“How good it all is!” said Toto, as they drove over the Seine. He was echoing Célestin’s eternal sentiment without knowing it. “What a lovely world it is, and how little we see of it! We snore in our beds during the best part of the day, and live the rest of our time by lamplight.” “The world,” said Gaillard, “always reminds me of a poem written by a shopkeeper to advertise his stale wares, unpunctuated and filled with printer’s errors; that is why we read it by a dim light. It ought to have been burnt; it was unfortunately published and given to us to read. No one can make out what it is driving at; we have been spelling at it now a million years; we began when we were apes, and we will end, perhaps, when we are donkeys. I am sick of it; I would jump into the Seine, only that such an act would delight De Brie.” The cab stopped at the doorway of Célestin’s house, and the concierge, Mme. Liard, greeted Toto effusively. Her heart was touched by the youth of the lovers and the fact of Toto being an artist; that he should take Célestin under his protection seemed to her as natural as the mating of sparrows, and a piece of very good fortune for Célestin. Her trunk stood in the passage, and on the trunk the parrot cage, covered with green baize. From the cage came the occasional flirting sound of wings, the occasional tinkle of the swinging ring—sounds that bespoke uneasiness in the mind of Dodor. Then Célestin came down the steep stairs, blushing, and Gaillard had to admit that, even if the world were an ill-written poem, it had at least some very beautiful passages; for Célestin had made for herself a hat which was an amorous dream, and a girl friend, some lower Célestin of the Rue St. Honoré, had, in a fit of sentiment, confected for her a gown such as an angel in half-mourning need not have been ashamed of. Toto had bought her a new pair of shoes, and she wore openwork stockings. Toto kissed her before everyone; this was their only marriage service. “It makes me feel young again!” cried Mme. Liard as she carried the parrot cage out, whilst the driver carried the trunk. “And I will come and see you in your new home; and oh, monsieur,”—to Gaillard,—“she ought to be careful, for her chest is not what it should be; it was what killed her mother.” “I will see that she wears a muffler,” replied Gaillard, whilst Célestin got into the carriage, weeping from grief and happiness, and kissing her hand to Mme. Liard. Then the vehicle drove away, Gaillard on the front seat, the lovers facing him, and Dodor’s cage beside the coachman. Part III. CHAPTER I. GARNIER.