"She died last year. So I am all alone."
He asked her what she thought of doing for her livelihood. She shrugged her shoulders with the resignation of her class.
"I can always earn my living. There are brasseries, cafés-concerts in all the towns—I am fairly well known. They will give me an engagement. Il faut passer par là comme les autres."
"You must go through it like the others?" repeated my master. "But you are very young, my poor child."
"I am eighteen, Monsieur, I know I shall not make a fortune. I am not pretty enough even when I paint, and my figure is heavy. That is what Père Paragot used to complain of."
"What was his name?" asked my master, pricking up his ears.
"Berzélius Paragot—and he took the name of Nibbidard, which means 'no luck'—so he loved to call himself Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot."
"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot," mouthed my master joyously. "I would give anything for a name like that!"
"It is yours if you like to take it," she said quite seriously. "No one will want it any more."
"Little Asticot of my heart," said he, "what do you think of it?"