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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:20:19 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:20:19 -0700 |
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diff --git a/26154-h/26154-h.htm b/26154-h/26154-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..122b883 --- /dev/null +++ b/26154-h/26154-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12064 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Joyous Adventures Of Aristide Pujol, by William J. Locke. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + + .notes {background-color: #a95b71; color: #dadad0; padding: .5em; + margin-left: 31%; margin-right: 31%; text-align: center;} + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + h1,h2,h3,h4 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + + h6 { text-align: center; font-size: 3em; + clear: both; + } + + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .box { width: 250px; + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center; + padding: 1em; + border-style: solid; border-width: thin; } + + .box1 { width: 700px; + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center; + padding: 1em; + border-style: none; } + + .box2 { width: 700px; + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center; + padding: 1em; + border-top: double; border-bottom: double; } + + .pagenum { visibility: hidden; + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-variant: small-caps;} + a { text-decoration: none; } + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Joyous Adventures of Aristide Pujol, by +William J. Locke + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Joyous Adventures of Aristide Pujol + +Author: William J. Locke + +Release Date: July 31, 2008 [EBook #26154] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURES OF ARISTIDE PUJOL *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p class="notes"><strong>Transcriber’s Note: Table of Contents added.</strong></p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 376px;"> +<img src="images/imgcover.jpg" width="376" height="588" alt="Cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + +<div class="box"> + +<h3><em>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</em></h3> + +<p><span class="smcap">Idols</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Septimus</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Derelicts</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Usurper</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Where Love Is</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The White Dove</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Simon the Jester</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">A Study in Shadows</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">A Christmas Mystery</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Belovèd Vagabond</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">At the Gate of Samaria</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Demagogue and Lady Phayre</span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Glory of Clementina</span></p> + +</div> + +<div class="box1"> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p> + +<a name="img003" id="img003"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 404px;"> +<img src="images/img003.jpg" width="404" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +</div> +<p class="center"><span class="caption">at the beginning of the fourth kiss +out came her father</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 23em;"><strong><em>See page <a href="#Page_34">34</a></em></strong></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE</h2> +<h6>JOYOUS ADVENTURES</h6> +<h6>OF ARISTIDE PUJOL</h6> + +<p> </p> + +<h4>BY</h4> +<h2>WILLIAM J. LOCKE</h2> + +<p> </p> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Illustrations by</span></h4> +<h2>ALEC BALL</h2> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<p class="center"><strong>NEW YORK<br /> +JOHN LANE COMPANY<br /> +MCMXII</strong></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="7" cellspacing="0" summary=""> + +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#I">I</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR PATRONNE</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#II">II</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF THE ARLÉSIENNE</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#III">III</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF THE KIND MR. SMITH</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#IV">IV</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF THE FOUNDLING</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#V">V</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF THE PIG’S HEAD</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#VI">VI</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF FLEURETTE</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#VII">VII</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF THE MIRACLE</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#VIII">VIII</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF THE FICKLE GODDESS</td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='right'><a href="#IX">IX</a></td> <td align='left'>THE ADVENTURE OF A SAINT MARTIN’S SUMMER</td> </tr> + +</table></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + +<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="7" cellspacing="0" summary=""> + +<tr> <td align='left'>At the Beginning of the Fourth Kiss Out Came Her Father</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img003"><em>Frontispiece</em></a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>I Had Knocked Him Down on Purpose. He Was Crippled<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">for Life</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img14">14</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Anything Less Congruous as the Bride-Elect of the Debonair<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Aristide Pujol it Was Impossible to Imagine</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img24">22</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Had Straightway Poured His Grievances into a Feminine Ear</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img36">32</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>I Found Both Tyres Had Been Punctured in a Hundred Places</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img46">40</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>“Madame,” said Aristide, “You Are Adorable, and I Love You to<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Distraction”</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img58">50</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>“The Villain Was a Traveller in Buttons—Buttons!”</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img70">60</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>He Burst into Shrieks of Laughter</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img76">64</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>“And You!” shouted Bocardon, Falling on Aristide; “I Must Embrace<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">You Also”</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img82">68</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Standing on the Arrival Platform of Euston Station</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img94">78</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>“Ah! the Pictures,” cried Aristide, with a Wide Sweep of His Arms</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img106">88</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>“I’ll Take Five Hundred Pounds,” said He, “to Stay in”</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img116">96</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Between the Folds of a Blanket Peeped the Face of a Sleeping Child</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img132">110</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>He Demonstrated the Proper Application of the Cure</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img144">120</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>It is a Fearsome Thing for a Man to be Left Alone in the Dead<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">of Night with a Young Baby</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img150">124</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>One of the Little Girls in Pigtails Was Holding Him, While Miss<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Anne Administered the Feeding-Bottle</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img162">134</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>He Must Have Dealt Out Paralyzing Information</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img210">180</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Fleurette Danced with Aristide, as Light as an Autumn Leaf<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tossed by the Wind</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img220">188</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Aristide Practised His Many Queer Accomplishments</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img234">200</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>He Read It, and Blinked in Amazement</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img244">208</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>He Might as Well Have Pointed Out the Marvels of Kubla Khan’s<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pleasure-Dome to a Couple of Guinea-Pigs</span></td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img254">216</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>“I’ve Caught You! At Last, After Twenty Years, I’ve Caught You”</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img274">234</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>There He Saw a Sight Which for a Moment Paralyzed Him</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img280">238</a></td> </tr> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Mr. Ducksmith Seized Him by the Lapels of His Coat</td> + <td align='right'><a href="#img286">242</a></td> </tr> + +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> + +<h1>THE<br /> +JOYOUS ADVENTURES<br /> +OF<br /> +ARISTIDE PUJOL</h1> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>The Joyous Adventures of Aristide Pujol</h2> + +<h2>I</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR PATRONNE</strong></p> + + +<p>In narrating these few episodes in the undulatory, +not to say switchback, career of my +friend Aristide Pujol, I can pretend to no +chronological sequence. Some occurred before he +(almost literally) crossed my path for the first +time, some afterwards. They have been related to +me haphazard at odd times, together with a hundred +other incidents, just as a chance tag of association +recalled them to his swift and picturesque +memory. He would, indeed, make a show of fixing +dates by reference to his temporary profession; but +so Protean seem to have been his changes of fortune +in their number and rapidity that I could never +keep count of them or their order. Nor does it +matter. The man’s life was as disconnected as a +pack of cards.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +My first meeting with him happened in this wise.</p> + +<p>I had been motoring in a listless, solitary fashion +about Languedoc. A friend who had stolen a few +days from anxious business in order to accompany +me from Boulogne through Touraine and Guienne +had left me at Toulouse; another friend whom I +had arranged to pick up at Avignon on his way +from Monte Carlo was unexpectedly delayed. I +was therefore condemned to a period of solitude +somewhat irksome to a man of a gregarious temperament. +At first, for company’s sake, I sat in +front by my chauffeur, McKeogh. But McKeogh, +an atheistical Scotch mechanic with his soul in his +cylinders, being as communicative as his own differential, +I soon relapsed into the equal loneliness +and greater comfort of the back.</p> + +<p>In this fashion I left Montpellier one morning on +my leisurely eastward journey, deciding to break +off from the main road, striking due south, and visit +Aigues-Mortes on the way.</p> + +<p>Aigues-Mortes was once a flourishing Mediterranean +town. St. Louis and his Crusaders sailed +thence twice for Palestine; Charles V. and Francis +I. met there and filled the place with glittering +state. But now its glory has departed. The sea +has receded three or four miles, and left it high +and dry in the middle of bleak salt marshes, useless, +dead and desolate, swept by the howling mistral +and scorched by the blazing sun. The straight +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +white ribbon of road which stretched for miles +through the plain, between dreary vineyards—some +under water, the black shoots of the vines appearing +like symmetrical wreckage above the surface—was +at last swallowed up by the grim central +gateway of the town, surmounted by its frowning +tower. On each side spread the brown machicolated +battlements that vainly defended the death-stricken +place. A soft northern atmosphere would +have invested it in a certain mystery of romance, +but in the clear southern air, the towers and walls +standing sharply defined against the blue, wind-swept +sky, it looked naked and pitiful, like a poor +ghost caught in the daylight.</p> + +<p>At some distance from the gate appeared the +usual notice as to speed-limit. McKeogh, most +scrupulous of drivers, obeyed. As there was a knot +of idlers underneath and beyond the gate he slowed +down to a crawl, sounding a patient and monotonous +horn. We advanced; the peasant folk cleared +the way sullenly and suspiciously. Then, deliberately, +an elderly man started to cross the road, +and on the sound of the horn stood stock still, with +resentful defiance on his weather-beaten face. McKeogh +jammed on the brakes. The car halted. +But the infinitesimal fraction of a second before it +came to a dead stop the wing over the near front +wheel touched the elderly person and down he went +on the ground. I leaped from the car, to be +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +instantly surrounded by an infuriated crowd, which +seemed to gather from all the quarters of the broad, +decaying square. The elderly man, helped to his +feet by sympathetic hands, shook his knotted fists +in my face. He was a dour and ugly peasant, of +splendid physique, as hard and discoloured as the +walls of Aigues-Mortes; his cunning eyes were as +clear as a boy’s, his lined, clean-shaven face as +rigid as a gargoyle; and the back of his neck, above +the low collar of his jersey, showed itself seamed +into glazed irregular lozenges, like the hide of a +crocodile. He cursed me and my kind healthily in +very bad French and apostrophized his friends in +Provençal, who in Provençal and bad French made +responsive clamour. I had knocked him down on +purpose. He was crippled for life. Who was +I to go tearing through peaceful towns with my +execrated locomotive and massacring innocent people? +I tried to explain that the fault was his, and +that, after all, to judge by the strength of his +lungs, no great damage had been inflicted. But no. +They would not let it go like that. There were the +gendarmes—I looked across the square and saw +two gendarmes striding portentously towards the +scene—they would see justice done. The law was +there to protect poor folk. For a certainty I would +not get off easily.</p> + +<a name="img14" id="img14"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/img014.jpg" width="600" height="454" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">i had knocked him down on purpose. he was crippled for life</span> +</div> + +<p>I knew what would happen. The gendarmes +would submit McKeogh and myself to a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +<em>procès-verbal</em>. They would impound the car. I should +have to go to the Mairie and make endless depositions. +I should have to wait, Heaven knows how +long, before I could appear before the <em>juge de paix</em>. +I should have to find a solicitor to represent me. +In the end I should be fined for furious driving—at +the rate, when the accident happened, of a mile +an hour—and probably have to pay a heavy compensation +to the wilful and uninjured victim of +McKeogh’s impeccable driving. And all the time, +while waiting for injustice to take its course, +I should be the guest of a hostile population. I +grew angry. The crowd grew angrier. The gendarmes +approached with an air of majesty and +fate. But just before they could be acquainted with +the brutal facts of the disaster a singularly bright-eyed +man, wearing a hard felt hat and a blue serge +suit, flashed like a meteor into the midst of the +throng, glanced with an amazing swiftness at me, +the car, the crowd, the gendarmes and the victim, +ran his hands up and down the person of the last +mentioned, and then, with a frenzied action of a +figure in a bad cinematograph rather than that of a +human being, subjected the inhabitants to an infuriated +philippic in Provençal, of which I could +not understand one word. The crowd, with here +and there a murmur of remonstrance, listened to +him in silence. When he had finished they hung +their heads, the gendarmes shrugged their majestic +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +and fateful shoulders and lit cigarettes, and the +gargoyle-visaged ancient with the neck of crocodile +hide turned grumbling away. I have never witnessed +anything so magical as the effect produced +by this electric personage. Even McKeogh, who +during the previous clamour had sat stiff behind his +wheel, keeping expressionless eyes fixed on the cap +of the radiator, turned his head two degrees of a +circle and glanced at his surroundings.</p> + +<p>The instant peace was established our rescuer +darted up to me with the directness of a dragon-fly +and shook me warmly by the hand. As he had +done me a service, I responded with a grateful +smile; besides, his aspect was peculiarly prepossessing. +I guessed him to be about five-and-thirty. He +had a clear olive complexion, black moustache and +short silky vandyke beard, and the most fascinating, +the most humorous, the most mocking, the +most astonishingly bright eyes I have ever seen in +my life. I murmured a few expressions of thanks, +while he prolonged the handshake with the fervour +of a long-lost friend.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, my dear sir. Don’t worry any +more,” he said in excellent English, but with a +French accent curiously tinged with Cockney. “The +old gentleman’s as sound as a bell—not a bruise on +his body.” He pushed me gently to the step of the +car. “Get in and let me guide you to the only +place where you can eat in this accursed town.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +Before I could recover from my surprise, he was +by my side in the car shouting directions to +McKeogh.</p> + +<p>“Ah! These people!” he cried, shaking his hands +with outspread fingers in front of him. “They have +no manners, no decency, no self-respect. It’s a regular +trade. They go and get knocked down by +automobiles on purpose, so that they can claim indemnity. +They breed dogs especially and train +them to commit suicide under the wheels so that +they can get compensation. There’s one now—<em>ah, +sacrée bête!</em>” He leaned over the side of the car +and exchanged violent objurgation with the dog. +“But never mind. So long as I am here you can +run over anything you like with impunity.”</p> + +<p>“I’m very much obliged to you,” said I. “You’ve +saved me from a deal of foolish unpleasantness. +From the way you handled the old gentleman I +should guess you to be a doctor.”</p> + +<p>“That’s one of the few things I’ve never been,” +he replied. “No; I’m not a doctor. One of these +days I’ll tell you all about myself.” He spoke as +if our sudden acquaintance would ripen into life-long +friendship. “There’s the hotel—the Hôtel +Saint-Louis,” he pointed to the sign a little way up +the narrow, old-world, cobble-paved street we were +entering. “Leave it to me; I’ll see that they treat +you properly.”</p> + +<p>The car drew up at the doorway. My electric +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +friend leaped out and met the emerging landlady.</p> + +<p>“<em>Bonjour, madame.</em> I’ve brought you one of my +very good friends, an English gentleman of the +most high importance. He will have <em>déjeuner—tout +ce qu’il y a de mieux</em>. None of your cabbage-soup +and eels and <em>andouilles</em>, but a good omelette, +some fresh fish, and a bit of very tender meat. Will +that suit you?” he asked, turning to me.</p> + +<p>“Excellently,” said I, smiling. “And since +you’ve ordered me so charming a <em>déjeuner</em>, perhaps +you’ll do me the honour of helping me to eat it?”</p> + +<p>“With the very greatest pleasure,” said he, without +a second’s hesitation.</p> + +<p>We entered the small, stuffy dining-room, where +a dingy waiter, with a dingier smile, showed us to +a small table by the window. At the long table in +the middle of the room sat the half-dozen frequenters +of the house, their napkins tucked under +their chins, eating in gloomy silence a dreary meal +of the kind my new friend had deprecated.</p> + +<p>“What shall we drink?” I asked, regarding with +some disfavour the thin red and white wines in the +decanters.</p> + +<p>“Anything,” said he, “but this <em>piquette du pays</em>. +It tastes like a mixture of sea-water and vinegar. +It produces the look of patient suffering that you +see on those gentlemen’s faces. You, who are not +used to it, had better not venture. It would excoriate +your throat. It would dislocate your +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +pancreas. It would play the very devil with you. +Adolphe”—he beckoned the waiter—“there’s a little +white wine of the Côtes du Rhone——” He +glanced at me.</p> + +<p>“I’m in your hands,” said I.</p> + +<p>As far as eating and drinking went I could not +have been in better. Nor could anyone desire a +more entertaining chance companion of travel. +That he had thrust himself upon me in the most +brazen manner and taken complete possession of +me there could be no doubt. But it had all been +done in the most irresistibly charming manner in the +world. One entirely forgot the impudence of the +fellow. I have since discovered that he did not lay +himself out to be agreeable. The flow of talk and +anecdote, the bright laughter that lit up a little +joke, making it appear a very brilliant joke indeed, +were all spontaneous. He was a man, too, of some +cultivation. He knew France thoroughly, England +pretty well; he had a discriminating taste in architecture, +and waxed poetical over the beauties of +Nature.</p> + +<p>“It strikes me as odd,” said I at last, somewhat +ironically, “that so vital a person as yourself should +find scope for your energies in this dead-and-alive +place.”</p> + +<p>He threw up his hands. “I live here? I crumble +and decay in Aigues-Mortes? For whom do you +take me?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +I replied that, not having the pleasure of knowing +his name and quality, I could only take him for an +enigma.</p> + +<p>He selected a card from his letter-case and +handed it to me across the table. It bore the +legend:—</p> + +<p class="center"> + <span class="smcap">Aristide Pujol</span>,<br /> + Agent.<br /> + 213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris.</p> + +<p>“That address will always find me,” he said.</p> + +<p>Civility bade me give him my card, which he put +carefully in his letter-case.</p> + +<p>“I owe my success in life,” said he, “to the fact +that I have never lost an opportunity or a visiting-card.”</p> + +<p>“Where did you learn your perfect English?” +I asked.</p> + +<p>“First,” said he, “among English tourists at +Marseilles. Then in England. I was Professor of +French at an academy for young ladies.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you were a success?” said I.</p> + +<p>He regarded me drolly.</p> + +<p>“Yes—and no,” said he.</p> + +<p>The meal over, we left the hotel.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said he, “you would like to visit the +towers on the ramparts. I would dearly love to +accompany you, but I have business in the town. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +I will take you, however, to the <em>gardien</em> and put +you in his charge.”</p> + +<p>He raced me to the gate by which I had entered. +The <em>gardien des remparts</em> issued from his lodge at +Aristide Pujol’s summons and listened respectfully +to his exhortation in Provençal. Then he went for +his keys.</p> + +<p>“I’ll not say good-bye,” Aristide Pujol declared, +amiably. “I’ll get through my business long before +you’ve done your sight-seeing, and you’ll find +me waiting for you near the hotel. <em>Au revoir, cher +ami.</em>”</p> + +<p>He smiled, lifted his hat, waved his hand in a +friendly way, and darted off across the square. The +old <em>gardien</em> came out with the keys and took me +off to the Tour de Constance, where Protestants +were imprisoned pell-mell after the revocation of +the Edict of Nantes; thence to the Tour des Bourguignons, +where I forget how many hundred Burgundians +were massacred and pickled in salt; and, +after these cheery exhibitions, invited me to walk +round the ramparts and inspect the remaining +eighteen towers of the enceinte. As the mistral, +however, had sprung up and was shuddering across +the high walls, I declined, and, having paid him his +fee, descended to the comparative shelter of the +earth.</p> + +<p>There I found Aristide Pujol awaiting me at the +corner of the narrow street in which the hotel was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +situated. He was wearing—like most of the young +bloods of Provence in winter-time—a short, shaggy, +yet natty goat-skin coat, ornamented with enormous +bone buttons, and a little cane valise stood near by +on the kerb of the square.</p> + +<p>He was not alone. Walking arm in arm with +him was a stout, elderly woman of swarthy complexion +and forbidding aspect. She was attired in +a peasant’s or small shopkeeper’s rusty Sunday +black and an old-fashioned black bonnet prodigiously +adorned with black plumes and black roses. +Beneath this bonnet her hair was tightly drawn up +from her forehead; heavy eyebrows overhung a +pair of small, crafty eyes, and a tuft of hair grew +on the corner of a prognathous jaw. She might +have been about seven-and-forty.</p> + +<p>Aristide Pujol, unlinking himself from this unattractive +female, advanced and saluted me with +considerable deference.</p> + +<p>“Monseigneur——” said he.</p> + +<p>As I am neither a duke nor an archbishop, but +a humble member of the lower automobiling classes, +the high-flown title startled me.</p> + +<p>“Monseigneur, will you permit me,” said he, in +French, “to present to you Mme. Gougasse? Madame +is the <em>patronne</em> of the Café de l’Univers, at +Carcassonne, which doubtless you have frequented, +and she is going to do me the honour of marrying +me to-morrow.”</p> + +<a name="img24" id="img24"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img24.jpg" width="500" height="424" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">anything less congruous as the bride-elect of the +debonair aristide pujol it was impossible to imagine</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +The unexpectedness of the announcement took +my breath away.</p> + +<p>“Good heavens!” said I, in a whisper.</p> + +<p>Anyone less congruous as the bride-elect of the +debonair Aristide Pujol it was impossible to imagine. +However, it was none of my business. I +raised my hat politely to the lady.</p> + +<p>“Madame, I offer you my sincere felicitations. +As an entertaining husband I am sure you will find +M. Aristide Pujol without a rival.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Je vous remercie, monseigneur</em>,” she replied, in +what was obviously her best company manner. +“And if ever you will deign to come again to the +Café de l’Univers at Carcassonne we will esteem +it a great honour.”</p> + +<p>“And so you’re going to get married to-morrow?” +I remarked, by way of saying something. +To congratulate Aristide Pujol on his choice lay +beyond my power of hypocrisy.</p> + +<p>“To-morrow,” said he, “my dear Amélie will +make me the happiest of men.”</p> + +<p>“We start for Carcassonne by the three-thirty +train,” said Mme. Gougasse, pulling a great silver +watch from some fold of her person.</p> + +<p>“Then there is time,” said I, pointing to a little +weather-beaten café in the square, “to drink a glass +to your happiness.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Bien volontiers</em>,” said the lady.</p> + +<p>“<em>Pardon, chère amie</em>,” Aristide interposed, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +quickly. “Unless monseigneur and I start at once +for Montpellier, I shall not have time to transact +my little affairs before your train arrives +there.”</p> + +<p>Parenthetically, I must remark that all trains +going from Aigues-Mortes to Carcassonne must +stop at Montpellier.</p> + +<p>“That’s true,” she agreed, in a hesitating manner. +“But——”</p> + +<p>“But, idol of my heart, though I am overcome +with grief at the idea of leaving you for two little +hours, it is a question of four thousand francs. +Four thousand francs are not picked up every day +in the street. It’s a lot of money.”</p> + +<p>Mme. Gougasse’s little eyes glittered.</p> + +<p>“<em>Bien sûr.</em> And it’s quite settled?”</p> + +<p>“Absolutely.”</p> + +<p>“And it will be all for me?”</p> + +<p>“Half,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“You promised all to me for the redecoration +of the ceiling of the café.”</p> + +<p>“Three thousand will be sufficient, dear angel. +What? I know these contractors and decorators. +The more you pay them, the more abominable will +they make the ceiling. Leave it to me. I, Aristide, +will guarantee you a ceiling like that of the +Sistine Chapel for two thousand francs.”</p> + +<p>She smiled and bridled, so as to appear perfectly +well-bred in my presence. The act of smiling +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +caused the tuft of hair on her jaw to twitch horribly. +A cold shiver ran down my back.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think, monseigneur,” she asked, +archly, “that M. Pujol should give me the four +thousand francs as a wedding-present?”</p> + +<p>“Most certainly,” said I, in my heartiest voice, +entirely mystified by the conversation.</p> + +<p>“Well, I yield,” said Aristide. “Ah, women, +women! They hold up their little rosy finger, and +the bravest of men has to lie down with his chin +on his paws like a good old watch-dog. You agree, +then, monseigneur, to my giving the whole of the +four thousand francs to Amélie?”</p> + +<p>“More than that,” said I, convinced that the +swarthy lady of the prognathous jaw was bound to +have her own way in the end where money was +concerned, and yet for the life of me not seeing +how I had anything to do with the disposal of +Aristide Pujol’s property—“More than that,” said +I; “I command you to do it.”</p> + +<p>“<em>C’est bien gentil de votre part</em>,” said madame.</p> + +<p>“And now the café,” I suggested, with chattering +teeth. We had been standing all the time at +the corner of the square, while the mistral whistled +down the narrow street. The dust was driven +stingingly into our faces, and the women of the +place who passed us by held their black scarves +over their mouths.</p> + +<p>“Alas, monseigneur,” said Mme. Gougasse, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +“Aristide is right. You must start now for Montpellier +in the automobile. I will go by the train +for Carcassonne at three-thirty. It is the only train +from Aigues-Mortes. Aristide transacts his business +and joins me in the train at Montpellier. You +have not much time to spare.”</p> + +<p>I was bewildered. I turned to Aristide Pujol, +who stood, hands on hips, regarding his prospective +bride and myself with humorous benevolence.</p> + +<p>“My good friend,” said I in English, “I’ve not +the remotest idea of what the two of you are talking +about; but I gather you have arranged that I +should motor you to Montpellier. Now, I’m not +going to Montpellier. I’ve just come from there, +as I told you at <em>déjeuner</em>. I’m going in the opposite +direction.”</p> + +<p>He took me familiarly by the arm, and, with a +“<em>Pardon, chère amie</em>,” to the lady, led me a few +paces aside.</p> + +<p>“I beseech you,” he whispered; “it’s a matter of +four thousand francs, a hundred and sixty pounds, +eight hundred dollars, a new ceiling for the Café +de l’Univers, the dream of a woman’s life, and the +happiest omen for my wedded felicity. The fair +goddess Hymen invites you with uplifted torch. +You can’t refuse.”</p> + +<p>He hypnotized me with his bright eyes, overpowered +my will by his winning personality. He +seemed to force me to desire his companionship. I +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +weakened. After all, I reflected, I was at a loose +end, and where I went did not matter to anybody. +Aristide Pujol had also done me a considerable +service, for which I felt grateful. I yielded with +good grace.</p> + +<p>He darted back to Mme. Gougasse, alive with +gaiety.</p> + +<p>“<em>Chère amie</em>, if you were to press monseigneur, +I’m sure he would come to Carcassonne and dance +at our wedding.”</p> + +<p>“Alas! That,” said I, hastily, “is out of the question. +But,” I added, amused by a humorous idea, +“why should two lovers separate even for a few +hours? Why should not madame accompany us to +Montpellier? There is room in my auto for three, +and it would give me the opportunity of making +madame’s better acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“There, Amélie!” cried Aristide. “What do you +say?”</p> + +<p>“Truly, it is too much honour,” murmured Mme. +Gougasse, evidently tempted.</p> + +<p>“There’s your luggage, however,” said Aristide. +“You would bring that great trunk, for which there +is no place in the automobile of monseigneur.”</p> + +<p>“That’s true—my luggage.”</p> + +<p>“Send it on by train, <em>chère amie</em>.”</p> + +<p>“When will it arrive at Carcassonne?”</p> + +<p>“Not to-morrow,” said Pujol, “but perhaps next +week or the week after. Perhaps it may never come +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +at all. One is never certain with these railway companies. +But what does that matter?”</p> + +<p>“What do you say?” cried the lady, sharply.</p> + +<p>“It may arrive or it may not arrive; but you +are rich enough, <em>chère amie</em>, not to think of a few +camisoles and bits of jewellery.”</p> + +<p>“And my lace and my silk dress that I have +brought to show your parents. <em>Merci!</em>” she retorted, +with a dangerous spark in her little eyes. +“You think one is made of money, eh? You will +soon find yourself mistaken, my friend. I would +give you to understand——”. She checked herself +suddenly. “Monseigneur”—she turned to me with +a resumption of the gracious manner of her bottle-decked +counter at the Café de l’Univers—“you are +too amiable. I appreciate your offer infinitely; but I +am not going to entrust my luggage to the kind +care of the railway company. <em>Merci, non.</em> They +are robbers and thieves. Even if it did arrive, +half the things would be stolen. Oh, I +know them.”</p> + +<p>She shook the head of an experienced and self-reliant +woman. No doubt, distrustful of banks as +of railway companies, she kept her money hidden +in her bedroom. I pitied my poor young friend; +he would need all his gaiety to enliven the domestic +side of the Café de l’Univers.</p> + +<p>The lady having declined my invitation, I expressed +my regrets; and Aristide, more emotional, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +voiced his sense of heart-rent desolation, and in a +resigned tone informed me that it was time to start. +I left the lovers and went to the hotel, where I +paid the bill, summoned McKeogh, and lit a companionable +pipe.</p> + +<p>The car backed down the narrow street into the +square and took up its position. We entered. McKeogh +took charge of Aristide’s valise, tucked us +up in the rug, and settled himself in his seat. The +car started and we drove off, Aristide gallantly +brandishing his hat and Mme. Gougasse waving her +lily hand, which happened to be hidden in an ill-fitting +black glove.</p> + +<p>“To Montpellier, as fast as you can!” he shouted +at the top of his lungs to McKeogh. Then he +sighed as he threw himself luxuriously back. “Ah, +this is better than a train. Amélie doesn’t know +what a mistake she has made!”</p> + +<p>The elderly victim of my furious entry was +lounging, in spite of the mistral, by the grim machicolated +gateway. Instead of scowling at me he +raised his hat respectfully as we passed. I touched +my cap, but Aristide returned the salute with the +grave politeness of royalty.</p> + +<p>“This is a place,” said he, “which I would like +never to behold again.”</p> + +<p>In a few moments we were whirling along the +straight, white road between the interminable black +vineyards, and past the dilapidated homesteads of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +the vine-folk and wayside cafés that are scattered +about this unjoyous corner of France.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said he, suddenly, “what do you think +of my <em>fiancée</em>?”</p> + +<p>Politeness and good taste forbade expression of +my real opinion. I murmured platitudes to the +effect that she seemed to be a most sensible woman, +with a head for business.</p> + +<p>“She’s not what we in French call <em>jolie, jolie</em>; +but what of that? What’s the good of marrying +a pretty face for other men to make love to? And, +as you English say, there’s none of your confounded +sentiment about her. But she has the +most flourishing café in Carcassonne; and, when +the ceiling is newly decorated, provided she doesn’t +insist on too much gold leaf and too many naked +babies on clouds—it’s astonishing how women love +naked babies on clouds—it will be the snuggest place +in the world. May I ask for one of your excellent +cigarettes?”</p> + +<p>I handed him the case from the pocket of the +car.</p> + +<p>“It was there that I made her acquaintance,” he +resumed, after having lit the cigarette from my +pipe. “We met, we talked, we fixed it up. She is +not the woman to go by four roads to a thing. She +did me the honour of going straight for me. Ah, +but what a wonderful woman! She rules that café +like a kingdom; a Semiramis, a Queen Elizabeth, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +a Catherine de’ Medici. She sits enthroned behind +the counter all day long and takes the money and +counts the saucers and smiles on rich clients, and +if a waiter in a far corner gives a bit of sugar to a +dog she spots it, and the waiter has a deuce of a +time. That woman is worth her weight in thousand-franc +notes. She goes to bed every night at +one, and gets up in the morning at five. And +virtuous! Didn’t Solomon say that a virtuous +woman was more precious than rubies? That’s the +kind of wife the wise man chooses when he gives +up the giddy ways of youth. Ah, my dear sir, +over and over again these last two or three days +my dear old parents—I have been on a visit to them +in Aigues-Mortes—have commended my wisdom. +Amélie, who is devoted to me, left her café in Carcassonne +to make their acquaintance and receive +their blessing before our marriage, also to show +them the lace on her <em>dessous</em> and her new silk +dress. They are too old to take the long journey +to Carcassonne. ‘My son,’ they said, ‘you are +making a marriage after our own hearts. We are +proud of you. Now we can die perfectly content.’ +I was wrong, perhaps, in saying that Amélie has +no sentiment,” he continued, after a short pause. +“She adores me. It is evident. She will not allow +me out of her sight. Ah, my dear friend, you don’t +know what a happy man I am.”</p> + +<p>For a brilliant young man of five-and-thirty, who +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +was about to marry a horrible Megæra ten or twelve +years his senior, he looked unhealthily happy. +There was no doubt that his handsome roguery had +caught the woman’s fancy. She was at the dangerous +age, when even the most ferro-concrete-natured +of women are apt to run riot. She was +comprehensible, and pardonable. But the man baffled +me. He was obviously marrying her for her +money; but how in the name of Diogenes and all +the cynics could he manage to look so confoundedly +joyful about it?</p> + +<p>The mistral blew bitterly. I snuggled beneath +the rug and hunched up my shoulders so as to get +my ears protected by my coat-collar. Aristide, sufficiently +protected by his goat’s hide, talked like a +shepherd on a May morning. Why he took for +granted my interest in his unromantic, not to say +sordid, courtship I knew not; but he gave me the +whole history of it from its modest beginnings to +its now penultimate stage. From what I could make +out—for the mistral whirled many of his words +away over unheeding Provence—he had entered the +Café de l’Univers one evening, a human derelict +battered by buffeting waves of Fortune, and, finding +a seat immediately beneath Mme. Gougasse’s +<em>comptoir</em>, had straightway poured his grievances +into a feminine ear and, figuratively speaking, +rested his weary heart upon a feminine bosom. +And his buffetings and grievances and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +wearinesses? Whence came they? I asked the question +point-blank.</p> + +<a name="img36" id="img36"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 429px;"> +<img src="images/img036.jpg" width="429" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">had straightway poured his grievances into a feminine ear</span> +</div> + +<p>“Ah, my dear friend,” he answered, kissing his +gloved finger-tips, “she was adorable!”</p> + +<p>“Who?” I asked, taken aback. “Mme. Gougasse?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu</em>, no!” he replied. “Not Mme. Gougasse. +Amélie is solid, she is virtuous, she is +jealous, she is capacious; but I should not call her +adorable. No; the adorable one was twenty—delicious +and English; a peach-blossom, a zephyr, a +summer night’s dream, and the most provoking +little witch you ever saw in your life. Her father +and herself and six of her compatriots were touring +through France. They had circular tickets. +So had I. In fact, I was a miniature Thomas Cook +and Son to the party. I provided them with the +discomforts of travel and supplied erroneous information. +<em>Que voulez-vous?</em> If people ask you +for the history of a pair of Louis XV. corsets, in +a museum glass case, it’s much better to stimulate +their imagination by saying that they were worn +by Joan of Arc at the Battle of Agincourt than to +dull their minds by your ignorance. <em>Eh bien</em>, we go +through the châteaux of the Loire, through Poitiers +and Angoulême, and we come to Carcassonne. +You know Carcassonne? The great grim <em>cité</em>, with +its battlements and bastions and barbicans and fifty +towers on the hill looking over the rubbishy modern +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +town? We were there. The rest of the party were +buying picture postcards of the <em>gardien</em> at the foot +of the Tour de l’Inquisition. The man who invented +picture postcards ought to have his statue +on the top of the Eiffel Tower. The millions of +headaches he has saved! People go to places now +not to exhaust themselves by seeing them, but to +buy picture postcards of them. The rest of the +party, as I said, were deep in picture postcards. +Mademoiselle and I promenaded outside. We often +promenaded outside when the others were buying +picture postcards,” he remarked, with an extra +twinkle in his bright eyes. “And the result? Was +it my fault? We leaned over the parapet. The +wind blew a confounded <em>mèche</em>—what do you call +it——?”</p> + +<p>“Strand?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—strand of her hair across her face. She +let it blow and laughed and did not move. Didn’t +I say she was a little witch? If there’s a Provençal +ever born who would not have kissed a girl under +such provocation I should like to have his mummy. +I kissed her. She kept on laughing. I kissed her +again. I kissed her four times. At the beginning +of the fourth kiss out came her father from the +postcard shop. He waited till the end of it and then +announced himself. He announced himself in such +ungentlemanly terms that I was forced to let the +whole party, including the adorable little witch, go +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +on to Pau by themselves, while I betook my broken +heart to the Café de l’Univers.”</p> + +<p>“And there you found consolation?”</p> + +<p>“I told my sad tale. Amélie listened and called +the manager to take charge of the <em>comptoir</em>, and +poured herself out a glass of Frontignan. Amélie +always drinks Frontignan when her heart is touched. +I came the next day and the next. It was pouring +with rain day and night—and Carcassonne in rain +is like Hades with its furnaces put out by human +tears—and the Café de l’Univers like a little warm +corner of Paradise stuck in the midst of it.”</p> + +<p>“And so that’s how it happened?”</p> + +<p>“That’s how it happened. <em>Ma foi!</em> When a lady +asks a <em>galant homme</em> to marry her, what is he to +do? Besides, did I not say that the Café de l’Univers +was the most prosperous one in Carcassonne? I’m +afraid you English, my dear friend, have such sentimental +ideas about marriage. Now, we in France—— <em>Attendez, +attendez!</em>” He suddenly broke off +his story, lurched forward, and gripped the back +of the front seat.</p> + +<p>“To the right, man, to the right!” he cried excitedly +to McKeogh.</p> + +<p>We had reached the point where the straight road +from Aigues-Mortes branches into a fork, one road +going to Montpellier, the other to Nîmes. Montpellier +being to the west, McKeogh had naturally +taken the left fork.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +“To the right!” shouted Aristide.</p> + +<p>McKeogh pulled up and turned his head with a +look of protesting inquiry. I intervened with a +laugh.</p> + +<p>“You’re wrong in your geography, M. Pujol. +Besides, there is the signpost staring you in the +face. This is the way to Montpellier.”</p> + +<p>“But, my dear, heaven-sent friend, I no more +want to go to Montpellier than you do!” he cried. +“Montpellier is the last place on earth I desire to +visit. You want to go to Nîmes, and so do I. To +the right, chauffeur.”</p> + +<p>“What shall I do, sir?” asked McKeogh.</p> + +<p>I was utterly bewildered. I turned to the goat-skin-clad, +pointed-bearded, bright-eyed Aristide, +who, sitting bolt upright in the car, with his hands +stretched out, looked like a parody of the god Pan +in a hard felt hat.</p> + +<p>“You don’t want to go to Montpellier?” I asked, +stupidly.</p> + +<p>“No—ten thousand times no; not for a king’s +ransom.”</p> + +<p>“But your four thousand francs—your meeting +Mme. Gougasse’s train—your getting on to Carcassonne?”</p> + +<p>“If I could put twenty million continents between +myself and Carcassonne I’d do it,” he explained, +with frantic gestures. “Don’t you understand? +The good Lord who is always on my side +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +sent you especially to deliver me out of the hands +of that unspeakable Xantippe. There are no four +thousand francs. I’m not going to meet her train +at Montpellier, and if she marries anyone to-morrow +at Carcassonne it will not be Aristide Pujol.”</p> + +<p>I shrugged my shoulders.</p> + +<p>“We’ll go to Nîmes.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, sir,” said McKeogh.</p> + +<p>“And now,” said I, as soon as we had started +on the right-hand road, “will you have the kindness +to explain?”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing to explain,” he cried, gleefully. +“Here am I delivered. I am free. I can breathe +God’s good air again. I’m not going to marry +Yum-Yum, Yum-Yum. I feel ten years younger. +Oh, I’ve had a narrow escape. But that’s the way +with me. I always fall on my feet. Didn’t I tell +you I’ve never lost an opportunity? The moment I +saw an Englishman in difficulties, I realized my opportunity +of being delivered out of the House of +Bondage. I took it, and here I am! For two days +I had been racking my brains for a means of getting +out of Aigues-Mortes, when suddenly you—a +<em>Deus ex machina</em>—a veritable god out of the machine—come +to my aid. Don’t say there isn’t a +Providence watching over me.”</p> + +<p>I suggested that his mode of escape seemed somewhat +elaborate and fantastic. Why couldn’t he +have slipped quietly round to the railway station +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +and taken a ticket to any haven of refuge he might +have fancied?</p> + +<p>“For the simple reason,” said he, with a gay +laugh, “that I haven’t a single penny piece in the +world.”</p> + +<p>He looked so prosperous and untroubled that I +stared incredulously.</p> + +<p>“Not one tiny bronze sou,” said he.</p> + +<p>“You seem to take it pretty philosophically,” +said I.</p> + +<p>“<em>Les gueux, les gueux, sont des gens heureux</em>,” +he quoted.</p> + +<p>“You’re the first person who has made me believe +in the happiness of beggars.”</p> + +<p>“In time I shall make you believe in lots of +things,” he retorted. “No. I hadn’t one sou to +buy a ticket, and Amélie never left me. I spent my +last franc on the journey from Carcassonne to +Aigues-Mortes. Amélie insisted on accompanying +me. She was taking no chances. Her eyes never +left me from the time we started. When I ran to +your assistance she was watching me from a house +on the other side of the <em>place</em>. She came to the +hotel while we were lunching. I thought I would +slip away unnoticed and join you after you had +made the <em>tour des remparts</em>. But no. I must present +her to my English friend. And then—<em>voyons</em>—didn’t +I tell you I never lost a visiting-card? +Look at this?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +He dived into his pocket, produced the letter-case, +and extracted a card.</p> + +<p>“<em>Voilà.</em>”</p> + +<p>I read: “The Duke of Wiltshire.”</p> + +<p>“But, good heavens, man,” I cried, “that’s not +the card I gave you.”</p> + +<p>“I know it isn’t,” said he; “but it’s the one I +showed to Amélie.”</p> + +<p>“How on earth,” I asked, “did you come by the +Duke of Wiltshire’s visiting-card?”</p> + +<p>He looked at me roguishly.</p> + +<p>“I am—what do you call it?—a—a ‘snapper up of +unconsidered trifles.’ You see I know my Shakespeare. +I read ‘The Winter’s Tale’ with some +French pupils to whom I was teaching English. +I love Autolycus. <em>C’est un peu moi, hein?</em> Anyhow, +I showed the Duke’s card to Amélie.”</p> + +<p>I began to understand. “That was why you +called me ‘monseigneur’?”</p> + +<p>“Naturally. And I told her that you were my +English patron, and would give me four thousand +francs as a wedding present if I accompanied you +to your agent’s at Montpellier, where you could +draw the money. Ah! But she was suspicious! +Yesterday I borrowed a bicycle. A friend left it in +the courtyard. I thought, ‘I will creep out at dead +of night, when everyone’s asleep, and once on my +<em>petite bicyclette, bonsoir la compagnie</em>.’ But, +would you believe it? When I had dressed and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +crept down, and tried to mount the bicycle, I found +both tyres had been punctured in a hundred places +with the point of a pair of scissors. What do +you think of that, eh? Ah, <em>là, là!