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.