“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.