</em> it has been a +narrow escape. When you invited her to accompany +us to Montpellier my heart was in my +mouth.”</p> + +<p>“It would have served you right,” I said, “if she +had accepted.”</p> + +<p>He laughed as though, instead of not having a +penny, he had not a care in the world. Accustomed +to the geometrical conduct of my well-fed fellow-Britons, +who map out their lives by rule and line, +I had no measure whereby to gauge this amazing +and inconsequential person. In one way he had +acted abominably. To leave an affianced bride in +the lurch in this heartless manner was a most ungentlemanly +proceeding. On the other hand, an +unscrupulous adventurer would have married the +woman for her money and chanced the consequences. +In the tussle between Perseus and the +Gorgon the odds are all in favour of Perseus. Mercury +and Minerva, the most sharp-witted of the +gods, are helping him all the time—to say nothing +of the fact that Perseus starts out by being a notoriously +handsome fellow. So a handsome rogue +can generally wheedle an elderly, ugly wife into +opening her money-bags, and, if successful, leads +the enviable life of a fighting-cock. It was very +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +much to his credit that this kind of life was not to +the liking of Aristide Pujol.</p> + +<a name="img46" id="img46"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 303px;"> +<img src="images/img046.jpg" width="303" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“i found both tyres had been punctured in a hundred places”</span> +</div> + +<p>Indeed, speaking from affectionate knowledge of +the man, I can declare that the position in which he, +like many a better man, had placed himself was intolerable. +Other men of equal sensitiveness would +have extricated themselves in a more commonplace +fashion; but the dramatic appealed to my rascal, +and he has often plumed himself on his calculated +<em>coup de théâtre</em> at the fork of the roads. He was +delighted with it. Even now I sometimes think that +Aristide Pujol will never grow up.</p> + +<p>“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said I, +“and that is your astonishing influence over the +populace at Aigues-Mortes. You came upon them +like a firework—a devil-among-the-tailors—and +everybody, gendarmes and victim included, became +as tame as sheep. How was it?”</p> + +<p>He laughed. “I said you were my very old and +dear friend and patron, a great English duke.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t quite see how that explanation satisfied +the pig-headed old gentleman whom I knocked +down.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that,” said Aristide Pujol, with a look of +indescribable drollery—“that was my old father.”</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF THE ARLÉSIENNE</strong></p> + + +<p>Aristide Pujol bade me a sunny farewell +at the door of the Hôtel du Luxembourg at +Nîmes, and, valise in hand, darted off, in his +impetuous fashion, across the Place de l’Esplanade. +I felt something like a pang at the sight of his retreating +figure, as, on his own confession, he had +not a penny in the world. I wondered what he +would do for food and lodging, to say nothing of +tobacco, <em>apéritifs</em>, and other such necessaries of life. +The idea of so gay a creature starving was abhorrent. +Yet an invitation to stay as my guest at the +hotel until he saw an opportunity of improving his +financial situation he had courteously declined.</p> + +<p>Early next morning I found him awaiting me in +the lounge and smoking an excellent cigar. He +explained that so dear a friend as myself ought to +be the first to hear the glad tidings. Last evening, +by the grace of Heaven, he had run across a bare +acquaintance, a manufacturer of nougat at Montélimar; +had spent several hours in his company, with +the result that he had convinced him of two things: +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +first, that the dry, crumbling, shortbread-like nougat +of Montélimar was unknown in England, where +the population subsisted on a sickly, glutinous mess +whereto the medical faculty had ascribed the prevalent +dyspepsia of the population; and, secondly, that +the one Heaven-certified apostle who could spread +the glorious gospel of Montélimar nougat over the +length and breadth of Great Britain and Ireland +was himself, Aristide Pujol. A handsome salary +had been arranged, of which he had already drawn +something on account—<em>hinc ille Colorado</em>—and he +was to accompany his principal the next day to +Montélimar, <em>en route</em> for the conquest of Britain. +In the meantime he was as free as the winds, and +would devote the day to showing me the wonders +of the town.</p> + +<p>I congratulated him on his almost fantastic good +fortune and gladly accepted his offer.</p> + +<p>“There is one thing I should like to ask you,” +said I, “and it is this. Yesterday afternoon you +refused my cordially-offered hospitality, and went +away without a sou to bless yourself with. What +did you do? I ask out of curiosity. How does a +man set about trying to subsist on nothing at all?”</p> + +<p>“It’s very simple,” he replied. “Haven’t I told +you, and haven’t you seen for yourself, that I never +lose an opportunity? More than that. It has been +my rule in life either to make friends with the +Mammon of Unrighteousness—he’s a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +muddle-headed ass is Mammon, and you can steer clear of +his unrighteousness if you’re sharp enough—or else +to cast my bread upon the waters in the certainty +of finding it again after many days. In the case +in question I took the latter course. I cast my +bread a year or two ago upon the waters of the +Roman baths, which I will have the pleasure of +showing you this morning, and I found it again last +night at the Hôtel de la Curatterie.”</p> + +<p>In the course of the day he related to me the +following artless history.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Aristide Pujol arrived at Nîmes one blazing day +in July. He had money in his pocket and laughter +in his soul. He had also deposited his valise at +the Hôtel du Luxembourg, which, as all the world +knows, is the most luxurious hotel in the town. +Joyousness of heart impelled him to a course of +action which the good Nîmois regard as maniacal +in the sweltering July heat—he walked about the +baking streets for his own good pleasure.</p> + +<p>Aristide Pujol was floating a company, a process +which afforded him as much delirious joy as the +floating, for the first time, of a toy yacht affords a +child. It was a company to build an hotel in Perpignan, +where the recent demolition of the fortifications +erected by the Emperor Charles V. had set +free a vast expanse of valuable building ground on +the other side of the little river on which the old +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +town is situated. The best hotel in Perpignan +being one to get away from as soon as possible, +owing to restriction of site, Aristide conceived the +idea of building a spacious and palatial hostelry +in the new part of the town, which should allure +all the motorists and tourists of the globe to that +Pyrenean Paradise. By sheer audacity he had contrived +to interest an eminent Paris architect in his +project. Now the man who listened to Aristide +Pujol was lost. With the glittering eye of the +Ancient Mariner he combined the winning charm +of a woman. For salvation, you either had to refuse +to see him, as all the architects to the end of +the R’s in the alphabetical list had done, or put +wax, Ulysses-like, in your ears, a precaution neglected +by the eminent M. Say. M. Say went to +Perpignan and returned in a state of subdued enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>A limited company was formed, of which Aristide +Pujol, man of vast experience in affairs, was +managing director. But money came in slowly. A +financier was needed. Aristide looked through his +collection of visiting-cards, and therein discovered +that of a deaf ironmaster at St. Étienne whose life +he had once saved at a railway station by dragging +him, as he was crossing the line, out of the way of +an express train that came thundering through. +Aristide, man of impulse, went straight to St. +Étienne, to work upon the ironmaster’s sense of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +gratitude. Meanwhile, M. Say, man of more sober +outlook, bethought him of a client, an American +millionaire, passing through Paris, who had speculated +considerably in hotels. The millionaire, having +confidence in the eminent M. Say, thought well +of the scheme. He was just off to Japan, but would +drop down to the Pyrenees the next day and look +at the Perpignan site before boarding his steamer +at Marseilles. If his inquiries satisfied him, and he +could arrange matters with the managing director, +he would not mind putting a million dollars or so +into the concern. You must kindly remember that +I do not vouch for the literal accuracy of everything +told me by Aristide Pujol.</p> + +<p>The question of the all-important meeting between +the millionaire and the managing director +then arose. As Aristide was at St. Étienne it was +arranged that they should meet at a halfway stage +on the latter’s journey from Perpignan to Marseilles. +The Hôtel du Luxembourg at Nîmes was +the place, and two o’clock on Thursday the time +appointed.</p> + +<p>Meantime Aristide had found that the deaf ironmaster +had died months ago. This was a disappointment, +but fortune compensated him. This +part of his adventure is somewhat vague, but I +gathered that he was lured by a newly made acquaintance +into a gambling den, where he won the +prodigious sum of two thousand francs. With this +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +wealth jingling and crinkling in his pockets he fled +the town and arrived at Nîmes on Wednesday +morning, a day before his appointment.</p> + +<p>That was why he walked joyously about the +blazing streets. The tide had turned at last. Of +the success of his interview with the millionaire he +had not the slightest doubt. He walked about +building gorgeous castles in Perpignan—which, by +the way, is not very far from Spain. Besides, as +you shall hear later, he had an account to settle +with the town of Perpignan. At last he reached +the Jardin de la Fontaine, the great, stately garden +laid out in complexity of terrace and bridge +and balustraded parapet over the waters of the +old Roman baths by the master hand to which +Louis XIV. had entrusted the Garden of Versailles.</p> + +<p>Aristide threw himself on a bench and fanned +himself with his straw hat.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu!</em> it’s hot!” he remarked to another +occupant of the seat.</p> + +<p>This was a woman, and, as he saw when she +turned her face towards him, an exceedingly handsome +woman. Her white lawn and black silk headdress, +coming to a tiny crown just covering the +parting of her full, wavy hair, proclaimed her of the +neighboring town of Arles. She had all the +Arlésienne’s Roman beauty—the finely chiselled +features, the calm, straight brows, the ripe lips, the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +soft oval contour, the clear olive complexion. She +had also lustrous brown eyes; but these were full of +tears. She only turned them on him for a moment; +then she resumed her apparently interrupted +occupation of sobbing. Aristide was a soft-hearted +man. He drew nearer.</p> + +<p>“Why, you’re crying, madame!” said he.</p> + +<p>“Evidently,” murmured the lady.</p> + +<p>“To cry scalding tears in this weather! It’s too +hot! Now, if you could only cry iced water there +would be something refreshing in it.”</p> + +<p>“You jest, monsieur,” said the lady, drying her +eyes.</p> + +<p>“By no means,” said he. “The sight of so beautiful +a woman in distress is painful.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” she sighed. “I am very unhappy.”</p> + +<p>Aristide drew nearer still.</p> + +<p>“Who,” said he, “is the wretch that has dared to +make you so?”</p> + +<p>“My husband,” replied the lady, swallowing a +sob.</p> + +<p>“The scoundrel!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>The lady shrugged her shoulders and looked +down at her wedding-ring, which gleamed on a +slim, brown, perfectly kept hand. Aristide prided +himself on being a connoisseur in hands.</p> + +<p>“There never was a husband yet,” he added, +“who appreciated a beautiful wife. Husbands only +deserve harridans.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +“That’s true,” said the Arlésienne, “for when the +wife is good-looking they are jealous.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that is the trouble, is it?” said Aristide. +“Tell me all about it.”</p> + +<p>The beautiful Arlésienne again contemplated her +slender fingers.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know you, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“But you soon will,” said Aristide, in his pleasant +voice and with a laughing, challenging glance in his +bright eyes. She met it swiftly and sidelong.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” she said, “I have been married to +my husband for four years, and have always been +faithful to him.”</p> + +<p>“That’s praiseworthy,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“And I love him very much.”</p> + +<p>“That’s unfortunate!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Unfortunate?”</p> + +<p>“Evidently!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>Their eyes met. They burst out laughing. The +lady quickly recovered and the tears sprang again.</p> + +<p>“One can’t jest with a heavy heart; and mine is +very heavy.” She broke down through self-pity. +“Oh, I am ashamed!” she cried.</p> + +<p>She turned away from him, burying her face in +her hands. Her dress, cut low, showed the nape +of her neck as it rose gracefully from her shoulders. +Two little curls had rebelled against being drawn +up with the rest of her hair. The back of a dainty +ear, set close to the head, was provoking in its +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +pink loveliness. Her attitude, that of a youthful +Niobe, all tears, but at the same time all curves and +delicious contours, would have played the deuce +with an anchorite.</p> + +<p>Aristide, I would have you remember, was a child +of the South. A child of the North, regarding a +bewitching woman, thinks how nice it would be to +make love to her, and wastes his time in wondering +how he can do it. A child of the South neither +thinks nor wonders; he makes love straight away.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” said Aristide, “you are adorable, and +I love you to distraction.”</p> + +<p>She started up. “Monsieur, you forget yourself!”</p> + +<p>“If I remember anything else in the wide world +but you, it would be a poor compliment. I forget +everything. You turn my head, you ravish my +heart, and you put joy into my soul.”</p> + +<p>He meant it—intensely—for the moment.</p> + +<p>“I ought not to listen to you,” said the lady, +“especially when I am so unhappy.”</p> + +<p>“All the more reason to seek consolation,” replied +Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” she said, after a short pause, “you +look good and loyal. I will tell you what is the +matter. My husband accuses me wrongfully, although +I know that appearances are against me. +He only allows me in the house on sufferance, and +is taking measures to procure a divorce.”</p> + +<a name="img58" id="img58"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 413px;"> +<img src="images/img058.jpg" width="413" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“madame,” said aristide, “you are adorable, and i love you +to distraction”</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +“<em>A la bonne heure!</em>” cried Aristide, excitedly casting +away his straw hat, which an unintentional +twist of the wrist caused to skim horizontally and +nearly decapitate a small and perspiring soldier +who happened to pass by. “<em>A la bonne heure!</em> +Let him divorce you. You are then free. You +can be mine without any further question.”</p> + +<p>“But I love my husband,” she smiled, sadly.</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said he, with the scepticism of the lover +and the Provençal. “And, by the way, who is your +husband?”</p> + +<p>“He is M. Émile Bocardon, proprietor of the +Hôtel de la Curatterie.”</p> + +<p>“And you?”</p> + +<p>“I am Mme. Bocardon,” she replied, with the +faintest touch of roguery.</p> + +<p>“But your Christian name? How is it possible +for me to think of you as Mme. Bocardon?”</p> + +<p>They argued the question. Eventually she confessed +to the name of Zette.</p> + +<p>Her confidence not stopping there, she told him +how she came by the name; how she was brought +up by her Aunt Léonie at Raphèle, some five miles +from Arles, and many other unexciting particulars +of her early years. Her baptismal name was +Louise. Her mother, who died when she was +young, called her Louisette. Aunt Léonie, a very +busy woman, with no time for superfluous syllables, +called her Zette.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +“Zette!” He cast up his eyes as if she had been +canonized and he was invoking her in rapt worship. +“Zette, I adore you!”</p> + +<p>Zette was extremely sorry. She, on her side, +adored the cruel M. Bocardon. Incidentally she +learned Aristide’s name and quality. He was an +<em>agent d’affaires</em>, extremely rich—had he not two +thousand francs and an American millionaire in +his pocket?</p> + +<p>“M. Pujol,” she said, “the earth holds but one +thing that I desire, the love and trust of my husband.”</p> + +<p>“The good Bocardon is becoming tiresome,” said +Aristide.</p> + +<p>Zette’s lips parted, as she pointed to a black speck +at the iron entrance gates.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu!</em> there he is!”</p> + +<p>“He has become tiresome,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>She rose, displaying to its full advantage her +supple and stately figure. She had a queenly poise +of the head. Aristide contemplated her with the +frankest admiration.</p> + +<p>“One would say Juno was walking the earth +again.”</p> + +<p>Although Zette had never heard of Juno, and +was as miserable and heavy hearted a woman as +dwelt in Nîmes, a flush of pleasure rose to her +cheeks. She too was a child of the South, and +female children of the South love to be admired, no +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +matter how frankly. I have heard of Daughters of +the Snows not quite averse to it. She sighed.</p> + +<p>“I must go now, monsieur. He must not find +me here with you. I am suffering enough already +from his reproaches. Ah! it is unjust—unjust!” +she cried, clenching her hands, while the tears again +started into her eyes, and the corners of her pretty +lips twitched with pain. “Indeed,” she added, “I +know it has been wrong of me to talk to you like +this. But <em>que voulez-vous?</em> It was not my fault. +Adieu, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>At the sight of her standing before him in her +woeful beauty, Aristide’s pulses throbbed.</p> + +<p>“It is not adieu—it is <em>au revoir</em>, Mme. Zette,” he +cried.</p> + +<p>She protested tearfully. It was farewell. Aristide +darted to his rejected hat and clapped it on +the back of his head. He joined her and swore +that he would see her again. It was not Aristide +Pujol who would allow her to be rent in pieces by +the jaws of that crocodile, M. Bocardon. Faith, +he would defend her to the last drop of his blood. +He would do all manner of gasconading things.</p> + +<p>“But what can you do, my poor M. Pujol?” she +asked.</p> + +<p>“You will see,” he replied.</p> + +<p>They parted. He watched her until she became +a speck and, having joined the other speck, her +husband, passed out of sight. Then he set out +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +through the burning gardens towards the Hôtel +du Luxembourg, at the other end of the town.</p> + +<p>Aristide had fallen in love. He had fallen in +love with Provençal fury. He had done the same +thing a hundred times before; but this, he told himself, +was the <em>coup de foudre</em>—the thunderbolt. +The beautiful Arlésienne filled his brain and his +senses. Nothing else in the wide world mattered. +Nothing else in the wide world occupied his mind. +He sped through the hot streets like a meteor in +human form. A stout man, sipping syrup and +water in the cool beneath the awning of the Café +de la Bourse, rose, looked wonderingly after him, +and resumed his seat, wiping a perspiring brow.</p> + +<p>A short while afterwards Aristide, valise in hand, +presented himself at the bureau of the Hôtel de la +Curatterie. It was a shabby little hotel, with a +shabby little oval sign outside, and was situated in +the narrow street of the same name. Within, it was +clean and well kept. On the right of the little dark +entrance-hall was the <em>salle à manger</em>, on the left the +bureau and an unenticing hole labelled <em>salon de +correspondance</em>. A very narrow passage led to the +kitchen, and the rest of the hall was blocked by the +staircase. An enormous man with a simple, woe-begone +fat face and a head of hair like a circular +machine-brush was sitting by the bureau window +in his shirt-sleeves. Aristide addressed him.</p> + +<p>“M. Bocardon?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +“At your service, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Can I have a bedroom?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly.” He waved a hand towards a set of +black sample boxes studded with brass nails and +bound with straps that lay in the hall. “The omnibus +has brought your boxes. You are M. Lambert?”</p> + +<p>“M. Bocardon,” said Aristide, in a lordly way, “I +am M. Aristide Pujol, and not a commercial +traveller. I have come to see the beauties of Nîmes, +and have chosen this hotel because I have the +honour to be a distant relation of your wife, Mme. +Zette Bocardon, whom I have not seen for many +years. How is she?”</p> + +<p>“Her health is very good,” replied M. Bocardon, +shortly. He rang a bell.</p> + +<p>A dilapidated man in a green baize apron +emerged from the dining-room and took Aristide’s +valise.</p> + +<p>“No. 24,” said M. Bocardon. Then, swinging +his massive form halfway through the narrow +bureau door, he called down the passage, “Euphémie!”</p> + +<p>A woman’s voice responded, and in a moment the +woman herself appeared, a pallid, haggard, though +more youthful, replica of Zette, with the dark +rings of sleeplessness or illness beneath her eyes +which looked furtively at the world.</p> + +<p>“Tell your sister,” said M. Bocardon, “that a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +relation of yours has come to stay in the +hotel.”</p> + +<p>He swung himself back into the bureau and took +no further notice of the guest.</p> + +<p>“A relation?” echoed Euphémie, staring at the +smiling, lustrous-eyed Aristide, whose busy brain +was wondering how he could mystify this unwelcome +and unexpected sister.</p> + +<p>“Why, yes. Aristide, cousin to your good Aunt +Léonie at Raphèle. Ah—but you are too young +to remember me.”</p> + +<p>“I will tell Zette,” she said, disappearing down +the narrow passage.</p> + +<p>Aristide went to the doorway, and stood there +looking out into the not too savoury street. On +the opposite side, which was in the shade, the +tenants of the modest little shops sat by their doors +or on chairs on the pavement. There was considerable +whispering among them and various +glances were cast at him. Presently footsteps behind +caused him to turn. There was Zette. She +had evidently been weeping since they had parted, +for her eyelids were red. She started on beholding +him.</p> + +<p>“You?”</p> + +<p>He laughed and shook her hesitating hands.</p> + +<p>“It is I, Aristide. But you have grown! <em>Pécaïre!</em> +How you have grown!” He swung her hands apart +and laughed merrily in her bewildered eyes. “To +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +think that the little Zette in pigtails and short check +skirt should have grown into this beautiful woman! +I compliment you on your wife, M. Bocardon.”</p> + +<p>M. Bocardon did not reply, but Aristide’s swift +glance noticed a spasm of pain shoot across his +broad face.</p> + +<p>“And the good Aunt Léonie? Is she well? And +does she still make her <em>matelotes</em> of eels? Ah, +they were good, those <em>matelotes</em>.”</p> + +<p>“Aunt Léonie died two years ago,” said Zette.</p> + +<p>“The poor woman! And I who never knew. +Tell me about her.”</p> + +<p>The <em>salle à manger</em> door stood open. He drew +her thither by his curious fascination. They entered, +and he shut the door behind them.</p> + +<p>“<em>Voilà!</em>” said he. “Didn’t I tell you I should +see you again?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Vous avez un fameux toupet, vous!</em>” said Zette, +half angrily.</p> + +<p>He laughed, having been accused of confounded +impudence many times before in the course of his +adventurous life.</p> + +<p>“If I told my husband he would kill you.”</p> + +<p>“Precisely. So you’re not going to tell him. I +adore you. I have come to protect you. <em>Foi de +Provençal.</em>”</p> + +<p>“The only way to protect me is to prove my innocence.”</p> + +<p>“And then?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +She drew herself up and looked him straight between +the eyes.</p> + +<p>“I’ll recognize that you have a loyal heart, and +will be your very good friend.”</p> + +<p>“Mme. Zette,” cried Aristide, “I will devote my +life to your service. Tell me the particulars of the +affair.”</p> + +<p>“Ask M. Bocardon.” She left him, and sailed out +of the room and past the bureau with her proud +head in the air.</p> + +<p>If Aristide Pujol had the rapturous idea of proving +the innocence of Mme. Zette, triumphing over +the fat pig of a husband, and eventually, in a fantastic +fashion, carrying off the insulted and spotless +lady to some bower of delight (the castle in Perpignan—why +not?), you must blame, not him, but +Provence, whose sons, if not devout, are frankly +pagan. Sometimes they are both.</p> + +<p>M. Bocardon sat in his bureau, pretending to do +accounts and tracing columns of figures with a +huge, trembling forefinger. He looked the picture +of woe. Aristide decided to bide his opportunity. +He went out into the streets again, now with the +object of killing time. The afternoon had advanced, +and trees and buildings cast cool shadows +in which one could walk with comfort; and Nîmes, +clear, bright city of wide avenues and broad open +spaces, instinct too with the grandeur that was +Rome’s, is an idler’s Paradise. Aristide knew it +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +well; but he never tired of it. He wandered round +the Maison Carrée, his responsive nature delighting +in the splendour of the Temple, with its fluted Corinthian +columns, its noble entablature, its massive +pediment, its perfect proportions; reluctantly turned +down the Boulevard Victor Hugo, past the Lycée +and the Bourse, made the circuit of the mighty, +double-arched oval of the Arena, and then retraced +his steps. As he expected, M. Bocardon had left +the bureau. It was the hour of absinthe. The +porter named M. Bocardon’s habitual café. There, +in a morose corner of the terrace, Aristide found the +huge man gloomily contemplating an absurdly small +glass of the bitters known as Dubonnet. Aristide +raised his hat, asked permission to join him, and +sat down.</p> + +<p>“M. Bocardon,” said he, carefully mixing the +absinthe which he had ordered, “I learn from my +fair cousin that there is between you a regrettable +misunderstanding, for which I am sincerely sorry.”</p> + +<p>“She calls it a misunderstanding?” He laughed +mirthlessly. “Women have their own vocabulary. +Listen, my good sir. There is infamy between us. +When a wife betrays a man like me—kind, indulgent, +trustful, who has worshipped the ground she +treads on—it is not a question of misunderstanding. +It is infamy. If she had anywhere to lay her +head, I would turn her out of doors to-night. But +she has not. You, who are her relative, know I +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +married her without a dowry. You alone of her +family survive.”</p> + +<p>It was on the tip of Aristide’s impulsive tongue +to say that he would be only too willing to shelter +her, but prudently he refrained.</p> + +<p>“She has broken my heart,” continued Bocardon.</p> + +<p>Aristide asked for details of the unhappy affair. +The large man hesitated for a moment and glanced +suspiciously at his companion; but, fascinated by +the clear, luminous eyes, he launched with Southern +violence into a whirling story. The villain was a +traveller in buttons—<em>buttons!</em> To be wronged by +a traveller in diamonds might have its compensations—but +buttons! Linen buttons, bone buttons, +brass buttons, <em>trouser buttons!</em> To be a traveller +in the inanity of buttonholes was the only lower +degradation. His name was Bondon—he uttered +it scathingly, as if to decline from a Bocardon to a +Bondon was unthinkable. This Bondon was a regular +client of the hotel, and such a client!—who +never ordered a bottle of <em>vin cacheté</em> or coffee or +cognac. A contemptible creature. For a long time +he had his suspicions. Now he was certain. He +tossed off his glass of Dubonnet, ordered another, +and spoke incoherently of the opening and shutting +of doors, whisperings, of a dreadful incident, the +central fact of which was a glimpse of Zette gliding +wraith-like down a corridor. Lastly, there +was the culminating proof, a letter found that +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +morning in Zette’s room. He drew a crumpled +sheet from his pocket and handed it to Aristide.</p> + +<a name="img70" id="img70"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 427px;"> +<img src="images/img070.jpg" width="427" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“the villain was a traveller in buttons—buttons!”</span> +</div> + +<p>It was a crude, flaming, reprehensible, and entirely +damning epistle. Aristide turned cold, shivering +at the idea of the superb and dainty Zette +coming in contact with such abomination. He +hated Bondon with a murderous hate. He drank +a great gulp of absinthe and wished it were Bondon’s +blood. Great tears rolled down Bocardon’s +face, and gathering at the ends of his scrubby +moustache dripped in splashes on the marble table.</p> + +<p>“I loved her so tenderly, monsieur,” said he.</p> + +<p>The cry, so human, went straight to Aristide’s +heart. A sympathetic tear glistened in his bright +eyes. He was suddenly filled with an immense pity +for this grief-stricken, helpless giant. An odd feminine +streak ran through his nature and showed +itself in queer places. Impulsively he stretched out +his hand.</p> + +<p>“You’re going?” asked Bocardon.</p> + +<p>“No. A sign of good friendship.”</p> + +<p>They gripped hands across the table. A new +emotion thrilled through the facile Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Bocardon, I devote myself to you,” he cried, +with a flamboyant gesture. “What can I do?”</p> + +<p>“Alas, nothing,” replied the other, miserably.</p> + +<p>“And Zette? What does she say to it all?”</p> + +<p>The mountainous shoulders heaved with a shrug. +“She denies everything. She had never seen the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +letter until I showed it to her. She did not know +how it came into her room. As if that were possible!”</p> + +<p>“It’s improbable,” said Aristide, gloomily.</p> + +<p>They talked. Bocardon, in a choking voice, told +the simple tale of their married happiness. It had +been a love-match, different from the ordinary marriages +of reason and arrangement. Not a cloud +since their wedding-day. They were called the turtle-doves +of the Rue de la Curatterie. He had not +even manifested the jealousy justifiable in the possessor +of so beautiful a wife. He had trusted her +implicitly. He was certain of her love. That was +enough. They had had one child, who died. Grief +had brought them even nearer each other. And +now this stroke had been dealt. It was a +knife being turned round in his heart. It was +agony.</p> + +<p>They walked back to the hotel together. Zette, +who was sitting by the desk in the bureau, rose and, +without a word or look, vanished down the passage. +Bocardon, with a great sigh, took her place. It +was dinner-time. The half-dozen guests and frequenters +filled for a moment the little hall, some +waiting to wash their hands at the primitive <em>lavabo</em> +by the foot of the stairs. Aristide accompanied +them into the <em>salle à manger</em>, where he dined in +solemn silence. The dinner over he went out again, +passing by the bureau where Bocardon, in its dim +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +recesses, was eating a sad meal brought to him by +the melancholy Euphémie. Zette, he conjectured, +was dining in the kitchen. An atmosphere of desolation +impregnated the place, as though a corpse +were somewhere in the house.</p> + +<p>Aristide drank his coffee at the nearest café in +a complicated state of mind. He had fallen furiously +in love with the lady, believing her to be the +victim of a jealous husband. In an outburst of +generous emotion he had taken the husband to his +heart, seeing that he was a good man stricken to +death. Now he loved the lady, loved the husband, +and hated the villain Bondon. What Aristide felt, +he felt fiercely. He would reconcile these two +people he loved, and then go and, if not assassinate +Bondon, at least do him some bodily injury. With +this idea in his head, he paid for his coffee and went +back to the hotel.</p> + +<p>He found Zette taking her turn at the bureau, +for clients have to be attended to, even in the most +distressing circumstances. She was talking to a +new arrival, trying to smile a welcome. Aristide, +loitering near, watched her beautiful face, to which +the perfect classic features gave an air of noble +purity. His soul revolted at the idea of her mixing +herself up with a sordid wretch like Bondon. It +was unbelievable.</p> + +<p>“<em>Eh bien</em>?” she said as soon as they were +alone.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +“Mme. Zette, to-day I called your husband a +scoundrel and a crocodile. I was wrong. I find +him a man with a beautiful nature.”</p> + +<p>“You needn’t tell me that, M. Aristide.”</p> + +<p>“You are breaking his heart, Mme. Zette.”</p> + +<p>“And is he not breaking mine? He has told you, +I suppose. Am I responsible for what I know +nothing more about than a babe unborn? You +don’t believe I am speaking the truth? Bah! And +your professions this afternoon? Wind and gas, +like the words of all men.”</p> + +<p>“Mme. Zette,” cried Aristide, “I said I would +devote my life to your service, and so I will. I’ll +go and find Bondon and kill him.”</p> + +<p>He watched her narrowly, but she did not grow +pale like a woman whose lover is threatened with +mortal peril. She said dryly:—</p> + +<p>“You had better have some conversation with +him first.”</p> + +<p>“Where is he to be found?”</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders. “How do I know? +He left by the early train this morning that goes +in the direction of Tarascon.”</p> + +<p>“Then to-morrow,” said Aristide, who knew the +ways of commercial travellers, “he will be at Tarascon, +or at Avignon, or at Arles.”</p> + +<p>“I heard him say that he had just done Arles.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Tant mieux.</em> I shall find him either at Tarascon +or Avignon. And by the Tarasque of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +Sainte-Marthe, I’ll bring you his head and you can put it +up outside as a sign and call the place the ‘Hôtel +de la Tête Bondon.’”</p> + +<a name="img76" id="img76"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 454px;"> +<img src="images/img076.jpg" width="454" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">he burst into shrieks of laughter</span> +</div> + +<p>Early the next morning Aristide started on his +quest, without informing the good Bocardon of +his intentions. He would go straight to Avignon, +as the more likely place. Inquiries at the various +hotels would soon enable him to hunt down his +quarry; and then—he did not quite know what +would happen then—but it would be something +picturesque, something entirely unforeseen by Bondon, +something to be thrillingly determined by the +inspiration of the moment. In any case he would +wipe the stain from the family escutcheon. By this +time he had convinced himself that he belonged to +the Bocardon family.</p> + +<p>The only other occupant of the first-class compartment +was an elderly Englishwoman of sour +aspect. Aristide, his head full of Zette and Bondon, +scarcely noticed her. The train started and +sped through the sunny land of vine and olive.</p> + +<p>They had almost reached Tarascon when a sudden +thought hit him between the eyes, like the blow +of a fist. He gasped for a moment, then he burst +into shrieks of laughter, kicking his legs up and +down and waving his arms in maniacal mirth. +After that he rose and danced. The sour-faced +Englishwoman, in mortal terror, fled into the corridor. +She must have reported Aristide’s behaviour +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +to the guard, for in a minute or two that official +appeared at the doorway.</p> + +<p>“<em>Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?</em>”</p> + +<p>Aristide paused in his demonstrations of merriment. +“Monsieur,” said he, “I have just discovered +what I am going to do to M. Bondon.”</p> + +<p>Delight bubbled out of him as he walked from +the Avignon Railway Station up the Cours de +la République. The wretch Bondon lay at his +mercy. He had not proceeded far, however, when +his quick eye caught sight of an object in the ramshackle +display of a curiosity dealer’s. He paused +in front of the window, fascinated. He rubbed +his eyes.</p> + +<p>“No,” said he; “it is not a dream. The <em>bon Dieu</em> +is on my side.”</p> + +<p>He went into the shop and bought the object. +It was a pair of handcuffs.</p> + +<p>At a little after three o’clock the small and dilapidated +hotel omnibus drove up before the Hôtel de +la Curatterie, and from it descended Aristide Pujol, +radiant-eyed, and a scrubby little man with a +goatee beard, pince-nez, and a dome-like forehead, +who, pale and trembling, seemed stricken with a +great fear. It was Bondon. Together they entered +the little hall. As soon as Bocardon saw his +enemy his eyes blazed with fury, and, uttering an +inarticulate roar, he rushed out of the bureau +with clenched fists murderously uplifted. The +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +terrified Bondon shrank into a corner, protected by +Aristide, who, smiling like an angel of peace, intercepted +the onslaught of the huge man.</p> + +<p>“Be calm, my good Bocardon, be calm.”</p> + +<p>But Bocardon would not be calm. He found +his voice.</p> + +<p>“Ah, scoundrel! Miscreant! Wretch! Traitor!” +When his vocabulary of vituperation and his breath +failed him, he paused and mopped his forehead.</p> + +<p>Bondon came a step or two forward.</p> + +<p>“I know, monsieur, I have all the wrong on my +side. Your anger is justifiable. But I never +dreamt of the disastrous effect of my acts. Let +me see her, my good M. Bocardon, I beseech you.”</p> + +<p>“Let you see her?” said Bocardon, growing purple +in the face.</p> + +<p>At this moment Zette came running up the passage.</p> + +<p>“What is all this noise about?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, madame!” cried Bondon, eagerly, “I am +heart-broken. You who are so kind—let me see +her.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Hein</em>?” exclaimed Bocardon, in stupefaction.</p> + +<p>“See whom?” asked Zette.</p> + +<p>“My dear dead one. My dear Euphémie, who +has committed suicide.”</p> + +<p>“But he’s mad!” shouted Bocardon, in his great +voice. “Euphémie! Euphémie! Come here!”</p> + +<p>At the sight of Euphémie, pale and shivering +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +with apprehension, Bondon sank upon a bench by +the wall. He stared at her as if she were a ghost.</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand,” he murmured, faintly, +looking like a trapped hare at Aristide Pujol, who, +debonair, hands on hips, stood a little way apart.</p> + +<p>“Nor I, either,” cried Bocardon.</p> + +<p>A great light dawned on Zette’s beautiful face. +“I do understand.” She exchanged glances with +Aristide. He came forward.</p> + +<p>“It’s very simple,” said he, taking the stage with +childlike exultation. “I go to find Bondon this +morning to kill him. In the train I have a sudden +inspiration, a revelation from Heaven. It is not +Zette but Euphémie that is the <em>bonne amie</em> of Bondon. +I laugh, and frighten a long-toothed English +old maid out of her wits. Shall I get out at Tarascon +and return to Nîmes and tell you, or shall +I go on? I decide to go on. I make my plan. Ah, +but when I make a plan, it’s all in a second, a flash, +<em>pfuit!</em> At Avignon I see a pair of handcuffs. I +buy them. I spend hours tracking that animal +there. At last I find him at the station about to +start for Lyon. I tell him I am a police agent. +I let him see the handcuffs, which convince him. +I tell him Euphémie, in consequence of the discovery +of his letter, has committed suicide. There +is a <em>procès-verbal</em> at which he is wanted. I summon +him to accompany me in the name of the law—and +there he is.”</p> + +<a name="img82" id="img82"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 449px;"> +<img src="images/img082.jpg" width="449" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“and you!” shouted bocardon, falling on aristide; “i must +embrace you also”</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +“Then that letter was not for my wife?” said +Bocardon, who was not quick-witted.</p> + +<p>“But, no, imbecile!” cried Aristide.</p> + +<p>Bocardon hugged his wife in his vast embrace. +The tears ran down his cheeks.</p> + +<p>“Ah, my little Zette, my little Zette, will you +ever pardon me?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Oui, je te pardonne, gros jaloux</em>,” said Zette.</p> + +<p>“And you!” shouted Bocardon, falling on Aristide; +“I must embrace you also.” He kissed him +on both cheeks, in his expansive way, and thrust +him towards Zette.</p> + +<p>“You can also kiss my wife. It is I, Bocardon, +who command it.”</p> + +<p>The fire of a not ignoble pride raced through +Aristide’s veins. He was a hero. He knew it. It +was a moment worth living.</p> + +<p>The embraces and other expressions of joy and +gratitude being temporarily suspended, attention +was turned to the unheroic couple who up to then +had said not one word to each other. The explanation +of their conduct, too, was simple, apparently. +They were in love. She had no dowry. He could +not marry her, as his parents would not give their +consent. She, for her part, was frightened to +death by the discovery of the letter, lest Bocardon +should turn her out of the house.</p> + +<p>“What dowry will satisfy your parents?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing less than twelve thousand francs.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +“I give it,” said Bocardon, reckless in his newly-found +happiness. “Marry her.”</p> + +<p>The clock in the bureau struck four. Aristide +pulled out his watch.</p> + +<p>“<em>Saperlipopette!</em>” he cried, and disappeared like +a flash into the street.</p> + +<p>“But what’s the matter with him?” shouted Bocardon, +in amazement.</p> + +<p>Zette went to the door. “He’s running as if he +had the devil at his heels.”</p> + +<p>“Was he always like that?” asked her husband.</p> + +<p>“How always?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Parbleu!</em> When you used to see him at your +Aunt Léonie’s.”</p> + +<p>Zette flushed red. To repudiate the saviour of +her entire family were an act of treachery too +black for her ingenuous heart.</p> + +<p>“Ah, yes,” she replied, calmly, coming back +into the hall. “We used to call him Cousin Quicksilver.”</p> + +<p>In the big avenue Aristide hailed a passing cab.</p> + +<p>“To the Hôtel du Luxembourg—at a gallop!”</p> + +<p>In the joyous excitement of the past few hours +this child of impulse and sunshine, this dragon-fly +of a man, had entirely forgotten the appointment +at two o’clock with the American millionaire and +the fortune that depended on it. He would be +angry at being kept waiting. Aristide had met +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +Americans before. His swift brain invented an +elaborate excuse.</p> + +<p>He leaped from the cab and entered the vestibule +of the hotel.</p> + +<p>“Can I see M. Congleton?” he asked at the bureau.</p> + +<p>“An American gentleman? He has gone, monsieur. +He left by the three-thirty train. Are you +M. Pujol? There is a letter for you.”</p> + +<p>With a sinking heart he opened it and read:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,—I was in this hotel at two o’clock, +according to arrangement. As my last train to +Japan leaves at three-thirty, I regret I cannot await +your convenience. The site of the hotel is satisfactory. +Your business methods are not. I am +sorry, therefore, not to be able to entertain the +matter further.—Faithfully,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 20em;" class="smcap">William B. Congleton.</span></p></div> + +<p>He stared at the words for a few paralyzed moments. +Then he stuffed the letter into his pocket +and broke into a laugh.</p> + +<p>“<em>Zut!</em>” said he, using the inelegant expletive +whereby a Frenchman most adequately expresses +his scorn of circumstance. “<em>Zut!</em> If I have lost +a fortune, I have gained two devoted friends, so +I am the winner on the day’s work.”</p> + +<p>Whereupon he returned gaily to the bosom of +the Bocardon family and remained there, its Cousin +Quicksilver and its entirely happy and idolized hero, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +until the indignation of the eminent M. Say summoned +him to Paris.</p> + +<p>And that is how Aristide Pujol could live thenceforward +on nothing at all at Nîmes, whenever it +suited him to visit that historic town.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF THE KIND MR. SMITH</strong></p> + + +<p>Aristide Pujol started life on his own +account as a <em>chasseur</em> in a Nice café—one +of those luckless children tightly encased +in bottle-green cloth by means of brass buttons, +who earn a sketchy livelihood by enduring with +cherubic smiles the continuous maledictions of the +establishment. There he soothed his hours of servitude +by dreams of vast ambitions. He would become +the manager of a great hotel—not a contemptible +hostelry where commercial travellers and +seedy Germans were indifferently bedded, but one +of those white palaces where milords (English) and +millionaires (American) paid a thousand francs a +night for a bedroom and five louis for a glass of +beer. Now, in order to derive such profit from the +Anglo-Saxon a knowledge of English was indispensable. +He resolved to learn the language. How +he did so, except by sheer effrontery, taking linguistic +toll of frequenters of the café, would be a +mystery to anyone unacquainted with Aristide. But +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +to his friends his mastery of the English tongue +in such circumstances is comprehensible. To Aristide +the impossible was ever the one thing easy of +attainment; the possible the one thing he never +could achieve. That was the paradoxical nature +of the man. Before his days of hunted-little-devildom +were over he had acquired sufficient knowledge +of English to carry him, a few years later, +through various vicissitudes in England, until, fired +by new social ambitions and self-educated in a +haphazard way, he found himself appointed Professor +of French in an academy for young ladies.</p> + +<p>One of these days, when I can pin my dragon-fly +friend down to a plain, unvarnished autobiography, +I may be able to trace some chronological +sequence in the kaleidoscopic changes in his career. +But hitherto, in his talks with me, he flits about from +any one date to any other during a couple of decades, +in a manner so confusing that for the present +I abandon such an attempt. All I know of the +date of the episode I am about to chronicle is that +it occurred immediately after the termination of +his engagement at the academy just mentioned. +Somehow, Aristide’s history is a category of terminations.</p> + +<p>If the head mistress of the academy had herself +played dragon at his classes, all would have gone +well. He would have made his pupils conjugate +irregular verbs, rendered them adepts in the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +mysteries of the past participle and the subjunctive +mood, and turned them out quite innocent of the +idiomatic quaintnesses of the French tongue. But +<em>dis aliter visum</em>. The gods always saw wrong-headedly +otherwise in the case of Aristide. A +weak-minded governess—and in a governess a +sense of humour and of novelty is always a sign +of a weak mind—played dragon during Aristide’s +lessons. She appreciated his method, which was +colloquial. The colloquial Aristide was jocular. +His lessons therefore were a giggling joy from beginning +to end. He imparted to his pupils delicious +knowledge. <em>En avez-vous des-z-homards? +Oh, les sales bêtes, elles ont du poil aux pattes</em>, +which, being translated, is: “Have you any lobsters? +Oh, the dirty animals, they have hair on +their feet”—a catch phrase which, some years ago, +added greatly to the gaiety of Paris, but in which +I must confess to seeing no gleam of wit—became +the historic property of the school. He recited to +them, till they were word-perfect, a music-hall ditty +of the early ’eighties—<em>Sur le bi, sur le banc, sur +le bi du bout du banc</em>, and delighted them with dissertations +on Mme. Yvette Guilbert’s earlier repertoire. +But for him they would have gone to their +lives’ end without knowing that <em>pognon</em> meant +money; <em>rouspétance</em>, assaulting the police; <em>thune</em>, +a five-franc piece; and <em>bouffer</em>, to take nourishment. +He made (according to his own statement) French +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +a living language. There was never a school in +Great Britain, the Colonies, or America on which +the Parisian accent was so electrically impressed. +The retort, <em>Eh! ta sœur</em>, was the purest Montmartre; +also <em>Fich’-moi la paix, mon petit</em>, and <em>Tu as +un toupet, toi</em>; and the delectable locution, <em>Allons +étrangler un perroquet</em> (let us strangle a parrot), +employed by Apaches when inviting each other to +drink a glass of absinthe, soon became current +French in the school for invitations to surreptitious +cocoa-parties.</p> + +<p>The progress that academy made in a real grip +of the French language was miraculous; but the +knowledge it gained in French grammar and syntax +was deplorable. A certain mid-term examination—the +paper being set by a neighbouring vicar—produced +awful results. The phrase, “How do you do, +dear?” which ought, by all the rules of Stratford-atte-Bowe, +to be translated by <em>Comment vous portez-vous, +ma chère?</em> was rendered by most of the +senior scholars <em>Eh, ma vieille, ca boulotte?