“I say, you know,” said Struve, who did not relish the idea of acting as ambassador between Toto and some hussy, who would probably pull his hair for his pains, “would it not be better for you to write? There is something much more final about a letter left in by a postman than a message taken by a friend.” “I could not write to her, and I want you to give her some money. Gaillard is bringing ten thousand francs back; I will give her three. Of course I will provide for her afterwards. Do, my dear fellow, help me in this, and I will be forever grateful; besides, you will never see me again.” “All right,” said Struve; “I will do as you ask.” The three thousand francs decided him. There were few women of this kind who would pull the hair of a messenger armed with the consolation of a three-thousand-franc note; besides, he felt a sympathy for the unfortunate Toto, this sparrow who had built too high. They sat for half an hour smoking. “Of course,” said Toto, “the affair does not end here between De Nani and me. When I have time to breathe I will find him out.” “What for?” “To make him fight.” The idea of a duel between Toto and De Nani was almost too much for Struve’s gravity. However, he did not laugh. “You will not find De Nani; he has vanished. Pelisson says the safe has been cleaned out. It was that fool Scribe, the cashier; he lent De Nani the keys for a moment the day before yesterday, and the old fellow must have taken an impression of them in wax. The worst of it is, Pelisson cannot prosecute—the old fellow knows too much about the inner workings of _Pantin_. And yet Pelisson always thought him a fool. No, you will not find De Nani; and if you did, he would not fight. It is my impression that he is a very deep card, this Marquis. You see, Pelisson thought him only a drunken old man who would be wax in his hands. Who is this?” Gaillard appeared. “I have a brougham at the door,” said Gaillard in a mournful voice, “and here is the money, dear Toto, partly in notes, partly in gold.” CHAPTER IV. ENVOY. Meanwhile, Garnier, left alone in the atelier, sat musing on the strangeness of things, and waiting for Toto’s return. Ten minutes passed by, and half an hour. Through the top-light, which was pulled a bit open, he could hear the sparrows bickering on the roof, and the voice of a hawker in the Rue de Perpignan crying “Strawberries!” whilst a broad dash of sunlight, falling upon the lower part of the wall opposite to him, lit the place with an effulgence of its own, like a great lamp radiating sunbeams. It seemed such a pity that Célestin should be ill this glorious weather. Presently he heard her voice calling for Désiré in a muffled manner. “He will be back very soon, my little Célestin,” said Garnier, as he stood beside the bed, smiling down upon the patient. “_Mon Dieu!_ my poor child, how blue your lips have become, even within so short a time. Say to me, Célestin, how you feel.”