, as she departed.

Even the old Rue de Perpignan looked young this morning. It was a blissful and dreamy day; heavy showers had fallen in the early morning, leaving a perfume in the air, faint, as if from the gardens of Paradise.

She reached Verral’s in the Rue St. Honoré without any surprising adventure, and entered by the side door that leads to the workrooms. These lay behind the showrooms, the buzz and murmur of which penetrated the thin partitions dividing the one from the other. The atmosphere was warm and filled with that oppressive smell which comes from millinery in a mass. Size, varnish, and glue contributed their odors, whilst the air vibrated with the whir of sewing machines from the rooms above.

“Ah, the little Célestin!” cried Mme. Hümmel, a stout Alsatian in black silk, and with a good-natured face.

“I sent a girl to the Rue de Babylone only last week to see if you were dead, and they said you were married. Bad child not to have told me! I was frightened. I could not sleep at night, saying to myself, ‘Where is that Célestin?’ So you have brought me some hats?”

She led the way to her private room, and looked at the hats, and praised them a little: for it does not do to lavish praise on employees; they are apt to wax fat on it and kick for higher prices, as Mme. Hümmel had learnt in the course of her experience.

Then she ran away to get some money, and Célestin stood by the table, on which lay feathers, patterns of silk, and those _pompons_ which, according to Gaillard, were the mainstay and support of the mysterious Angélique.

“This is for the work,” said Mme. Hümmel, paying the stipulated amount, “and this is for yourself. It is a wedding gift. Poor child! are you happy?”

“Oh, very happy!” said Célestin, putting the napoleon just given to her for a wedding gift into her glove, and the six francs into her purse. “Happier than I can tell. How good it is of you! A whole napoleon! I never thought—I——”

“No, do not thank me. You are a good child, and I am sure you will make him happy. You must bring him to see me some Saturday. I will lecture him for you. And is he dark or fair? and what is his name?”

“He is dark, and his name is Désiré.”

“And his other name?”

“I don’t know,” said Célestin. “He told me once, and I have forgotten. How stupid it is of me!”

Mme. Hümmel smothered a little laugh.

“So you do not know his surname? _Mon Dieu!_ what a droll child you are!”

“I don’t remember it. My head will not hold names; it is like a sieve. I am very silly.” And Célestin, blushing and shaking the good woman by the hand, departed, whilst Madame cried after her, “Be sure and bring him some Saturday for me to lecture him,” little thinking that this young man with the forgettable surname was Toto, son of Verral’s best customer, Mme. la Princesse de Cammora.

Célestin walked away, so lost in her napoleon that she did not notice the clouds hurrying up from the southwest. Like everything fortunate, the napoleon was a gift from the good God. Toto was one of these gifts, or, rather, the chief of them; and as she made her way along the busy street, she cast her eyes up several times as if returning thanks through the brim of her hat to those favored angels, her guardians.

A thought had crossed her mind. She would get a money-box for Toto and save up for him, for what would happen if she were to die, and he were left like the artist in that terrible play at the Porte St. Martin? Already, in fancy, she was supporting him by her hats whilst he pursued his beautiful art to fame.

But if she were to die? Her lips trembled. Those two children of hers, Toto and Dodor! They crossed her imagination together, feckless creatures, one so like the other in character, either jumping about on their perches, or moping, irresponsible, and terribly in need of someone to tidy their cages, talk to them, and love them.

She was passing a frightful criticism on Toto, but she did not know it. Perhaps the only people who criticise us justly are the people who love us, for our perfections and imperfections are to them all one country, and of that country perhaps our imperfections are the fairest part.

Just as she reached the middle of the Place de la Concorde the clouds burst. It was like a huge shower bath, of which the string had suddenly been pulled. In a second the Madeleine and Rue Royale on one hand, and the big letters announcing the Chamber of Deputies on the other, were veiled by sheets of rain.

Célestin awoke suddenly from her painful, half-pleasurable reverie, to find herself drenched. She had no umbrella, and her friends the omnibuses were not near, so she ran through sheets of rain, till her hat was ruined, and then she hid in a doorway, panting, and with her hand to her breast. The shower spent itself in ten minutes, and the day smiled out again brighter than ever. So she pursued her way to the Rue de Perpignan, wet to the skin, and rejecting the idea of an omnibus because of the expense for one thing, and, besides, she was wet already, and it was safer to walk and keep warm.

When she reached the atelier she found Toto carefully drying himself at the stove. He, too, had been caught by the rain, but not so badly.

She insisted upon his taking off his coat, and whilst it was drying she talked to him and laughed to cheer him up. Then she spread the cloth on the table, for it was time for _déjeuner_, and lastly she went to the bedroom, like a prudent person, and changed her things. But the beautiful hat was ruined beyond redemption, and as she gazed at it she gave a little shiver.

That evening, when the lamp was lit, she told Toto all about Mme. Hümmel, the selling of the hats, the gift of the napoleon, and the desire of the forewoman to see him and lecture him.

Toto listened half unconsciously. He was already revolving in his mind plans of escape from his cage. He had fixed upon Gaillard as the man of all others to help him, but he had not seen Gaillard now for four days.

As Célestin finished her story—she was sitting upon the floor, her head resting against Toto’s knee—a shudder ran through her, and her teeth chattered.

“Why,” cried Toto, “what is this? What makes you shiver so?”

“I don’t know,” said Célestin, half laughing. “I did not do it on purpose;” and again the rigor seized her, as if someone were shaking her by the shoulder. “I will go to bed,” she said, rising to her feet. “My head swims.”

“I hope she is not going to be ill,” thought the Prince to himself. “And I do wish Gaillard would come. What can have happened to him?”