</em> One +innocent and anachronistic damsel, writing on the +execution of Charles I., declared that he <em>cracha +dans le panier</em> in 1649, thereby mystifying the good +vicar, who was unaware that “to spit into the basket” +is to be guillotined. This wealth of vocabulary +was discounted by abject poverty in other +branches of the language. No one could give a list +of the words in “<em>al</em>” that took “<em>s</em>” in the plural, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +no one knew anything at all about the defective +verb <em>échoir</em>, and the orthography of the school +would have disgraced a kindergarten. The head +mistress suspected a lack of method in the teaching +of M. Pujol, and one day paid his class a surprise +visit.</p> + +<p>The sight that met her eyes petrified her. The +class, including the governess, bubbled and gurgled +and shrieked with laughter. M. Pujol, his bright +eyes agleam with merriment and his arms moving +in frantic gestures, danced about the platform. He +was telling them a story—and when Aristide told +a story, he told it with the eloquence of his entire +frame. He bent himself double and threw out his +hands.</p> + +<p>“<em>Il était saoûl comme un porc</em>,” he shouted.</p> + +<p>And then came the hush of death. The rest of +the artless tale about the man as drunk as a pig +was never told. The head mistress, indignant majesty, +strode up the room.</p> + +<p>“M. Pujol, you have a strange way of giving +French lessons.”</p> + +<p>“I believe, madame,” said he, with a polite bow, +“in interesting my pupils in their studies.”</p> + +<p>“Pupils have to be taught, not interested,” said +the head mistress. “Will you kindly put the class +through some irregular verbs.”</p> + +<p>So for the remainder of the lesson Aristide, under +the freezing eyes of the head mistress, put his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +sorrowful class through irregular verbs, of which +his own knowledge was singularly inexact, and at +the end received his dismissal. In vain he argued. +Outraged Minerva was implacable. Go he must.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>We find him, then, one miserable December evening, +standing on the arrival platform of Euston +Station (the academy was near Manchester), an +unwonted statue of dubiety. At his feet lay his +meagre valise; in his hand was an enormous bouquet, +a useful tribute of esteem from his disconsolate +pupils; around him luggage-laden porters +and passengers hurried; in front were drawn up the +long line of cabs, their drivers’ waterproofs glistening +with wet; and in his pocket rattled the few +paltry coins that, for Heaven knew how long, were +to keep him from starvation. Should he commit +the extravagance of taking a cab or should he go +forth, valise in hand, into the pouring rain? He +hesitated.</p> + +<p>“<em>Sacré mille cochons! Quel chien de climat!</em>” +he muttered.</p> + +<p>A smart footman standing by turned quickly +and touched his hat.</p> + +<p>“Beg pardon, sir; I’m from Mr. Smith.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad to hear it, my friend,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“You’re the French gentleman from Manchester?”</p> + +<p>“Decidedly,” said Aristide.</p> + +<a name="img94" id="img94"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 311px;"> +<img src="images/img094.jpg" width="311" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">standing on the arrival platform of euston station</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +“Then, sir, Mr. Smith has sent the carriage for +you.”</p> + +<p>“That’s very kind of him,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>The footman picked up the valise and darted +down the platform. Aristide followed. The footman +held invitingly open the door of a cosy +brougham. Aristide paused for the fraction of +a second. Who was this hospitable Mr. Smith?</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said he to himself, “the best way of +finding out is to go and see.”</p> + +<p>He entered the carriage, sank back luxuriously +on the soft cushions, and inhaled the warm smell +of leather. They started, and soon the pelting rain +beat harmlessly against the windows. Aristide +looked out at the streaming streets, and, hugging +himself comfortably, thanked Providence and Mr. +Smith. But who was Mr. Smith? <em>Tiens</em>, thought +he, there were two little Miss Smiths at the academy; +he had pitied them because they had chilblains, +freckles, and perpetual colds in their heads; +possibly this was their kind papa. But, after all, +what did it matter whose papa he was? He was +expecting him. He had sent the carriage for him. +Evidently a well-bred and attentive person. And +<em>tiens!</em> there was even a hot-water can on the floor +of the brougham. “He thinks of everything, that +man,” said Aristide. “I feel I am going to like +him.”</p> + +<p>The carriage stopped at a house in Hampstead, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +standing, as far as he could see in the darkness, +in its own grounds. The footman opened the door +for him to alight and escorted him up the front +steps. A neat parlour-maid received him in a comfortably-furnished +hall and took his hat and greatcoat +and magnificent bouquet.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Smith hasn’t come back yet from the City, +sir; but Miss Christabel is in the drawing-room.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said Aristide. “Please give me back my +bouquet.”</p> + +<p>The maid showed him into the drawing-room. +A pretty girl of three-and-twenty rose from a fender-stool +and advanced smilingly to meet him.</p> + +<p>“Good afternoon, M. le Baron. I was wondering +whether Thomas would spot you. I’m so glad he +did. You see, neither father nor I could give him +any description, for we had never seen you.”</p> + +<p>This fitted in with his theory. But why Baron? +After all, why not? The English loved titles.</p> + +<p>“He seems to be an intelligent fellow, mademoiselle.”</p> + +<p>There was a span of silence. The girl looked +at the bouquet, then at Aristide, who looked at the +girl, then at the bouquet, then at the girl again.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle,” said he, “will you deign to accept +these flowers as a token of my respectful +homage?”</p> + +<p>Miss Christabel took the flowers and blushed +prettily. She had dark hair and eyes and a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +fascinating, upturned little nose, and the kindest little +mouth in the world.</p> + +<p>“An Englishman would not have thought of +that,” she said.</p> + +<p>Aristide smiled in his roguish way and raised a +deprecating hand.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, he would. But he would not have +had—what you call the cheek to do it.”</p> + +<p>Miss Christabel laughed merrily, invited him +to a seat by the fire, and comforted him with +tea and hot muffins. The frank charm of his girl-hostess +captivated Aristide and drove from his +mind the riddle of his adventure. Besides, think of +the Arabian Nights’ enchantment of the change +from his lonely and shabby bed-sitting-room in the +Rusholme Road to this fragrant palace with +princess and all to keep him company! He watched +the firelight dancing through her hair, the dainty +play of laughter over her face, and decided that +the brougham had transported him to Bagdad instead +of Hampstead.</p> + +<p>“You have the air of a veritable princess,” said +he.</p> + +<p>“I once met a princess—at a charity bazaar—and +she was a most matter-of-fact, businesslike +person.”</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said Aristide. “A princess of a charity +bazaar! I was talking of the princess in a fairytale. +They are the only real ones.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +“Do you know,” said Miss Christabel, “that +when men pay such compliments to English girls +they are apt to get laughed at?”</p> + +<p>“Englishmen, yes,” replied Aristide, “because +they think over a compliment for a week, so that +by the time they pay it, it is addled, like a bad egg. +But we of Provence pay tribute to beauty straight +out of our hearts. It is true. It is sincere. And +what comes out of the heart is not ridiculous.”</p> + +<p>Again the girl coloured and laughed. “I’ve always +heard that a Frenchman makes love to every +woman he meets.”</p> + +<p>“Naturally,” said Aristide. “If they are pretty. +What else are pretty women for? Otherwise they +might as well be hideous.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said the girl, to whom this Provençal +point of view had not occurred.</p> + +<p>“So, if I make love to you, it is but your due.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder what my fiancé would say if he heard +you?”</p> + +<p>“Your——?”</p> + +<p>“My fiancé! There’s his photograph on the +table beside you. He is six foot one, and so jealous!” +she laughed again.</p> + +<p>“The Turk!” cried Aristide, his swiftly-conceived +romance crumbling into dust. Then he brightened +up. “But when this six feet of muscle and egotism +is absent, surely other poor mortals can glean a +smile?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +“You will observe that I’m not frowning,” said +Miss Christabel. “But you must not call my fiancé +a Turk, for he’s a very charming fellow whom I +hope you’ll like very much.”</p> + +<p>Aristide sighed. “And the name of this thrice-blessed +mortal?”</p> + +<p>Miss Christabel told his name—one Harry Ralston—and +not only his name, but, such was the +peculiar, childlike charm of Aristide Pujol, also +many other things about him. He was the Honourable +Harry Ralston, the heir to a great brewery +peerage, and very wealthy. He was a member +of Parliament, and but for Parliamentary duties +would have dined there that evening; but he +was to come in later, as soon as he could leave the +House. He also had a house in Hampshire, full of +the most beautiful works of art. It was through +their common hobby that her father and Harry had +first made acquaintance.</p> + +<p>“We’re supposed to have a very fine collection +here,” she said, with a motion of her hand.</p> + +<p>Aristide looked round the walls and saw them +hung with pictures in gold frames. In those days +he had not acquired an extensive culture. Besides, +who having before him the firelight gleaming +through Miss Christabel’s hair could waste his +time over painted canvas? She noted his cursory +glance.</p> + +<p>“I thought you were a connoisseur?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +“I am,” said Aristide, his bright eyes fixed on +her in frank admiration.</p> + +<p>She blushed again; but this time she rose.</p> + +<p>“I must go and dress for dinner. Perhaps you +would like to be shown your room?”</p> + +<p>He hung his head on one side.</p> + +<p>“Have I been too bold, mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she said. “You see, I’ve never +met a Frenchman before.”</p> + +<p>“Then a world of undreamed-of homage is at +your feet,” said he.</p> + +<p>A servant ushered him up broad, carpeted staircases +into a bedroom such as he had never seen in +his life before. It was all curtains and hangings +and rugs and soft couches and satin quilts and +dainty writing-tables and subdued lights, and a +great fire glowed red and cheerful, and before it +hung a clean shirt. His poor little toilet apparatus +was laid on the dressing-table, and (with a +tact which he did not appreciate, for he had, sad +to tell, no dress-suit) the servant had spread his +precious frock-coat and spare pair of trousers on +the bed. On the pillow lay his night-shirt, neatly +folded.</p> + +<p>“Evidently,” said Aristide, impressed by these +preparations, “it is expected that I wash myself +now and change my clothes, and that I sleep here +for the night. And for all that the ravishing +Miss Christabel is engaged to her honourable +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +Harry, this is none the less a corner of Paradise.”</p> + +<p>So Aristide attired himself in his best, which +included a white tie and a pair of nearly new brown +boots—a long task, as he found that his valise +had been spirited away and its contents, including +the white tie of ceremony (he had but one), hidden +in unexpected drawers and wardrobes—and eventually +went downstairs into the drawing-room. There +he found Miss Christabel and, warming himself on +the hearthrug, a bald-headed, beefy-faced Briton, +with little pig’s eyes and a hearty manner, attired +in a dinner-suit.</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow,” said this personage, with outstretched +hand, “I’m delighted to have you here. +I’ve heard so much about you; and my little girl +has been singing your praises.”</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle is too kind,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“You must take us as you find us,” said Mr. +Smith. “We’re just ordinary folk, but I can give +you a good bottle of wine and a good cigar—it’s +only in England, you know, that you can get champagne +fit to drink and cigars fit to smoke—and I +can give you a glimpse of a modest English home. +I believe you haven’t a word for it in French.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Ma foi</em>, no,” said Aristide, who had once or +twice before heard this lunatic charge brought +against his country. “In France the men all live in +cafés, the children are all put out to nurse, and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +the women, saving the respect of mademoiselle—well, +the less said about them the better.”</p> + +<p>“England is the only place, isn’t it?” Mr. Smith +declared, heartily. “I don’t say that Paris hasn’t +its points. But after all—the Moulin Rouge and +the Folies Bergères and that sort of thing soon +pall, you know—soon pall.”</p> + +<p>“Yet Paris has its serious side,” argued Aristide. +“There is always the tomb of Napoleon.”</p> + +<p>“Papa will never take me to Paris,” sighed the +girl.</p> + +<p>“You shall go there on your honeymoon,” said +Mr. Smith.</p> + +<p>Dinner was announced. Aristide gave his arm +to Miss Christabel, and proud not only of his partner, +but also of his frock-coat, white tie, and shiny +brown boots, strutted into the dining-room. The +host sat at the end of the beautifully set table, his +daughter on his right, Aristide on his left. The +meal began gaily. The kind Mr. Smith was in the +best of humours.</p> + +<p>“And how is our dear old friend, Jules Dancourt?” +he asked.</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens!</em>” said Aristide, to himself, “we have a +dear friend Jules Dancourt. Wonderfully well,” he +replied at a venture, “but he suffers terribly at times +from the gout.”</p> + +<p>“So do I, confound it!” said Mr. Smith, drinking +sherry.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +“You and the good Jules were always sympathetic,” +said Aristide. “Ah! he has spoken to me +so often about you, the tears in his eyes.”</p> + +<p>“Men cry, my dear, in France,” Mr. Smith explained. +“They also kiss each other.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Ah, mais c’est un beau pays, mademoiselle!</em>” +cried Aristide, and he began to talk of France and +to draw pictures of his country which set the girl’s +eyes dancing. After that he told some of the funny +little stories which had brought him disaster at the +academy. Mr. Smith, with jovial magnanimity, +declared that he was the first Frenchman he had +ever met with a sense of humour.</p> + +<p>“But I thought, Baron,” said he, “that you lived +all your life shut up in that old château of yours?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens!</em>” thought Aristide. “I am still a Baron, +and I have an old château.”</p> + +<p>“Tell us about the château. Has it a fosse and +a drawbridge and a Gothic chapel?” asked Miss +Christabel.</p> + +<p>“Which one do you mean?” inquired Aristide, +airily. “For I have two.”</p> + +<p>When relating to me this Arabian Nights’ adventure, +he drew my special attention to his astuteness.</p> + +<p>His host’s eye quivered in a wink. “The one in +Languedoc,” said he.</p> + +<p>Languedoc! Almost Pujol’s own country! With +entire lack of morality, but with picturesque +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +imagination, Aristide plunged into a description of that +non-existent baronial hall. Fosse, drawbridge, +Gothic chapel were but insignificant features. It +had tourelles, emblazoned gateways, bastions, donjons, +barbicans; it had innumerable rooms; in the +<em>salle des chevaliers</em> two hundred men-at-arms had +his ancestors fed at a sitting. There was the room +in which François Premier had slept, and one in +which Joan of Arc had almost been assassinated. +What the name of himself or of his ancestors was +supposed to be Aristide had no ghost of an idea. +But as he proceeded with the erection of his airy +palace he gradually began to believe in it. He invested +the place with a living atmosphere; conjured +up a staff of family retainers, notably one Marie-Joseph +Loufoque, the wizened old major-domo, +with his long white whiskers and blue and silver +livery. There were also Madeline Mioulles, the +cook, and Bernadet the groom, and La Petite Fripette +the goose girl. Ah! they should see La +Petite Fripette! And he kept dogs and horses and +cows and ducks and hens—and there was a great +pond whence frogs were drawn to be fed for the +consumption of the household.</p> + +<p>Miss Christabel shivered. “I should not like +to eat frogs.”</p> + +<p>“They also eat snails,” said her father.</p> + +<p>“I have a snail farm,” said Aristide. “You never +saw such interesting little animals. They are so +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +intelligent. If you’re kind to them they come and +eat out of your hand.”</p> + +<a name="img106" id="img106"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/img106.jpg" width="600" height="424" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“ah! the pictures,” cried aristide, with a wide sweep of his arms</span> +</div> + +<p>“You’ve forgotten the pictures,” said Mr. Smith.</p> + +<p>“Ah! the pictures,” cried Aristide, with a wide +sweep of his arms. “Galleries full of them. +Raphael, Michael Angelo, Wiertz, Reynolds——”</p> + +<p>He paused, not in order to produce the effect of +a dramatic aposiopesis, but because he could not +for the moment remember other names of painters.</p> + +<p>“It is a truly historical château,” said he.</p> + +<p>“I should love to see it,” said the girl.</p> + +<p>Aristide threw out his arms across the table. +“It is yours, mademoiselle, for your honeymoon,” +said he.</p> + +<p>Dinner came to an end. Miss Christabel left +the gentlemen to their wine, an excellent port whose +English qualities were vaunted by the host. Aristide, +full of food and drink and the mellow glories +of the castle in Languedoc, and smoking an enormous +cigar, felt at ease with all the world. He +knew he should like the kind Mr. Smith, hospitable +though somewhat insular man. He could stay with +him for a week—or a month—why not a year?</p> + +<p>After coffee and liqueurs had been served Mr. +Smith rose and switched on a powerful electric +light at the end of the large room, showing a picture +on an easel covered by a curtain. He beckoned +to Aristide to join him and, drawing the curtain, +disclosed the picture.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +“There!” said he. “Isn’t it a stunner?”</p> + +<p>It was a picture all grey skies and grey water +and grey feathery trees, and a little man in the +foreground wore a red cap.</p> + +<p>“It is beautiful, but indeed it is magnificent!” +cried Aristide, always impressionable to things of +beauty.</p> + +<p>“Genuine Corot, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Without doubt,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>His host poked him in the ribs. “I thought I’d +astonish you. You wouldn’t believe Gottschalk +could have done it. There it is—as large as life +and twice as natural. If you or anyone else can +tell it from a genuine Corot I’ll eat my hat. And +all for eight pounds.”</p> + +<p>Aristide looked at the beefy face and caught a +look of cunning in the little pig’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“Now are you satisfied?” asked Mr. Smith.</p> + +<p>“More than satisfied,” said Aristide, though what +he was to be satisfied about passed, for the moment, +his comprehension.</p> + +<p>“If it was a copy of an existing picture, you +know—one might have understood it—that, of +course, would be dangerous—but for a man to go +and get bits out of various Corots and stick them +together like this is miraculous. If it hadn’t been +for a matter of business principle I’d have given +the fellow eight guineas instead of pounds—hanged +if I wouldn’t! He deserves it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +“He does indeed,” said Aristide Pujol.</p> + +<p>“And now that you’ve seen it with your own +eyes, what do you think you might ask me for it? +I suggested something between two and three +thousand—shall we say three? You’re the owner, +you know.” Again the process of rib-digging. +“Came out of that historic château of yours. My +eye! you’re a holy terror when you begin to talk. +You almost persuaded me it was real.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens!</em>” said Aristide to himself. “I don’t seem +to have a château after all.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly three thousand,” said he, with a grave +face.</p> + +<p>“That young man thinks he knows a lot, but he +doesn’t,” said Mr. Smith.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said Aristide, with singular laconicism.</p> + +<p>“Not a blooming thing,” continued his host. +“But he’ll pay three thousand, which is the principal, +isn’t it? He’s partner in the show, you know, +Ralston, Wiggins, and Wix’s Brewery”—Aristide +pricked up his ears—“and when his doddering old +father dies he’ll be Lord Ranelagh and come into +a million of money.”</p> + +<p>“Has he seen the picture?” asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. Regards it as a masterpiece. Didn’t +Brauneberger tell you of the Lancret we planted +on the American?” Mr. Smith rubbed hearty hands +at the memory of the iniquity. “Same old game. +Always easy. I have nothing to do with the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +bargaining or the sale. Just an old friend of the +ruined French nobleman with the historic château +and family treasures. He comes along and fixes +the price. I told our friend Harry——”</p> + +<p>“Good,” thought Aristide. “This is the same +Honourable Harry, M.P., who is engaged to the +ravishing Miss Christabel.”</p> + +<p>“I told him,” said Mr. Smith, “that it might +come to three or four thousand. He jibbed a bit—so +when I wrote to you I said two or three. But +you might try him with three to begin with.”</p> + +<p>Aristide went back to the table and poured himself +out a fresh glass of his kind host’s 1865 brandy +and drank it off.</p> + +<p>“Exquisite, my dear fellow,” said he. “I’ve +none finer in my historic château.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t suppose you have,” grinned the host, joining +him. He slapped him on the back. “Well,” +said he, with a shifty look in his little pig’s eyes, +“let us talk business. What do you think would +be your fair commission? You see, all the trouble +and invention have been mine. What do you say +to four hundred pounds?”</p> + +<p>“Five,” said Aristide, promptly.</p> + +<p>A sudden gleam came into the little pig’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“Done!” said Mr. Smith, who had imagined that +the other would demand a thousand and was prepared +to pay eight hundred. “Done!” said he +again.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +They shook hands to seal the bargain and drank +another glass of old brandy. At that moment, a +servant, entering, took the host aside.</p> + +<p>“Please excuse me a moment,” said he, and went +with the servant out of the room.</p> + +<p>Aristide, left alone, lighted another of his kind +host’s fat cigars and threw himself into a great +leathern arm-chair by the fire, and surrendered himself +deliciously to the soothing charm of the moment. +Now and then he laughed, finding a certain +comicality in his position. And what a charming +father-in-law, this kind Mr. Smith!</p> + +<p>His cheerful reflections were soon disturbed by +the sudden irruption of his host and a grizzled, elderly, +foxy-faced gentleman with a white moustache, +wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honour +in the buttonhole of his overcoat.</p> + +<p>“Here, you!” cried the kind Mr. Smith, striding +up to Aristide, with a very red face. “Will you +have the kindness to tell me who the devil you +are?”</p> + +<p>Aristide rose, and, putting his hands behind the +tails of his frock-coat, stood smiling radiantly on +the hearthrug. A wit much less alert than my irresponsible +friend’s would have instantly appreciated +the fact that the real Simon Pure had arrived +on the scene.</p> + +<p>“I, my dear friend,” said he, “am the Baron de +Je ne Sais Plus.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +“You’re a confounded impostor,” spluttered Mr. +Smith.</p> + +<p>“And this gentleman here to whom I have not +had the pleasure of being introduced?” asked Aristide, +blandly.</p> + +<p>“I am M. Poiron, monsieur, the agent of +Messrs. Brauneberger and Compagnie, art dealers, +of the Rue Notre Dame des Petits Champs of +Paris,” said the new-comer, with an air of defiance.</p> + +<p>“Ah, I thought you were the Baron,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“There’s no blooming Baron at all about it!” +screamed Mr. Smith. “Are you Poiron, or is he?”</p> + +<p>“I would not have a name like Poiron for anything +in the world,” said Aristide. “My name is +Aristide Pujol, soldier of fortune, at your service.”</p> + +<p>“How the blazes did you get here?”</p> + +<p>“Your servant asked me if I was a French gentleman +from Manchester. I was. He said that Mr. +Smith had sent his carriage for me. I thought it +hospitable of the kind Mr. Smith. I entered the +carriage—<em>et voilà!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Then clear out of here this very minute,” said +Mr. Smith, reaching forward his hand to the bell-push.</p> + +<p>Aristide checked his impulsive action.</p> + +<p>“Pardon me, dear host,” said he. “It is raining +dogs and cats outside. I am very comfortable in +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +your luxurious home. I am here, and here I stay.”</p> + +<p>“I’m shot if you do,” said the kind Mr. Smith, +his face growing redder and uglier. “Now, will +you go out, or will you be thrown out?”</p> + +<p>Aristide, who had no desire whatever to be +ejected from this snug nest into the welter of the +wet and friendless world, puffed at his cigar, and +looked at his host with the irresistible drollery of +his eyes.</p> + +<p>“You forget, <em>mon cher ami</em>,” said he, “that neither +the beautiful Miss Christabel nor her affianced, +the Honourable Harry, M.P., would care to know +that the talented Gottschalk got only eight +pounds, not even guineas, for painting that three-thousand-pound +picture.”</p> + +<p>“So it’s blackmail, eh?”</p> + +<p>“Precisely,” said Aristide, “and I don’t blush +at it.”</p> + +<p>“You infernal little blackguard!”</p> + +<p>“I seem to be in congenial company,” said Aristide. +“I don’t think our friend M. Poiron has more +scruples than he has right to the ribbon of the Legion +of Honour which he is wearing.”</p> + +<p>“How much will you take to go out? I have a +cheque-book handy.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Smith moved a few steps from the hearthrug. +Aristide sat down in the arm-chair. An engaging, +fantastic impudence was one of the charms +of Aristide Pujol.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +“I’ll take five hundred pounds,” said he, “to +stay in.”</p> + +<p>“Stay in?” Mr. Smith grew apoplectic.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Aristide. “You can’t do without me. +Your daughter and your servants know me as M. le +Baron—by the way, what is my name? And where +is my historic château in Languedoc?”</p> + +<p>“Mireilles,” said M. Poiron, who was sitting +grim and taciturn on one of the dining-room chairs. +“And the place is the same, near Montpellier.”</p> + +<p>“I like to meet an intelligent man,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I should like to wring your infernal neck,” said +the kind Mr. Smith. “But, by George, if we do +let you in you’ll have to sign me a receipt implicating +yourself up to the hilt. I’m not going to be +put into the cart by you, you can bet your life.”</p> + +<p>“Anything you like,” said Aristide, “so long as +we all swing together.”</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Now, when Aristide Pujol arrived at this point +in his narrative I, his chronicler, who am nothing +if not an eminently respectable, law-abiding Briton, +took him warmly to task for his sheer absence of +moral sense. His eyes, as they sometimes did, assumed +a luminous pathos.</p> + +<a name="img116" id="img116"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 491px;"> +<img src="images/img116.jpg" width="491" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“i’ll take five hundred pounds,” said he, “to stay in”</span> +</div> + +<p>“My dear friend,” said he, “have you ever faced +the world in a foreign country in December with +no character and fifteen pounds five and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +three-pence in your pocket? Five hundred pounds was +a fortune. It is one now. And to be gained just +by lending oneself to a good farce, which didn’t +hurt anybody. You and your British morals! Bah!” +said he, with a fine flourish.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Aristide, after much parleying, was finally admitted +into the nefarious brotherhood. He was to +retain his rank as the Baron de Mireilles, and play +the part of the pecuniarily inconvenienced nobleman +forced to sell some of his rare collection. Mr. +Smith had heard of the Corot through their dear +old common friend, Jules Dancourt of Rheims, had +mentioned it alluringly to the Honourable Harry, +had arranged for the Baron, who was visiting England, +to bring it over and dispatch it to Mr. Smith’s +house, and on his return from Manchester to pay +a visit to Mr. Smith, so that he could meet the +Honourable Harry in person. In whatever transaction +ensued Mr. Smith, so far as his prospective +son-in-law was concerned, was to be the purely +disinterested friend. It was Aristide’s wit which +invented a part for the supplanted M. Poiron. He +should be the eminent Parisian expert who, chancing +to be in London, had been telephoned for by +the kind Mr. Smith.</p> + +<p>“It would not be wise for M. Poiron,” said Aristide, +chuckling inwardly with puckish glee, “to stay +here for the night—or for two or three days—or +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +a week—like myself. He must go back to his hotel +when the business is concluded.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Mais, pardon!</em>” cried M. Poiron, who had been +formally invited, and had arrived late solely because +he had missed his train at Manchester, and +come on by the next one. “I cannot go out into +the wet, and I have no hotel to go to.”</p> + +<p>Aristide appealed to his host. “But he is unreasonable, +<em>cher ami</em>. He must play his <em>rôle</em>. M. +Poiron has been telephoned for. He can’t possibly +stay here. Surely five hundred pounds is worth one +little night of discomfort? And there are a legion +of hotels in London.”</p> + +<p>“Five hundred pounds!” exclaimed M. Poiron. +“<em>Qu’est-ce que vous chantez là?</em> I want more than +five hundred pounds.”</p> + +<p>“Then you’re jolly well not going to get it,” +cried Mr. Smith, in a rage. “And as for you”—he +turned on Aristide—“I’ll wring your infernal +neck yet.”</p> + +<p>“Calm yourself, calm yourself!” smiled Aristide, +who was enjoying himself hugely.</p> + +<p>At this moment the door opened and Miss Christabel +appeared. On seeing the decorated stranger +she started with a little “Oh!” of surprise.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Smith’s angry face wreathed itself in +smiles.</p> + +<p>“This, my darling, is M. Poiron, the eminent +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +Paris expert, who has been good enough to come +and give us his opinion on the picture.”</p> + +<p>M. Poiron bowed. Aristide advanced.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle, your appearance is like a mirage +in a desert.”</p> + +<p>She smiled indulgently and turned to her father. +“I’ve been wondering what had become of you. +Harry has been here for the last half-hour.”</p> + +<p>“Bring him in, dear child, bring him in!” said +Mr. Smith, with all the heartiness of the fine old +English gentleman. “Our good friends are dying +to meet him.”</p> + +<p>The girl flickered out of the room like a sunbeam +(the phrase is Aristide’s), and the three precious +rascals put their heads together in a hurried +and earnest colloquy. Presently Miss Christabel +returned, and with her came the Honourable Harry +Ralston, a tall, soldierly fellow, with close-cropped +fair curly hair and a fair moustache, and frank +blue eyes that, even in Parliament, had seen no +harm in his fellow-creatures. Aristide’s magical +vision caught him wincing ever so little at Mr. +Smith’s effusive greeting and overdone introductions. +He shook Aristide warmly by the hand.</p> + +<p>“You have a beauty there, Baron, a perfect +beauty,” said he, with the insane ingenuousness of +youth. “I wonder how you can manage to part +with it.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Ma foi</em>,” said Aristide, with his back against +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +the end of the dining-table and gazing at the masterpiece. +“I have so many at the Château de Mireilles. +When one begins to collect, you know—and +when one’s grandfather and father have had +also the divine mania——”</p> + +<p>“You were saying, M. le Baron,” said M. Poiron +of Paris, “that your respected grandfather bought +this direct from Corot himself.”</p> + +<p>“A commission,” said Aristide. “My grandfather +was a patron of Corot.”</p> + +<p>“Do you like it, dear?” asked the Honourable +Harry.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes!” replied the girl, fervently. “It is +beautiful. I feel like Harry about it.” She turned +to Aristide. “How can you part with it? Were +you really in earnest when you said you would like +me to come and see your collection?”</p> + +<p>“For me,” said Aristide, “it would be a visit +of enchantment.”</p> + +<p>“You must take me, then,” she whispered to +Harry. “The Baron has been telling us about +his lovely old château.”</p> + +<p>“Will you come, monsieur?” asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Since I’m going to rob you of your picture,” +said the young man, with smiling courtesy, “the +least I can do is to pay you a visit of apology. +Lovely!” said he, going up to the Corot.</p> + +<p>Aristide took Miss Christabel, now more bewitching +than ever with the glow of young love in +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +her eyes and a flush on her cheek, a step or two +aside and whispered:—</p> + +<p>“But he is charming, your fiancé! He almost +deserves his good fortune.”</p> + +<p>“Why almost?” she laughed, shyly.</p> + +<p>“It is not a man, but a demi-god, that would +deserve you, mademoiselle.”</p> + +<p>M. Poiron’s harsh voice broke out.</p> + +<p>“You see, it is painted in the beginning of Corot’s +later manner—it is 1864. There is the mystery +which, when he was quite an old man, became +a trick. If you were to put it up to auction at +Christie’s it would fetch, I am sure, five thousand +pounds.”</p> + +<p>“That’s more than I can afford to give,” said +the young man, with a laugh. “Mr. Smith mentioned +something between three and four thousand +pounds. I don’t think I can go above +three.”</p> + +<p>“I have nothing to do with it, my dear boy, +nothing whatever,” said Mr. Smith, rubbing his +hands. “You wanted a Corot. I said I thought I +could put you on to one. It’s for the Baron here +to mention his price. I retire now and for ever.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Baron?” said the young man, cheerfully. +“What’s your idea?”</p> + +<p>Aristide came forward and resumed his place at +the end of the table. The picture was in front of +him beneath the strong electric light; on his left +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +stood Mr. Smith and Poiron, on his right Miss +Christabel and the Honourable Harry.</p> + +<p>“I’ll not take three thousand pounds for it,” +said Aristide. “A picture like that! Never!”</p> + +<p>“I assure you it would be a fair price,” said +Poiron.</p> + +<p>“You mentioned that figure yourself only just +now,” said Mr. Smith, with an ugly glitter in his +little pig’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“I presume, gentlemen,” said Aristide, “that this +picture is my own property.” He turned engagingly +to his host. “Is it not, <em>cher ami</em>?”</p> + +<p>“Of course it is. Who said it wasn’t?”</p> + +<p>“And you, M. Poiron, acknowledge formally that +it is mine,” he asked, in French.</p> + +<p>“<em>Sans aucun doute.</em>”</p> + +<p>“<em>Eh bien</em>,” said Aristide, throwing open his arms +and gazing round sweetly. “I have changed my +mind. I do not sell the picture at all.”</p> + +<p>“Not sell it? What the—what do you mean?” +asked Mr. Smith, striving to mellow the gathering +thunder on his brow.</p> + +<p>“I do not sell,” said Aristide. “Listen, my dear +friends!” He was in the seventh heaven of happiness—the +principal man, the star, taking the centre +of the stage. “I have an announcement to make +to you. I have fallen desperately in love with +mademoiselle.”</p> + +<p>There was a general gasp. Mr. Smith looked at +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +him, red-faced and open-mouthed. Miss Christabel +blushed furiously and emitted a sound half between +a laugh and a scream. Harry Ralston’s eyes +flashed.</p> + +<p>“My dear sir——” he began.</p> + +<p>“Pardon,” said Aristide, disarming him with the +merry splendour of his glance. “I do not wish to +take mademoiselle from you. My love is hopeless! +I know it. But it will feed me to my dying day. +In return for the joy of this hopeless passion I will +not sell you the picture—I give it to you as a wedding +present.”</p> + +<p>He stood, with the air of a hero, both arms extended +towards the amazed pair of lovers.</p> + +<p>“I give it to you,” said he. “It is mine. I have +no wish but for your happiness. In my Château +de Mireilles there are a hundred others.”</p> + +<p>“This is madness!” said Mr. Smith, bursting +with suppressed indignation, so that his bald head +grew scarlet.</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow!” said Mr. Harry Ralston. “It +is unheard-of generosity on your part. But we +can’t accept it.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said Aristide, advancing dramatically +to the picture, “I take it under my arm, I put it in +a hansom cab, and I go with it back to Languedoc.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Smith caught him by the wrist and dragged +him out of the room.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +“You little brute! Do you want your neck +broken?”</p> + +<p>“Do you want the marriage of your daughter +with the rich and Honourable Harry broken?” +asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Oh, damn! Oh, damn! Oh, damn!” cried Mr. +Smith, stamping about helplessly and half weeping.</p> + +<p>Aristide entered the dining-room and beamed on +the company.</p> + +<p>“The kind Mr. Smith has consented. Mr. Honourable +Harry and Miss Christabel, there is your +Corot. And now, may I be permitted?” He rang +the bell. A servant appeared.</p> + +<p>“Some champagne to drink to the health of the +fiancés,” he cried. “Lots of champagne.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Smith looked at him almost admiringly.</p> + +<p>“By Jove!” he muttered. “You <em>have</em> got a +nerve.”</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>“<em>Voilà!</em>” said Aristide, when he had finished the +story.</p> + +<p>“And did they accept the Corot?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Of course. It is hanging now in the big house +in Hampshire. I stayed with the kind Mr. Smith +for six weeks,” he added, doubling himself up in +his chair and hugging himself with mirth, “and +we became very good friends. And I was at the +wedding.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +“And what about their honeymoon visit to Languedoc?”</p> + +<p>“Alas!” said Aristide. “The morning before the +wedding I had a telegram—it was from my old +father at Aigues-Mortes—to tell me that the historic +Château de Mireilles, with my priceless collection +of pictures, had been burned to the ground.”</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF THE FOUNDLING</strong></p> + + +<p>There was a time when Aristide Pujol, in +sole charge of an automobile, went gaily +scuttering over the roads of France. I +use the word advisedly. If you had heard the awful +thing as it passed by you would agree that it is the +only word adequate to express its hideous mode of +progression. It was a two-seated, scratched, battered, +ramshackle tin concern of hoary antiquity, +belonging to the childhood of the race. Not only +horses, but other automobiles shied at it. It was +a vehicle of derision. Yet Aristide regarded it +with glowing pride and drove it with such daredevilry +that the parts must have held together only +through sheer breathless wonder. Had it not been +for the car, he told me, he would not have undertaken +the undignified employment in which he was +then engaged—the mountebank selling of a corn-cure +in the public places of small towns and villages. +It was not a fitting pursuit for a late managing +director of a public company and an ex-Professor +of French in an English Academy for Young +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +Ladies. He wanted to rise, <em>ma foi</em>, not descend in the +social scale. But when hunger drives—<em>que voulez-vous</em>? +Besides, there was the automobile. It is +true he had bound himself by his contract to exhibit +a board at the back bearing a flaming picture +of the success of the cure and a legend: “<em>Guérissez +vos cors</em>,” and to display a banner with the +same device, when weather permitted. But, still, +there was the automobile.</p> + +<p>It had been lying for many motor-ages in the +shed of the proprietors of the cure, the Maison +Hiéropath of Marseilles, neglected, forlorn, eaten +by rust and worm, when suddenly an idea occurred +to their business imagination. Why should they +not use the automobile to advertise and sell the cure +about the country? The apostle in charge would +pay for his own petrol, take a large percentage on +sales, and the usual traveller’s commission on orders +that he might place. But where to find an +apostle? Brave and desperate men came in high +hopes, looked at the car, and, shaking their heads +sorrowfully, went away. At last, at the loosest +of ends, came Aristide. The splendour of the idea—a +poet, in his way, was Aristide, and the Idea +was the thing that always held him captive—the +splendour of the idea of dashing up to hotels in his +own automobile dazed him. He beheld himself +doing his hundred kilometres an hour and trailing +clouds of glory whithersoever he went. To a child +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +a moth-eaten rocking-horse is a fiery Arab of the +plains; to Aristide Pujol this cheat of the scrap-heap +was a sixty-horse-power thunderer and devourer of +space.</p> + +<p>How they managed to botch up her interior so +that she moved unpushed is a mystery which Aristide, +not divining, could not reveal; and when and +where he himself learned to drive a motor-car is +also vague. I believe the knowledge came by nature. +He was a fellow of many weird accomplishments. +He could conjure; he could model birds +and beasts out of breadcrumb; he could play the +drum—so well that he had a kettle-drum hanging +round his neck during most of his military service; +he could make omelettes and rabbit-hutches; he +could imitate any animal that ever emitted sound—a +gift that endeared him to children; he could +do almost anything you please—save stay in one +place and acquire material possessions. The fact +that he had never done a thing before was to him +no proof of his inability to do it. In his superb +self-confidence he would have undertaken to conduct +the orchestra at Covent Garden or navigate +a liner across the Atlantic. Knowing this, I cease +to bother my head about so small a matter as the +way in which he learned to drive a motor-car.</p> + +<p>Behold him, then, one raw March morning, scuttering +along the road that leads from Arles to +Salon, in Provence. He wore a goat-skin coat and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +a goat-skin cap drawn down well over his ears. +His handsome bearded face, with its lustrous, +laughing eyes, peeped out curiously human amid the +circumambient shagginess. There was not a turn +visible in the long, straight road that lost itself in +the far distant mist; not a speck on it signifying +cart or creature. Aristide Pujol gave himself up +to the delirium of speed and urged the half-bursting +engine to twenty miles an hour. In spite of the +racing-track surface, the crazy car bumped and +jolted; the sides of the rickety bonnet clashed like +cymbals; every valve wheezed and squealed; every +nut seemed to have got loose and terrifically clattered; +rattling noises, grunting noises, screeching +noises escaped from every part; it creaked and +clanked like an over-insured tramp-steamer in a +typhoon; it lurched as though afflicted with loco-motor +ataxy; and noisome vapours belched forth +from the open exhaust-pipe as though the car were +a Tophet on wheels. But all was music in the ears +of Aristide. The car was going (it did not always +go), the road scudded under him, and the morning +air dashed stingingly into his face. For the moment +he desired nothing more of life.</p> + +<p>This road between Arles and Salon runs through +one of the most desolate parts of France: a long, +endless plain, about five miles broad, lying between +two long low ranges of hills. It is strewn like a +monstrous Golgotha, not with skulls, but with huge +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +smooth pebbles, as massed together as the shingle +on a beach. Rank grass shoots up in what interstices +it finds; but beyond this nothing grows. +Nothing can grow. On a sunless day under a lowering +sky it is a land accursed. Mile after mile +for nearly twenty miles stretches this stony and +barren waste. No human habitation cheers the sight, +for from such a soil no human hand could wrest +a sustenance. Only the rare traffic going from +Arles to Salon and from Salon to Arles passes along +the road. The cheery passing show of the live +highway is wanting; there are no children, no dogs, +no ducks and hens, no men and women lounging to +their work; no red-trousered soldiers on bicycles, +no blue-bloused, weather-beaten farmers jogging +along in their little carts. As far as the eye can +reach nothing suggestive of man meets the view. +Nothing but the infinite barrenness of the plain, the +ridges on either side, the long, straight, endless +road cleaving through this abomination of desolation.</p> + +<p>To walk through it would be a task as depressing +as mortal could execute. But to the speed-drunken +motorist it is a realization of dim and +tremulous visions of Paradise. What need to look +to right or left when you are swallowing up +free mile after mile of dizzying road? Aristide +looked neither to right nor left, and knew this was +heaven at last.</p> + +<a name="img132" id="img132"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/img132.jpg" width="500" height="444" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">between the folds of the blanket peeped the face<br /> +of a sleeping child</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +Suddenly, however, he became aware of a small +black spot far ahead in the very middle of the unencumbered +track. As he drew near it looked like +a great stone. He swerved as he passed it, and, +looking, saw that it was a bundle wrapped in a +striped blanket. It seemed so odd that it should +be lying there that, his curiosity being aroused, he +pulled up and walked back a few yards to examine +it. The nearer he approached the less did it resemble +an ordinary bundle. He bent down, and lo! +between the folds of the blanket peeped the face +of a sleeping child.</p> + +<p>“<em>Nom de Dieu!</em>” cried Aristide. “<em>Nom de Dieu +de nom de Dieu!</em>”</p> + +<p>He ought not to have said it, but his astonishment +was great. He stared at the baby, then up +and down the road, then swept the horizon. Not a +soul was visible. How did the baby get there? +The heavens, according to history, have rained +many things in their time: bread, quails, blood, +frogs, and what not; but there is no mention of +them ever having rained babies. It could not, +therefore, have come from the clouds. It could not +even have fallen from the tail of a cart, for then +it would have been killed, or at least have broken +its bones and generally been rendered a different +baby from the sound, chubby mite sleeping as peacefully +as though the Golgotha of Provence had been +its cradle from birth. It could not have come there +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +accidentally. Deliberate hands had laid it down; +in the centre of the road, too. Why not by the +side, where it would have been out of the track of +thundering automobiles? When the murderous intent +became obvious Aristide shivered and felt sick. +He breathed fierce and honest anathema on the +heads of the bowelless fiends who had abandoned +the babe to its doom. Then he stooped and picked +up the bundle tenderly in his arms.</p> + +<p>The wee face puckered for a moment and the +wee limbs shot out vigorously; then the dark eyes +opened and stared Aristide solemnly and wonderingly +in the face. So must the infant Remus have +first regarded his she-wolf mother. Having ascertained, +however, that it was not going to be devoured, +it began to cry lustily, showing two little +white specks of teeth in the lower gum.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon pauvre petit</em>, you are hungry,” said Aristide, +carrying it to the car racked by the clattering +engine. “I wonder when you last tasted food? If +I only had a little biscuit and wine to give you; +but, alas! there’s nothing but petrol and corn-cure, +neither of which, I believe, is good for babies. +Wait, wait, <em>mon chèri</em>, until we get to Salon. There +I promise you proper nourishment.”</p> + +<p>He danced the baby up and down in his arms and +made half-remembered and insane noises, which +eventually had the effect of reducing it to its original +calm stare of wonderment.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +“<em>Voilà</em>,” said Aristide, delighted. “Now we can +advance.”</p> + +<p>He deposited it on the vacant seat, clambered +up behind the wheel, and started. But not at the +break-neck speed of twenty miles an hour. He went +slowly and carefully, his heart in his mouth at every +lurch of the afflicted automobile, fearful lest the +child should be precipitated from its slippery resting-place. +But, alas! he did not proceed far. At +the end of a kilometre the engine stopped dead. +He leaped out to see what had happened, and, after +a few perplexed and exhausting moments, remembered. +He had not even petrol to offer to the baby, +having omitted—most feather-headed of mortals—to +fill up his tank before starting, and forgotten to +bring a spare tin. There was nothing to be done +save wait patiently until another motorist should +pass by from whom he might purchase the necessary +amount of essence to carry him on to Salon. +Meanwhile the baby would go breakfastless. Aristide +clambered back to his seat, took the child on +his knees, and commiserated it profoundly. Sitting +there on his apparently home-made vehicle, in +the midst of the unearthly silence of the sullen and +barren wilderness, attired in his shaggy goat-skin +cap and coat, he resembled an up-to-date Robinson +Crusoe dandling an infant Friday.