“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.