</p> + +<p>The disposal of the child at Salon would be simple. +After having it fed and tended at an hotel, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +he would make his deposition to the police, who +would take it to the Enfants Trouvés, the department +of State which provides fathers and mothers +and happy homes for foundlings at a cost to the +country of twenty-five francs a month per foundling. +It is true that the parents so provided think +more of the twenty-five francs than they do of the +foundling. But that was the affair of the State, +not of Aristide Pujol. In the meanwhile he examined +the brat curiously. It was dressed in a coarse +calico jumper, very unclean. The striped blanket +was full of holes and smelled abominably. Some +sort of toilet appeared essential. He got down and +from his valise took what seemed necessary to the +purpose. The jumper and blanket he threw far on +the pebbly waste. The baby, stark naked for a +few moments, crowed and laughed and stretched +like a young animal, revealing itself to be a sturdy +boy about nine months old. When he seemed fit to +be clad Aristide tied him up in the lower part of +a suit of pyjamas, cutting little holes in the sides +for his tiny arms; and, further, with a view to +cheating his hunger, provided him with a shoe-horn. +The defenceless little head he managed to squeeze +into the split mouth of a woollen sock. Aristide regarded +him in triumph. The boy chuckled gleefully. +Then Aristide folded him warm in his travelling-rug +and entered into an animated conversation.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +Now it happened that, at the most interesting +point of the talk, the baby clutched Aristide’s finger +in his little brown hand. The tiny fingers +clung strong.</p> + +<p>A queer thrill ran through the impressionable +man. The tiny fingers seemed to close round his +heart.... It was a bonny, good-natured, +gurgling scrap—and the pure eyes looked truthfully +into his soul.</p> + +<p>“Poor little wretch!” said Aristide, who, peasant’s +son that he was, knew what he was talking +about. “Poor little wretch! If you go into the +Enfants Trouvés you’ll have a devil of a time +of it.”</p> + +<p>The tiny clasp tightened. As if the babe understood, +the chuckle died from his face.</p> + +<p>“You’ll be cuffed and kicked and half starved, +while your adopted mother pockets her twenty-five +francs a month, and you’ll belong to nobody, and +wonder why the deuce you’re alive, and wish you +were dead; and, if you remember to-day, you’ll +curse me for not having had the decency to run +over you.”</p> + +<p>The clasp relaxed, puckers appeared at the corners +of the dribbling mouth, and a myriad tiny +horizontal lines of care marked the sock-capped +brow.</p> + +<p>“Poor little devil!” said Aristide. “My heart +bleeds for you, especially now that you’re dressed +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +in my sock and pyjama, and are sucking the only +shoe-horn I ever possessed.”</p> + +<p>A welcome sound caused Aristide to leap into the +middle of the road. He looked ahead, and there, +in a cloud of dust, a thing like a torpedo came +swooping down. He held up both his arms, the +signal of a motorist in distress. The torpedo approached +with slackened speed, and stopped. It was +an evil-looking, drab, high-powered racer, and two +bears with goggles sat in the midst thereof. The +bear at the wheel raised his cap and asked courteously:—</p> + +<p>“What can we do for you, monsieur?”</p> + +<p>At that moment the baby broke into heart-rending +cries. Aristide took off his goat-skin cap and, +remaining uncovered, looked at the bear, then at the +baby, then at the bear again.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” said he, “I suppose it’s useless to +ask you whether you have any milk and a feeding-bottle?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Mais dites donc!</em>” shouted the bear, furiously, +his hand on the brake. “Stop an automobile like +this on such a pretext——?”</p> + +<p>Aristide held up a protesting hand, and fixed the +bear with the irresistible roguery of his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Pardon, monsieur, I am also out of petrol. +Forgive a father’s feelings. The baby wants milk +and I want petrol, and I don’t know whose need +is the more imperative. But if you could sell me +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +enough petrol to carry me to Salon I should be +most grateful.”</p> + +<p>The request for petrol is not to be refused. To +supply it, if possible, is the written law of motordom. +The second bear slid from his seat and extracted +a tin from the recesses of the torpedo, and +stood by while Aristide filled his tank, a process +that necessitated laying the baby on the ground. +He smiled.</p> + +<p>“You seem amused,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“<em>Parbleu!</em>” said the motorist. “You have at the +back of your auto a placard telling people to cure +their corns, and in front you carry a baby.”</p> + +<p>“That,” replied Aristide, “is easily understood. +I am the agent of the Maison Hiéropath of Marseilles, +and the baby, whom I, its father, am carrying +from a dead mother to an invalid aunt, I am +using as an advertisement. As he luckily has no +corns, I can exhibit his feet as a proof of the efficacy +of the corn-cure.”</p> + +<p>The bear laughed and joined his companion, and +the torpedo thundered away. Aristide replaced the +baby, and with a complicated arrangement of string +fastened it securely to the seat. The baby, having +ceased crying, clutched his beard as he bent over, +and “goo’d” pleasantly. The tug was at his heart-strings. +How could he give so fascinating, so valiant +a mite over to the Enfants Trouvés? Besides, +it belonged to him. Had he not in jest claimed +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +paternity? It had given him a new importance. He +could say “<em>mon fils</em>,” just as he could say (with +equal veracity) “<em>mon automobile</em>.” A generous +thrill ran through him. He burst into a loud laugh, +clapped his hands, and danced before the delighted +babe.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon petit Jean</em>,” said he, with humorous tenderness, +“for I suppose your name is Jean; I will +rend myself in pieces before I let the Administration +board you out among the wolves. You shall +not go to the Enfants Trouvés. I myself will adopt +you, <em>mon petit Jean</em>.”</p> + +<p>As Aristide had no fixed abode whatever, the +address on his visiting-card, “213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré, +Paris,” being that of an old greengrocer +woman of his acquaintance, with whom he lodged +when he visited the metropolis, there was a certain +amount of rashness in the undertaking. But when +was Aristide otherwise than rash? Had prudence +been his guiding principle through life he would not +have been selling corn-cure for the Maison Hiéropath, +and consequently would not have discovered +the child at all.</p> + +<p>In great delight at this satisfactory settlement +of little Jean’s destiny, he started the ramshackle +engine and drove triumphantly on his way. Jean, +fatigued by the emotions of the last half-hour, +slumbered peacefully.</p> + +<p>“The little angel!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +The sun was shining when they arrived at Salon, +the gayest, the most coquettish, the most laughing +little town in Provence. It is a place all trees +and open spaces, and fountains and cafés, and +sauntering people. The only thing grim about it +is the solitary machicolated tower in the main street, +the last vestige of ancient ramparts; and even that, +close cuddled on each side by prosperous houses +with shops beneath, looks like an old, old, wrinkled +grandmother smiling amid her daintier grandchildren. +Everyone seemed to be in the open air. +Those who kept shops stood at the doorways. The +prospect augured well for the Maison Hiéropath.</p> + +<p>Aristide stopped before an hotel, disentangled +Jean, to the mild interest of the passers-by, and, +carrying him in, delivered him into the arms of +the landlady.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” he said, “this is my son. I am taking +him from his mother, who is dead, to an aunt +who is an invalid. So he is alone on my hands. He +is very hungry, and I beseech you to feed him at +once.”</p> + +<p>The motherly woman received the babe instinctively +and cast aside the travelling-rug in which he +was enveloped. Then she nearly dropped him.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu! Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?</em>”</p> + +<p>She stared in stupefaction at the stocking-cap +and at the long flannel pyjama legs that depended +from the body of the infant, around whose neck +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +the waist was tightly drawn. Never since the world +began had babe masqueraded in such attire. Aristide +smiled his most engaging smile.</p> + +<p>“My son’s luggage has unfortunately been lost. +His portmanteau, <em>pauvre petit</em>, was so small. A +poor widower, I did what I could. I am but a +mere man, madame.”</p> + +<p>“Evidently,” said the woman, with some asperity.</p> + +<p>Aristide took a louis from his purse. “If you +will purchase him some necessary articles of costume +while I fulfil my duties towards the Maison +Hiéropath of Marseilles, which I represent, you +will be doing me a kindness.”</p> + +<p>The landlady took the louis in a bewildered fashion. +Allowing for the baby’s portmanteau to have +gone astray, what, she asked, had become of the +clothes he must have been wearing? Aristide entered +upon a picturesque and realistic explanation. +The landlady was stout, she was stupid, she could +not grasp the fantastic.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu!</em>” she said. “To think that there are +Christians who dress their children like this!” She +sighed exhaustively, and, holding the grotesque infant +close to her breast, disappeared indignantly to +administer the very greatly needed motherment.</p> + +<a name="img144" id="img144"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 443px;"> +<img src="images/img144.jpg" width="443" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">he demonstrated the proper application of the cure</span> +</div> + +<p>Aristide breathed a sigh of relief, and after a +well-earned <em>déjeuner</em> went forth with the car into +the Place des Arbres and prepared to ply his trade. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +First he unfurled the Hiéropath banner, which +floated proudly in the breeze. Then on a folding +table he displayed his collection of ointment-boxes +(together with pills and a toothache-killer which +he sold on his own account) and a wax model of a +human foot on which were grafted putty corns in +every stage of callosity. As soon as half-a-dozen +idlers collected he commenced his harangue. When +their numbers increased he performed prodigies +of chiropody on the putty corns, and demonstrated +the proper application of the cure. He talked incessantly +all the while. He has told me, in the +grand manner, that this phase of his career was +distasteful to him. But I scarcely believe it. If +ever a man loved to talk, it was Aristide Pujol; +and what profession, save that of an advocate, offers +more occasion for wheedling loquacity than +that of a public vendor of quack medicaments? As +a matter of fact, he revelled in it. When he offered +a free box of the cure to the first lady who +confessed the need thereof, and a blushing wench +came forward, the rascal revelled in the opportunity +for badinage which set the good-humoured +crowd in a roar. He loved to exert his half-mesmeric +power. He had not the soul of a mountebank, +for Aristide’s soul had its high and generous dwelling-place; +but he had the puckish swiftness and +mischief of which the successful mountebank is +made. And he was a success because he treated +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +it as an art, thinking nothing during its practice +of the material gain, laughing whole-heartedly, +like his great predecessor Tabarin of imperishable +memory, and satisfying to the full his instinct for +the dramatic. On the other hand, ever since he +started life in the brass-buttoned shell-jacket of a +<em>chasseur</em> in a Marseilles café, and dreamed dreams +of the fairytale lives of the clients who came in +accompanied by beautifully dressed ladies, he had +social ambitions—and the social status of the mountebank +is, to say the least of it, ambiguous. Ah +me! What would man be without the unattainable?</p> + +<p>Aristide pocketed his takings, struck his flag, dismantled +his table, and visited the shops of Salon +in the interests of the Maison Hiéropath. The day’s +work over, he returned to inquire for his supposititious +offspring. The landlady, all smiles, presented +him with a transmogrified Jean, cleansed +and powdered, arrayed in the smug panoply of +bourgeois babyhood. Shoes with a pompon adorned +his feet, and a rakish cap decorated with white +satin ribbons crowned his head. He also wore +an embroidered frock and a pelisse trimmed +with rabbit-fur. Jean grinned and dribbled +self-consciously, and showed his two little teeth +to the proudest father in the world. The +landlady invited the happy parent into her little +dark parlour beyond the office, and there exhibited +a parcel containing garments and implements whose +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +use was a mystery to Aristide. She also demanded +the greater part of another louis. Aristide began +to learn that fatherhood is expensive. But what +did it matter?</p> + +<p>After all, here was a babe equipped to face the +exigencies of a censorious world; in looks and apparel +a credit to any father. As the afternoon was +fine, and as it seemed a pity to waste satin and +rabbit-fur on the murky interior of the hotel, Aristide +borrowed a perambulator from the landlady, +and, joyous as a schoolboy, wheeled the splendid +infant through the sunny avenues of Salon.</p> + +<p>That evening a bed was made up for the child +in Aristide’s room, which, until its master retired +for the night, was haunted by the landlady, the +chambermaids and all the kitchen wenches in the +hotel. Aristide had to turn them out and lock his +door.</p> + +<p>“This is excellent,” said he, apostrophizing the +thoroughly fed, washed, and now sleeping child. +“This is superb. As in every hotel there are women, +and as every woman thinks she can be a much better +mother than I, so in every hotel we visit we +shall find a staff of trained and enthusiastic nurses. +Jean, you will live like a little <em>coq en pâté</em>.”</p> + +<p>The night passed amid various excursions on +the part of Aristide and alarms on the part of Jean. +Sometimes the child lay so still that Aristide arose +to see whether he was alive. Sometimes he gave +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +such proofs of vitality that Aristide, in terror lest +he should awaken the whole hotel, walked him about +the room chanting lullabies. This was in accordance +with Jean’s views on luxury. He “goo’d” +with joy. When Aristide put him back to bed he +howled. Aristide snatched him up and he “goo’d” +again. At last Aristide fed him desperately, dandled +him eventually to sleep, and returned to an +excited pillow. It is a fearsome thing for a man +to be left alone in the dead of night with a young +baby.</p> + +<p>“I’ll get used to it,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>The next morning he purchased a basket, which +he lashed ingeniously on the left-hand seat of the +car, and a cushion, which he fitted into the basket. +The berth prepared, he deposited the sumptuously-apparelled +Jean therein and drove away, amid the +perplexed benisons of the landlady and her satellites.</p> + +<p>Thus began the oddest Odyssey on which ever +mortals embarked. The man with the automobile, +the corn-cure, and the baby grew to be legendary in +the villages of Provence. When the days were +fine, Jean in his basket assisted at the dramatic +performance in the market-place. Becoming a magnet +for the women, and being of a good-humoured +and rollicking nature, he helped on the sale of the +cure prodigiously. He earned his keep, as Aristide +declared in exultation. Soon Aristide formed +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +a collection of his tricks and doings wherewith he +would entertain the chance acquaintances of his +vagabondage. To a permanent companion he +would have grown insufferable. He invented him +a career from the day of his birth, chronicled the +coming of the first tooth, wept over the demise of +the fictitious mother, and, in his imaginative way, +convinced himself of his fatherhood. And every +day the child crept deeper into the man’s sunny +heart.</p> + +<a name="img150" id="img150"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 355px;"> +<img src="images/img150.jpg" width="355" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">it is a fearsome thing for a man to be left alone in the +dead of night with a young baby</span> +</div> + +<p>Together they had many wanderings and many +adventures. The wheezy, crazy mechanism of the +car went to bits in unexpected places. They tobogganed +down hills without a brake at the imminent +peril of their lives. They suffered the indignity +of being towed by wine-wagons. They spent hours +by the wayside while Aristide took her to pieces +and, sometimes with the help of a passing motorist, +put her together again. Sometimes, too, an +inn boasted no landlady, only a dishevelled and +over-driven chambermaid, who refused to wash +Jean. Aristide washed and powdered Jean himself, +the landlord lounging by, pipe in mouth, administering +suggestions. Once Jean grew ill, and +Aristide in terror summoned the doctor, who told +him that he had filled the child up with milk to +bursting-point. Yet, in spite of heterogeneous +nursing and exposure to sun and rain and piercing +mistral, Jean throve exceedingly, and, to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +Aristide’s delight, began to cut another tooth. The vain +man began to regard himself as an expert in denticulture.</p> + +<p>At the end of a fairly-wide circuit, Aristide, with +empty store-boxes and pleasantly-full pockets, arrived +at the little town of Aix-en-Provence. He +had arrived there not without difficulty. On the +outskirts the car, which had been coaxed reluctantly +along for many weary kilometres, had +groaned, rattled, whirred, given a couple of convulsive +leaps, and stood stock-still. This was one of +her pretty ways. He was used to them, and hitherto +he had been able to wheedle her into resumed +motion. But this time, with all his cunning and +perspiration, he could not induce another throb in +the tired engines. A friendly motorist towed them +to the Hôtel de Paris in the Cours Mirabeau. Having +arranged for his room and given Jean in charge +of the landlady, he procured some helping hands, +and pushed the car to the nearest garage. There he +gave orders for the car to be put into running condition +for the following morning, and returned to +the hotel.</p> + +<p>He found Jean in the vestibule, sprawling sultanesquely +on the landlady’s lap, the centre of an +admiring circle which consisted of two little girls in +pigtails, an ancient peasant-woman, and two English +ladies of obvious but graceful spinsterhood.</p> + +<p>“Here is the father,” said the landlady.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +He had already explained Jean to the startled +woman—landladies were always startled at Jean’s +unconventional advent. “Madame,” he had said, +according to rigid formula, “this is my son. I am +taking him from his mother, who is dead, to an +aunt who is an invalid, so he is alone on my hands. +I beseech you to let some kind woman attend to +his necessities.”</p> + +<p>There was no need for further explanation. +Aristide, thus introduced, bowed politely, removed +his Crusoe cap, and smiled luminously at the assembled +women. They resumed their antiphonal +chorus of worship. The brown, merry, friendly +brat had something of Aristide’s personal charm. +He had a bubble and a “goo” for everyone. Aristide +looked on in great delight. Jean was a son to +be proud of.</p> + +<p>“<em>Ah! qu’il est fort—fort comme un Turc.</em>”</p> + +<p>“<em>Regardez ses dents.</em>”</p> + +<p>“The darling thing!”</p> + +<p>“<em>Il est</em>—oh, dear!—<em>il est ravissante!</em>”—with a +disastrous plunge into gender.</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens! il rit. C’est moi qui le fais rire.</em>”</p> + +<p>“To think,” said the younger Englishwoman to +her sister, “of this wee mite travelling about in an +open motor!”</p> + +<p>“He’s having the time of his life. He enjoys +it as much as I do,” said Aristide, in his excellent +English.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +The lady started. She was a well-bred, good-humoured +woman in the early thirties, stout, with +reddish hair, and irregular though comely features. +Her sister was thin, faded, sandy, and kind-looking.</p> + +<p>“I thought you were French,” she said, apologetically.</p> + +<p>“So I am,” replied Aristide. “Provençal of +Provence, Méridional of the Midi, Marseillais of +Marseilles.”</p> + +<p>“But you talk English perfectly.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve lived in your beautiful country,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“You have the bonniest boy,” said the elder lady. +“How old is he?”</p> + +<p>“Nine months, three weeks and a day,” said +Aristide, promptly.</p> + +<p>The younger lady bent over the miraculous infant.</p> + +<p>“Can I take him? <em>Est-ce que je puis</em>—oh, dear!” +She turned a whimsical face to Aristide.</p> + +<p>He translated. The landlady surrendered the +babe. The lady danced him with the spinster’s +charming awkwardness, yet with instinctive feminine +security, about the hall, while the little girls in +pigtails, daughters of the house, followed like adoratory +angels in an altar-piece, and the old peasant-woman +looked benignly on, a myriad-wrinkled St. +Elizabeth. Aristide had seen Jean dandled by +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +dozens of women during their brief comradeship; he +had thought little of it, as it was the natural thing +for women to do; but when this sweet English lady +mothered Jean it seemed to matter a great deal. +She lifted Jean and himself to a higher plane. Her +touch was a consecration.</p> + +<p>It was the hour of the day when infants of nine +months should be washed and put to bed. The +landlady, announcing the fact, held out her arms. +Jean clung to his English nurse, who played the +fascinating game of pretending to eat his hand. +The landlady had not that accomplishment. She +was dull and practical.</p> + +<p>“Come and be washed,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Oh, do let me come, too,” cried the English +lady.</p> + +<p>“<em>Bien volontiers, mademoiselle</em>,” said the other. +“<em>C’est par ici.</em>”</p> + +<p>The English lady held Jean out for the paternal +good-night. Aristide kissed the child in her arms. +The action brought about, for the moment, a curious +and sweet intimacy.</p> + +<p>“My sister is passionately fond of children,” said +the elder lady, in smiling apology.</p> + +<p>“And you?”</p> + +<p>“I, too. But Anne—my sister—will not let me +have a chance when she is by.”</p> + +<p>After dinner Aristide went up, as usual, to his +room to see that Jean was alive, painless, and asleep. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +Finding him awake, he sat by his side and, with +the earnestness of a nursery-maid, patted him off +to slumber. Then he crept out on tiptoe and went +downstairs. Outside the hotel he came upon the +two sisters sitting on a bench and drinking coffee. +The night was fine, the terraces of the neighbouring +cafés were filled with people, and all the +life of Aix not at the cafés promenaded up and +down the wide and pleasant avenue. The ladies +smiled. How was the boy? He gave the latest +news. Permission to join them at their coffee was +graciously given. A waiter brought a chair and +he sat down. Conversation drifted from the baby +to general topics. The ladies told the simple story +of their tour. They had been to Nice and Marseilles, +and they were going on the next day to +Avignon. They also told their name—Honeywood. +He gathered that the elder was Janet, the younger +Anne. They lived at Chislehurst when they were +in England, and often came up to London to attend +the Queen’s Hall concerts and the dramatic performances +at His Majesty’s Theatre. As guileless, +though as self-reliant, gentlewomen as sequestered +England could produce. Aristide, impressionable +and responsive, fell at once into the key of their +talk. He has told me that their society produced +on him the effect of the cool hands of saints against +his cheek.</p> + +<p>At last the conversation inevitably returned to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> +Jean. The landlady had related the tragic history +of the dead mother and the invalid aunt. They +deplored the orphaned state of the precious babe. +For he was precious, they declared. Miss Anne +had taken him to her heart.</p> + +<p>“If only you had seen him in his bath, Janet!”</p> + +<p>She turned to Aristide. “I’m afraid,” she said, +very softly, hesitating a little—“I’m afraid this +must be a sad journey for you.”</p> + +<p>He made a wry mouth. The sympathy was so +sincere, so womanly. That which was generous +in him revolted against acceptance.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I can play a farce +with landladies—it happens to be convenient—in +fact, necessary. But with you—no. You are different. +Jean is not my child, and who his parents +are I’ve not the remotest idea.”</p> + +<p>“Not your child?” They looked at him incredulously.</p> + +<p>“I will tell you—in confidence,” said he.</p> + +<p>Jean’s history was related in all its picturesque +details; the horrors of the life of an <em>enfant trouvé</em> +luridly depicted. The sisters listened with tears +in their foolish eyes. Behind the tears Anne’s grew +bright. When he had finished she stretched out her +hand impulsively.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I call it splendid of you!”</p> + +<p>He took the hand and, in his graceful French +fashion, touched it with his lips. She flushed, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +having expected, in her English way, that he would +grasp it.</p> + +<p>“Your commendation, mademoiselle, is sweet to +hear,” said he.</p> + +<p>“I hope he will grow up to be a true comfort to +you, M. Pujol,” said Miss Janet.</p> + +<p>“I can understand a woman doing what you’ve +done, but scarcely a man,” said Miss Anne.</p> + +<p>“But, dear mademoiselle,” cried Aristide, with a +large gesture, “cannot a man have his heart touched, +his—his—<em>ses entrailles, enfin</em>—stirred by baby fingers? +Why should love of the helpless and the +innocent be denied him?”</p> + +<p>“Why, indeed?” said Miss Janet.</p> + +<p>Miss Anne said, humbly: “I only meant that +your devotion to Jean was all the more beautiful, +M. Pujol.”</p> + +<p>Soon after this they parted, the night air having +grown chill. Both ladies shook hands with +him warmly.</p> + +<p>Anne’s hand lingered the fraction of a second +longer in his than Janet’s. She had seen Jean in +his bath.</p> + +<p>Aristide wandered down the gay avenue into the +open road and looked at the stars, reading in their +splendour a brilliant destiny for Jean. He felt, in +his sensitive way, that the two sweet-souled Englishwomen +had deepened and sanctified his love for +Jean. When he returned to the hotel he kissed his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +incongruous room-mate with the gentleness of a +woman.</p> + +<p>In the morning he went round to the garage. The +foreman mechanician advanced to meet him.</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>“There is nothing to be done, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by ‘nothing to be done’?” +asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>The other shrugged his sturdy shoulders.</p> + +<p>“She is worn out. She needs new carburation, +new cylinders, new water-circulation, new lubrication, +new valves, new brakes, new ignition, new +gears, new bolts, new nuts, new everything. In +short, she is not repairable.”</p> + +<p>Aristide listened in incredulous amazement. His +automobile, his wonderful, beautiful, clashing, +dashing automobile unrepairable! It was impossible. +But a quarter of an hour’s demonstration by +the foreman convinced him. The car was dead. +The engine would never whir again. All the petrol +in the world would not stimulate her into life. +Never again would he sit behind that wheel rejoicing +in the insolence of speed. The car, which, +in spite of her manifold infirmities, he had fondly +imagined to be immortal, had run her last course. +Aristide felt faint.</p> + +<p>“And there is nothing to be done?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing, monsieur. Fifty francs is all that she +is worth.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +“At any rate,” said Aristide, “send the basket to +the Hôtel de Paris.”</p> + +<p>He went out of the garage like a man in a dream. +At the door he turned to take a last look at the +Pride of his Life. Her stern was towards him, +and all he saw of her was the ironical legend, “Cure +your Corns.”</p> + +<p>At the hotel he found the bench outside occupied +chiefly by Jean. One of the little girls in pigtails +was holding him, while Miss Anne administered +the feeding-bottle. Provincial France is the happiest +country in the world—in that you can live +your intimate, domestic life in public, and nobody +heeds.</p> + +<p>“I hope you’ve not come to tell Jean to boot +and saddle,” said Miss Anne, a smile on her +roughly-hewn, comely face.</p> + +<p>“Alas!” said Aristide, cheered by the charming +spectacle before him. “I don’t know when we can +get away. My auto has broken down hopelessly. +I ought to go at once to my firm in Marseilles”—he +spoke as if he were a partner in the Maison +Hiéropath—“but I don’t quite know what to do +with Jean.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ll look after Jean.”</p> + +<p>“But you said you were leaving for Avignon +to-day.”</p> + +<a name="img162" id="img162"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 463px;"> +<img src="images/img162.jpg" width="463" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">one of the little girls in pigtails was holding him, while +miss anne administered the feeding-bottle</span> +</div> + +<p>She laughed, holding the feeding-bottle. “The +Palace of the Popes has been standing for six +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +centuries, and it will be still standing to-morrow; +whereas Jean——” Here Jean, for some reason +known to himself, grinned wet and wide. “Isn’t +he the most fascinating thing of the twentieth century?” +she cried, logically inconsequential, like +most of her sex. “You go to Marseilles, M. +Pujol.”</p> + +<p>So Aristide took the train to Marseilles—a half-hour’s +journey—and in a quarter of the city resembling +a fusion of Jarrow, an unfashionable +part of St. Louis, and a brimstone-manufacturing +suburb of Gehenna, he interviewed the high authorities +of the Maison Hiéropath. His cajolery could +lead men into diverse lunacies, but it could not +induce the hard-bitten manufacturer of quack remedies +to provide a brand-new automobile for his +personal convenience. The old auto had broken +down. The manufacturer shrugged his shoulders. +The mystery was that it had lasted as long as it +did. He had expected it to explode the first day. +The idea had originally been that of the junior +partner, a scatter-brained youth whom at times they +humoured. Meanwhile, there being no beplacarded +and beflagged automobile, there could be no advertisement; +therefore they had no further use for +M. Pujol’s services.</p> + +<p>“Good,” said Aristide, when he reached the evil +thoroughfare. “It was a degraded occupation, and +I am glad I am out of it. Meanwhile, here is +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +Marseilles before me, and it will be astonishing +if I do not find some fresh road to fortune before +the day is out.”</p> + +<p>Aristide tramped and tramped all day through +the streets of Marseilles, but the road he sought +he did not find. He returned to Aix in dire perplexity. +He was used to finding himself suddenly +cut off from the means of livelihood. It was his +chronic state of being. His gay resourcefulness +had always carried him through. But then there +had been only himself to think of. Now there +was Jean. For the first time for many years the +dragon-fly’s wings grew limp. Jean—what could +he do with Jean?</p> + +<p>Jean had already gone to sleep when he arrived. +All day he had been as good as gold, so Miss Anne +declared. For herself, she had spent the happiest +day of her life.</p> + +<p>“I don’t wonder at your being devoted to him, M. +Pujol,” she said. “He has the most loving ways +of any baby I ever met.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied Aristide, with an +unaccustomed huskiness in his voice, “I am devoted +to him. It may seem odd for a man to be wrapped +up in a baby of nine months old—but—it’s like +that. It’s true. <em>Je l’adore de tout mon cœur, de +tout mon être</em>,” he cried, in a sudden gust of passion.</p> + +<p>Miss Anne smiled kindly, not dreaming of his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +perplexity, amused by his Southern warmth. Miss +Janet joined them in the hall. They went in to +dinner, Aristide sitting at the central <em>table d’hôte</em>, +the ladies at a little table by themselves. After +dinner they met again outside the hotel, and drank +coffee and talked the evening away. He was not +as bright a companion as on the night before. His +gaiety was forced. He talked about everything else +in the world but Jean. The temptation to pour his +financial troubles into the sympathetic ears of these +two dear women he resisted. They regarded him +as on a social equality, as a man of means engaged +in some sort of business at Marseilles; they +had invited him to bring Jean to see them at Chislehurst +when he should happen to be in England +again. Pride forbade him to confess himself a +homeless, penniless vagabond. The exquisite +charm of their frank intimacy would be broken. +Besides, what could they do?</p> + +<p>They retired early. Aristide again sought the +message of the stars; but the sky was clouded over, +and soon a fine rain began to fall. A bock at a +café brought him neither comfort nor inspiration. +He returned to the hotel, and, eluding a gossip-seeking +landlady, went up to his room.</p> + +<p>What could be done? Neither the sleeping babe +nor himself could offer any suggestion. One thing +was grimly inevitable. He and Jean must part. +To carry him about like an infant prince in an +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +automobile had, after all, been a simple matter; to +drag him through Heaven knew what hardships in +his makeshift existence was impossible. In his +childlike, impulsive fashion he had not thought of +the future when he adopted Jean. Aristide always +regarded the fortune of the moment as if it would +last forever. Past deceptions never affected his +incurable optimism. Now Jean and he must part. +Aristide felt that the end of the world had come. +His pacing to and fro awoke the child, who demanded, +in his own way, the soothing rocking of +his father’s arms. There he bubbled and “goo’d” +till Aristide’s heart nearly broke.</p> + +<p>“What can I do with you, <em>mon petit Jean</em>?”</p> + +<p>The Enfants Trouvés, after all? He thought of +it with a shudder.</p> + +<p>The child asleep again, he laid it on its bed, and +then sat far into the night thinking barrenly. At +last one of his sudden gleams of inspiration illuminated +his mind. It was the only way. He took out +his watch. It was four o’clock. What had to be +done must be done swiftly.</p> + +<p>In the travelling-basket, which had been sent +from the garage, he placed a pillow, and on to the +pillow he transferred with breathless care the sleeping +Jean, and wrapped him up snug and warm in +bedclothes. Then he folded the tiny day-garments +that lay on a chair, collected the little odds and ends +belonging to the child, took from his valise the rest +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +of Jean’s little wardrobe, and laid them at the +foot of the basket. The most miserable man +in France then counted up his money, divided +it into two parts, and wrote a hasty letter, +which, with the bundle of notes, he enclosed +in an envelope.</p> + +<p>“My little Jean,” said he, laying the envelope on +the child’s breast. “Here is a little more than half +my fortune. Half is for yourself and the little +more to pay your wretched father’s hotel bill. +Good-bye, my little Jean. <em>Je t’aime bien, tu sais</em>—and +don’t reproach me.”</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>About an hour afterwards Miss Anne awoke and +listened, and in a moment or two Miss Janet awoke +also.</p> + +<p>“Janet, do you hear that?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a child crying. It’s just outside the door.”</p> + +<p>“It sounds like Jean.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense, my dear!”</p> + +<p>But Anne switched on the light and went to see +for herself; and there, in the tiny anteroom that +separated the bedroom from the corridor, she found +the basket—a new Pharoah’s daughter before a +new little Moses in the bulrushes. In bewilderment +she brought the ark into the room, and read the +letter addressed to Janet and herself. She burst +into tears. All she said was:—</p> + +<p>“Oh, Janet, why couldn’t he have told us?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +And then she fell to hugging the child to her +bosom.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Aristide Pujol, clad in his goat-skin +cap and coat, valise in hand, was plodding through +the rain in search of the elusive phantom, Fortune; +gloriously certain that he had assured Jean’s future, +yet with such a heartache as he had never had +in his life before.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF THE PIG’S HEAD</strong></p> + + +<p>Once upon a time Aristide Pujol found himself +standing outside his Paris residence, +No. 213 <em>bis</em>, Rue Saint Honoré, without a +penny in the world. His last sou had gone to +Madame Bidoux, who kept a small green grocer’s +shop at No. 213 <em>bis</em> and rented a ridiculously small +back room for a ridiculously small weekly sum to +Aristide whenever he honoured the French capital +with his presence. During his absence she forwarded +him such letters as might arrive for him; +and as this was his only permanent address, and as +he let Madame Bidoux know his whereabouts only +at vague intervals of time, the transaction of business +with Aristide Pujol, “Agent, No. 213 <em>bis</em>, Rue +Saint Honoré, Paris,” by correspondence was peculiarly +difficult.</p> + +<p>He had made Madame Bidoux’s acquaintance in +the dim past; and he had made it in his usual direct +and electric manner. Happening to walk down the +Rue Saint Honoré, he had come upon tragedy. +Madame Bidoux, fat, red of face, tearful of eye +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +and strident of voice, held in her arms a little +mongrel dog—her own precious possession—which +had just been run over in the street, and the two +of them filled the air with wailings and vociferation. +Aristide uncovered his head, as though he were +about to address a duchess, and smiled at her +engagingly.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” said he, “I perceive that your little +dog has a broken leg. As I know all about dogs, +I will, with your permission, set the limb, put it +into splints and guarantee a perfect cure. Needless +to say, I make no charge for my services.”</p> + +<p>Snatching the dog from the arms of the fascinated +woman, he darted in his dragon-fly fashion +into the shop, gave a hundred orders to a stupefied +assistant, and—to cut short a story which Aristide +told me with great wealth of detail—mended the +precious dog and gained Madame Bidoux’s eternal +gratitude. For Madame Bidoux the world held no +more remarkable man than Aristide Pujol; and for +Aristide the world held no more devoted friend +than Madame Bidoux. Many a succulent meal, at +the widow’s expense—never more enjoyable than +in summer time when she set a little iron table and +a couple of iron chairs on the pavement outside the +shop—had saved him from starvation; and many a +gewgaw sent from London or Marseilles or other +such remote latitudes filled her heart with pride. +Since my acquaintance with Aristide I myself have +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +called on this excellent woman, and I hope I have +won her esteem, though I have never had the +honour of eating pig’s trotters and chou-croûte with +her on the pavement of the Rue Saint Honoré. +It is an honour from which, being an unassuming +man, I shrink.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately Madame Bidoux has nothing +further to do with the story I am about to relate, +save in one respect:—</p> + +<p>There came a day—it was a bleak day in November, +when Madame Bidoux’s temporary financial +difficulties happened to coincide with Aristide’s. +To him, unsuspicious of coincidence, she confided +her troubles. He emptied the meagre contents of +his purse into her hand.</p> + +<p>“Madame Bidoux,” said he with a flourish, and +the air of a prince, “why didn’t you tell me before?” +and without waiting for her blessing he went out +penniless into the street.</p> + +<p>Aristide was never happier than when he had +not a penny piece in the world. He believed, I +fancy, in a dim sort of way, in God and the Virgin +and Holy Water and the Pope; but the faith that +thrilled him to exaltation was his faith in the inevitable +happening of the unexpected. He marched +to meet it with the throbbing pulses of a soldier +rushing to victory or a saint to martyrdom. He +walked up the Rue Saint Honoré, the Rue de la +Paix, along the Grands Boulevards, smiling on a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +world which teemed with unexpectednesses, until +he reached a café on the Boulevard des Bonnes +Filles de Calvaire. Here he was arrested by Fate, +in the form of a battered man in black, who, springing +from the solitary frostiness of the terrace, threw +his arms about him and kissed him on both cheeks.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mais, c’est toi, Pujol!</em>”</p> + +<p>“<em>C’est toi, Roulard!</em>”</p> + +<p>Roulard dragged Aristide to his frosty table and +ordered drinks. Roulard had played the trumpet +in the regimental band in which Aristide had played +the kettle drum. During their military service they +had been inseparables. Since those happy and ear-splitting +days they had not met. They looked at +each other and laughed and thumped each other’s +shoulders.</p> + +<p>“<em>Ce vieux Roulard!</em>”</p> + +<p>“<em>Ce sacré Pujol.</em>”</p> + +<p>“And what are you doing?” asked Aristide, after +the first explosions of astonishment and reminiscence.</p> + +<p>A cloud overspread the battered man’s features. +He had a wife and five children and played in +theatre orchestras. At the present time he was +trombone in the “Tournée Gulland,” a touring opera +company. It was not gay for a sensitive artist +like him, and the trombone gave one a thirst which +it took half a week’s salary to satisfy. <em>Mais enfin, +que veux-tu?</em> It was life, a dog’s life, but life was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +like that. Aristide, he supposed, was making a +fortune. Aristide threw back his head, and laughed +at the exquisite humour of the hypothesis, and gaily +disclosed his Micawberish situation. Roulard sat +for a while thoughtful and silent. Presently a ray +of inspiration dispelled the cloud from the features +of the battered man.</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens, mon vieux</em>,” said he, “I have an idea.”</p> + +<p>It was an idea worthy of Aristide’s consideration. +The drum of the Tournée Gulland had been dismissed +for drunkenness. The vacancy had not been +filled. Various executants who had drummed on +approval—this being an out-week of the tour—had +driven the chef d’orchestre to the verge of homicidal +mania. Why should not Aristide, past master +in drumming, find an honourable position in the +orchestra of the Tournée Gulland?</p> + +<p>Aristide’s eyes sparkled, his fingers itched for +the drumsticks, he started to his feet.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon vieux Roulard!</em>” he cried, “you have saved +my life. More than that, you have resuscitated an +artist. Yes, an artist. <em>Sacré nom de Dieu!</em> Take +me to this chef d’orchestre.”</p> + +<p>So Roulard, when the hour of rehearsal drew +nigh, conducted Aristide to the murky recesses of +a dirty little theatre in the Batignolles, where Aristide +performed such prodigies of repercussion that +he was forthwith engaged to play the drum, the +kettle-drum, the triangle, the cymbals, the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +castagnettes and the tambourine, in the orchestra of the +Tournée Gulland at the dazzling salary of thirty +francs a week.</p> + +<p>To tell how Aristide drummed and cymballed +the progress of Les Huguenots, Carmen, La Juive, +La Fille de Madame Angot and L’Arlésienne +through France would mean the rewriting of a +“Capitaine Fracasse.” To hear the creature talk +about it makes my mouth as a brick kiln and +my flesh as that of a goose. He was the +Adonis, the Apollo, the Don Juan, the Irresistible +of the Tournée. Fled truculent bass and haughty +tenor before him; from diva to moustachioed contralto +in the chorus, all the ladies breathlessly +watched for the fall of his handkerchief; he was +recognized, in fact, as a devil of a fellow. But in +spite of these triumphs, the manipulation of the +drum, kettle-drum, triangle, cymbals, castagnettes +and tambourine, which at first had given him intense +and childish delight, at last became invested +with a mechanical monotony that almost drove him +mad. All day long the thought of the ill-lit corner, +on the extreme right of the orchestra, garnished +with the accursed instruments of noise to which +duty would compel him at eight o’clock in the evening +hung over him like a hideous doom. Sweet +singers of the female sex were powerless to console. +He passed them by, and haughty tenor and +swaggering basso again took heart of grace.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +“<em>Mais, mon Dieu, c’est le métier!</em>” expostulated +Roulard.</p> + +<p>“<em>Sale métier!</em>” cried Aristide, who was as much +fitted for the merciless routine of a theatre orchestra +as a quagga for the shafts of an omnibus. +“A beast of a trade! One is no longer a man. +One is just an automatic system of fog-signals!”</p> + +<p>In this depraved state of mind he arrived at +Perpignan, where that befell him which I am about +to relate.</p> + +<p>Now, Perpignan is the last town of France on +the Gulf of Lions, a few miles from the Spanish +border. From it you can see the great white +monster of Le Canigou, the pride of the Eastern +Pyrenees, far, far away, blocking up the valley +of the Tet, which flows sluggishly past the little +town. The Quai Sadi-Carnot (is there a provincial +town in France which has not a <em>something</em> Sadi-Carnot +in it?) is on the left bank of the Tet; at +one end is the modern Place Arago, at the other +Le Castillet, a round, castellated red-brick fortress +with curiously long and deep machicolations of +the 14th century with some modern additions of +Louis XI, who also built the adjoining Porte Notre +Dame which gives access to the city. Between the +Castillet and the Place Arago, the Quai Sadi-Carnot +is the site of the Prefecture, the Grand Hôtel, +various villas and other resorts of the aristocracy. +Any little street off it will lead you into the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +seething centre of Perpignan life—the Place de la Loge, +which is a great block of old buildings surrounded +on its four sides by narrow streets of shops, cafés, +private houses, all with balconies and jalousies, all +cramped, crumbling, Spanish, picturesque. The +oldest of this conglomerate block is a corner building, +the Loge de Mer, a thirteenth century palace, +the cloth exchange in the glorious days when +Perpignan was a seaport and its merchant princes +traded with Sultans and Doges and such-like magnificoes +of the Mediterranean. But nowadays its +glory has departed. Below the great gothic windows +spreads the awning of a café, which takes up +all the ground floor. Hugging it tight is the +Mairie, and hugging that, the Hôtel de Ville. +Hither does every soul in the place, at some hour +or other of the day, inevitably gravitate. Lawyers +and clients, doctors and patients, merchants, lovers, +soldiers, market-women, loafers, horses, dogs, +wagons, all crowd in a noisy medley the narrow +cobble-paved streets around the Loge. Of course +there are other streets, tortuous, odorous and cool, +intersecting the old town, and there are various +open spaces, one of which is the broad market +square on one side flanked by the Théâtre Municipal.</p> + +<p>From the theatre Aristide Pujol issued one morning +after rehearsal, and, leaving his colleagues, including +the ever-thirsty Roulard, to refresh +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +themselves at a humble café hard by, went forth in +search of distraction. He idled about the Place de +la Loge, passed the time of day with a café waiter +until the latter, with a disconcerting “<em>Voilà! Voilà!</em>” +darted off to attend to a customer, and then strolled +through the Porte Notre Dame onto the Quai Sadi-Carnot. +There a familiar sound met his ears—the +roll of a drum followed by an incantation in a +quavering, high-pitched voice. It was the Town +Crier, with whom, as with a brother artist, he had +picked acquaintance the day before.</p> + +<p>They met by the parapet of the Quai, just as +Père Bracasse had come to the end of his incantation. +The old man, grizzled, tanned and seamed, +leant weakly against the parapet.</p> + +<p>“How goes it, Père Bracasse?”</p> + +<p>“Alas, mon bon Monsieur, it goes from bad to +worse,” sighed the old man. “I am at the end +of my strength. My voice has gone and the accursed +rheumatism in my shoulder gives me +atrocious pain whenever I beat the drum.”</p> + +<p>“How much more of your round have you to +go?” asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I have only just begun,” said Père Bracasse.</p> + +<p>The Southern sun shone from a cloudless sky; a +light, keen wind blowing from the distant snow-clad +Canigou set the blood tingling. A lunatic idea +flashed through Aristide’s mind. He whipped the +drum strap over the old man’s head.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +“Père Bracasse,” said he, “you are suffering from +rheumatism, bronchitis, fever and corns, and you +must go home to bed. I will finish your round for +you. Listen,” and he beat such a tattoo as Père +Bracasse had never accomplished in his life. +“Where are your words?”</p> + +<p>The old man, too weary to resist and fascinated +by Aristide’s laughing eyes, handed him a dirty +piece of paper. Aristide read, played a magnificent +roll and proclaimed in a clarion voice that a gold +bracelet having been lost on Sunday afternoon in +the Avenue des Platanes, whoever would deposit it +at the Mairie would receive a reward.</p> + +<p>“That’s all?” he enquired.</p> + +<p>“That’s all,” said Père Bracasse. “I live in the +Rue Petite-de-la-Réal, No. 4, and you will +bring me back the drum when you have +finished.”</p> + +<p>Aristide darted off like a dragon-fly in the sunshine, +as happy as a child with a new toy. Here he +could play the drum to his heart’s content with no +score or conductor’s bâton to worry him. He was +also the one and only personage in the drama, concentrating +on himself the attention of the audience. +He pitied poor Roulard, who could never have such +an opportunity with his trombone....</p> + +<p>The effect of his drumming before the Café de +la Loge was electric. Shopkeepers ran out of their +shops, housewives craned over their balconies to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +listen to him. By the time he had threaded the busy +strip of the town and emerged on to the Place +Arago he had collected an admiring train of +urchins. On the Place Arago he halted on the +fringe of a crowd surrounding a cheap-jack whose +vociferations he drowned in a roll of thunder. He +drummed and drummed till he became the centre +of the throng. Then he proclaimed the bracelet. +He had not enjoyed himself so much since he left +Paris.</p> + +<p>He was striding away, merry-eyed and happy, +followed by his satellites when a prosperous-looking +gentleman with a very red face, a prosperous +roll of fat above the back of his collar, and +the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole, +descending the steps of the great glass-covered +café commanding the Place, hurried up and laid +his finger on his arm.</p> + +<p>“Pardon, my friend,” said he, “what are you +doing there?”</p> + +<p>“You shall hear, monsieur,” replied Aristide, +clutching the drumsticks.</p> + +<p>“For the love of Heaven!” cried the other hastily +interrupting. “Tell me what are you doing?”</p> + +<p>“I am crying the loss of a bracelet, monsieur!”</p> + +<p>“But who are you?”</p> + +<p>“I am Aristide Pujol, and I play the drum, +kettle-drum, triangle, cymbals, castagnettes and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> +tambourine in the orchestra of the Tournée Gulland. +And now, in my turn, may I ask to whom +I have the honour of speaking?”</p> + +<p>“I am the Mayor of Perpignan.”</p> + +<p>Aristide raised his hat politely. “I hope to have +the pleasure,” said he, “of Monsieur le Maire’s better +acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>The Mayor, attracted by the rascal’s guileless +mockery, laughed.</p> + +<p>“You will, my friend, if you go on playing that +drum. You are not the Town Crier.”</p> + +<p>Aristide explained. Père Bracasse was ill, suffering +from rheumatism, bronchitis, fever and +corns. He was replacing him. The Mayor retorted +that Père Bracasse being a municipal functionary +could not transmit his functions except +through the Administration. Monsieur Pujol must +desist from drumming and crying. Aristide bowed +to authority and unstrung his drum.</p> + +<p>“But I was enjoying myself so much, Monsieur +le Maire. You have spoiled my day,” said he.</p> + +<p>The Mayor laughed again. There was an irresistible +charm and roguishness about the fellow, with +his intelligent oval face, black Vandyke beard and +magically luminous eyes.</p> + +<p>“I should have thought you had enough of drums +in your orchestra.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! there I am cramped!” cried Aristide. “I +have it in horror, in detestation. Here I am free. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +I can give vent to all the aspirations of my +soul!”</p> + +<p>The Mayor mechanically moved from the spot +where they had been standing. Aristide, embroidering +his theme, mechanically accompanied him; +and, such is democratic France, and also such was +the magnetic, Ancient Mariner-like power of Aristide—did +not I, myself, on my first meeting with +him at Aigues-Mortes fall helplessly under the spell—that, +in a few moments, the amateur Town Crier +and the Mayor were walking together, side by side, +along the Quai Sadi-Carnot, engaged in amiable +converse. Aristide told the Mayor the story of his +life—or such incidents of it as were meet for +Mayoral ears—and when they parted—the Mayor +to lunch, Aristide to yield up the interdicted drum +to Père Bracasse—they shook hands warmly and +mutually expressed the wish that they would soon +meet again.</p> + +<p>They met again; Aristide saw to that. They met +again that very afternoon in the café on the Place +Arago. When Aristide entered he saw the Mayor +seated at a table in the company of another prosperous, +red-ribboned gentleman. Aristide saluted +politely and addressed the Mayor. The Mayor saluted +and presented him to Monsieur Quérin, the +President of the Syndicat d’Initiative of the town +of Perpignan. Monsieur Quérin saluted and declared +himself enchanted at the encounter. Aristide +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +stood gossiping until the Mayor invited him +to take a place at the table and consume liquid refreshment. +Aristide glowingly accepted the invitation +and cast a look of triumph around the café. +Not to all mortals is it given to be the boon companion +of a Mayor and a President of the Syndicat +d’Initiative!</p> + +<p>Then ensued a conversation momentous in its +consequences.</p> + +<p>The Syndicat d’Initiative is a semi-official body +existing in most provincial towns in France for the +purpose of organising public festivals for the +citizens and developing the resources and possibilities +of the town for the general amenity of +visitors. Now Perpignan is as picturesque, as sun-smitten +and, in spite of the icy tramontana, even as +joyous a place as tourist could desire; and the Carnival +of Perpignan, as a spontaneous outburst of +gaiety and pageantry, is unique in France. But +Perpignan being at the end of everywhere and leading +nowhere attracts very few visitors. Biarritz +is on the Atlantic coast at the other end of the +Pyrenees; Hyères, Cannes and Monte Carlo on the +other side of the Gulf of Lions. No English or +Americans—the only visitors of any account in the +philosophy of provincial France—flock to Perpignan. +This was a melancholy fact bewailed by +Monsieur Quérin. The town was perishing from +lack of Anglo-Saxon support. Monsieur Coquereau, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +the Mayor, agreed. If the English and Americans +came in their hordes to this paradise of mimosa, +fourteenth century architecture, sunshine and +unique Carnival, the fortunes of all the citizens +would be assured. Perpignan would out-rival Nice. +But what could be done?</p> + +<p>“Advertise it,” said Aristide. “Flood the English-speaking +world with poetical descriptions of +the place. Build a row of palatial hotels in the +new part of the town. It is not known to the +Anglo-Saxons.”</p> + +<p>“How can you be certain of that?” asked Monsieur +Quérin.</p> + +<p>“<em>Parbleu!</em>” he cried, with a wide gesture. “I +have known the English all my life. I speak their +language as I speak French or my native Provençal. +I have taught in schools in England. I know the +country and the people like my pocket. They have +never heard of Perpignan.”</p> + +<p>His companions acquiesced sadly. Aristide, aglow +with a sudden impudent inspiration, leant across the +marble table.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur le Maire and Monsieur le Président +du Syndicat d’Initiative, I am sick to death of playing +the drum, the kettle-drum, the triangle, the +cymbals, the castagnettes and the tambourine in the +Tournée Gulland. I was born to higher things. +Entrust to me”—he converged the finger-tips of +both hands to his bosom—“to me, Aristide Pujol, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +the organisation of Perpignan-Ville de Plaisir, and +you will not regret it.”</p> + +<p>The Mayor and the President laughed.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>But my astonishing friend prevailed—not indeed +to the extent of being appointed a Petronius, <em>arbiter +élegantiarum</em>, of the town of Perpignan; but to +the extent of being employed, I fear in a subordinate +capacity, by the Mayor and the Syndicat +in the work of propagandism. The Tournée Gulland +found another drum and went its tuneful but +weary way; and Aristide remained gloriously behind +and rubbed his hands with glee. At last he +had found permanence in a life where heretofore +had been naught but transience. At last he had +found a sphere worthy of his genius. He began +to nourish insensate ambitions. He would be the +Great Benefactor of Perpignan. All Roussillon +should bless his name. Already he saw his statue +on the Quai Sadi-Carnot.</p> + +<p>His rise in the social scale of the town was +meteoric, chiefly owing to the goodwill of Madame +Coquereau, the widowed mother of the Mayor. She +was a hard-featured old lady, with a face that might +have been made of corrugated iron painted yellow +and with the eyes of an old hawk. She dressed +always in black, was very devout and rich and +narrow and iron-willed. Aristide was presented +to her one Sunday afternoon at the Café on the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +Place Arago—where on Sunday afternoons all the +fashion of Perpignan assembles—and—need I say +it?—she fell at once a helpless victim to his fascination. +Accompanying her grandmother was +Mademoiselle Stéphanie Coquereau, the Mayor’s +niece (a wealthy orphan, as Aristide soon learned), +nineteen, pretty, demure, perfectly brought up, who +said “<em>Oui, Monsieur</em>” and “<em>Non, Monsieur</em>” with +that quintessence of modest grace which only a provincial +French Convent can cultivate.</p> + +<p>Aristide’s heart left his body and rolled at the +feet of Mademoiselle Stéphanie. It was a way with +Aristide’s heart. It was always doing that. He +was of Provence and not of Peckham Rye or Hoboken, +and he could not help it.</p> + +<p>Aristide called on Madame Coquereau, who entertained +him with sweet Frontignan wine, dry +sponge cakes and conversation. After a while he +was invited to dinner. In a short space of time +he became the intimate friend of the house, and +played piquet with Madame Coquereau, and grew +familiar with the family secrets. First he learned +that Mademoiselle Stéphanie would go to a husband +with two hundred and fifty thousand francs. Aristide’s +heart panted at the feet of Mademoiselle Stéphanie. +Further he gathered that, though Monsieur +Coquereau was a personage of great dignity and +importance in civic affairs, he was as but a little +child in his own house. Madame Coquereau held +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +the money-bags. Her son had but little personal +fortune. He had reached the age of forty-five without +being able to marry. Marriage unauthorized +by Madame Coquereau meant immediate poverty +and the testamentary assignment of Madame Coquereau’s +fortune to various religious establishments. +None of the objects of Monsieur Coquereau’s +matrimonial desire had pleased Madame +Coquereau, and none of Madame Coquereau’s +blushing candidates had caused a pulse in Monsieur +Coquereau’s being to beat the faster. The Mayor +held his mother in professed adoration and holy +terror. She held him in abject subjection. Aristide +became the confidant, in turn, of Madame’s +sour philosophy of life and of Monsieur’s impotence +and despair. As for Mademoiselle Stéphanie, +she kept on saying “<em>Oui, Monsieur</em>” and “<em>Non, +Monsieur</em>,” in a crescendo of maddening demureness.</p> + +<p>So passed the halcyon hours. During the day +time Aristide in a corner of the Mayor’s office, +drew up flamboyant circulars in English which +would have put a pushing Land and Estate Agent +in the New Jerusalem to the blush, and in the evening +played piquet with Madame Coquereau, while +Mademoiselle Stéphanie, model of modest piety, +worked pure but nameless birds and flowers on her +embroidery frame. Monsieur le Maire, of course, +played his game of manilla at the café, after dinner, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +and generally came home just before Aristide +took his leave. If it had not been for the presence +of Mademoiselle Stéphanie, it would not have +been gay for Aristide. But love gilded the moments.</p> + +<p>On the first evening of the Carnival, which lasts +nearly a fortnight in Perpignan, Aristide, in spite +of a sweeter “<em>Oui, Monsieur</em>” than ever from +Mademoiselle Stéphanie, made an excuse to slip +away rather earlier than usual, and, front door having +closed behind him, crossed the strip of gravel +with a quick step and flung out of the iron gates. +Now the house had an isolated position in the new +quarter of the town. It was perky and modern and +defaced by all sorts of oriel windows and tourelles +and pinnacles which gave it a top-heavy appearance, +and it was surrounded by a low brick wall. +Aristide, on emerging through the iron gates, heard +the sound of scurrying footsteps on the side of the +wall nearest to the town, and reached the corner, +just in time to see a masquer, attired in a Pierrot +costume and wearing what seemed to be a pig’s +head, disappear round the further angle. Paying no +heed to this phenomenon, Aristide lit a cigarette +and walked, in anticipation of enjoyment, to the +great Avenue des Plantanes where the revelry of +the Carnival was being held. Aristide was young, +he loved flirtation, and flirtation flourished in the +Avenue des Plantanes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +The next morning the Mayor entered his office +with a very grave face.</p> + +<p>“Do you know what has happened? My house +was broken into last night. The safe in my study +was forced open, and three thousand francs and +some valuable jewelry were stolen. <em>Quel malheur!</em>” +he cried, throwing himself into a chair, and +wiping his forehead. “It is not I who can afford +to lose three thousand francs at once. If they had +robbed <em>maman</em> it would have been a different matter.”</p> + +<p>Aristide expressed his sympathy.</p> + +<p>“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“A robber, <em>parbleu!</em>” said the Mayor. “The +police are even now making their investigations.”</p> + +<p>The door opened and a plain clothes detective +entered the office.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur le Maire,” said he, with an air of triumph, +“I know a burglar.”</p> + +<p>Both men leapt to their feet.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“<em>A la bonne heure!</em>” cried the Mayor.</p> + +<p>“Arrest him at once,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Alas, Monsieur,” said the detective, “that I +cannot do. I have called on him this morning and +his wife tells me that he left for the North yesterday +afternoon. But it is José Puégas that did it. +I know his ways.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> +“<em>Tiens!</em>” said the Mayor, reflectively. “I know +him also, an evil fellow.”</p> + +<p>“But why are you not looking for him?” exclaimed +Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Arrangements have been made,” replied the detective +coldly.</p> + +<p>Aristide suddenly bethought him of the furtive +masquer of the night before.</p> + +<p>“I can put you on his track,” said he, and related +what he knew.</p> + +<p>The Mayor looked dubious. “It wasn’t he,” he +remarked.</p> + +<p>“José Puégas, Monsieur, would not commit a +burglary in a pig’s head,” said the policeman, with +the cutting contempt of the expert.</p> + +<p>“It was a vow, I suppose,” said Aristide, stung +to irony. “I’ve always heard he was a religious +man.”</p> + +<p>The detective did not condescend to reply.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur le Maire,” said he, “I should like to +examine the premises, and beg that you will have +the kindness to accompany me.”</p> + +<p>“With the permission of Monsieur le Maire,” +said Aristide. “I too will come.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said the Mayor. “The more intelligences +concentrated on the affair the better.”</p> + +<p>“I am not of that opinion,” said the detective.</p> + +<p>“It is the opinion of Monsieur le Maire,” said +Aristide rebukingly, “and that is enough.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> +When they reached the house—distances are +short in Perpignan—they found policemen busily +engaged with tape measures around the premises. +Old Madame Coquereau in a clean white linen +dressing jacket, bare-headed, defying the keen air, +stood grim and eager in the midst of them.</p> + +<p>“Good morning, Monsieur Pujol, what do you +think of this?”</p> + +<p>“A veritable catastrophe,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>She shrugged her iron shoulders. “I tell him it +serves him right,” she said, cuttingly. “A sensible +person keeps his money under his mattress and +not in a tin machine by a window which anyone +can get at. I wonder we’ve not been murdered in +our beds before.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Ah, Maman!</em>” expostulated the Mayor of Perpignan.</p> + +<p>But she turned her back on him and worried the +policemen. They, having probed, and measured, +and consulted with the detective, came to an exact +conclusion. The thief had climbed over the back +wall—there were his footsteps. He had entered +by the kitchen door—there were the marks of infraction. +He had broken open the safe—there was +the helpless condition of the lock. No one in Perpignan, +but José Puégas, with his bad, socialistic, +Barcelona blood, could have done it. These brilliant +results were arrived at after much clamour +and argument and imposing <em>procès verbal</em>. Aristide +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +felt strangely depressed. He had narrated his +story of the pig-headed masquer to unresponsive +ears. Here was a melodramatic scene in which he +not only was not playing a leading part, but did not +even carry a banner. To be less than a super in +life’s pageant was abhorrent to the nature of Aristide +Pujol.</p> + +<p>Moodily he wandered away from the little crowd. +He hated the police and their airs of gods for whom +exists no mystery. He did not believe in the +kitchen-door theory. Why should not the thief +have simply entered by the window of the study, +which like the kitchen, was on the ground floor? +He went round the house and examined the window +by himself. No; there were no traces of burglary. +The fastenings of the outside shutters and +the high window were intact. The police were +right.</p> + +<p>Suddenly his quick eye lit on something in the +gravel path and his heart gave a great leap. It was +a little round pink disc of confetti.</p> + +<p>Aristide picked it up and began to dance and +shake his fist at the invisible police.</p> + +<p>“Aha!” he cried, “now we shall see who is right +and who is wrong!”</p> + +<p>He began to search and soon found another bit +of confetti. A little further along he discovered +a third and a fourth. By using his walking stick +he discovered that they formed a trail to a point in +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> +the wall. He examined the wall. There, if his eyes +did not deceive him, were evidences of mortar dislodged +by nefarious toes. And there, <em>mirabile visu!</em> +at the very bottom of the wall lay a little woollen +pompon or tassel, just the kind of pompon that +gives a finish to a pierrot’s shoes. Evidently the +scoundrel had scraped it off against the bricks +while clambering over.</p> + +<p>The pig-headed masquer stood confessed.</p> + +<p>A less imaginative man than Aristide would +have immediately acquainted the police with his +discovery. But Aristide had been insulted. A dull, +mechanical bureaucrat who tried to discover crime +with a tape-measure had dared to talk contemptuously +of his intelligence! On his wooden head +should be poured the vials of his contempt.</p> + +<p>“<em>Tron de l’air!</em>” cried Aristide—a Provençal +oath which he only used on sublime occasions—“It +is I who will discover the thief and make the +whole lot of you the laughing-stock of Perpignan.”</p> + +<p>So did my versatile friend, joyously confident in +his powers, start on his glorious career as a private +detective.</p> + +<p>“Madame Coquereau,” said he, that evening, +while she was dealing a hand at piquet, “what +would you say if I solved this mystery and brought +the scoundrel to justice?”</p> + +<p>“To say that you would have more sense than +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +the police, would be a poor compliment,” said the +old lady.</p> + +<p>Stéphanie raised cloistral eyes from her embroidery +frame. She sat in a distant corner +of the formal room discreetly lit by a shaded +lamp.</p> + +<p>“You have a clue, Monsieur?” she asked with +adorable timidity.</p> + +<p>Aristide tapped his forehead with his forefinger. +“All is there, Mademoiselle.”</p> + +<p>They exchanged a glance—the first they had exchanged—while +Madame Coquereau was frowning +at her cards; and Aristide interpreted the glance +as the promise of supreme reward for great deeds +accomplished.</p> + +<p>The mayor returned early from the café, a dejected +man. The loss of his hundred and twenty +pounds weighed heavily on his mind. He kissed +his mother sorrowfully on the cheek, his niece on +the brow, held out a drooping hand to Aristide, +and, subsiding into a stiff imitation Louis XVI +chair, rested his elbows on its unconsoling arms and +hid his face in his hands.</p> + +<p>“My poor uncle! You suffer so much?” breathed +Stéphanie, in divine compassion.</p> + +<p>“Little Saint!” murmured Aristide devoutly, as +he declared four aces and three queens.</p> + +<p>The Mayor moved his head sympathetically. He +was suffering from the sharpest pain in his pocket +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +he had felt for many a day. Madame Coquereau’s +attention wandered from the cards.</p> + +<p>“<em>Dis donc</em>, Fernand,” she said sharply. “Why +are you not wearing your ring?”</p> + +<p>The Mayor looked up.</p> + +<p>“<em>Maman</em>,” said he, “it is stolen.”</p> + +<p>“Your beautiful ring?” cried Aristide.</p> + +<p>The Mayor’s ring, which he usually wore, was +a remarkable personal adornment. It consisted in +a couple of snakes in old gold clenching an enormous +topaz between their heads. Only a Mayor +could have worn it with decency.</p> + +<p>“You did not tell me, Fernand,” rasped the old +lady. “You did not mention it to me as being one +of the stolen objects.”</p> + +<p>The Mayor rose wearily. “It was to avoid giving +you pain, <em>maman</em>. I know what a value you +set upon the ring of my good Aunt Philomène.”</p> + +<p>“And now it is lost,” said Madame Coquereau, +throwing down her cards. “A ring that belonged +to a saint. Yes, Monsieur Pujol, a saint, though +she was my sister. A ring that had been blessed +by His Holiness the Pope——”</p> + +<p>“But, <em>maman</em>,” expostulated the Mayor, “that +was an imagination of Aunt Philomène. Just because +she went to Rome and had an audience like +anyone else——”</p> + +<p>“Silence, impious atheist that you are!” cried the +old lady. “I tell you it was blessed by His +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +Holiness—and when I tell you a thing it is true. That +is the son of to-day. He will call his mother a +liar as soon as look at her. It was a ring beyond +price. A ring such as there are few in the world. +And instead of taking care of this precious heirloom, +he goes and locks it away in a safe. Ah! +you fill me with shame. Monsieur Pujol, I am +sorry I can play no more, I must retire. Stéphanie, +will you accompany me?”</p> + +<p>And gathering up Stéphanie like a bunch of +snowdrops, the yellow, galvanized iron old lady +swept out of the room.</p> + +<p>The Mayor looked at Aristide and moved his +arms dejectedly.</p> + +<p>“Such are women,” said he.</p> + +<p>“My own mother nearly broke her heart because +I would not become a priest,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I wish I were a Turk,” said the Mayor.</p> + +<p>“I, too,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>He took pouch and papers and rolled a cigarette.</p> + +<p>“If there is a man living who can say he has +not felt like that at least once in his life he ought +to be exhibited at a fair.”</p> + +<p>“How well you understand me, my good Pujol,” +said Monsieur Coquereau.</p> + +<p>The next few days passed busily for Aristide. +He devoted every spare hour to his new task. He +scrutinized every inch of ground between the study +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +window and the wall; he drew radiating lines from +the point of the wall whence the miscreant had +started homeward and succeeded in finding more +confetti. He cross-examined every purveyor of +pierrot shoes and pig’s heads in Perpignan. His +researches soon came to the ears of the police, still +tracing the mysterious José Puégas. A certain +good-humoured brigadier whose Catalan French +Aristide found difficult to understand, but with +whom he had formed a derisory kind of friendship, +urged him to desist from the hopeless task.</p> + +<p>“<em>Jamais de la vie!</em>” he cried—“The honour of +Aristide Pujol is at stake.”</p> + +<p>The thing became an obsession. Not only his +honour but his future was at stake. If he discovered +the thief, he would be the most talked of person +in Perpignan. He would know how to improve +his position. He would rise to dizzy heights. Perpignan-Ville +de Plaisir would acclaim him as its +saviour. The Government would decorate him. +And finally, both the Mayor and Madame Coquereau +would place the blushing and adorable Mademoiselle +Stéphanie in his arms and her two hundred +and fifty thousand francs dowry in his pocket. +Never before had so dazzling a prize shimmered +before him in the near distance.</p> + +<p>On the last Saturday night of the Carnival, there +was a special <em>corso</em> for the populace in the Avenue +des Plantanes, the long splendid Avenue of plane +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +trees just outside the Porte Notre Dame, which is +the special glory of Perpignan. The masquers +danced to three or four bands. They threw confetti +and <em>serpentins</em>. They rode hobby-horses and +beat each other with bladders. They joined in +bands of youths and maidens and whirled down +the Avenue in Bacchic madness. It was a <em>corso +blanc</em>, and everyone wore white—chiefly modifications +of Pierrot costume—and everyone was +masked. Chinese lanterns hung from the trees and +in festoons around the bandstands and darted about +in the hands of the revellers. Above, great standard +electric lamps shed their white glare upon the +eddying throng casting a myriad of grotesque +shadows. Shouts and laughter and music filled +the air.</p> + +<p>Aristide in a hideous red mask and with a bag +of confetti under his arm, plunged with enthusiasm +into the revelry. To enjoy yourself you only had +to throw your arm round a girl’s waist and swing +her off wildly to the beat of the music. If you +wanted to let her go you did so; if not, you talked +in the squeaky voice that is the recognized etiquette +of the carnival. On the other hand any +girl could catch you in her grip and sweep you +along with her. Your mad career generally ended +in a crowd and a free fight of confetti. There +was one fair masquer, however, to whom Aristide +became peculiarly attracted. Her movements were +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +free, her figure dainty and her repartee, below her +mask, more than usually piquant.</p> + +<p>“This hurly-burly,” said he, drawing her into a +quiet eddy of the stream, “is no place for the communion +of two twin souls.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Beau masque</em>,” said she, “I perceive that you +are a man of much sensibility.”</p> + +<p>“Shall we find a spot where we can mingle the +overflow of our exquisite natures?”</p> + +<p>“As you like.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Allons! Hop!</em>” cried he, and seizing her round +the waist danced through the masquers to the very +far end of the Avenue.</p> + +<p>“There is a sequestered spot round here,” he +said.</p> + +<p>They turned. The sequestered spot, a seat beneath +a plane tree, with a lonesome arc-lamp shining +full upon it, was occupied.</p> + +<p>“It’s a pity!” said the fair unknown.</p> + +<p>But Aristide said nothing. He stared. On the +seat reposed an amorous couple. The lady wore a +white domino and a black mask. The cavalier, +whose arm was around the lady’s waist, wore a +pig’s head, and a clown or Pierrot’s dress.</p> + +<p>Aristide’s eyes fell upon the shoes. On one of +them the pompon was missing.</p> + +<p>The lady’s left hand tenderly patted the cardboard +snout of her lover. The fierce light of the +arc lamp caught the hand and revealed, on the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> +fourth finger, a topaz ring, the topaz held in its +place by two snakes’ heads.</p> + +<p>Aristide stared for two seconds; it seemed to +him two centuries. Then he turned simply, caught +his partner again, and with a “<em>Allons, Hop!</em>” raced +back to the middle of the throng. There, in the +crush, he unceremoniously lost her, and sped like +a maniac to the entrance gates. His friend the +brigadier happened to be on duty. He unmasked +himself, dragged the police agent aside, and +breathless, half-hysterical, acquainted him with the +astounding discovery.</p> + +<p>“I was right, <em>mon vieux!</em> There at the end of +the Avenue you will find them. The pig-headed +prowler I saw, with <em>my</em> pompon missing from his +shoe, and his <em>bonne amie</em> wearing the stolen ring. +Ah! you police people with your tape-measures and +your José Puégas! It is I, Aristide Pujol, who +have to come to Perpignan to teach you your business!”</p> + +<p>“What do you want me to do?” asked the brigadier +stolidly.</p> + +<p>“Do?” cried Aristide. “Do you think I want +you to kiss them and cover them with roses? What +do you generally do with thieves in Perpignan?”</p> + +<p>“Arrest them,” said the brigadier.</p> + +<p>“<em>Eh bien!</em>” said Aristide. Then he paused—possibly +the drama of the situation striking him. +“No, wait. Go and find them. Don’t take your +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +eyes off them. I will run and fetch Monsieur le +Maire and he will identify his property—<em>et puis +nous aurons la scène à faire</em>.”</p> + +<p>The stout brigadier grunted an assent and rolled +monumentally down the Avenue. Aristide, his +pulses throbbing, his heart exulting, ran to the +Mayor’s house. He was rather a panting triumph +than a man. He had beaten the police of +Perpignan. He had discovered the thief. He was +the hero of the town. Soon would the wedding +bells be playing.... He envied the marble +of the future statue. He would like to be on the +pedestal himself.</p> + +<p>He dashed past the maid-servant who opened the +door and burst into the prim salon. Madame Coquereau +was alone, just preparing to retire for the +night. Mademoiselle Stéphanie had already gone +to bed.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu</em>, what is all this?” she cried.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” shouted he, “glorious news. I have +found the thief!”</p> + +<p>He told his tale. Where was Monsieur le Maire?</p> + +<p>“He has not yet come back from the café.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go and find him,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“And waste time? Bah!” said the iron-faced +old lady, catching up a black silk shawl. “I will +come with you and identify the ring of my sainted +sister Philomène. Who should know it better than +I?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> +“As you like, Madame,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>Two minutes found them on their journey. Madame +Coquereau, in spite of her sixty-five years +trudged along with springing step.</p> + +<p>“They don’t make metal like me, nowadays,” +she said scornfully.</p> + +<p>When they arrived at the gate of the Avenue, +the police on guard saluted. The mother +of Monsieur le Maire was a power in Perpignan.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” said Aristide, in lordly fashion, +to a policeman, “will you have the goodness to +make a passage through the crowd for Madame +Coquereau, and then help the Brigadier Pésac to +arrest the burglar who broke into the house of +Monsieur le Maire?”</p> + +<p>The man obeyed, went ahead clearing the path +with the unceremoniousness of the law, and Aristide +giving his arm to Madame Coquereau followed +gloriously. As the impressive progress continued +the revellers ceased their revels and followed +in the wake of Aristide. At the end of the +Avenue Brigadier Pésac was on guard. He approached.</p> + +<p>“They are still there,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Good,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>The two police-officers, Aristide and Madame +Coquereau turned the corner. At the sight of the +police the guilty couple started to their feet. Madame +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +Coquereau pounced like a hawk on the +masked lady’s hand.</p> + +<p>“I identify it,” she cried. “Brigadier, give these +people in charge for theft.”</p> + +<p>The white masked crowd surged around the +group, in the midst of which stood Aristide transfigured. +It was his supreme moment. He flourished +in one hand his red mask and in the other +a pompon which he had extracted from his +pocket.</p> + +<p>“This I found,” said he, “beneath the wall of +Monsieur le Maire’s garden. Behold the shoe of +the accused.”</p> + +<p>The crowd murmured their applause and admiration. +Neither of the prisoners stirred. The pig’s +head grinned at the world with its inane, painted +leer. A rumbling voice beneath it said:</p> + +<p>“We will go quietly.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Attention s’il vous plaît</em>,” said the policemen, +and each holding a prisoner by the arm they made +a way through the crowd. Madame Coquereau +and Aristide followed close behind.</p> + +<p>“What did I tell you?” cried Aristide to the +brigadier.</p> + +<p>“It’s Puégas, all the same,” said the brigadier, +over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“I bet you it’s not,” said Aristide, and striding +swiftly to the back of the male prisoner whipped +off the pig’s head, and revealed to the petrified +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +throng the familiar features of the Mayor of Perpignan.</p> + +<p>Aristide regarded him for two or three seconds +open-mouthed, and then fell back into the arms of +the Brigadier Pésac screaming with convulsive +laughter. The crowd caught the infection of merriment. +Shrieks filled the air. The vast mass of +masqueraders held their sides, swayed helplessly, +rolled in heaps, men and women, tearing each +other’s garments as they fell.</p> + +<p>Aristide, deposited on the ground by the Brigadier +Pésac laughed and laughed. When he recovered +some consciousness of surroundings, he found +the Mayor bending over him and using language +that would have made Tophet put its fingers in +its ears. He rose. Madame Coquereau shook her +thin fists in his face.</p> + +<p>“Imbecile! Triple fool!” she cried.</p> + +<p>Aristide turned tail and fled. There was nothing +else to do.</p> + +<p>And that was the end of his career at Perpignan. +Vanished were the dreams of civic eminence; +melted into thin air the statue on the Quai Sadi-Carnot; +faded, too, the vision of the modest Stéphanie +crowned with orange-blossom; gone forever +the two hundred and fifty thousand francs. Never +since Alnaschar kicked over his basket of crockery +was there such a hideous welter of shattered hopes.</p> + +<p>If the Mayor had been allowed to go disguised +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +to the Police Station, he could have disclosed his +identity and that of the lady in private to awe-stricken +functionaries. He might have forgiven +Aristide. But Aristide had exposed him to the derision +of the whole of Roussillon and the never ending +wrath of Madame Coquereau. Ruefully Aristide +asked himself the question: why had the Mayor not +taken him into the confidence of his masquerading +escapade? Why had he not told him of the pretty +widow, whom, unknown to his mother, he was +courting? Why had he permitted her to wear the +ring which he had given her so as to spite his +sainted Aunt Philomène? And why had he gone +on wearing the pig’s head after Aristide had told +him of his suspicions? Ruefully Aristide found +no answers save in the general chuckle-headedness +of mankind.</p> + +<p>“If it hadn’t been such a good farce I should +have wept like a cow,” said Aristide, after relating +this story. “But every time I wanted to cry, +I laughed. <em>Nom de Dieu!</em> You should have seen +his face! And the face of Madame Coquereau! +She opened her mouth wide showing ten yellow +teeth and squealed like a rabbit! Oh, it was a +good farce! He was very cross with me,” he +added after a smiling pause, “and when I got back +to Paris I tried to pacify him.”</p> + +<p>“What did you do?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“I sent him my photograph,” said Aristide.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF FLEURETTE</strong></p> + + +<p>One day, when Aristide was discoursing on +the inexhaustible subject of woman, I +pulled him up.</p> + +<p>“My good friend,” said I, “you seem to have +fallen in love with every woman you have ever met. +But for how many of them have you really cared?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu!</em> For all of them!” he cried, springing +from his chair and making a wind-mill of himself.</p> + +<p>“Come, come,” said I; “all that amorousness is +just Gallic exuberance. Have you ever been really +in love in your life?”</p> + +<p>“How should I know?” said he. But he lit a +cigarette, turned away, and looked out of window.</p> + +<p>There was a short silence. He shrugged his +shoulders, apparently in response to his own +thoughts. Then he turned again suddenly, threw +his cigarette into the fire, and thrust his hands into +his pockets. He sighed.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps there was Fleurette,” said he, not looking +at me. “<em>Est-ce qu’on sait jamais?</em> That wasn’t +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +her real name—it was Marie-Joséphine; but people +called her Fleurette. She looked like a flower, you +know.”</p> + +<p>I nodded in order to signify my elementary acquaintance +with the French tongue.</p> + +<p>“The most delicate little flower you can conceive,” +he continued. “<em>Tiens</em>, she was a slender lily—so +white, and her hair the flash of gold on it—and +she had eyes—<em>des yeux de pervenche</em>, as we +say in French. What is <em>pervenche</em> in English—that +little pale-blue flower?”</p> + +<p>“Periwinkle,” said I.</p> + +<p>“Periwinkle eyes! My God, what a language! +Ah, no! She had <em>des yeux de pervenche</em>.... +She was <em>diaphane</em>, diaphanous ... impalpable +as cigarette-smoke ... a little nose like nothing +at all, with nostrils like infinitesimal sea-shells. +Anyone could have made a mouthful of her.... +Ah! <em>Cré nom d’un chien!</em> Life is droll. It has no +common sense. It is the game of a mountebank.... +I’ve never told you about Fleurette. It +was this way.”</p> + +<p>And the story he narrated I will do my best to +set down.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The good M. Bocardon, of the Hôtel de +la Curatterie at Nîmes, whose grateful devotion +to Aristide has already been recorded, had +a brother in Paris who managed the Hôtel du +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +Soleil et de l’Ecosse (strange conjuncture), a +flourishing third-rate hostelry in the neighbourhood +of the Halles Centrales. Thither flocked sturdy +Britons in knickerbockers, stockings, and cloth caps, +Teutons with tin botanizing boxes (for lunch transportation), +and American school-marms realizing +at last the dream of their modest and laborious +lives. Accommodation was cheap, manners were +easy, and knowledge of the gay city less than rudimentary.</p> + +<p>To M. Bocardon of Paris Aristide, one August +morning, brought glowing letters of introduction +from M. and Mme. Bocardon of Nîmes. M. Bocardon +of Paris welcomed Aristide as a Provençal +and a brother. He brought out from a cupboard in +his private bureau an hospitable bottle of old Armagnac, +and discoursed with Aristide on the seductions +of the South. It was there that he longed +to retire—to a dainty little hotel of his own with +a smart clientèle. The clientèle of the Hôtel du +Soleil et de l’Ecosse was not to his taste. He spoke +slightingly of his guests.</p> + +<p>“There are people who know how to travel,” +said he, “and people who don’t. These lost muttons +here don’t, and they make hotel-keeping a +nightmare instead of a joy. A hundred times a +day have I to tell them the way to Notre Dame. +<em>Pouah!</em>” said he, gulping down his disgust and +the rest of his Armagnac, “it is back-breaking.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +“<em>Tu sais, mon vieux</em>,” cried Aristide—he had +the most lightning way of establishing an intimacy—“I +have an idea. These lost sheep need a shepherd.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Eh bien?</em>” said M. Bocardon.</p> + +<p>“<em>Eh bien</em>,” said Aristide. “Why should not I +be the shepherd, the official shepherd attached to +the Hôtel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse?”</p> + +<p>“Explain yourself,” said M. Bocardon.</p> + +<p>Aristide, letting loose his swift imagination, explained +copiously, and hypnotized M. Bocardon +with his glittering eye, until he had assured to himself +a means of livelihood. From that moment he +became the familiar genius of the hotel. Scorning +the title of “guide,” lest he should be associated in +the minds of the guests with the squalid scoundrels +who infest the Boulevard, he constituted himself +“Directeur de l’Agence Pujol.” An obfuscated Bocardon +formed the rest of the agency and pocketed +a percentage of Aristide’s earnings, and Aristide, +addressed as “Director” by the Anglo-Saxons, “M. +le Directeur” by the Latins, and “Herr Direktor” +by the Teutons, walked about like a peacock in a +barn-yard.</p> + +<a name="img210" id="img210"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/img210.jpg" width="600" height="422" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">he must have dealt out paralyzing information</span> +</div> + +<p>At that period, and until he had learned up Baedeker +by heart, a process which nearly gave him +brain-fever, and still, he declares, brings terror +into his slumbers, he knew little more of the history, +topography, and art-treasures of Paris than +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +the flock he shepherded. He must have dealt out +paralyzing information. The Britons and the Germans +seemed not to heed; but now and then the +American school-marms unmasked the charlatan. +On such occasions his unfaltering impudence +reached heights truly sublime. The sharp-witted +ladies looked in his eyes, forgot their wrongs, and, +if he had told them that the Eiffel Tower had been +erected by the Pilgrim Fathers, would have accepted +the statement meekly.</p> + +<p>“My friend,” said Aristide, with Provençal flourish +and braggadocio, “I never met a woman that +would not sooner be misled by me than be taught +by the whole Faculty of the Sorbonne.”</p> + +<p>He had been practising this honourable profession +for about a month, lodging with the good +Mme. Bidoux at 213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré, when, +one morning, in the vestibule of the hotel, he ran +into his old friend Batterby, whom he had known +during the days of his professorship of French at +the Academy for Young Ladies in Manchester. +The pair had been fellow-lodgers in the same house +in the Rusholme Road; but, whereas Aristide lived +in one sunless bed-sitting-room looking on a forest +of chimney-pots, Batterby, man of luxury and ease, +had a suite of apartments on the first floor and kept +an inexhaustible supply of whisky, cigars, and such-like +etceteras of the opulent, and the very ugliest +prize bull-pup you can imagine. Batterby, in gaudy +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +raiment, went to an office in Manchester; in gaudier +raiment he often attended race meetings. He +had rings and scarf-pins and rattled gold in his +trousers pockets. He might have been an insufferable +young man for a poverty-stricken teacher +of French to have as a fellow-lodger; but he was +not. Like all those born to high estate, he made +no vulgar parade of his wealth, and to Aristide he +showed the most affable hospitality. A friendship +had arisen between them, which the years had +idealized rather than impaired. So when they met +that morning in the vestibule of the Hôtel du +Soleil et de l’Ecosse their greetings were fervent +and prolonged.</p> + +<p>In person Batterby tended towards burliness. He +had a red, jolly face, divided unequally by a great +black moustache, and his manner was hearty. He +slapped Aristide on the back many times and shook +him by the shoulders.</p> + +<p>“We must have a drink on this straight away, +old man,” said he.</p> + +<p>“You’re so strange, you English,” said Aristide. +“The moment you have an emotion you must celebrate +it by a drink. ‘My dear fellow, I’ve just +come into a fortune; let us have a drink.’ Or, +‘My friend, my poor old father has just been +run over by an omnibus; let us have a drink.’ My +good Reginald, look at the clock. It is only nine +in the morning.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +“Rot!” said Reginald. “Drink is good at any +time.”</p> + +<p>They went into the dark and deserted smoking-room, +where Batterby ordered Scotch and soda and +Aristide, an abstemious man, a plain vermouth.</p> + +<p>“What’s that muck?” asked Batterby, when the +waiter brought the drinks. Aristide explained. +“Whisky’s good enough for me,” laughed the other. +Aristide laughed too, out of politeness and out of +joy at meeting his old friend.</p> + +<p>“With you playing at guide here,” said Batterby, +when he had learned Aristide’s position in the hotel, +“it seems I have come to the right shop. There +are no flies on me, you know, but when a man +comes to Paris for the first time he likes to be put +up to the ropes.”</p> + +<p>“Your first visit to Paris?” cried Aristide. “<em>Mon +vieux</em>, what wonders are going to ravish your eyes! +What a time you are going to have!”</p> + +<p>Batterby bit off the end of a great black cigar.</p> + +<p>“If the missus will let me,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Missus? Your wife? You are married, my +dear Reginald?” Aristide leaped, in his unexpected +fashion, from his chair and almost embraced him. +“Ah, but you are happy, you are lucky. It was +always like that. You open your mouth and the +larks fall ready roasted into it! My congratulations. +And she is here, in this hotel, your wife? +Tell me about her.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +Batterby lit his cigar. “She’s nothing to write +home about,” he said, modestly. “She’s French.”</p> + +<p>“French? No—you don’t say so!” exclaimed +Aristide, in ecstasy.</p> + +<p>“Well, she was brought up in France from her +childhood, but her parents were Finns. Funny place +for people to come from—Finland—isn’t it? You +could never expect it—might just as well think of +’em coming from Lapland. She’s an orphan. I +met her in London.”</p> + +<p>“But that’s romantic! And she is young, +pretty?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes; in a way,” said the proprietary Briton.</p> + +<p>“And her name?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she has a fool name—Fleurette. I wanted +to call her Flossie, but she didn’t like it.”</p> + +<p>“I should think not,” said Aristide. “Fleurette +is an adorable name.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it’s right enough,” said Batterby. +“But if I want to call her good old Flossie, why +should she object? You married, old man? No? +Well, wait till you are. You think women are +angels all wrapped up in feathers and wings beneath +their toggery, don’t you? Well, they’re just +blooming porcupines, all bristling with objections.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Mais, allons, donc!</em>” cried Aristide. “You love +her, your beautiful Finnish orphan brought up in +France and romantically met in London, with the +adorable name?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +“Oh, that’s all right,” said the easy Batterby, +lifting his half-emptied glass. “Here’s luck!”</p> + +<p>“Ah—no!” said Aristide, leaning forward and +clinking his wineglass against the other’s tumbler. +“Here is to madame.”</p> + +<p>When they returned to the vestibule they found +Mrs. Batterby patiently awaiting her lord. She +rose from her seat at the approach of the two men, +a fragile flower of a girl, about three-and-twenty, +pale as a lily, with exquisite though rather large +features, and with eyes of the blue of the <em>pervenche</em> +(in deference to Aristide I use the French name), +which seemed to smile trustfully through perpetual +tears. She was dressed in pale, shadowy blue—graceful, +impalpable, like the smoke, said Aristide, +curling upwards from a cigarette.</p> + +<p>“Reggie has spoken of you many times, monsieur,” +said Fleurette, after the introduction had +been effected.</p> + +<p>Aristide was touched. “Fancy him remembering +me! <em>Ce bon vieux Reginald.</em> Madame,” said he, +“your husband is the best fellow in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Feed him with sugar and he won’t bite,” said +Batterby; whereat they all laughed, as if it had +been a very good joke.</p> + +<p>“Well, what about this Paris of yours?” he asked, +after a while. “The missus knows as little of it +as I do.”</p> + +<p>“Really?” asked Aristide.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +“I lived all my life in Brest before I went to +England,” she said, modestly.</p> + +<p>“She wants to see all the sights, the Louvre, the +Morgue, the Cathedral of What’s-its-name that +you’ve got here. I’ve got to go round, too. Pleases +her and don’t hurt me. You must tote us about. +We’ll have a cab, old girl, as you can’t do much +walking, and good old Pujol will come with us.”</p> + +<p>“But that is ideal!” cried Aristide, flying to the +door to order the cab; but before he could reach +it he was stopped by three or four waiting tourists, +who pointed, some to the clock, some to the wagonette +standing outside, and asked the director +when the personally-conducted party was to start. +Aristide, who had totally forgotten the responsibilities +attached to the directorship of the Agence +Pujol and, but for this reminder, would have blissfully +left his sheep to err and stray over Paris by +themselves, returned crestfallen to his friends and +explained the situation.</p> + +<p>“But we’ll join the party,” said the cheery Batterby. +“The more the merrier—good old bean-feast! +Will there be room?”</p> + +<p>“Plenty,” replied Aristide, brightening. “But +would it meet the wishes of madame?” Her pale +face flushed ever so slightly and the soft eyes fluttered +at him a half-astonished, half-grateful glance.</p> + +<p>“With my husband and you, monsieur, I should +love it,” she said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +So Mr. and Mrs. Batterby joined the personally-conducted +party, as they did the next morning, and +the next, and several mornings after, and received +esoteric information concerning the monuments of +Paris that is hidden even from the erudite. The +evenings, however, Aristide, being off duty, devoted +to their especial entertainment. He took them to +riotous and perspiring restaurants where they dined +gorgeously for three francs fifty, wine included; +to open-air <em>cafés-concerts</em> in the Champs Elysées, +which Fleurette found infinitely diverting, but +which bored Batterby, who knew not French, to +stertorous slumber; to crowded brasseries on the +Boulevard, where Batterby awakened, under a +steady flow of whisky, to appreciative contemplation +of Paris life. As in the old days of the Rusholme +Road, Batterby flung his money about with +unostentatious generosity. He was out for a beano, +he declared, and hang the expense! Aristide, +whose purse, scantily filled (truth to say) by the +profits of the Agence Pujol, could contribute but +modestly to this reckless expenditure, found himself +forced to accept his friend’s lavish hospitality. +Once or twice, delicately, he suggested withdrawal +from the evening’s dissipation.</p> + +<p>“But, my good M. Pujol,” said Fleurette, with +childish tragicality in her <em>pervenche</em> eyes, “without +you we shall be lost. We shall not enjoy ourselves +at all, at all.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> +So Aristide, out of love for his friend, and out +of he knew not what for his friend’s wife, continued +to show them the sights of Paris. They went +to the cabarets of Montmartre—the <em>Ciel</em>, where +one is served by angels; the <em>Enfer</em>, where one is +served by red devils in a Tartarean lighting; the +<em>Néant</em>, where one has coffins for tables—than all of +which vulgarity has imagined no more joy-killing +dreariness, but which caused Fleurette to grip Aristide’s +hand tight in scared wonderment and Batterby +to chuckle exceedingly. They went to the +Bal Bullier and to various other balls undreamed of +by the tourist, where Fleurette danced with Aristide, +as light as an autumn leaf tossed by the wind, +and Batterby absorbed a startling assortment of +alcohols. In a word, Aristide procured for his +friends prodigious diversion.</p> + +<p>“How do you like this, old girl?” Batterby asked +one night, at the Moulin de la Galette, a dizzying, +not very decorous, and to the unsophisticated visitor +a dangerous place of entertainment. “Better +than Great Coram Street, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>She smiled and laid her hand on his. She was +a woman of few words but of many caressing +actions.</p> + +<p>“I ought to let you into a secret,” said he. “This +is our honeymoon.”</p> + +<p>“Who would have thought it?”</p> + +<a name="img220" id="img220"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;"> +<img src="images/img220.jpg" width="401" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">fleurette danced with aristide, as light as an autumn leaf +tossed by the wind</span> +</div> + +<p>“A fortnight ago she was being killed in a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +Bloomsbury boarding-house. There were two of +’em—she and a girl called Carrie. I used to call +’em Fetch and Carrie. This one was Fetch. Well, +she fetched me, didn’t you, old girl? And now +you’re Mrs. Reginald Batterby, living at your ease, +eh?”</p> + +<p>“Madame would grace any sphere,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I wish I had more education,” said Fleurette, +humbly. “M. Pujol and yourself are so clever that +you must laugh at me.”</p> + +<p>“We do sometimes, but you mustn’t mind us. +Remember—at the what-you-call-it—the little +shanty at Versailles——?”</p> + +<p>“The Grand Trianon,” replied Aristide.</p> + +<p>“That’s it. When you were showing us the +rooms. ‘What is the Empress Josephine doing +now?’” He mimicked her accent. “Ha! ha! And +the poor soul gone to glory a couple of hundred +years ago.”</p> + +<p>The little mouth puckered at the corners and +moisture gathered in the blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mais, mon Dieu</em>, it was natural, the mistake,” +cried Aristide, gallantly. “The Empress Eugénie, +the wife of another Napoleon, is still living.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Bien sûr</em>,” said Fleurette. “How was I to +know?”</p> + +<p>“Never mind, old girl,” said Batterby. “You’re +living all right, and out of that beastly +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +boarding-house, and that’s the chief thing. Another month +of it would have killed her. She had a cough that +shook her to bits. She’s looking better already, +isn’t she, Pujol?”</p> + +<p>After this Aristide learned much of her simple +history, which she, at first, had been too shy to +reveal. The child of Finnish sea-folk who had +drifted to Brest and died there, she had been +adopted by an old Breton sea-dog and his wife. +On their death she had entered, as maid, the service +of an English lady residing in the town, who afterwards +had taken her to England. After a while +reverses of fortune had compelled the lady to dismiss +her, and she had taken the situation in the +boarding-house, where she had ruined her health +and met the opulent and conquering Batterby. +She had not much chance, poor child, of acquiring +a profound knowledge of the history of the First +Empire; but her manners were refined and her ways +gentle and her voice was soft; and Aristide, citizen +of the world, for whom caste distinctions existed +not, thought her the most exquisite flower grown in +earth’s garden. He told her so, much to her blushing +satisfaction.</p> + +<p>One night, about three weeks after the Batterbys’ +arrival in Paris, Batterby sent his wife to bed +and invited Aristide to accompany him for half +an hour to a neighbouring café. He looked grave +and troubled.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +“I’ve been upset by a telegram,” said he, when +drinks had been ordered. “I’m called away to New +York on business. I must catch the boat from +Cherbourg to-morrow evening. Now, I can’t take +Fleurette with me. Women and business don’t mix. +She has jolly well got to stay here. I sha’n’t be +away more than a month. I’ll leave her plenty +of money to go on with. But what’s worrying me +is—how is she going to stick it? So look here, old +man, you’re my pal, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>He stretched out his hand. Aristide grasped it +impulsively.</p> + +<p>“Why, of course, <em>mon vieux!</em>”</p> + +<p>“If I felt that I could leave her in your charge, +all on the square, as a real straight pal—I should +go away happy.”</p> + +<p>“She shall be my sister,” cried Aristide, “and I +shall give her all the devotion of a brother.... +I swear it—<em>tiens</em>—what can I swear it on?” He +flung out his arms and looked round the café as +if in search of an object. “I swear it on the head +of my mother. Have no fear. I, Aristide Pujol, +have never betrayed the sacred obligations of +friendship. I accept her as a consecrated trust.”</p> + +<p>“You only need to have said ‘Right-o,’ and I +would have believed you,” said Batterby. “I +haven’t told her yet. There’ll be blubbering all +night. Let us have another drink.”</p> + +<p>When Aristide arrived at the Hôtel du Soleil +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +et de l’Ecosse at nine o’clock the next morning he +found that Batterby had left Paris by an early +train. Fleurette he did not meet until he brought +back the sight-seers to the fold in the evening. She +had wept much during the day; but she smiled +bravely on Aristide. A woman could not stand in +the way of her husband’s business.</p> + +<p>“By the way, what is Reginald’s business?” +Aristide asked.</p> + +<p>She did not know. Reginald never spoke to +her of such things; perhaps she was too ignorant +to understand.</p> + +<p>“But he will make a lot of money by going to +America,” she said. Then she was silent for a +few moments. “<em>Mon Dieu!</em>” she sighed, at last. +“How long the day has been!”</p> + +<p>It was the beginning of many long days for +Fleurette. Reginald did not write from Cherbourg +or cable from New York, as he had promised, +and the return American mail brought no +letter. The days passed drearily. Sometimes, for +the sake of human society, she accompanied the +tourist parties of the Agence Pujol; but the thrill +had passed from the Morgue and the glory had +departed from Versailles. Sometimes she wandered +out by herself into the streets and public +gardens; but, pretty, unprotected, and fragile, she +attracted the attention of evil or careless men, +which struck cold terror into her heart. Most +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> +often she sat alone and listless in the hotel, reading +the feuilleton of the <em>Petit Journal</em>, and waiting +for the post to bring her news.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu</em>, M. Pujol, what can have happened?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all, <em>chère petite madame</em>”—question +and answer came many times a day. “Only some +foolish mischance which will soon be explained. +The good Reginald has written and his letter has +been lost in the post. He has been obliged to go +on business to San Francisco or Buenos Ayres—<em>et, +que voulez-vous?</em> one cannot have letters from +those places in twenty-four hours.”</p> + +<p>“If only he had taken me with him!”</p> + +<p>“But, dear Mme. Fleurette, he could not expose +you to the hardships of travel. You, who are as +fragile as a cobweb, how could you go to Patagonia +or Senegal or Baltimore, those wild places +where there are no comforts for women? You +must be reasonable. I am sure you will get a letter +soon—or else in a day or two he will come, +with his good, honest face as if nothing had occurred—these +English are like that—and call for +whisky and soda. Be comforted, <em>chère petite madame</em>.”</p> + +<p>Aristide did his best to comfort her, threw her +in the companionship of decent women staying at +the hotel, and devoted his evenings to her entertainment. +But the days passed, and Reginald Batterby, +with the good, honest face, neither wrote +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +nor ordered whisky and soda. Fleurette began +to pine and fade.</p> + +<p>One day she came to Aristide.</p> + +<p>“M. Pujol, I have no more money left.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Bigre!</em>” said Pujol. “The good Bocardon will +have to give you credit. I’ll arrange it.”</p> + +<p>“But I already owe for three weeks,” said Fleurette.</p> + +<p>Aristide sought Bocardon. One week more was +all the latter dared allow.</p> + +<p>“But her husband will return and pay you. He +is my old and intimate friend. I make myself +hoarse in telling it to you, wooden-head that you +are!”</p> + +<p>But Bocardon, who had to account to higher +powers, the proprietors of the hotel, was helpless. +At the end of the week Fleurette was called upon +to give up her room. She wept with despair; Aristide +wept with fury; Bocardon wept out of sympathy. +Already, said Bocardon, the proprietors +would blame him for not using the legal right to +detain madame’s luggage.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!</em> what is to become of +me?” wailed Fleurette.</p> + +<p>“You forget, madame,” said Aristide, with one +of his fine flourishes, “that you are the sacred +trust of Aristide Pujol.”</p> + +<p>“But I can’t accept your money,” objected Fleurette.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +“<em>Tron de l’air!</em>” he cried. “Did your husband +put you in my charge or did he not? Am I your +legal guardian, or am I not? If I am your legal +guardian, what right have you to question the arrangements +made by your husband? Answer me +that.”</p> + +<p>Fleurette, too gentle and too miserable for intricate +argument, sighed.</p> + +<p>“But it is your money, all the same.”</p> + +<p>Aristide turned to Bocardon. “Try,” said he, +“to convince a woman! Do you want proofs? +Wait there a minute while I get them from the +safe of the Agence Pujol.”</p> + +<p>He disappeared into the bureau, where, secure +from observation, he tore an oblong strip from a +sheet of stiff paper, and, using an indelible pencil, +wrote out something fantastic halfway between a +cheque and a bill of exchange, forged as well as +he could from memory the signature of Reginald +Batterby—the imitation of handwriting was one +of Aristide’s many odd accomplishments—and made +the document look legal by means of a receipt +stamp, which he took from Bocardon’s drawer. He +returned to the vestibule with the strip folded and +somewhat crumpled in his hand. “<em>Voilà</em>,” said +he, handing it boldly to Fleurette. “Here is your +husband’s guarantee to me, your guardian, for four +thousand francs.”</p> + +<p>Fleurette examined the forgery. The stamp +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +impressed her. For the simple souls of France there +is magic in <em>papier timbré</em>.</p> + +<p>“It was my husband who wrote this?” she asked, +curiously.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mais, oui</em>,” said Aristide, with an offended air +of challenge.</p> + +<p>Fleurette’s eyes filled again with tears.</p> + +<p>“I only inquired,” she said, “because this is the +first time I have seen his handwriting.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Ma pauvre petite</em>,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I will do whatever you tell me, M. Pujol,” +said Fleurette, humbly.</p> + +<p>“Good! That is talking like <em>une bonne petite +dame raisonnable</em>. Now, I know a woman made +up of holy bread whom St. Paul and St. Peter +are fighting to have next them when she goes to +Paradise. Her name is Mme. Bidoux, and she +sells cabbages and asparagus and charcoal at No. +213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré. She will arrange our +little affair. Bocardon, will you have madame’s +trunks sent to that address?”</p> + +<p>He gave his arm to Fleurette, and walked out of +the hotel, with serene confidence in the powers of +the sainted Mme. Bidoux. Fleurette accompanied +him unquestioningly. Of course she might have +said: “If you hold negotiable security from my +husband to the amount of four thousand francs, +why should I exchange the comforts of the hotel +for the doubtful accommodation of the sainted +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +Mme. Bidoux who sells cabbages?” But I repeat +that Fleurette was a simple soul who took for +granted the wisdom of so flamboyant and virile a +creature as Aristide Pujol.</p> + +<p>Away up at the top of No. 213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré, +was a little furnished room to let, and +there Aristide installed his sacred charge. Mme. +Bidoux, who, as she herself maintained, would +have cut herself into four pieces for Aristide—did +he not save her dog’s life? Did he not marry her +daughter to the brigadier of gendarmes (<em>sale +voyou!</em>), who would otherwise have left her lamenting? +Was he not the most wonderful of God’s +creatures?—Mme. Bidoux, although not quite appreciating +Aristide’s quixotic delicacy, took the forlorn +and fragile wisp of misery to her capacious +bosom. She made her free of the cabbages and +charcoal. She provided her, at a risible charge, +with succulent meals. She told her tales of her +father and mother, of her neighbours, of the domestic +differences between the concierge and his +wife (soothing idyll for an Ariadne!), of the dirty +thief of a brigadier of gendarmes, of her bodily +ailments—her body was so large that they were +many; of the picturesque death, through apoplexy, +of the late M. Bidoux; the brave woman, in short, +gave her of her heart’s best. As far as human +hearts could provide a bed for Fleurette, that bed +was of roses. As a matter of brutal fact, it was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +narrow and nubbly, and the little uncarpeted room +was ten feet by seven; but to provide it Aristide +went to his own bed hungry. And if the bed of a +man’s hunger is not to be accounted as one of roses, +there ought to be a vote for the reduction of the +Recording Angel’s salary.</p> + +<p>It must not be imagined that Fleurette thought +the bed hard. Her bed of life from childhood had +been nubbly. She never dreamed of complaining +of her little room under the stars, and she sat +among the cabbages like a tired lily, quite contented +with her material lot. But she drooped and +drooped, and the cough returned and shook her; +and Aristide, realizing the sacredness of his charge, +became a prey to anxious terrors.</p> + +<p>“Mère Bidoux,” said he, “she must have lots +of good, nourishing, tender, underdone beef, good +fillets, and <em>entrecôtes saignantes</em>.”</p> + +<p>Mme. Bidoux sighed. She had a heart, but +she also had a pocket which, like Aristide’s, was +not over-filled. “That costs dear, my poor friend,” +she said.</p> + +<p>“What does it matter what it costs? It is I who +provide,” said Aristide, grandly.</p> + +<p>And Aristide gave up tobacco and coffee and +the mild refreshment at cafés essential to the existence +of every Frenchman, and degraded his soul +by taking half-franc tips from tourists—a source +of income which, as Director, M. le Directeur, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +Herr Direktor of the Agence Pujol, he had hitherto +scorned haughtily—in order to provide Fleurette +with underdone beefsteaks.</p> + +<p>All his leisure he devoted to her. She represented +something that hitherto had not come into +his life—something delicate, tender, ethereal, something +of woman that was exquisitely adorable, +apart from the flesh. Once, as he was sitting in +the little shop, she touched his temple lightly with +her fingers.</p> + +<p>“Ah, you are good to me, Aristide.”</p> + +<p>He felt a thrill such as no woman’s touch had +ever caused to pass through him—far, far sweeter, +cleaner, purer. If the <em>bon Dieu</em> could have given +her to him then and there to be his wife, what bond +could have been holier? But he had bound himself +by a sacred obligation. His friend on his return +should find him loyal.</p> + +<p>“Who could help being good to you, little Fleurette?” +said he. “Even an Apache would not tread +on a lily of the valley!”</p> + +<p>“But you put me in water and tend me so carefully.”</p> + +<p>“So that you can be fresh whenever the dear +Reginald comes back.”</p> + +<p>She sighed. “Tell me what I can do for you, +my good Aristide.”</p> + +<p>“Keep well and happy and be a valiant little +woman,” said he.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +Fleurette tried hard to be valiant; but the effort +exhausted her strength. As the days went on, even +Aristide’s inexhaustible conversation failed to distract +her from brooding. She lost the trick of +laughter. In the evenings, when he was most +with her, she would sit, either in the shop or in the +little room at the back, her blue childish eyes fixed +on him wistfully. At first he tried to lure her into +the gay street; but walking tired her. He encouraged +her to sit outside on the pavement of the +Rue Saint-Honoré and join with Mme. Bidoux +in the gossip of neighbours; but she listened to +them with uncomprehending ears. In despair Aristide, +to coax a smile from her lips, practised his +many queer accomplishments. He conjured with +cards; he juggled with oranges; he had a mountebank’s +trick of putting one leg round his neck; he +imitated the voices of cats and pigs and ducks, +till Mme. Bidoux held her sides with mirth. He +spent time and thought in elaborating what he +called <em>bonnes farces</em>, such as dressing himself up +in Mme. Bidoux’s raiment and personifying a +crabbed customer.</p> + +<p>Fleurette smiled but listlessly at all these comicalities.</p> + +<p>One day she was taken ill. A doctor, summoned, +said many learned words which Aristide and Mme. +Bidoux tried hard to understand.</p> + +<p>“But, after all, what is the matter with her?”</p> + +<a name="img234" id="img234"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img234.jpg" width="400" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">aristide practised his many queer accomplishments</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +“She has no strength to struggle. She wants +happiness.”</p> + +<p>“Can you tell me the druggist’s where that can +be procured?” asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “I tell you +the truth. It is one of those pulmonary cases. +Happy, she will live; unhappy, she will die.”</p> + +<p>“My poor Mme. Bidoux, what is to be done?” +asked Aristide, after the doctor had gone off with +his modest fee. “How are we to make her happy?”</p> + +<p>“If only she could have news of her husband!” +replied Mme. Bidoux.</p> + +<p>Aristide’s anxieties grew heavier. It was November, +when knickerbockered and culture-seeking +tourists no longer fill the cheap hotels of Paris. +The profits of the Agence Pujol dwindled. Aristide +lived on bread and cheese, and foresaw the +time when cheese would be a sinful luxury. Meanwhile +Fleurette had her nourishing food, and grew +more like the ghost of a lily every day. But her +eyes followed Aristide, wherever he went in her +presence, as if he were the god of her salvation.</p> + +<p>One day Aristide, with an unexpected franc or +two in his pocket, stopped in front of a <em>bureau de +tabac</em>. A brown packet of caporal and a book of +cigarette-papers—a cigarette rolled—how good it +would be! He hesitated, and his glance fell on a +collection of foreign stamps exposed in the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +window. Among them were twelve Honduras stamps +all postmarked. He stared at them, fascinated.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon brave Aristide!</em>” he cried. “If the <em>bon +Dieu</em> does not send you these vibrating inspirations, +it is because you yourself have already conceived +them!”</p> + +<p>He entered the shop and emerged, not with caporal +and cigarette-papers, but with the twelve Honduras +stamps.</p> + +<p>That night he sat up in his little bedroom at +No. 213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré, until his candle +failed, inditing a letter in English to Fleurette. +At the head of his paper he wrote “Hotel Rosario, +Honduras.” And at the end of the letter he signed +the name of Reginald Batterby. Where Honduras +was, he had but a vague idea. For Fleurette, at +any rate, it would be somewhere at the other end +of the world, and she would not question any want +of accuracy in local detail. Just before the light +went out he read the letter through with great +pride. Batterby alluded to the many letters he +had posted from remote parts of the globe, gave +glowing forecasts of the fortune that Honduras +had in store for him, reminded her that he had +placed sufficient funds for her maintenance in the +hands of Aristide Pujol, and assured her that the +time was not far off when she would be summoned +to join her devoted husband.</p> + +<p>“Mme. Bidoux was right,” said he, before going +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +to sleep. “This is the only way to make her happy.”</p> + +<p>The next day Fleurette received the letter. The +envelope bore the postmarked Honduras stamp. It +had been rubbed on the dusty pavement to take +off the newness. It was in her husband’s handwriting. +There was no mistake about it—it was +a letter from Honduras.</p> + +<p>“Are you happier now, little doubting female +St. Thomas that you are?” cried Aristide when +she had told him the news.</p> + +<p>She smiled at him out of grateful eyes, and +touched his hand.</p> + +<p>“Much happier, <em>mon bon ami</em>,” she said, gently.</p> + +<p>Later in the day she handed him a letter addressed +to Batterby. It had no stamp.</p> + +<p>“Will you post this for me, Aristide?”</p> + +<p>Aristide put the letter in his pocket and turned +sharply away, lest she should see a sudden rush +of tears. He had not counted on this innocent +trustfulness. He went to his room. The poor +little letter! He had not the heart to destroy it. +No; he would keep it till Batterby came; it was not +his to destroy. So he threw it into a drawer.</p> + +<p>Having once begun the deception, however, he +thought it necessary to continue. Every week, +therefore, he invented a letter from Batterby. To +interest her he drew upon his Provençal imagination. +He described combats with crocodiles, lion-hunts, +feasts with terrific savages from the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> +interior, who brought their lady wives chastely clad +in petticoats made out of human teeth; he drew +pictures of the town, a kind of palm-shaded Paris +by the sea, where one ate ortolans and oysters as +big as soup-plates, and where Chinamen with pigtails +rode about the streets on camels. It was not +a correct description of Honduras, but, all the +same, an exotic atmosphere stimulating and captivating +rose from the pages. With this it was necessary +to combine expressions of affection. At +first it was difficult. Essential delicacy restrained +him. He had also to keep in mind Batterby’s vernacular. +To address Fleurette, impalpable creation +of fairyland, as “old girl” was particularly distasteful. +By degrees, however, the artist prevailed. +And then at last the man himself took to forgetting +the imaginary writer and poured out words of love, +warm, true, and passionate.</p> + +<p>And every week Fleurette would smile and tell +him the wondrous news, and would put into his +hands an unstamped letter to post, which he, with +a wrench of the heart, would add to the collection +in the drawer.</p> + +<p>Once she said, diffidently, with an unwonted +blush and her pale blue eyes swimming: “I write +English so badly. Won’t you read the letter and +correct my mistakes?”</p> + +<p>But Aristide laughed and licked the flap of the +envelope and closed it. “What has love to do with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +spelling and grammar? The good Reginald would +prefer your bad English to all the turned phrases +of the Académie Française.”</p> + +<p>“It is as you like, Aristide,” said Fleurette, with +wistful eyes.</p> + +<p>Yet, in spite of the weekly letters, Fleurette continued +to droop. The winter came, and Fleurette +was no longer able to stay among the cabbages of +Mme. Bidoux. She lay on her bed in the little +room, ten feet by seven, away, away at the top of +the house in the Rue Saint Honoré. The doctor, +informed of her comparative happiness, again +shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing more +to be done.</p> + +<p>“She is dying, monsieur, for want of strength +to live.”</p> + +<p>Then Aristide went about with a great heartache. +Fleurette would die; she would never see +the man she loved again. What would he say when +he returned and learned the tragic story? He +would not even know that Aristide, loving her, had +been loyal to him. When the Director of the +Agence Pujol personally conducted the clients of +the Hôtel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse to the Grand +Trianon and pointed out the bed of the Empress +Josephine he nearly broke down.</p> + +<p>“What is the Empress doing now?”</p> + +<p>What was Fleurette doing now? Going to join +the Empress in the world of shadows.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> +The tourists talked after the manner of their +kind.</p> + +<p>“She must have found the bed very hard, poor +dear.”</p> + +<p>“Give me an iron bedstead and a good old spring +mattress.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but, my dear sir, you forget. The Empress’s +bed was slung on the back of tame panthers +which Napoleon brought from Egypt.”</p> + +<p>It was hard to jest convincingly to the knickerbockered +with death in one’s soul.</p> + +<p>“Most belovèd little Flower,” ran the last letter +that Fleurette received, “I have just had a cable +from Aristide saying that you are very ill. I will +come to you as soon as I can. <em>Ces petits yeux de +pervenche</em>—I am learning your language here, you +see—haunt me day and night ...” etcetera, +etcetera.</p> + +<p>Aristide went up to her room with a great bunch +of chrysanthemums. The letter peeped from under +the pillow. Fleurette was very weak. Mme. Bidoux, +who, during Fleurette’s illness, had allowed +her green grocery business to be personally conducted +to the deuce by a youth of sixteen very +much in love with the lady who sold sausages and +other <em>charcuterie</em> next door, had spread out the +fortune-telling cards on the bed and was prophesying +mendaciously. Fleurette took the flowers and +clasped them to her bosom.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> +“No letter for <em>ce cher Reginald</em>?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head. “I can write no more,” she +whispered.</p> + +<p>She closed her eyes. Presently she said, in a +low voice:—</p> + +<p>“Aristide—if you kiss me, I think I can go to +sleep.”</p> + +<p>He bent down to kiss her forehead. A fragile +arm twined itself about his neck and he kissed her +on the lips.</p> + +<p>“She is sleeping,” said Mme. Bidoux, after a +while.</p> + +<p>Aristide tiptoed out of the room.</p> + +<p>And so died Fleurette. Aristide borrowed money +from the kind-hearted Bocardon for a beautiful +funeral, and Mme. Bidoux and Bocardon and a +few neighbours and himself saw her laid to rest. +When they got back to the Rue Saint Honoré he +told Mme. Bidoux about the letters. She wept and +clasped him, weeping too, in her kind, fat old arms.</p> + +<p>The next evening Aristide, coming back from his +day’s work at the Hôtel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse, +was confronted in the shop by Mme. Bidoux, +hands on broad hips.</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens, mon petit</em>,” she said, without preliminary +greeting. “You are an angel. I knew it. But +that a man’s an angel is no reason for his being an +imbecile. Read this.”</p> + +<p>She plucked a paper from her apron pocket and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +thrust it into his hand. He read it, and blinked in +amazement.</p> + +<p>“Where did you get this, Mère Bidoux?”</p> + +<p>“Where I got many more. In your drawer. +The letters you were saving for this infamous +scoundrel. I wanted to know what she had written +to him.”</p> + +<p>“Mère Bidoux!” cried Aristide. “Those letters +were sacred!”</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said Mme. Bidoux, unabashed. “There +is nothing sacred to a sapper or an old grandmother +who loves an imbecile. I have read the letters, <em>et +voilà, et voilà, et voilà!</em>” And she emptied her +pockets of all the letters, minus the envelopes, that +Fleurette had written.</p> + +<p>And, after one swift glance at the first letter, +Aristide had no compunction in reading. They +were all addressed to himself.</p> + +<p>They were very short, ill-written in a poor little +uncultivated hand. But they all contained one message, +that of her love for Aristide. Whatever illusions +she may have had concerning Batterby had +soon vanished. She knew, with the unerring instinct +of woman, that he had betrayed and deserted +her. Aristide’s pious fraud had never deceived her +for a second. Too gentle, too timid to let him +know what was in her heart, she had written the +secret patiently week after week, hoping every time +that curiosity, or pity, or something—she knew not +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> +what—would induce him to open the idle letter, and +wondering in her simple peasant’s soul at the +delicacy that caused him to refrain. Once she had +boldly given him the envelope unclosed.</p> + +<a name="img244" id="img244"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 465px;"> +<img src="images/img244.jpg" width="465" height="500" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">he read it, and blinked in amazement</span> +</div> + +<p>“She died for want of love, <em>parbleu</em>,” said Aristide, +“and there was mine quivering in my heart +and trembling on my lips all the time.... She +had <em>des yeux de pervenche</em>. Ah! <em>nom d’un chien!</em> +It is only with me that Providence plays such +tricks.”</p> + +<p>He walked to the window and looked out into +the grey street. Presently I heard him murmuring +the words of the old French song:—</p> + +<p class="center"> +Elle est morte en février;<br /> + Pauvre Colinette!</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF THE MIRACLE</strong></p> + + +<p>You have seen how Aristide, by attaching +himself to the Hôtel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse +as a kind of glorified courier, had founded +the Agence Pujol. As he, personally, was the +Agence, and the Agence was he, it happened that +when he was not in attendance at the hotel, the +Agence faded into space, and when he made his +appearance in the vestibule and hung up his placard +by the bureau, the Agence at once burst again into +the splendour of existence. Apparently the fitful +career of the Agence Pujol lasted some years. +Whenever a chance of more remunerative employment +turned up, Aristide took it and dissolved the +Agence. Whenever outrageous fortune chivied +him with slings and arrows penniless to Paris, there +was always the Agence waiting to be resuscitated.</p> + +<p>It was during one of these periodic flourishings +of the Agence Pujol that Aristide met the Ducksmiths.</p> + +<p>Business was slack, few guests were at the hotel, +and of those few none desired to be personally +conducted to the Louvre or Notre Dame or the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> +monument in the Place de la Bastille. They mostly +wore the placid expression of folks engaged in business +affairs instead of the worried look of pleasure-seekers.</p> + +<p>“My good Bocardon,” said Aristide, lounging +by the bureau and addressing his friend the manager, +“this is becoming desperate. In another +minute I shall take you out by main force and show +you the Pont Neuf.”</p> + +<p>At that moment the door of the stuffy salon +opened, and a travelling Briton, whom Aristide +had not seen before, advanced to the bureau and +inquired his way to the Madeleine. Aristide turned +on him like a flash.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said he, extracting documents from his +pockets with lightning rapidity, “nothing would +give me greater pleasure than to conduct you +thither. My card. My tariff. My advertisement.” +He pointed to the placard. “I am the managing director +of the Agence Pujol, under the special patronage +of this hotel. I undertake all travelling arrangements, +from the Moulin Rouge to the Pyramids, +and, as you see, my charges are moderate.”</p> + +<p>The Briton, holding the documents in a pudgy +hand, looked at the swift-gestured director with +portentous solemnity. Then, with equal solemnity, +he looked at Bocardon.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Ducksmith,” said the latter, “you can +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +repose every confidence in Monsieur Aristide +Pujol.”</p> + +<p>“Umph!” said Mr. Ducksmith.</p> + +<p>After another solemn inspection of Aristide, he +stuck a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his fleshy +nose and perused the documents. He was a fat, +heavy man of about fifty years of age, and his +scanty hair was turning grey. His puffy cheeks +hung jowl-like, giving him the appearance of some +odd dog—a similarity greatly intensified by the +eye-sockets, the lower lids of which were dragged +down in the middle, showing the red like a bloodhound’s; +but here the similarity ended, for the +man’s eyes, dull and blue, had the unspeculative +fixity of a rabbit’s. His mouth, small and weak, +dribbled away at the corners into the jowls which, +in their turn, melted into two or three chins. He +was decently dressed in grey tweeds, and wore a +diamond ring on his little finger.</p> + +<p>“Umph!” said he, at last; and went back to the +salon.</p> + +<p>As soon as the door closed behind him Aristide +sprang into an attitude of indignation.</p> + +<p>“Did you ever see such a bear! If I ever saw +a bigger one I would eat him without salt or pepper. +<em>Mais nom d’un chien</em>, such people ought to +be made into sausages!”</p> + +<p>“<em>Flègme britannique!</em>” laughed Bocardon.</p> + +<p>Half an hour passed, and Mr. Ducksmith made +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +no reappearance from the salon. In the forlorn +hope of a client Aristide went in after him. He +found Mr. Ducksmith, glasses on nose, reading a +newspaper, and a plump, black-haired lady, with an +expressionless face, knitting a grey woollen sock. +Why they should be spending their first morning—and +a crisp, sunny morning, too—in Paris in the +murky staleness of this awful little salon, Aristide +could not imagine. As he entered, Mr. Ducksmith +regarded him vacantly over the top of his gold-rimmed +glasses.</p> + +<p>“I have looked in,” said Aristide, with his ingratiating +smile, “to see whether you are ready to +go to the Madeleine.”</p> + +<p>“Madeleine?” the lady inquired, softly, pausing +in her knitting.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” Aristide came forward, and, hand +on heart, made her the lowest of bows. “Madame, +have I the honour of speaking to Madame Ducksmith? +Enchanted, madame, to make your acquaintance,” +he continued, after a grunt from Mr. +Ducksmith had assured him of the correctness of +his conjecture. “I am Monsieur Aristide Pujol, +director of the Agence Pujol, and my poor services +are absolutely at your disposal.”</p> + +<p>He drew himself up, twisted his moustache, and +met her eyes—they were rather sad and tired—with +the roguish mockery of his own. She turned +to her husband.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> +“Are you thinking of going to the Madeleine, +Bartholomew?”</p> + +<p>“I am, Henrietta,” said he. “I have decided to +do it. And I have also decided to put ourselves +in the charge of this gentleman. Mrs. Ducksmith +and I are accustomed to all the conveniences of +travel—I may say that we are great travellers—and +I leave it to you to make the necessary arrangements. +I prefer to travel at so much per head per +day.”</p> + +<p>He spoke in a wheezy, solemn monotone, from +which all elements of life and joy seemed to have +been eliminated. His wife’s voice, though softer +in timbre, was likewise devoid of colour.</p> + +<p>“My husband finds that it saves us from responsibilities,” +she remarked.</p> + +<p>“And over-charges, and the necessity of learning +foreign languages, which at our time of life would +be difficult. During all our travels we have not +been to Paris before, owing to the impossibility of +finding a personally-conducted tour of an adequate +class.”</p> + +<p>“Then, my dear sir,” cried Aristide, “it is Providence +itself that has put you in the way of the +Agence Pujol. I will now conduct you to the +Madeleine without the least discomfort or danger.”</p> + +<p>“Put on your hat, Henrietta,” said Mr. Ducksmith, +“while this gentleman and I discuss terms.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ducksmith gathered up her knitting and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> +retired, Aristide dashing to the door to open it for +her. This gallantry surprised her ever so little, for +a faint flush came into her cheek and the shadow of +a smile into her eyes.</p> + +<p>“I wish you to understand, Mr. Pujol,” said Mr. +Ducksmith, “that being, I may say, a comparatively +rich man, I can afford to pay for certain luxuries; +but I made a resolution many years ago, which has +stood me in good stead during my business life, +that I would never be cheated. You will find me +liberal but just.”</p> + +<p>He was as good as his word. Aristide, who had +never in his life exploited another’s wealth to his +own advantage, suggested certain terms, on the +basis of so much per head per day, which Mr. +Ducksmith declared, with a sigh of relief, to be +perfectly satisfactory.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” said he, after further conversation, +“you will be good enough to schedule out a month’s +railway tour through France, and give me an inclusive +estimate for the three of us. As I say, Mrs. +Ducksmith and I are great travellers—we have +been to Norway, to Egypt, to Morocco and the +Canaries, to the Holy Land, to Rome, and lovely +Lucerne—but we find that attention to the trivial +detail of travel militates against our enjoyment.”</p> + +<p>“My dear sir,” said Aristide, “trust in me, and +your path and that of the charming Mrs. Ducksmith +will be strewn with roses.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +Whereupon Mrs. Ducksmith appeared, arrayed +for walking out, and Aristide, having ordered a +cab, drove with them to the Madeleine. They +alighted in front of the majestic flight of steps. +Mr. Ducksmith stared at the classical portico supported +on its Corinthian columns with his rabbit-like, +unspeculative gaze—he had those filmy blue +eyes that never seem to wink—and after a moment +or two turned away.</p> + +<p>“Umph!” said he.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ducksmith, dutiful and silent, turned away +also.</p> + +<p>“This sacred edifice,” Aristide began, in his best +cicerone manner, “was built, after a classic model, +by the great Napoleon, as a Temple of Fame. It +was afterwards used as a church. You will observe—and, +if you care to, you can count, as a conscientious +American lady did last week—the fifty-six +Corinthian columns. You will see they are Corinthian +by the acanthus leaves on the capitals. For +the vulgar, who have no architectural knowledge, +I have <em>memoria technica</em> for the instant recognition +of the three orders—Cabbages, Corinthian; horns, +Ionic; anything else, Doric. We will now mount +the steps and inspect the interior.”</p> + +<p>He was dashing off in his eager fashion, when +Mr. Ducksmith laid a detaining hand on his arm.</p> + +<p>“No,” said he, solemnly. “I disapprove of +Popish interiors. Take us to the next place.”</p> + +<a name="img254" id="img254"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/img254.jpg" width="400" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">he might as well have pointed out the marvels of kubla khan’s +pleasure-dome to a couple of guinea-pigs</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +He entered the waiting victoria. His wife +meekly followed.</p> + +<p>“I suppose the Louvre is the next place?” said +Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I leave it to you,” said Mr. Ducksmith.</p> + +<p>Aristide gave the order to the cabman and took +the little seat in the cab facing his employers. On +the way down the Rue Royale and the Rue de +Rivoli he pointed out the various buildings of interest—Maxim’s, +the Cercle Royal, the Ministère +de la Marine, the Hôtel Continental. Two expressionless +faces, two pairs of unresponsive eyes, met +his merry glance. He might as well have pointed +out the marvels of Kubla Khan’s pleasure-dome to +a couple of guinea-pigs.</p> + +<p>The cab stopped at the entrance to the galleries +of the Louvre. They entered and walked up the +great staircase on the turn of which the Winged +Victory stands, with the wind of God in her vesture, +proclaiming to each beholder the deathless, +ever-soaring, ever-conquering spirit of man, +and heralding the immortal glories of the souls, +wind-swept likewise by the wind of God, +that are enshrined in the treasure-houses beyond.</p> + +<p>“There!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Umph! No head,” said Mr. Ducksmith, passing +it by with scarcely a glance.</p> + +<p>“Would it cost very much to get a new one?” +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +asked Mrs. Ducksmith, timidly. She was three or +four paces behind her spouse.</p> + +<p>“It would cost the blood and tears and laughter +of the human race,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>(“That was devilish good, wasn’t it?” remarked +Aristide, when telling me this story. He always +took care not to hide his light under the least possibility +of a bushel.)</p> + +<p>The Ducksmiths looked at him in their lacklustre +way, and allowed themselves to be guided +into the picture-galleries, vaguely hearing Aristide’s +comments, scarcely glancing at the pictures, +and manifesting no sign of interest in anything +whatever. From the Louvre they drove to Notre +Dame, where the same thing happened. The +venerable pile, standing imperishable amid the vicissitudes +of centuries (the phrase was that of the +director of the Agence Pujol), stirred in their +bosoms no perceptible emotion. Mr. Ducksmith +grunted and declined to enter; Mrs. Ducksmith +said nothing.</p> + +<p>As with pictures and cathedrals, so it was with +their food at lunch. Beyond a solemn statement +to the effect that in their quality of practised +travellers they made a point of eating the food and +drinking the wine of the country, Mr. Ducksmith +did not allude to the meal. At any rate, thought +Aristide, they don’t clamour for underdone chops +and tea. So far they were human. Nor did they +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> +maintain an awful silence during the repast. On +the contrary, Mr. Ducksmith loved to talk—in a +dismal, pompous way—chiefly of British politics. +His method of discourse was to place himself in +the position of those in authority and to declare +what he would do in any given circumstances. +Now, unless the interlocutor adopts the same +method and declares what <em>he</em> would do, conversation +is apt to become one-sided. Aristide, having +no notion of a policy should he find himself exercising +the functions of the British Chancellor of the +Exchequer, cheerfully tried to change the ground +of debate.</p> + +<p>“What would you do, Mr. Ducksmith, if you +were King of England?”</p> + +<p>“I should try to rule the realm like a Christian +statesman,” replied Mr. Ducksmith.</p> + +<p>“I should have a devil of a time!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Ducksmith.</p> + +<p>“I should have a—ah, I see—<em>pardon</em>. I +should——” He looked from one paralyzing face +to the other, and threw out his arms. “<em>Parbleu!</em>” +said he, “I should decapitate your Mrs. Grundy, +and make it compulsory for bishops to dance once +a week in Trafalgar Square. <em>Tiens!</em> I would have +it a capital offence for any English cook to prepare +hashed mutton without a license, and I would banish +all the bakers of the kingdom to Siberia—ah! +your English bread, which you have to eat stale +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +so as to avoid a horrible death!—and I would open +two hundred thousand <em>cafés</em>—<em>mon Dieu!</em> how +thirsty I have been there!—and I would make +every English work-girl do her hair properly, and +I would ordain that everybody should laugh three +times a day, under pain of imprisonment for life.”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid, Mr. Pujol,” remarked Mr. Ducksmith, +seriously, “you would not be acting as a constitutional +monarch. There is such a thing as the +British Constitution, which foreigners are bound +to admire, even though they may not understand.”</p> + +<p>“To be a king must be a great responsibility,” +said Mrs. Ducksmith.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” said Aristide, “you have uttered a +profound truth.” And to himself he murmured, +though he should not have done so, “<em>Nom de Dieu! +Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!</em>”</p> + +<p>After lunch they drove to Versailles, which they +inspected in the same apathetic fashion; then they +returned to the hotel, where they established themselves +for the rest of the day in the airless salon, +Mr. Ducksmith reading English newspapers and +his wife knitting a grey woollen sock.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon vieux!</em>” said Aristide to Bocardon, “they +are people of a nightmare. They are automata endowed +with the faculty of digestion. <em>Ce sont des +gens invraisemblables.</em>”</p> + +<p>Paris providing them, apparently, with no entertainment, +they started, after a couple of days, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> +<em>Aristide duce et auspice Pujol</em>, on their railway tour +through France, to Aristide a pilgrimage of unimaginable +depression. They began with Chartres, +continued with the Châteaux of the Loire, and began +to work their way south. Nothing that Aristide +could do roused them from their apathy. They +were exasperatingly docile, made few complaints, +got up, entrained, detrained, fed, excursioned, slept, +just as they were bidden. But they looked at nothing, +enjoyed nothing (save perhaps English newspapers +and knitting), and uttered nothing by way +of criticism or appreciation when Aristide attempted +to review the wonders through which they +had passed. They did not care to know the history, +authentic or Pujolic, of any place they visited; they +were impressed by no scene of grandeur, no corner +of exquisite beauty. To go on and on, in a dull, +non-sentient way, so long as they were spared all +forethought, all trouble, all afterthought, seemed to +be their ideal of travel. Sometimes Aristide, after +a fruitless effort to capture their interest, would +hold his head, wondering whether he or the Ducksmith +couple were insane. It was a dragon-fly personally +conducting two moles through a rose-garden.</p> + +<p>Once only, during the early part of their journey, +did a gleam of joyousness pierce the dull +glaze of Mr. Ducksmith’s eyes. He had procured +from the bookstall of a station a pile of English +newspapers, and was reading them in the train, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +while his wife knitted the interminable sock. Suddenly +he folded a <em>Daily Telegraph</em>, and handed it +over to Aristide so that he should see nothing but a +half-page advertisement. The great capitals leaped +to Aristide’s eyes:—</p> + +<p class="center"> +“DUCKSMITH’S DELICATE JAMS.”</p> + +<p>“I am <em>the</em> Ducksmith,” said he. “I started and +built up the business. When I found that I could +retire, I turned it into a limited liability company, +and now I am free and rich and able to enjoy the +advantages of foreign travel.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ducksmith started, sighed, and dropped a +stitch.</p> + +<p>“Did you also make pickles?” asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I did manufacture pickles, but I made my name +in jam. In the trade you will find it an honoured +one.”</p> + +<p>“It is that in every nursery in Europe,” Aristide +declared, with polite hyperbole.</p> + +<p>“I have done my best to deserve my reputation,” +said Mr. Ducksmith, as impervious to flattery as to +impressions of beauty.</p> + +<p>“<em>Pécaïre!</em>” said Aristide to himself, “how can I +galvanize these corpses?”</p> + +<p>As the soulless days went by this problem grew +to be Aristide’s main solicitude. He felt strangled, +choked, borne down by an intolerable weight. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +What could he do to stir their vitality? Should he +fire off pistols behind them, just to see them jump? +But would they jump? Would not Mr. Ducksmith +merely turn his rabbit-eyes, set in their bloodhound +sockets, vacantly on him, and assume that the detonations +were part of the tour’s programme? +Could he not fill him up with conflicting alcohols, +and see what inebriety would do for him? But +Mr. Ducksmith declined insidious potations. He +drank only at meal-times, and sparingly. Aristide +prayed that some Thaïs might come along, cast her +spell upon him, and induce him to wink. He himself +was powerless. His raciest stories fell on dull +ears; none of his jokes called forth a smile. At +last, having taken them to nearly all the historic +châteaux of Touraine, without eliciting one cry of +admiration, he gave Mr. Ducksmith up in despair +and devoted his attention to the lady.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ducksmith parted her smooth black hair in +the middle and fastened it in a knob at the back of +her head. Her clothes were good and new, but +some desolate dressmaker had contrived to invest +them with an air of hopeless dowdiness. At her +bosom she wore a great brooch, containing intertwined +locks of a grandfather and grandmother +long since defunct. Her mind was as drearily +equipped as her person. She had a vague idea that +they were travelling in France; but if Aristide had +told her that it was Japan she would have meekly +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +accepted the information. She had no opinions. +Still she was a woman, and Aristide, firm in his +conviction that when it comes to love-making all +women are the same, proceeded forthwith to make +love to her.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” said he, one morning—she was knitting +in the vestibule of the Hôtel du Faisan at +Tours, Mr. Ducksmith being engaged, as usual, in +the salon with his newspapers—“how much more +charming that beautiful grey dress would be if it +had a spot of colour.”</p> + +<p>His audacious hand placed a deep crimson rose +against her corsage, and he stood away at arm’s +length, his head on one side, judging the effect.</p> + +<p>“Magnificent! If madame would only do me +the honour to wear it.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ducksmith took the flower hesitatingly.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid my husband does not like colour,” +she said.</p> + +<p>“He must be taught,” cried Aristide. “You +must teach him. I must teach him. Let us begin +at once. Here is a pin.”</p> + +<p>He held the pin delicately between finger and +thumb, and controlled her with his roguish eyes. +She took the pin and fixed the rose to her dress.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what Mr. Ducksmith will say.”</p> + +<p>“What he ought to say, madame, is ‘Bountiful +Providence, I thank Thee for giving me such a +beautiful wife.’”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +Mrs. Ducksmith blushed and, to conceal her face, +bent it over her resumed knitting. She made +woman’s time-honoured response.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you ought to say such things, Mr. +Pujol.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, madame,” said he, lowering his voice; “I +have tried not to; but, <em>que voulez-vous</em>, it was +stronger than I. When I see you going about like +a little grey mouse”—the lady weighed at least +twelve stone—“you, who ought to be ravishing the +eyes of mankind, I feel indignation here”—he +thumped his chest; “my Provençal heart is stirred. +It is enough to make one weep.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Pujol,” she +said, dropping stitches recklessly.</p> + +<p>“Ah, madame,” he whispered—and the rascal’s +whisper on such occasions could be very seductive—“that +I will never believe.”</p> + +<p>“I am too old to dress myself up in fine clothes,” +she murmured.</p> + +<p>“That’s an illusion,” said he, with a wide-flung +gesture, “that will vanish at the first experiment.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ducksmith emerged from the salon, <em>Daily +Telegraph</em> in hand. Mrs. Ducksmith shot a timid +glance at him and the knitting needles clicked together +nervously. But the vacant eyes of the heavy +man seemed no more to note the rose on her bosom +than they noted any point of beauty in landscape or +building.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +Aristide went away chuckling, highly diverted +by the success of his first effort. He had touched +some hidden springs of feeling. Whatever might +happen, at any rate, for the remainder of the tour +he would not have to spend his emotional force in +vain attempts to knock sparks out of a jelly-fish. +He noticed with delight that at dinner that evening +Mrs. Ducksmith, still wearing the rose, had modified +the rigid sweep of her hair from the mid-parting. +It gave just a wavy hint of coquetry. He +made her a little bow and whispered, “Charming!” +Whereupon she coloured and dropped her eyes. +And during the meal, while Mr. Ducksmith discoursed +on bounty-fed sugar, his wife and Aristide +exchanged, across the table, the glances +of conspirators. After dinner he approached +her.</p> + +<p>“Madame, may I have the privilege of showing +you the moon of Touraine?”</p> + +<p>She laid down her knitting. “Bartholomew, +will you come out?”</p> + +<p>He looked at her over his glasses and shook his +head.</p> + +<p>“What is the good of looking at moonshine? +The moon itself I have already seen.”</p> + +<p>So Aristide and Mrs. Ducksmith sat by themselves +outside the hotel, and he expounded to her +the beauty of moonlight and its intoxicating effect +on folks in love.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +“Wouldn’t you like,” said he, “to be lying on +that white burnished cloud with your beloved kissing +your feet?”</p> + +<p>“What odd things you think of.”</p> + +<p>“But wouldn’t you?” he insinuated.</p> + +<p>Her bosom heaved and swelled on a sigh. She +watched the strip of silver for a while and then +murmured a wistful “Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I can tell you of many odd things,” said Aristide. +“I can tell you how flowers sing and what +colour there is in the notes of birds. And how a +cornfield laughs, and how the face of a woman +who loves can outdazzle the sun. <em>Chère madame</em>,” +he went on, after a pause, touching her little plump +hand, “you have been hungering for beauty and +thirsting for sympathy all your life. Isn’t that +so?”</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>“You have always been misunderstood.”</p> + +<p>A tear fell. Our rascal saw the glistening drop +with peculiar satisfaction. Poor Mrs. Ducksmith! +It was a child’s game. <em>Enfin</em>, what woman could +resist him? He had, however, one transitory +qualm of conscience, for, with all his vagaries, +Aristide was a kindly and honest man. Was it +right to disturb those placid depths? Was it right +to fill this woman with romantic aspirations that +could never be gratified? He himself had not the +slightest intention of playing Lothario and of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +wrecking the peace of the Ducksmith household. +The realization of the saint-like purity of his aims +reassured him. When he wanted to make love to a +woman, <em>pour tout de bon</em>, it would not be to Mrs. +Ducksmith.</p> + +<p>“Bah!” said he to himself. “I am doing a noble +and disinterested act. I am restoring sight to the +blind. I am giving life to one in a state of suspended +animation. <em>Tron de l’Air!</em> I am playing +the part of a soul-reviver! And, <em>parbleu!</em> it isn’t +Jean or Jacques that can do that. It takes an Aristide +Pujol!”</p> + +<p>So, having persuaded himself, in his Southern +way, that he was executing an almost divine mission, +he continued, with a zest now sharpened by +an approving conscience, to revive Mrs. Ducksmith’s +soul.</p> + +<p>The poor lady, who had suffered the blighting +influence of Mr. Ducksmith for twenty years with +never a ray of counteracting warmth from the outside, +expanded like a flower to the sun under the +soul-reviving process. Day by day she exhibited +some fresh timid coquetry in dress and manner. +Gradually she began to respond to Aristide’s suggestions +of beauty in natural scenery and exquisite +building. On the ramparts of Angoulême, daintiest +of towns in France, she gazed at the smiling +valleys of the Charente and the Son stretching +away below, and of her own accord touched his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +arm lightly and said: “How beautiful!” She appealed +to her husband.</p> + +<p>“Umph!” said he.</p> + +<p>Once more (it had become a habit) she exchanged +glances with Aristide. He drew her a little farther +along, under pretext of pointing out the dreamy +sweep of the Charente.</p> + +<p>“If he appreciates nothing at all, why on earth +does he travel?”</p> + +<p>Her eyelids fluttered upwards for a fraction of +a second.</p> + +<p>“It’s his mania,” she said. “He can never rest +at home. He must always be going on—on.”</p> + +<p>“How can you endure it?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She sighed. “It is better now that you can +teach me how to look at things.”</p> + +<p>“Good!” thought Aristide. “When I leave them +she can teach him to look at things and revive his +soul. Truly I deserve a halo.”</p> + +<p>As Mr. Ducksmith appeared to be entirely unperceptive +of his wife’s spiritual expansion, Aristide +grew bolder in his apostolate. He complimented +Mrs. Ducksmith to his face. He presented +her daily with flowers. He scarcely waited for +the heavy man’s back to be turned to make love to +her. If she did not believe that she was the most +beautiful, the most ravishing, the most delicate-souled +woman in the world, it was through no fault +of Aristide. Mr. Ducksmith went his pompous, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +unseeing way. At every stopping-place stacks of +English daily papers awaited him. Sometimes, +while Aristide was showing them the sights of a +town—to which, by the way, he insisted on being +conducted—he would extract a newspaper from his +pocket and read with dull and dogged stupidity. +Once Aristide caught him reading the advertisements +for cooks and housemaids. In these circumstances +Mrs. Ducksmith spiritually expanded at an +alarming rate; and, correspondingly, dwindled the +progress of Mr. Ducksmith’s sock.</p> + +<p>They arrived at Perigueux, in Perigord, land of +truffles, one morning, in time for lunch. Towards +the end of the meal the <em>maître d’hôtel</em> helped them +to great slabs of <em>pâté de foie gras</em>, made in the +house—most of the hotel-keepers in Perigord make +<em>pâté de foie gras</em>, both for home consumption and +for exportation—and waited expectant of their appreciation. +He was not disappointed. Mr. Ducksmith, +after a hesitating glance at the first mouthful, +swallowed it, greedily devoured his slab, and, +after pointing to his empty plate, said, solemnly:—</p> + +<p>“<em>Plou.</em>”</p> + +<p>Like Oliver, he asked for more.</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens!</em>” thought Aristide, astounded. “Is he, +too, developing a soul?”</p> + +<p>But, alas! there were no signs of it when they +went their dreary round of the town in the usual +ramshackle open cab. The cathedral of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> +Saint-Front, extolled by Aristide and restored by Abadie—a +terrible fellow who has capped with tops of pepper-castors +every pre-Gothic building in France—gave +him no thrill; nor did the picturesque, tumble-down +ancient buildings on the banks of the Dordogne, +nor the delicate Renaissance façades in the +cool, narrow Rue du Lys.</p> + +<p>“We will now go back to the hotel,” said Mr. +Ducksmith.</p> + +<p>“But have we seen it all?” asked his wife.</p> + +<p>“By no means,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“We will go back to the hotel,” repeated her +husband, in his expressionless tones. “I have seen +enough of Perigueux.”</p> + +<p>This was final. They drove back to the hotel. +Mr. Ducksmith, without a word, went straight into +the salon, leaving Aristide and his wife standing in +the vestibule.</p> + +<p>“And you, madame,” said Aristide; “are you +going to sacrifice the glory of God’s sunshine to +the manufacture of woollen socks?”</p> + +<p>She smiled—she had caught the trick at last—and +said, in happy submission: “What would you +have me do?”</p> + +<p>With one hand he clasped her arm; with the +other, in a superb gesture, he indicated the sunlit +world outside.</p> + +<p>“Let us drain together,” cried he, “the loveliness +of Perigueux to its dregs!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> +Greatly daring, she followed him. It was a +rapturous escapade—the first adventure of her life. +She turned her comely face to him and he saw +smiles round her lips and laughter in her eyes. +Aristide, worker of miracles, strutted by her side +choke-full of vanity. They wandered through the +picturesque streets of the old town with the gaiety +of truant children, peeping through iron gateways +into old courtyards, venturing their heads into the +murk of black stairways, talking (on the part +of Aristide) with mothers who nursed chuckling +babes on their doorsteps, crossing the thresholds, +hitherto taboo, of churches, and meeting the mystery +of coloured glass and shadows and the heavy +smell of incense.</p> + +<p>Her hand was on his arm when they entered the +flagged courtyard of an ancient palace, a stately +medley of the centuries, with wrought ironwork in +the balconies, tourelles, oriels, exquisite Renaissance +ornaments on architraves, and a great central +Gothic doorway, with great window-openings +above, through which was visible the stone staircase +of honour leading to the upper floors. In a corner +stood a mediæval well, the sides curiously carved. +One side of the courtyard blazed in sunshine, the +other lay cool and grey in shadow. Not a human +form or voice troubled the serenity of the spot. On +a stone bench against the shady wall Aristide and +Mrs. Ducksmith sat down to rest.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +“<em>Voilà!</em>” said Aristide. “Here one can suck in +all the past like an omelette. They had the feeling +for beauty, those old fellows.”</p> + +<p>“I have wasted twenty years of my life,” said +Mrs. Ducksmith, with a sigh. “Why didn’t I meet +someone like you when I was young? Ah, you +don’t know what my life has been, Mr. Pujol.”</p> + +<p>“Why not Aristide when we are alone? Why +not, Henriette?”</p> + +<p>He too had the sense of adventure, and his eyes +were more than usually compelling and his voice +more seductive. For some reason or other, undivined +by Aristide—over-excitement of nerves, +perhaps—she burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“<em>Henriette! Henriette, ne pleurez pas.</em>”</p> + +<p>His arm crept round her—he knew not how; her +head sank on his shoulder, she knew not why—faithlessness +to her lord was as far from her +thoughts as murder or arson; but for one poor +little moment in a lifetime it is good to weep on +someone’s shoulder and to have someone’s sympathetic +arm around one’s waist.</p> + +<p>“<em>Pauvre petite femme!</em> And is it love she is +pining for?”</p> + +<p>She sobbed; he lifted her chin with his free hand—and +what less could mortal apostle do?—he kissed +her on her wet cheek.</p> + +<p>A bellow like that of an angry bull caused them +to start asunder. They looked up, and there was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +Mr. Ducksmith within a few yards of them, his +face aflame, his rabbit’s eyes on fire with rage. He +advanced, shook his fists in their faces.</p> + +<p>“I’ve caught you! At last, after twenty years, +I’ve caught you!”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” cried Aristide, starting up, “allow +me to explain.”</p> + +<p>He swept Aristide aside like an intercepting +willow-branch, and poured forth a torrent of +furious speech upon his wife.</p> + +<p>“I have hated you for twenty years. Day by +day I have hated you more. I’ve watched you, +watched you, watched you! But, you sly jade, +you’ve been too clever for me till now. Yes; I +followed you from the hotel. I dogged you. I +foresaw what would happen. Now the end has +come. I’ve hated you for twenty years—ever since +you first betrayed me——”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ducksmith, who had sat with overwhelmed +head in her hands, started bolt upright, and looked +at him like one thunderstruck.</p> + +<p>“I betrayed you?” she gasped, in bewilderment. +“My God! When? How? What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>He laughed—for the first time since Aristide had +known him—but it was a ghastly laugh, that made +the jowls of his cheeks spread horribly to his ears; +and again he flooded the calm, stately courtyard +with the raging violence of words. The veneer of +easy life fell from him. He became the low-born, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +petty tradesman, using the language of the hands +of his jam factory. No, he had never told her. +He had awaited his chance. Now he had found it. +He called her names....</p> + +<a name="img274" id="img274"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 461px;"> +<img src="images/img274.jpg" width="461" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">“i’ve caught you! at last, after twenty years,<br /> +i’ve caught you!”</span> +</div> + +<p>Aristide interposed, his Southern being athrob +with the insults heaped upon the woman.</p> + +<p>“Say that again, monsieur,” he shouted, “and I +will take you up in my arms like a sheep and +throw you down that well.”</p> + +<p>The two men glared at one another, Aristide +standing bent, with crooked fingers, ready to spring +at the other’s throat. The woman threw herself +between them.</p> + +<p>“For Heaven’s sake,” she cried, “listen to me! +I have done no wrong. I have done no wrong now—I +never did you wrong, so help me God!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ducksmith laughed again, and his laugh re-echoed +round the quiet walls and up the vast staircase +of honour.</p> + +<p>“You’d be a fool not to say it. But now I’ve +done with you. Here, you, sir. Take her away—do +what you like with her; I’ll divorce her. I’ll +give you a thousand pounds never to see her +again.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Goujat! Triple goujat!</em>” cried Aristide, more +incensed than ever at this final insult.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ducksmith, deadly white, swayed sideways, +and Aristide caught her in his arms and dragged +her to the stone bench. The fat, heavy man looked +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> +at them for a second, laughed again, and sped +through the <em>porte-cochère</em>. Mrs. Ducksmith quickly +recovered from her fainting attack, and gently +pushed the solicitous Aristide away.</p> + +<p>“Merciful Heaven!” she murmured. “What is +to become of me?”</p> + +<p>The last person to answer the question was +Aristide. For once in his adventurous life resource +failed him. He stared at the woman for +whom he cared not the snap of a finger, and who, +he knew, cared not the snap of a finger for him, +aghast at the havoc he had wrought. If he had +set out to arouse emotion in these two sluggish +breasts he had done so with a vengeance. He had +thought he was amusing himself with a toy cannon, +and he had fired a charge of dynamite.</p> + +<p>He questioned her almost stupidly—for a man +in the comic mask does not readily attune himself +to tragedy. She answered with the desolate frankness +of a lost soul. And then the whole meaning—or +the lack of meaning—of their inanimate lives +was revealed to him. Absolute estrangement had +followed the birth of their child nearly twenty years +ago. The child had died after a few weeks. Since +then he saw—and the generous blood of his heart +froze as the vision came to him—that the vulgar, +half-sentient, rabbit-eyed bloodhound of a man +had nursed an unexpressed, dull, implacable resentment +against the woman. It did not matter +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +that the man’s suspicion was vain. To Aristide +the woman’s blank amazement at the preposterous +charge was proof enough; to the man the +thing was real. For nearly twenty years the man +had suffered the cancer to eat away his vitals, and +he had watched and watched his blameless wife, +until now, at last, he had caught her in this folly. +No wonder he could not rest at home; no wonder +he was driven, Io-wise, on and on, although he +hated travel and all its discomforts, knew no word +of a foreign language, knew no scrap of history, +had no sense of beauty, was utterly ignorant, as +every single one of our expensively State-educated +English lower classes is, of everything that matters +on God’s earth; no wonder that, in the unfamiliarity +of foreign lands, feeling as helpless as a ballet-dancer +in a cavalry charge, he looked to Cook, or +Lunn, or the Agence Pujol to carry him through +his uninspired pilgrimage. For twenty years he +had shown no sign of joy or sorrow or anger, +scarcely even of pleasure or annoyance. A tortoise +could not have been more unemotional. The unsuspected +volcano had slumbered. To-day came +disastrous eruption. And what was a mere laughing, +crying child of a man like Aristide Pujol in +front of a Ducksmith volcano?</p> + +<p>“What is to become of me?” wailed Mrs. Ducksmith +again.</p> + +<p>“<em>Ma foi!</em>” said Aristide, with a shrug of his +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +shoulders. “What’s going to become of anyone? +Who can foretell what will happen in a minute’s +time? <em>Tiens!</em>” he added, kindly laying his hand +on the sobbing woman’s shoulder. “Be comforted, +my poor Henriette. Just as nothing in this world +is as good as we hope, so nothing is as bad as we +fear. <em>Voyons!</em> All is not lost yet. We must return +to the hotel.”</p> + +<p>She weepingly acquiesced. They walked through +the quiet streets like children whose truancy had +been discovered and who were creeping back to +condign punishment at school. When they reached +the hotel, Mrs. Ducksmith went straight up to the +woman’s haven, her bedroom.</p> + +<p>Aristide tugged at his Vandyke beard in dire +perplexity. The situation was too pregnant with +tragedy for him to run away and leave the pair to +deal with it as best they could. But what was he +to do? He sat down in the vestibule and tried to +think. The landlord, an unstoppable gramophone +of garrulity, entering by the street-door and bearing +down upon him, put him to flight. He, too, +sought his bedroom, a cool apartment with a balcony +outside the French window. On this balcony, +which stretched along the whole range of +first-floor bedrooms, he stood for a while, pondering +deeply. Then, in an absent way, he overstepped the +limit of his own room-frontage. A queer sound +startled him. He paused, glanced through the open +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +window, and there he saw a sight which for the +moment paralyzed him.</p> + +<a name="img280" id="img280"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 334px;"> +<img src="images/img280.jpg" width="334" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">there he saw a sight which for the moment paralyzed him</span> +</div> + +<p>Recovering command of his muscles, he tiptoed +his way back. He remembered now that the three +rooms adjoined. Next to his was Mr. Ducksmith’s, +and then came Mrs. Ducksmith’s. It was Mr. Ducksmith +whom he had seen. Suddenly his dark face +became luminous with laughter, his eyes glowed, he +threw his hat in the air and danced with glee about +the room. Having thus worked off the first intoxication +of his idea, he flung his few articles of +attire and toilet necessaries into his bag, strapped +it, and darted, in his dragon-fly way, into the corridor +and tapped softly at Mrs. Ducksmith’s +door. She opened it. He put his finger to +his lips.</p> + +<p>“Madame,” he whispered, bringing to bear on +her all the mocking magnetism of his eyes, “if you +value your happiness you will do exactly what I +tell you. You will obey me implicitly. You must +not ask questions. Pack your trunks at once. In +ten minutes’ time the porter will come for them.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him with a scared face. “But +what am I going to do?”</p> + +<p>“You are going to revenge yourself on your +husband.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t want to,” she replied, piteously.</p> + +<p>“I do,” said he. “Begin, <em>chère madame</em>. Every +moment is precious.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +In a state of stupefied terror the poor woman +obeyed him. He saw her start seriously on her task +and then went downstairs, where he held a violent +and gesticulatory conversation with the landlord +and with a man in a green baize apron summoned +from some dim lair of the hotel. After that he +lit a cigarette and smoked feverishly, walking up +and down the pavement. In ten minutes’ time his +luggage with that of Mrs. Ducksmith was placed +upon the cab. Mrs. Ducksmith appeared trembling +and tear-stained in the vestibule.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The man in the green baize apron knocked at +Mr. Ducksmith’s door and entered the room.</p> + +<p>“I have come for the baggage of monsieur,” +said he.</p> + +<p>“Baggage? What baggage?” asked Mr. Ducksmith, +sitting up.</p> + +<p>“I have descended the baggage of Monsieur Pujol,” +said the porter in his stumbling English, “and +of madame, and put them in a cab, and I naturally +thought monsieur was going away, too.”</p> + +<p>“Going away!” He rubbed his eyes, glared at +the porter, and dashed into his wife’s room. It +was empty. He dashed into Aristide’s room. It +was empty, too. Shrieking inarticulate anathema, +he rushed downstairs, the man in the green baize +apron following at his heels.</p> + +<p>Not a soul was in the vestibule. No cab was at +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +the door. Mr. Ducksmith turned upon his stupefied +satellite.</p> + +<p>“Where are they?”</p> + +<p>“They must have gone already. I filled the +cab. Perhaps Monsieur Pujol and madame have +gone before to make arrangements.”</p> + +<p>“Where have they gone to?”</p> + +<p>“In Perigueux there is nowhere to go to with +baggage but the railway station.”</p> + +<p>A decrepit vehicle with a gaudy linen canopy +hove in sight. Mr. Ducksmith hailed it +as the last victims of the Flood must have +hailed the Ark. He sprang into it and drove to +the station.</p> + +<p>There, in the <em>salle d’attente</em>, he found Aristide +mounting guard over his wife’s luggage. He hurled +his immense bulk at his betrayer.</p> + +<p>“You blackguard! Where is my wife?”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” said Aristide, puffing a cigarette, +sublimely impudent and debonair, “I decline to answer +any questions. Your wife is no longer your +wife. You offered me a thousand pounds to take +her away. I am taking her away. I did not deign +to disturb you for such a trifle as a thousand +pounds, but, since you are here——”</p> + +<p>He smiled engagingly and held out his curved +palm. Mr. Ducksmith foamed at the corners of the +small mouth that disappeared into the bloodhound +jowls.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +“My wife!” he shouted. “If you don’t want +me to throw you down and trample on you.”</p> + +<p>A band of loungers, railway officials, peasants, +and other travellers awaiting their trains, gathered +round. As the altercation was conducted in English, +which they did not understand, they could only +hope for the commencement of physical hostilities.</p> + +<p>“My dear sir,” said Aristide, “I do not understand +you. For twenty years you hold an innocent +and virtuous woman under an infamous suspicion. +She meets a sympathetic soul, and you come across +her pouring into his ear the love and despair of a +lifetime. You have more suspicion. You tell me +you will give me a thousand pounds to go away +with her. I take you at your word. And now you +want to stamp on me. <em>Ma foi!</em> it is not reasonable.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ducksmith seized him by the lapels of his +coat. A gasp of expectation went round the crowd. +But Aristide recognized an agonized appeal in the +eyes now bloodshot.</p> + +<p>“My wife!” he said hoarsely. “I want my wife. +I can’t live without her. Give her back to me. +Where is she?”</p> + +<p>“You had better search the station,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>The heavy man unconsciously shook him in his +powerful grasp, as a child might shake a doll.</p> + +<p>“Give her to me! Give her to me, I say! She +won’t regret it.”</p> + +<a name="img286" id="img286"></a> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 370px;"> +<img src="images/img286.jpg" width="370" height="600" alt="image" title="" /> +<span class="caption">mr. ducksmith seized him by the lapels of his coat</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +“You swear that?” asked Aristide, with lightning +quickness.</p> + +<p>“I swear it, by God! Where is she?”</p> + +<p>Aristide disengaged himself, waved his hand +airily towards Perigueux, and smiled blandly.</p> + +<p>“In the salon of the hotel, waiting for you to +prostrate yourself on your knees before her.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ducksmith gripped him by the arm.</p> + +<p>“Come back with me. If you’re lying I’ll kill +you.”</p> + +<p>“The luggage?” queried Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Confound the luggage!” said Mr. Ducksmith, +and dragged him out of the station.</p> + +<p>A cab brought them quickly to the hotel. Mr. +Ducksmith bolted like an obese rabbit into the salon. +A few moments afterwards Aristide, entering, +found them locked in each other’s arms.</p> + +<p>They started alone for England that night, and +Aristide returned to the directorship of the Agence +Pujol. But he took upon himself enormous credit +for having worked a miracle.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>“One thing I can’t understand,” said I, after he +had told me the story, “is what put this sham +elopement into your crazy head. What did you see +when you looked into Mr. Ducksmith’s bedroom?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, <em>mon vieux</em>, I did not tell you. If +I had told you, you would not have been +surprised at what I did. I saw a sight that +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> +would have melted the heart of a stone. I +saw Ducksmith wallowing on his bed and sobbing +as if his heart would break. It filled my soul with +pity. I said: ‘If that mountain of insensibility can +weep and sob in such agony, it is because he loves—and +it is I, Aristide, who have reawakened that +love.’”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said I, “why on earth didn’t you go and +fetch Mrs. Ducksmith and leave them together?”</p> + +<p>He started from his chair and threw up both +hands.</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu!</em>” cried he. “You English! You are +a charming people, but you have no romance. You +have no dramatic sense. I will help myself to a +whisky and soda.”</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF THE FICKLE GODDESS</strong></p> + + +<p>It may be remembered that Aristide Pujol had +aged parents, browned and wrinkled children +of the soil, who had passed all their days in +the desolation of Aigues-Mortes, the little fortified, +derelict city in the salt marshes of Provence. Although +they regarded him with the same unimaginative +wonder as a pair of alligators might regard +an Argus butterfly, their undoubted but +freakish progeny, and although Aristide soared high +above their heads in all phases of thought and emotion, +the mutual ties remained strong and perdurable. +Scarcely a year passed without Aristide +struggling somehow south to visit <em>ses vieux</em>, as he +affectionately called them, and whenever Fortune +shed a few smiles on him, one or two at least were +sure to find their way to Aigues-Mortes in the shape +of, say, a silver-mounted umbrella for his father or +a deuce of a Paris hat for the old lady’s Sunday +wear. Monsieur and Madame Pujol had a sacred +museum of these unused objects—the pride of their +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> +lives. Aristide was entirely incomprehensible, but +he was a good son. A bad son in France is rare.</p> + +<p>But once Aristide nearly killed his old people +outright. An envelope from him contained two +large caressive slips of bluish paper, which when +scrutinized with starting eyes turned out to be two +one-thousand-franc notes. Mon Dieu! What had +happened? Had Aristide been robbing the Bank +of France? They stood paralyzed and only recovered +motive force when a neighbour suggested +their reading the accompanying letter. It did not +explain things very clearly. He was in Aix-les-Bains, +a place which they had never heard of, making +his fortune. He was staying at the Hôtel de +l’Europe, where Queen Victoria (they had heard +of Queen Victoria) had been contented to reside, +he was a glittering figure in a splendid beau-monde, +and if <em>ses vieux</em> would buy a few cakes and a bottle +of vin cacheté with the enclosed trifle, to celebrate +his prosperity, he would deem it the privilege of a +devoted son. But Pujol senior, though wondering +where the devil he had fished all that money from, +did not waste it in profligate revelry. He took the +eighty pounds to the bank and exchanged the perishable +paper for one hundred solid golden louis +which he carried home in a bag curiously bulging +beneath his woollen jersey and secreted it with the +savings of his long life in the mattress of the conjugal +bed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +“If only he hasn’t stolen it,” sighed the mother.</p> + +<p>“What does it matter, since it is sewn up there +all secure?” said the old man. “No one can +find it.”</p> + +<p>The Provençal peasant is as hard-headed and +practical as a Scottish miner, and if left alone by +the fairies would produce no imaginative effect +whatever upon his generation; but in his progeniture +he is more preposterously afflicted with changelings +than any of his fellows the world over, which, +though ethnologically an entirely new proposition, +accounts for a singular number of things and <em>inter +alia</em> for my dragon-fly friend, Aristide Pujol.</p> + +<p>Now, Aristide, be it said at the outset, had not +stolen the money. It (and a vast amount more) +had been honestly come by. He did not lie when +he said that he was staying at the Hôtel de l’Europe, +Aix-les-Bains, honoured by the late Queen Victoria +(pedantic accuracy requires the correction that +the august lady rented the annexe, the Villa Victoria, +on the other side of the shady way—but no +matter—an hotel and its annexe are the same +thing) nor did he lie in boasting of his prodigious +prosperity. Aristide was in clover. For the first, +and up to now as I write, the only, time in his life +he realized the gorgeous visions of pallid years. +He was leading the existence of the amazing rich. +He could drink champagne—not your miserable +<em>tisane</em> at five francs a quart—but real champagne, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +with year of vintage and <em>gôut américan</em> or <em>gôut +anglais</em> marked on label, fabulously priced; he +could dine lavishly at the Casino restaurants or at +Nikola’s, prince of restaurateurs, among the opulent +and the fair; he could clothe himself in attractive +raiment; he could step into a fiacre and bid the +man drive and not care whither he went or what +he paid; he could also distribute five-franc pieces +to lame beggars. He scattered his money abroad +with both hands, according to his expansive temperament; +and why not, when he was drawing +wealth out of an inexhaustible fount? The process +was so simple, so sure. All you had to do was +to believe in the cards on which you staked your +money. If you knew you were going to win, you +won. Nothing could be easier.</p> + +<p>He had drifted into Aix-les-Bains from Geneva on +the lamentable determination of a commission agency +in the matter of some patent fuel, with a couple of +louis in his pocket forlornly jingling the tale of his +entire fortune. As this was before the days when +you had to exhibit certificates of baptism, marriage, +sanity and bank-balance before being allowed to +enter the baccarat rooms, Aristide paid his two +francs and made a bee line for the tables. I am +afraid Aristide was a gambler. He was never so +happy as when taking chances; his whole life was a +gamble, with Providence holding the bank. Before +the night was over he had converted his two +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +louis into fifty. The next day they became five +hundred. By the end of a week his garments were +wadded with bank notes whose value amounted to +a sum so stupendous as to be beyond need of computation. +He was a celebrity in the place and +people nudged each other as he passed by. And +Aristide passed by with a swagger, his head high +and the end of his pointed beard sticking joyously +up in the air.</p> + +<p>We see him one August morning, in the plentitude +of his success, lounging in a wicker chair on +the shady lawn of the Hôtel de l’Europe. He wore +white buckskin shoes—I begin with these as they +were the first point of his person to attract the +notice of the onlooker—lilac silk socks, a white +flannel suit with a zig-zag black stripe, a violet tie +secured by a sapphire and diamond pin, and a rakish +panama hat. On his knees lay the <em>Matin</em>; the fingers +of his left hand held a fragrant corona; his +right hand was uplifted in a gesture, for he was +talking. He was talking to a couple of ladies who +sat near by, one a mild-looking Englishwoman of +fifty, dressed in black, the other, her daughter, a +beautiful girl of twenty-four. That Aristide should +fly to feminine charms, like moth to candle, was a +law of his being; that he should lie, with shriveled +wings, at Miss Errington’s feet was the obvious result. +Her charms were of the winsome kind to +which he was most susceptible. She had an oval +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +face, a little mouth like crumpled rose petals (so +Aristide himself described it), a complexion the +mingling of ivory and peach blossom (Aristide +again), a straight little nose, appealing eyes of the +deepest blue veiled by sweeping lashes and fascinating +fluffiness of dark hair over a pure brow. +She had a graceful figure, and the slender foot below +her white piqué skirt was at once the envy and +admiration of Aix-les-Bains.</p> + +<p>Aristide talked. The ladies listened, with obvious +amusement. In the easy hotel way he had +fallen into their acquaintance. As the man of +wealth, the careless player who took five-hundred-louis +banks at the table with the five-louis minimum, +and cleared out the punt, he felt it necessary to explain +himself. I am afraid he deviated from the +narrow path of truth.</p> + +<p>“What perfect English you speak,” Miss Errington +remarked, when he had finished his harangue +and had put the corona between his lips. Her +voice was a soft contralto.</p> + +<p>“I have mixed much in English society, since I +was a child,” replied Aristide, in his grandest +manner. “Fortune has made me know many +of your county families and members of Parliament.”</p> + +<p>Miss Errington laughed. “Our M. P.’s are rather +a mixed lot, Monsieur Pujol.”</p> + +<p>“To me an English Member of Parliament is a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +high-bred conservative. I do not recognize the +others,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Unfortunately we have to recognize them,” said +the elder lady with a smile.</p> + +<p>“Not socially, madame. They exist as mechanical +factors of the legislative machine; but that is +all.” He swelled as if the blood of the Montmorencys +and the Colignys boiled in his veins. “We +do not ask them into our drawing rooms. We do +not allow them to marry our daughters. We only +salute them with cold politeness when we pass them +in the street.”</p> + +<p>“It’s astonishing,” said Miss Errington, “how +strongly the aristocratic principle exists in republican +France. Now, there’s our friend, the Comte de +Lussigny, for instance——”</p> + +<p>A frown momentarily darkened the cloudless +brow of Aristide Pujol. He did not like the +Comte de Lussigny——</p> + +<p>“With Monsieur de Lussigny,” he interposed, “it +is a matter of prejudice, not of principle.”</p> + +<p>“And with you?”</p> + +<p>“The reasoned philosophy of a lifetime, mademoiselle,” +answered Aristide. He turned to Mrs. +Errington.</p> + +<p>“How long have you known Monsieur de Lussigny, +madame?”</p> + +<p>She looked at her daughter. “It was in Monte +Carlo the winter before last, wasn’t it, Betty? +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +Since then we have met him frequently in England +and Paris. We came across him, just lately, at +Trouville. I think he’s charming, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“He’s a great gambler,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>Betty Errington laughed again. “But so are +you. So is mamma. So am I, in my poor little +way.”</p> + +<p>“We gamble for amusement,” said Aristide +loftily.</p> + +<p>“I’m sure I don’t,” cried Miss Betty, with merry +eyes—and she looked adorable—“When I put my +despised five-franc piece down on the table I want +desperately to win, and when the horrid croupier +rakes it up I want to hit him—Oh! I want to hit +him hard.”</p> + +<p>“And when you win?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I don’t think of the croupier at all,” +said Miss Betty.</p> + +<p>Her mother smiled indulgently and exchanged a +glance with Aristide. This pleased him; there was +an agreeable little touch of intimacy in it. It confirmed +friendly relations with the mother. What +were his designs as regards the daughter he did not +know. They were not evil, certainly. For all his +southern blood, Latin traditions and devil-may-care +upbringing, Aristide, though perhaps not reaching +our divinely set and therefore unique English standard +of morality, was a decent soul; further, partly +through his pedagogic sojourn among them, and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +partly through his childish adoration of the frank, +fair-cheeked, northern goddesses talking the quick, +clear speech, who passed him by when he was a +hunted little devil of a <em>chasseur</em> in the Marseilles +café, he had acquired a peculiarly imaginative reverence +for English girls. The reverence, indeed, +extended to English ladies generally. Owing to +the queer circumstances of his life they were the +only women of a class above his own, with whom +he had associated on terms of equality. He had, +then, no dishonorable designs as regards Miss Betty +Errington. On the other hand, the thoughts of +marriage had as yet not entered his head. You +see, a Frenchman and an Englishman or an American, +view marriage from entirely different angles. +The Anglo-Saxon of honest instincts, attracted towards +a pretty girl at once thinks of the possibilities +of marriage; if he finds them infinitely remote, +he makes romantic love to her in the solitude of his +walks abroad or of his sleepless nights, and, in +her presence, is as dumb and dismal as a freshly +hooked trout. The equally honest Gaul does +nothing of the kind. The attraction in itself +is a stimulus to adventure. He makes love to her, +just because it is the nature of a lusty son of Adam +to make love to a pretty daughter of Eve. He lives +in the present. The rest doesn’t matter. He leaves +it to chance. I am speaking, be it understood, not +of deep passions—that is a different matter +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +altogether—but of the more superficial sexual attractions +which we, as a race, take so seriously and +puritanically, often to our most disastrous undoing, +and which the Latin light-heartedly regards as +essential, but transient phenomena of human existence. +Aristide made the most respectful love in +the world to Betty Errington, because he could not +help himself. “<em>Tonnerre de Dieu!</em>” he cried when +from my Britannic point of view, I talked to him +on the subject. “You English whom I try to understand +and can never understand are so funny! +It would have been insulting to Miss Betty Errington—<em>tiens!</em>—a +purple hyacinth of spring—that was +what she was—not to have made love to her. Love +to a pretty woman is like a shower of rain to hyacinths. +It passes, it goes. Another one comes. +<em>Qu’importe?</em> But the shower is necessary—Ah! +<em>sacré gredin</em>, when will you comprehend?”</p> + +<p>All this to make as clear as an Englishman, in +the confidence of a changeling child of Provence +can hope to do, the attitude of Aristide Pujol towards +the sweet and innocent Betty Errington with +her mouth like crumpled rose-petals, her ivory and +peach-blossom complexion, her soft contralto voice, +et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, as per foregoing bald +description, and as per what can, by imaginative +effort, be pictured from the Pujolic hyperbole, by +which I, the unimportant narrator of these chronicles, +was dazzled and overwhelmed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +“I’m afraid I don’t think of the croupier at all,” +said Betty.</p> + +<p>“Do you think of no one who brings you good +fortune?” asked Aristide. He threw the <em>Matin</em> on +the grass, and, doubling himself up in his chair +regarded her earnestly. “Last night you put five +louis into my bank——”</p> + +<p>“And I won forty. I could have hugged +you.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you? Ah!” His arms spread wide +and high. “What I have lost!”</p> + +<p>“Betty!” cried Mrs. Errington.</p> + +<p>“Alas, Madame,” said Aristide, “that is the despair +of our artificial civilization. It prohibits so +much spontaneous expression of emotion.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll forgive me, Monsieur Pujol,” said Mrs. +Errington dryly, “but I think our artificial civilization +has its advantages.”</p> + +<p>“If you will forgive me, in your turn,” said Aristide, +“I see a doubtful one advancing.”</p> + +<p>A man approached the group and with profuse +gestures took off a straw hat which he thrust under +his right arm, exposing an amazingly flat head on +which the closely cropped hair stood brush-fashion +upright. He had an insignificant pale face to +which a specious individuality was given by a moustache +with ends waxed up to the eyes and by a +monocle with a tortoise shell rim. He was dressed +(his valet had misjudged things—and valets like +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +the rest of us are fallible) in what was yesterday a +fairly white flannel suit.</p> + +<p>“Madame—Mademoiselle.” He shook hands with +charming grace. “Monsieur.” He bowed stiffly. +Aristide doffed his Panama hat with adequate +ceremony. “May I be permitted to join you?”</p> + +<p>“With pleasure, Monsieur de Lussigny,” said +Mrs. Errington.</p> + +<p>Monsieur de Lussigny brought up a chair and +sat down.</p> + +<p>“What time did you get to bed, last night?” +asked Betty Errington. She spoke excellently pure +French, and so did her mother.</p> + +<p>“Soon after we parted, mademoiselle, quite early +for me but late for you. And you look this morning +as if you had gone to bed at sundown and got +up at dawn.”</p> + +<p>Miss Betty’s glance responsive to the compliment +filled Aristide with wrath. What right had the +Comte de Lussigny, a fellow who consorted with +Brazilian Rastaquouères and perfumed Levantine +nondescripts, to win such a glance from Betty Errington?</p> + +<p>“If Mademoiselle can look so fresh,” said he, “in +the artificial atmosphere of Aix, what is there of +adorable that she must not resemble in the innocence +of her Somersetshire home?”</p> + +<p>“You cannot imagine it, Monsieur,” said the +Count; “but I have had the privilege to see it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> +“I hope Monsieur Pujol will visit us also in our +country home, when we get back,” said Mrs. Errington +with intent to pacificate. “It is modest, +but it is old-world and has been in our family for +hundreds of years.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, these old English homes!” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Would you care to hear about it?”</p> + +<p>“I should,” said he.</p> + +<p>He drew his chair courteously a foot or so +nearer that of the mild lady; Monsieur de +Lussigny took instant advantage of the move +to establish himself close to Miss Betty. Aristide +turned one ear politely to Mrs. Errington’s +discourse, the other ragingly and impotently to the +whispered conversation between the detached +pair.</p> + +<p>Presently a novel fell from the lady’s lap. Aristide +sprang to his feet and restored it. He remained +standing. Mrs. Errington consulted a +watch. It was nearing lunch time. She rose, too. +Aristide took her a pace or two aside.</p> + +<p>“My dear Mrs. Errington,” said he, in English. +“I do not wish to be indiscreet—but you come from +your quiet home in Somerset and your beautiful +daughter is so young and inexperienced, and I am +a man of the world who has mingled in all the +society of Europe—may I warn you against admitting +the Comte de Lussigny too far into your intimacy.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> +She turned an anxious face. “Monsieur Pujol, +is there anything against the Count?”</p> + +<p>Aristide executed the large and expressive shrug +of the Southerner.</p> + +<p>“I play high at the tables for my amusement—I +know the principal players, people of high standing. +Among them Monsieur de Lussigny’s reputation +is not spotless.”</p> + +<p>“You alarm me very much,” said Mrs. Errington, +troubled.</p> + +<p>“I only put you on your guard,” said he.</p> + +<p>The others who had risen and followed, caught +them up. At the entrance to the hotel the ladies +left the men elaborately saluting. The latter, alone, +looked at each other.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur.”</p> + +<p>Each man raised his hat, turned on his heel and +went his way. Aristide betook himself to the café +on the Place Carnot on the side of the square facing +the white Etablissement des Bains, with a stern +sense of having done his duty. It was monstrous +that this English damask rose should fall a prey to +so detestable a person as the Comte de Lussigny. +He suspected him of disgraceful things. If only he +had proof. Fortune, ever favoring him, stood at +his elbow. She guided him straight to a table in +the front row of the terrace where sat a black-haired, +hard-featured though comely youth deep +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +in thought, in front of an untouched glass of beer. +At Aristide’s approach he raised his head, smiled, +nodded and said: “Good morning, sir. Will you +join me?”</p> + +<p>Aristide graciously accepted the invitation and +sat down. The young man was another hotel acquaintance, +one Eugene Miller of Atlanta, Georgia, +a curious compound of shrewdness and simplicity, +to whom Aristide had taken a fancy. He was +twenty-eight and ran a colossal boot-factory in +partnership with another youth and had a consuming +passion for stained-glass windows. From books +he knew every square foot of old stained-glass in +Europe. But he had crossed the Atlantic for the +first time only six weeks before, and having indulged +his craving immoderately, had rested for a +span at Aix-les-Bains to recover from æsthetic indigestion. +He had found these amenities agreeable +to his ingenuous age. He had also, quite recently, +come across the Comte de Lussigny. Hence +the depth of thought in which Aristide discovered +him. Now, the fact that North is North and South +is South and that never these twain shall meet is +a proposition all too little considered. One of these +days when I can retire from the dull but exacting +avocation of tea-broking in the City, I think I shall +write a newspaper article on the subject. Anyhow, +I hold the theory that the Northerners of all nations +have a common characteristic and the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +Southerners of all nations have a common characteristic, +and that it is this common characteristic in each +case that makes North seek and understand North +and South seek and understand South. I will not +go further into the general proposition; but as a +particular instance I will state that the American +of the South and the Frenchman of the South +found themselves in essential sympathy. Eugene +Miller had the unfearing frankness of Aristide +Pujol.</p> + +<p>“I used rather to look down upon Europe as a +place where people knew nothing at all,” said he. +“We’re sort of trained to think it’s an extinct volcano, +but it isn’t. It’s alive. My God! It’s alive. +It’s Hell in the shape of a Limburger cheese. I +wish the whole population of Atlanta, Georgia, +would come over and just see. There’s a lot to be +learned. I thought I knew how to take care of +myself, but this tortoise-shell-eyed Count taught me +last night that I couldn’t. He cleaned me out of +twenty-five hundred dollars——”</p> + +<p>“How?” asked Aristide, sharply.</p> + +<p>“Ecarté.”</p> + +<p>Aristide brought his hand down with a bang on +the table and uttered anathemas in French and +Provençal entirely unintelligible to Eugene Miller; +but the youth knew by instinct that they were +useful, soul-destroying curses and he felt comforted.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> +“Ecarté! You played ecarté with Lussigny? +But my dear young friend, do you know anything +of ecarté?”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Miller. “I used to play it as +a child with my sisters.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know the <em>jeux de règle</em>?”</p> + +<p>“The what?”</p> + +<p>“The formal laws of the game—the rules of discards——”</p> + +<p>“Never heard of them,” said Eugene Miller.</p> + +<p>“But they are as absolute as the Code Napoléon,” +cried Aristide. “You can’t play without knowing +them. You might as well play chess without knowing +the moves.”</p> + +<p>“Can’t help it,” said the young man.</p> + +<p>“Well, don’t play ecarté any more.”</p> + +<p>“I must,” said Miller.</p> + +<p>“<em>Comment?</em>”</p> + +<p>“I must. I’ve fixed it up to get my revenge +this afternoon—in my sitting room at the hotel.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s imbecile!”</p> + +<p>The sweep of Aristide’s arm produced prismatic +chaos among a tray-full of drinks which the waiter +was bringing to the family party at the next table. +“It’s imbecile,” he cried, as soon as order was +apologetically and pecuniarily restored. “You are +a little mutton going to have its wool taken +off.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve fixed it up,” said Miller. “I’ve never gone +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> +back on an engagement yet in my own country +and I’m not going to begin this side.”</p> + +<p>Aristide argued. He argued during the mechanical +absorption of four glasses of <em>vermouth-cassis</em>—after +which prodigious quantity of black +currant syrup he rose and took the Gadarene youth +to Nikola’s where he continued the argument during +déjeuner. Eugene Miller’s sole concession was that +Aristide should be present at the encounter and, +backing his hand, should have the power (given by +the rules of the French game) to guide his play. +Aristide agreed and crammed his young friend +with the <em>jeux de règle</em> and <em>pâté de foie gras</em>.</p> + +<p>The Count looked rather black when he found +Aristide Pujol in Miller’s sitting room. He could +not, however, refuse him admittance to the game. +The three sat down, Aristide by Miller’s side, so +that he could overlook the hand and, by pointing, +indicate the cards that it was advisable to play. +The game began. Fortune favored Mr. Eugene +Miller. The Count’s brow grew blacker.</p> + +<p>“You are bringing your own luck to our friend, +Monsieur Pujol,” said he, dealing the cards.</p> + +<p>“He needs it,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“<em>Le roi</em>,” said the Count, turning up the king.</p> + +<p>The Count won the vole, or all five tricks, and +swept the stakes towards him. Then, fortune +quickly and firmly deserted Mr. Miller. The Count +besides being an amazingly fine player, held +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +amazingly fine hands. The pile of folded notes in front +of him rose higher and higher. Aristide tugged at +his beard in agitation. Suddenly, as the Count +dealt a king as trump card, he sprang to his feet +knocking over the chair behind him.</p> + +<p>“You cheat, monsieur. You cheat!”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur!” cried the outraged dealer.</p> + +<p>“What has he done?”</p> + +<p>“He has been palming kings and neutralizing the +cut. I’ve been watching. Now I catch him,” cried +Aristide in great excitement. “<em>Ah, sale voleur! +Maintenant je vous tiens!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” said the Comte de Lussigny with +dignity, stuffing his winnings into his jacket pocket. +“You insult me. It is an infamy. Two of my +friends will call upon you.”</p> + +<p>“And Monsieur Miller and I will kick them over +Mont Revard.”</p> + +<p>“You cannot treat <em>gens d’honneur</em> in such a way, +monsieur.” He turned to Miller, and said haughtily +in his imperfect English, “Did you see the cheat, +you?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t say that I did,” replied the young man. +“On the other hand that torch-light procession of +kings doesn’t seem exactly natural.”</p> + +<p>“But you did not see anything! <em>Bon!</em>”</p> + +<p>“But I saw. Isn’t that enough, <em>hein</em>?” shouted +Aristide brandishing his fingers in the Count’s face. +“You come here and think there’s nothing easier +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +than to cheat young foreigners who don’t know the +rules of ecarté. You come here and think you can +carry off rich young English misses. Ah, <em>sale +escroc!</em> You never thought you would have to +reckon with Aristide Pujol. You call yourself +the Comte de Lussigny. Bah! I know you——” +he didn’t, but that doesn’t matter—“your <em>dossier</em> +is in the hands of the prefect of Police. I am +going to get that <em>dossier</em>. Monsieur Lepine is my +intimate friend. Every autumn we shoot together. +Aha! You send me your two galley-birds and see +what I do to them.”</p> + +<p>The Comte de Lussigny twirled the tips of his +moustache almost to his forehead and caught up his +hat.</p> + +<p>“My friends shall be officers in the uniform of +the French Army,” he said, by the door.</p> + +<p>“And mine shall be two gendarmes,” retorted +Aristide. “<em>Nom de Dieu!</em>” he cried, after the +other had left the room. “We let him take the +money!”</p> + +<p>“That’s of no consequence. He didn’t get away +with much anyway,” said young Miller. “But +he would have if you hadn’t been here. If ever +I can do you a return service, just ask.”</p> + +<p>Aristide went out to look for the Erringtons. +But they were not to be found. It was only late +in the afternoon that he met Mrs. Errington in the +hall of the hotel. He dragged her into a corner +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> +and in his impulsive fashion told her everything. +She listened white faced, in great distress.</p> + +<p>“My daughter’s engaged to him. I’ve only just +learned,” she faltered.</p> + +<p>“Engaged? <em>Sacrebleu!</em> Ah, <em>le goujat!</em>”—for +the second he was desperately, furiously, jealously +in love with Betty Errington. “<em>Ah, le sale type! +Voyons!</em> This engagement must be broken off. +At once! You are her mother.”</p> + +<p>“She will hear of nothing against him.”</p> + +<p>“You will tell her this. It will be a blow; +but——”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Errington twisted a handkerchief between +helpless fingers. “Betty is infatuated. She won’t +believe it.” She regarded him piteously. “Oh, +Monsieur Pujol, what can I do? You see she has +an independent fortune and is over twenty-one. I +am powerless.”</p> + +<p>“I will meet his two friends,” exclaimed Aristide +magnificently—“and I will kill him. <em>Voilà!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Oh, a duel? No! How awful!” cried the mild +lady horror-stricken.</p> + +<p>He thrust his cane dramatically through a sheet +of a newspaper, which he had caught up from a +table. “I will run him through the body like that”—Aristide +had never handled a foil in his life—“and +when he is dead, your beautiful daughter will +thank me for having saved her from such an execrable +fellow.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> +“But you mustn’t fight. It would be too dreadful. +Is there no other way?”</p> + +<p>“You must consult first with your daughter,” +said Aristide.</p> + +<p>He dined in the hotel with Eugene Miller. Neither +the Erringtons nor the Comte de Lussigny +were anywhere to be seen. After dinner, however, +he found the elder lady waiting for him in the hall. +They walked out into the quiet of the garden. She +had been too upset to dine, she explained, having +had a terrible scene with Betty. Nothing but absolute +proofs of her lover’s iniquity would satisfy her. +The world was full of slanderous tongues; the +noblest and purest did not escape. For herself, she +had never been comfortable with the Comte de Lussigny. +She had noticed too that he had always +avoided the best French people in hotels. She +would give anything to save her daughter. She +wept.</p> + +<p>“And the unhappy girl has written him compromising +letters,” she lamented.</p> + +<p>“They must be got back.”</p> + +<p>“But how? Oh, Monsieur Pujol, do you think +he would take money for them?”</p> + +<p>“A scoundrel like that would take money for his +dead mother’s shroud,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“A thousand pounds?”</p> + +<p>She looked very haggard and helpless beneath +the blue arc-lights. Aristide’s heart went out to +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> +her. He knew her type—the sweet gentlewoman +of rural England who comes abroad to give her +pretty daughter a sight of life, ingenuously confident +that foreign watering-places are as innocent +as her own sequestered village.</p> + +<p>“That is much money, <em>chère madame</em>,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“I am fairly well off,” said Mrs. Errington.</p> + +<p>Aristide reflected. At the offer of a smaller sum +the Count would possibly bluff. But to a Knight +of Industry, as he knew the Count to be, a certain +thousand pounds would be a great temptation. And +after all to a wealthy Englishwoman what was a +thousand pounds?</p> + +<p>“Madame,” said he, “if you offer him a thousand +pounds for the letters, and a written confession +that he is not the Comte de Lussigny, but a common +adventurer, I stake my reputation that he will +accept.”</p> + +<p>They walked along for a few moments in silence; +the opera had begun at the adjoining Villa des +Fleurs and the strains floated through the still August +air. After a while she halted and laid her +hand on his sleeve.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Pujol, I have never been faced with +such a thing, before. Will you undertake for me +this delicate and difficult business?”</p> + +<p>“Madame,” said he, “my life is at the service +of yourself and your most exquisite daughter.” +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> +She pressed his hand. “Thank God, I’ve got a +friend in this dreadful place,” she said brokenly. +“Let me go in.” And when they reached the +lounge, she said, “Wait for me here.”</p> + +<p>She entered the lift. Aristide waited. Presently +the lift descended and she emerged with a slip of +paper in her hand.</p> + +<p>“Here is a bearer cheque, Monsieur Pujol, for +a thousand pounds. Get the letters and the confession +if you can, and a mother’s blessing will go +with you.”</p> + +<p>She left him and went upstairs again in the lift. +Aristide athirst with love, living drama and unholy +hatred of the Comte de Lussigny, cocked his black, +soft-felt evening hat at an engaging angle on his +head and swaggered into the Villa des Fleurs. As +he passed the plebeian crowd round the petits-chevaux +table—these were the days of little horses +and not the modern equivalent of <em>la boule</em>—he +threw a louis on the square marked 5, waited for +the croupier to push him his winnings, seven louis +and his stake on the little white horse, and walked +into the baccarat room. A bank was being called +for thirty louis at the end table.</p> + +<p>“<em>Quarante</em>,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“<em>Ajugé à quarante louis</em>,” cried the croupier, no +one bidding higher.</p> + +<p>Aristide took the banker’s seat and put down his +forty louis. Looking round the long table he saw +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> +the Comte de Lussigny sitting in the punt. The +two men glared at each other defiantly. Someone +went “banco.” Aristide won. The fact of his +holding the bank attracted a crowd round the table. +The regular game began. Aristide won, lost, won +again. Now it must be explained, without going +into the details of the game, that the hand against +the bank is played by the members of the punt in +turn.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, before dealing the cards, Aristide +asked, “<em>A qui la main?</em>”</p> + +<p>“<em>C’est à Monsieur</em>,” said the croupier, indicating +Lussigny.</p> + +<p>“<em>Il y a une suite</em>,” said Aristide, signifying, as +was his right, that he would retire from the bank +with his winnings. “The face of that gentleman +does not please me.”</p> + +<p>There was a hush at the humming table. The +Count grew dead white and looked at his fingernails. +Aristide superbly gathered up his notes and +gold, and tossing a couple of louis to the croupiers, +left the table, followed by all eyes. It was one +of the thrilling moments of Aristide’s life. He had +taken the stage, commanded the situation. He had +publicly offered the Comte de Lussigny the most +deadly insult and the Comte de Lussigny sat down +beneath it like a lamb. He swaggered slowly +through the crowded room, twirling his moustache, +and went into the cool of the moonlit deserted +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> +garden beyond, where he waited gleefully. He +had a puckish knowledge of human nature. After +a decent interval, and during the absorbing interest +of the newly constituted bank, the Comte de Lussigny +slipped unnoticed from the table and went in +search of Aristide. He found him smoking a large +corona and lounging in one wicker chair with his +feet on another, beside a very large whisky and +soda.</p> + +<p>“Ah, it’s you,” said he without moving.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Count furiously.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of kicking your +friends over Mont Revard,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Look here, <em>mon petit</em>, this has got to finish,” +cried the Count.</p> + +<p>“<em>Parfaitement.</em> I should like nothing better than +to finish. But let us finish like well-bred people,” +said Aristide suavely. “We don’t want the whole +Casino as witnesses. You’ll find a chair over there. +Bring it up.”</p> + +<p>He was enjoying himself immensely. The Count +glared at him, turned and banged a chair over by +the side of the table.</p> + +<p>“Why do you insult me like this?”</p> + +<p>“Because,” said Aristide, “I’ve talked by telephone +this evening with my good friend Monsieur +Lepine, Prefect of Police of Paris.”</p> + +<p>“You lie,” said the Count.</p> + +<p>“<em>Vous verrez.</em> In the meantime, perhaps we +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> +might have a little conversation. Will you have a +whisky and soda? It is one of my English habits.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said the Count emphatically.</p> + +<p>“You permit me then?” He drank a great +draught. “You are wrong. It helps to cool one’s +temper. <em>Eh bien</em>, let us talk.”</p> + +<p>He talked. He put before the Count the situation +of the beautiful Miss Errington. He conducted +the scene like the friend of the family whose +astuteness he had admired as a boy in the melodramas +that found their way to Marseilles.</p> + +<p>“Look,” said he, at last, having vainly offered +from one hundred to eight hundred pounds for poor +Betty Errington’s compromising letters. “Look——” +He drew the cheque from his note-case. +“Here are twenty-five thousand francs. The signature +is that of the charming Madame Errington +herself. The letters, and a little signed word, just +a little word. ‘Mademoiselle, I am a <em>chevalier d’industrie</em>. +I have a wife and five children. I am not +worthy of you. I give you back your promise.’ +Just that. And twenty-five thousand francs, <em>mon +ami</em>.”</p> + +<p>“Never in life!” exclaimed the Count rising. +“You continue to insult me.”</p> + +<p>Aristide for the first time abandoned his lazy +and insolent attitude and jumped to his feet.</p> + +<p>“And I’ll continue to insult you, <em>canaille</em> that +you are, all through that room,” he cried, with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +a swift-flung gesture towards the brilliant doorway. +“You are dealing with Aristide Pujol. Will +you never understand? The letters and a confession +for twenty-five thousand francs.”</p> + +<p>“Never in life,” said the Count, and he moved +swiftly away.</p> + +<p>Aristide caught him by the collar as he stood on +the covered terrace, a foot or two from the +threshold of the gaming-room.</p> + +<p>“I swear to you, I’ll make a scandal that you +won’t survive.”</p> + +<p>The Count stopped and pushed Aristide’s hand +away.</p> + +<p>“I admit nothing,” said he. “But you are a gambler +and so am I. I will play you for those documents +against twenty-five thousand francs.”</p> + +<p>“Eh?” said Aristide, staggered for the moment.</p> + +<p>The Comte de Lussigny repeated his proposition.</p> + +<p>“<em>Bon</em>,” said Aristide. “<em>Trés bon. C’est entendu. +C’est fait.</em>”</p> + +<p>If Beelzebub had arisen and offered to play +beggar-my-neighbour for his soul, Aristide would +have agreed; especially after the large whisky and +soda and the Mumm Cordon Rouge and the Napoleon +brandy which Eugene Miller had insisted on +his drinking at dinner.</p> + +<p>“I have a large room at the hotel,” said he.</p> + +<p>“I will join you,” said the Count. “Monsieur,” +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> +he took off his hat very politely. “Go first. I +will be there in three minutes.”</p> + +<p>Aristide trod on air during the two minutes’ walk +to the Hôtel de l’Europe. At the bureau he ordered +a couple of packs of cards and a supply of +drinks and went to his palatial room on the ground +floor. In a few moments the Comte de Lussigny +appeared. Aristide offered him a two francs corona +which was ceremoniously accepted. Then he tore +the wrapping off one of the packs of cards and +shuffled.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” said he, still shuffling. “I should +like to deal two hands at ecarté. It signifies nothing. +It is an experiment. Will you cut?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Volontiers</em>,” said the Count.</p> + +<p>Aristide took up the pack, dealt three cards to +the Count, three cards to himself, two cards to the +Count, two to himself and turned up the King of +Hearts as the eleventh card.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” said he, “expose your hand and I +will expose mine.”</p> + +<p>Both men threw their hands face uppermost on +the table. Aristide’s was full of trumps, the Count’s +of valueless cards.</p> + +<p>He looked at his adversary with his roguish, triumphant +smile. The Count looked at him darkly.</p> + +<p>“The ordinary card player does not know how +to deal like that,” he said with sinister significance.</p> + +<p>“But I am not ordinary in anything, my dear +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +sir,” laughed Aristide, in his large boastfulness. +“If I were, do you think I would have agreed to +your absurd proposal? <em>Voyons</em>, I only wanted to +show you that in dealing cards I am your equal. +Now, the letters——” The Count threw a small +packet on the table. “You will permit me? I do +not wish to read them. I verify only. Good,” +said he. “And the confession?”</p> + +<p>“What you like,” said the Count, coldly. Aristide +scribbled a few lines that would have been +devastating to the character of a Hyrcanean tiger +and handed the paper and fountain pen to the +Count.</p> + +<p>“Will you sign?”</p> + +<p>The Count glanced at the words and signed.</p> + +<p>“<em>Voilà</em>,” said Aristide, laying Mrs. Errington’s +cheque beside the documents. “Now let us play. +The best of three games?”</p> + +<p>“Good,” said the Count. “But you will excuse +me, monsieur, if I claim to play for ready money. +The cheque will take five days to negotiate and if +I lose, I shall evidently have to leave Aix to-morrow +morning.”</p> + +<p>“That’s reasonable,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>He drew out his fat note-case and counted +twenty-five one-thousand-franc notes on to the table. +And then began the most exciting game of +cards he had ever played. In the first place he was +playing with another person’s money for a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> +fantastic stake, a girl’s honour and happiness. Secondly +he was pitted against a master of ecarté. +And thirdly he knew that his adversary would cheat +if he could and that his adversary suspected him of +fraudulent designs. So as they played, each man +craned his head forward and looked at the other +man’s fingers with fierce intensity.</p> + +<p>Aristide lost the first game. He wiped the sweat +from his forehead. In the second game, he won +the vole in one hand. The third and final game began. +They played slowly, carefully, with keen +quick eyes. Their breathing came hard. The +Count’s lips parted beneath his uptwisted moustache +showed his teeth like a cat’s. Aristide lost +sense of all outer things in the thrill of the encounter. +They snarled the stereotyped phrases necessary +for the conduct of the game. At last the +points stood at four for Aristide and three for his +adversary. It was Aristide’s deal. Before turning +up the eleventh card he paused for the fraction of +a second. If it was the King, he had won. He +flicked it neatly face upward. It was not the King.</p> + +<p><em>“J’en donne.”</em></p> + +<p><em>“Non. Le roi.”</em></p> + +<p>The Count played and marked the King. Aristide +had no trumps. The game was lost.</p> + +<p>He sat back white, while the Count smiling gathered +up the bank-notes.</p> + +<p>“And now, Monsieur Pujol,” said he impudently, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> +“I am willing to sell you this rubbish for the +cheque.”</p> + +<p>Aristide jumped to his feet. “Never!” he cried. +Madness seized him. Regardless of the fact that +he had nothing like another thousand pounds left +wherewith to repay Mrs. Errington if he lost, he +shouted: “I will play again for it. Not ecarté. +One cut of the cards. Ace lowest.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said the Count.</p> + +<p>“Begin, you.”</p> + +<p>Aristide watched his hand like cat, as he cut. +He cut an eight. Aristide gave a little gasp of +joy and cut quickly. He held up a Knave and +laughed aloud. Then he stopped short as he saw +the Count about to pounce on the documents and +the cheque. He made a swift movement and +grabbed them first, the other man’s hand on his.</p> + +<p>“<em>Canaille!</em>”</p> + +<p>He dashed his free hand into the adventurer’s +face. The man staggered back. Aristide pocketed +the precious papers. The Count scowled at him for +an undecided second, and then bolted from the +room.</p> + +<p>“Whew!” said Aristide, sinking into his chair +and wiping his face. “That was a narrow escape.”</p> + +<p>He looked at his watch. It was only ten o’clock. +It had seemed as if his game with Lussigny had +lasted for hours. He could not go to bed and +stood confronted with anti-climax. After a while +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> +he went in search of Eugene Miller and having +found him in solitary meditation on stained glass +windows in the dim-lit grounds of the Villa, +sat down by his side and for the rest of the +evening poured his peculiar knowledge of Europe +into the listening ear of the young man +from Atlanta.</p> + +<p>On the following morning, as soon as he was +dressed, he learned from the Concierge that the +Comte de Lussigny had left for Paris by the early +train.</p> + +<p>“Good,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>A little later Mrs. Errington met him in the +lounge and accompanied him to the lawn where +they had sat the day before.</p> + +<p>“I have no words to thank you, Monsieur Pujol,” +she said with tears in her eyes. “I have heard how +you shamed him at the tables. It was brave of +you.”</p> + +<p>“It was nothing.” He shrugged his shoulders +as if he were in the habit of doing deeds like that +every day of his life. “And your exquisite daughter, +Madame?”</p> + +<p>“Poor Betty! She is prostrate. She says she +will never hold up her head again. Her heart is +broken.”</p> + +<p>“It is young and will be mended,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>She smiled sadly. “It will be a question of time. +But she is grateful to you, Monsieur Pujol. She +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +realizes from what a terrible fate you have saved +her.” She sighed. There was a brief silence.</p> + +<p>“After this,” she continued, “a further stay in +Aix would be too painful. We have decided to +take the Savoy express this evening and get back +to our quiet home in Somerset.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, madame,” said Aristide earnestly. “And +shall I not have the pleasure of seeing the charming +Miss Betty again?”</p> + +<p>“You will come and stay with us in September. +Let me see? The fifteenth. Why not fix a date? +You have my address? No? Will you write it +down?” she dictated: “Wrotesly Manor, Burnholme, +Somerset. There I’ll try to show you how +grateful I am.”</p> + +<p>She extended her hand. He bowed over it and +kissed it in his French way and departed a very +happy man.</p> + +<p>The Erringtons left that evening. Aristide waylaid +them as they were entering the hotel omnibus, +with a preposterous bouquet of flowers which he +presented to Betty, whose pretty face was hidden +by a motor-veil. He bowed, laid his hand on his +heart and said: “<em>Adieu, mademoiselle.</em>”</p> + +<p>“No,” she said in a low voice, but most graciously, +“<em>Au revoir</em>, Monsieur Pujol.”</p> + +<p>For the next few days Aix seemed to be tame +and colourless. In an inexplicable fashion, too, it +had become unprofitable. Aristide no longer knew +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +that he was going to win; and he did not win. He +lost considerably. So much so that on the morning +when he was to draw the cash for the cheque, +at the Crédit Lyonnais, he had only fifty pounds +and some odd silver left. Aristide looking at the +remainder rather ruefully made a great resolution. +He would gamble no more. Already he was richer +than he had ever been in his life. He would leave +Aix. <em>Tiens!</em> why should he not go to his good +friends the Bocardons at Nîmes, bringing with him +a gold chain for Bocardon and a pair of ear-rings +for the adorable Zette? There he would look about +him. He would use the thousand pounds as a stepping-stone +to legitimate fortune. Then he would +visit the Erringtons in England, and if the beautiful +Miss Betty smiled on him—why, after all, <em>sacrebleu</em> +he was an honest man, without a feather on +his conscience.</p> + +<p>So, jauntily swinging his cane, he marched into +the office of the Crédit Lyonnais, went into the +inner room and explained his business.</p> + +<p>“Ah, your cheque, monsieur, that we were to collect. +I am sorry. It has come back from the London +bankers.”</p> + +<p>“How come back?”</p> + +<p>“It has not been honoured. See, monsieur. ‘Not +known. No account.’” The cashier pointed to the +grim words across the cheque.</p> + +<p>“<em>Comprends pas</em>,” faltered Aristide.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> +“It means that the person who gave you the +cheque has no account at this bank.”</p> + +<p>Aristide took the cheque and looked at it in a +dazed way.</p> + +<p>“Then I do not get my twenty-five thousand +francs?”</p> + +<p>“Evidently not,” said the cashier.</p> + +<p>Aristide stood for a while stunned. What did +it mean? His thousand pounds could not be lost. +It was impossible. There was some mistake. It +was an evil dream. With a heavy weight on the +top of his head, he went out of the Crédit Lyonnais +and mechanically crossed the little street separating +the Bank from the café on the Place Carnot. +There he sat stupidly and wondered. The +waiter hovered in front of him. “<em>Monsieur désire?</em>” +Aristide waved him away absently. Yes, +it was some mistake. Mrs. Errington in her agitation +must have used the wrong cheque book. But +even rich English people do not carry about with +them a circulating library assortment of cheque +books. It was incomprehensible—and meanwhile, +his thousand pounds....</p> + +<p>The little square blazed before him in the August +sunshine. Opposite flashed the white mass of the +Etablissement des Bains. There was the old Roman +Arch of Titus, gray and venerable. There were +the trees of the gardens in riotous greenery. There +on the right marking the hour of eleven on its +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> +black face was the clock of the Comptoir National. +It was Aix; familiar Aix; not a land of dreams. +And there coming rapidly across from the Comptoir +National was the well knit figure of the young man +from Atlanta.</p> + +<p>“<em>Nom de Dieu</em>,” murmured Aristide. “<em>Nom de +Dieu de nom de Dieu!</em>”</p> + +<p>Eugene Miller, in a fine frenzy, threw himself +into a chair beside Aristide.</p> + +<p>“See here. Can you understand this?”</p> + +<p>He thrust into his hand a pink strip of paper. +It was a cheque for a hundred pounds, made payable +to Eugene Miller, Esquire, signed by Mary Errington, +and marked “Not known. No account.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Tonnerre de Dieu!</em>” cried Aristide. “How did +you get this?”</p> + +<p>“How did I get it? I cashed it for her—the day +she went away. She said urgent affairs summoned +her from Aix—no time to wire for funds—wanted +to pay her hotel bill—and she gave me the address +of her old English home in Somerset and invited +me to come there in September. Fifteenth of September. +Said that you were coming. And now +I’ve got a bum cheque. I guess I can’t wander +about this country alone. I need blinkers and harness +and a man with a whip.”</p> + +<p>He went on indignantly. Aristide composed his +face into an expression of parental interest; but +within him there was shivering and sickening +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> +upheaval. He saw it all, the whole mocking drama....</p> + +<p>He, Aristide Pujol, was the most sweetly, the +most completely swindled man in France.</p> + +<p>The Comte de Lussigny, the mild Mrs. +Errington and the beautiful Betty were in league +together and had exquisitely plotted. They had +conspired, as soon as he had accused the Count +of cheating. The rascal must have gone straight +to them from Miller’s room. No wonder that Lussigny, +when insulted at the tables, had sat like a +tame rabbit and had sought him in the garden. No +wonder he had accepted the accusation of adventurer. +No wonder he had refused to play for the +cheque which he knew to be valueless. But why, +thought Aristide, did he not at once consent to sell +the papers on the stipulation that he should be paid +in notes? Aristide found an answer. He wanted +to get everything for nothing, afraid of the use +that Aristide might make of a damning confession, +and also relying for success on his manipulation of +the cards. Finally he had desired to get hold of a +dangerous cheque. In that he had been foiled. +But the trio has got away with his thousand +pounds, his wonderful thousand pounds. He reflected, +still keeping an attentive eye on young Eugene +Miller and interjecting a sympathetic word, +that after he had paid his hotel bill, he would be +as poor on quitting Aix-les-Bains as he was when +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> +he had entered it. <em>Sic transit</em>.... As it was +in the beginning with Aristide Pujol, is now and +ever shall be....</p> + +<p>“But I have my clothes—such clothes as I’ve +never had in my life,” thought Aristide. “And a +diamond and sapphire tie-pin and a gold watch, and +all sorts of other things. <em>Tron de l’air</em>, I’m still +rich.”</p> + +<p>“Who would have thought she was like that?” +said he. “And a hundred pounds, too. A lot of +money.”</p> + +<p>For nothing in the world would he have confessed +himself a fellow-victim.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care a cent for the hundred pounds,” +cried the young man. “Our factory turns out seven +hundred and sixty-seven million pairs of boots per +annum.” (Aristide, not I, is responsible for the +statistics.) “But I have a feeling that in this +hoary country I’m just a little toddling child. And +I hate it. I do, sir. I want a nurse to take me +round.”</p> + +<p>Aristide flashed the lightning of his wit upon +the young man from Atlanta, Georgia.</p> + +<p>“You do, my dear young friend. I’ll be your +nurse, at a weekly salary—say a hundred francs—it +doesn’t matter. We will not quarrel.” Eugene +Miller was startled. “Yes,” said Aristide, with a +convincing flourish. “I’ll clear robbers and sirens +and harpies from your path. I’ll show you things +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> +in Europe—from Tromsö to Cap Spartivento that +you never dreamed of. I’ll lead you to every +stained glass window in the world. I know them +all.”</p> + +<p>“I particularly want to see those in the church of +St. Sebald in Nuremberg.”</p> + +<p>“I know them like my pocket,” said Aristide. “I +will take you there. We start to-day.”</p> + +<p>“But, Mr. Pujol,” said the somewhat bewildered +Georgian. “I thought you were a man of fortune.”</p> + +<p>“I am more than a man. I am a soldier. I am +a soldier of Fortune. The fickle goddess has for +the moment deserted me. But I am loyal. I have +for all worldly goods, two hundred and fifty dollars, +with which I shall honorably pay my hotel +bill. I say I am a soldier of Fortune. But,” he +slapped his chest, “I am the only honorable one on +the Continent of Europe.”</p> + +<p>The young man fixed upon him the hard blue +eyes, not of the enthusiast for stained glass windows, +but of the senior partner in the boot factory +of Atlanta, Georgia.</p> + +<p>“I believe you,” said he. “It’s a deal. Shake.”</p> + +<p>“And now,” said Aristide, after having shaken +hands, “come and lunch with me at Nikola’s for +the last time.”</p> + +<p>He rose, stretched out both arms in a wide gesture +and smiled with his irresistible Ancient Mariner’s +eyes at the young man.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> +“We lunch. We eat ambrosia. Then we go out +together and see the wonderful world through the +glass-blood of saints and martyrs and apostles and +the good Father Abraham and Louis Quatorze. +<em>Viens, mon cher ami.</em> It is the dream of my life.”</p> + +<p>Practically penniless and absolutely disillusioned, +the amazing man was radiantly happy.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>THE ADVENTURE OF A SAINT MARTIN’S SUMMER</strong></p> + + +<p>My good friend Blessington, who is a mighty +man in the Bordeaux wine-trade, happening +one day to lament the irreparable loss +of a deceased employé, an Admirable Crichton of +a myriad accomplishments and linguistic attainments +whose functions it had been, apparently, to travel +about between London, Bordeaux, Marseilles and +Algiers, I immediately thought of a certain living +and presumably unemployed paragon of my acquaintance.</p> + +<p>“I know the very man you’re looking for,” said I.</p> + +<p>“Who is he?”</p> + +<p>“He’s a kind of human firework,” said I, “and +his name is Aristide Pujol.”</p> + +<p>I sketched the man—in my desire to do a good +turn to Aristide, perhaps in exaggerated colour.</p> + +<p>“Let me have a look at him,” said Blessington.</p> + +<p>“He may be anywhere on the continent of +Europe,” said I. “How long can you give me to +produce him?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> +“A week. Not longer.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do my best,” said I.</p> + +<p>By good luck my telegram, sent off about four +o’clock, found him at 213 <em>bis</em> Rue Saint-Honoré. +He had just returned to Paris after some mad dash +for fortune (he told me afterwards a wild and disastrous +story of a Russian Grand-Duke, a Dancer +and a gold mine in the Dolomites) and had once +more resumed the dreary conduct of the Agence +Pujol at the Hôtel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse. My +summons being imperative, he abandoned the +Agence Pujol as a cat jumps off a wall, and, +leaving the guests of the Hotel guideless, to +the indignation of Monsieur Bocardon, whom he +had served this trick several times before, paid his +good landlady, Madam Bidoux, what he owed her, +took a third-class ticket to London, bought, lunatic +that he was, a ripe Brie cheese, a foot in diameter, +a present to myself, which he carried in his hand +most of the journey, and turned up at my house at +eight o’clock the next morning with absolutely +empty pockets and the happiest and most fascinating +smile that ever irradiated the face of man. As a +matter of fact, he burst his way past my scandalized +valet into my bedroom and woke me up.</p> + +<p>“Here I am, my dear friend, and here is something +French you love that I have brought you,” +and he thrust the Brie cheese under my nose.</p> + +<p>“— — —,” said I.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> +If you were awakened by a Brie cheese, an hour +before your time, you would say the same. Aristide +sat at the foot of the bed and laughed till the tears +ran down his beard.</p> + +<p>As soon as it was decent I sent him into the city +to interview Blessington. Three hours afterward +he returned more radiant than ever. He threw +himself into my arms; before I could disentagle +myself, he kissed me on both cheeks; then he danced +about the room.</p> + +<p>“<em>Me voici</em>,” he said, “accredited representative of +the great Maison Dulau et Compagnie. I have +hundreds of pounds a year. I go about. I watch. +I control. I see that the Great British Public can +assuage its thirst with the pure juice of the grape +and not with the dregs of a laboratory. I test vintages. +I count barrels. I enter them in books. I +smile at Algerian wine growers and say, ‘Ha! ha! +none of your <em>petite piquette frélateé</em> for me but +good sound wine.’ It is diplomacy. It is as simple +as kissing hands. And I have a sustained income. +Now I can be <em>un bon bourgeois</em> instead of a stray +cat. And all due to you, <em>mon cher ami</em>. I am grateful—<em>voyons</em>—if +anybody ever says Aristide Pujol +is ungrateful, he is a liar. You believe me! Say +you believe me.”</p> + +<p>He looked at me earnestly.</p> + +<p>“I do, old chap,” said I.</p> + +<p>I had known Aristide for some years, and in all +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> +kinds of little ways he had continuously manifested +his gratitude for the trifling service I had rendered +him, at our first meeting, in delivering him out of +the hands of the horrific Madam Gougasse. That +gratitude is the expectation of favors to come was, +in the case of Aristide, a cynical and inapplicable +proposition. And here, as this (as far as I can +see) is the last of Aristide’s adventures I have to +relate, let me make an honest and considered statement:—</p> + +<p>During the course of an interesting and fairly +prosperous life, I have made many delightful Bohemian, +devil-may-care acquaintances, but among +them all Aristide stands as the one bright star who +has never asked me to lend him money. I have +offered it times without number, but he has refused. +I believe there is no man living to whom Aristide +is in debt. In the depths of the man’s changeling +and feckless soul is a principle which has carried +him untarnished through many a wild adventure. +If he ever accepted money—money to the Provençal +peasant is the transcendental materialised, and Aristide +(save by the changeling theory) was Provençal +peasant bone and blood—it was always for what he +honestly thought was value received. If he met +a man who wanted to take a mule ride among the +Mountains of the Moon, Aristide would at once +have offered himself as guide. The man would +have paid him; but Aristide, by some quaint spiritual +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> +juggling, would have persuaded him that the +ascent of Primrose Hill was equal to any lunar +achievement, seeing that, himself, Aristide Pujol, +was keeper of the Sun, Moon and Seven Stars; and +the gift to that man of Aristide’s dynamic personality +would have been well worth anything that he +would have found in the extinct volcano we know +to be the moon.</p> + +<p>“The only thing I would suggest, if you would +allow me to do so,” said I, “is not to try to make +the fortune of Messrs. Dulau & Co. by some dazzling +but devastating <em>coup</em> of your own.”</p> + +<p>He looked at me in his bright, shrewd way. “You +think it time I restrained my imagination?”</p> + +<p>“Exactly.”</p> + +<p>“I will read The Times and buy a family Bible,” +said Aristide.</p> + +<p>A week after he had taken up his work in +the City, under my friend Blessington, I saw +the delighted and prosperous man again. It +was a Saturday and he came to lunch at my +house.</p> + +<p>“<em>Tiens!</em>” said he, when he had recounted his success +in the office, “it is four years since I was in +England?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said I, with a jerk of memory. “Time +passes quickly.”</p> + +<p>“It is three years since I lost little Jean.”</p> + +<p>“Who is little Jean?” I asked.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> +“Did I not tell you when I saw you last in +Paris?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“It is strange. I have been thinking about him +and my heart has been aching for him all the time. +You must hear. It is most important.” He lit a +cigar and began.</p> + +<p>It was then that he told me the story of which +I have already related in these +chronicles:<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> +how he was scouring France in a ramshackle automobile +as the peripatetic vendor of a patent corn cure +and found a babe of nine months lying abandoned +in the middle of that silent road through the +wilderness between Salon and Arles; how instead +of delivering it over to the authorities, he adopted +it and carried it about with him from town to town, +a motor accessory sometimes embarrassing, but always +divinely precious; how an evil day came upon +him at Aix-en-Provence when, the wheezing automobile +having uttered its last gasp, he found his +occupation gone; how, no longer being able to care +for <em>le petit</em> Jean, he left him with a letter and half +his fortune outside the door of a couple of English +maiden ladies who, staying in the same hotel, had +manifested great interest in the baby and himself; +and how, in the dead of the night, he had tramped +away from Aix-en-Provence in the rain, his pockets +light and his heart as heavy as lead.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> +“And I have never heard of my little Jean +again,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you write?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“I knew their names, Honeywood; Miss Janet +was the elder, Miss Anne the younger. But the +name of the place they lived at I have never been +able to remember. It was near London—they used +to come up by train to matinées and afternoon concerts. +But what it is called, <em>mon Dieu</em>, I have racked +my brain for it. <em>Sacré mille tonnerres!</em>” He leaped +to his feet in his unexpected, startling way, and +pounced on a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide lying on +my library table. “Imbecile, pig, triple ass that I +am! Why did I not think of this before? It is near +London. If I look through all the stations near +London on every line, I shall find it.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said I, “go ahead.”</p> + +<p>I lit a cigarette and took up a novel. I had not +read very far when a sudden uproar from the +table caused me to turn round. Aristide +danced and flourished the Bradshaw over his +head.</p> + +<p>“Chislehurst! Chislehurst! Ah, <em>mon ami</em>, now +I am happy. Now I have found my little Jean. +You will forgive me—but I must go now and embrace +him.”</p> + +<p>He held out his hand.</p> + +<p>“Where are you off to?” I demanded.</p> + +<p>“The Chislehurst, where else?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> +“My dear fellow,” said I, rising, “do you +seriously suppose that these two English maiden +ladies have taken on themselves the responsibility +of that foreign brat’s upbringing?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu!</em>” said he taken aback for the moment, +hypothesis having entered his head. Then, with +a wide gesture, he flung the preposterous idea to +the winds. “Of course. They have hearts, these +English women. They have maternal instincts. +They have money.” He looked at Bradshaw again, +then at his watch. “I have just time to catch a +train. <em>Au revoir, mon vieux.</em>”</p> + +<p>“But,” I objected, “why don’t you write? It’s +the natural thing to do.”</p> + +<p>“Write? <em>Bah!</em> Did you ever hear of a Provençal +writing when he could talk?” He tapped his +lips, and in an instant, like a whirlwind, he passed +from my ken.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Aristide on his arrival at Chislehurst looked +about the pleasant, leafy place—it was a bright +October afternoon and the wooded hillside blazed +in russet and gold—and decided it was the perfect +environment for Miss Janet and Miss Anne, +to say nothing of little Jean. A neat red brick +house with a trim garden in front of it looked +just the kind of a house wherein Miss Janet and +Miss Anne would live. He rang the bell. A parlour-maid, +in spotless black and white, tutelary +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +nymph of Suburbia, the very parlour-maid who +would minister to Miss Janet and Miss Anne, +opened the door.</p> + +<p>“Miss Honeywood?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“Not here, sir,” said the parlour-maid.</p> + +<p>“Where is she? I mean, where are they?”</p> + +<p>“No one of that name lives here,” said the parlour-maid.</p> + +<p>“Who does live here?”</p> + +<p>“Colonel Brabazon.”</p> + +<p>“And where do the two Miss Honeywood live?” +he asked with his engaging smile.</p> + +<p>But English suburban parlour-maids are on their +guard against smiles, no matter how engaging. She +prepared to shut the door.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“How can I find out?”</p> + +<p>“You might enquire among the tradespeople.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, mademoiselle, you are a most intelligent +young——”</p> + +<p>The door shut in his face. Aristide frowned. She +was a pretty parlour-maid, and Aristide didn’t like +to be so haughtily treated by a pretty woman. But +his quest being little Jean and not the eternal feminine, +he took the maid’s advice and made enquiries +at the prim and respectable shops.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” said a comely young woman in a fragrant +bakers’ and confectioners’. “They were two +ladies, weren’t they? They lived at Hope Cottage. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> +We used to supply them. They left Chislehurst +two years ago.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Sacré nom d’un chien!</em>” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Beg pardon?” asked the young woman.</p> + +<p>“I am disappointed,” said Aristide. “Where +did they go to?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure I can’t tell you.”</p> + +<p>“Do you remember whether they had a baby?”</p> + +<p>“They were maiden ladies,” said the young +woman rebukingly.</p> + +<p>“But anybody can keep a baby without being its +father or mother. I want to know what has become +of the baby.”</p> + +<p>The young woman gazed through the window.</p> + +<p>“You had better ask the policeman.”</p> + +<p>“That’s an idea,” said Aristide, and, leaving her, +he caught up the passing constable.</p> + +<p>The constable knew nothing of maiden ladies +with a baby, but he directed him to Hope Cottage. +He found a pretty half-timber house lying back +from the road, with a neat semi-circular gravelled +path leading to a porch covered thick with Virginia +creeper. Even more than the red brick residence +of Colonel Brabazon did it look, with its air +of dainty comfort, the fitting abode of Miss Janet +and Miss Anne. He rang the bell and interviewed +another trim parlour-maid. More susceptible to +smiles than the former, she summoned her master, +a kindly, middle-aged man, who came out into the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> +porch. Yes, Honeywood was the name of the previous +tenants. Two ladies, he believed. He had +never seen them and knew nothing about a child. +Messrs. Tompkin & Briggs, the estate agents in the +High Street, could no doubt give him information. +Aristide thanked him and made his way to Messrs. +Tompkin & Briggs. A dreary spectacled youth in +resentful charge of the office—his principals, it being +Saturday afternoon, were golfing the happy +hours away—professed blank ignorance of everything. +Aristide fixed him with his glittering eye +and flickered his fingers and spoke richly. The +youth in a kind of mesmeric trance took down a +battered, dog’s eared book and turned over the +pages.</p> + +<p>“Honeywood—Miss—Beverly Stoke—near St. +Albans—Herts. That’s it,” he said.</p> + +<p>Aristide made a note of the address. “Is that +all you can tell me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the youth.</p> + +<p>“I thank you very much, my young friend,” said +Aristide, raising his hat, “and here is something +to buy a smile with,” and, leaving a sixpence on the +table to shimmer before the youth’s stupefied eyes, +Aristide strutted out of the office.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>“You had much better have written,” said I, when +he came back and told me of his experiences. “The +post-office would have done all that for you.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> +“You have no idea of business, <em>mon cher ami</em>”—(I—a +successful tea-broker of twenty-five years’ +standing!—the impudence of the fellow!)—“If I +had written to-day, the letter would have reached +Chislehurst on Monday morning. It would be redirected +and reach Hertfordshire on Tuesday. I +should not get any news till Wednesday. I go +down to Beverly Stoke to-morrow, and then I find +at once Miss Janet and Miss Anne and my little +Jean! The secret of business men, and I am a business +man, the accredited representative of Dulau +et Compagnie—never forget that—the secret of +business is no delay.”</p> + +<p>He darted across the room to Bradshaw.</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake,” said I, “put that nightmare +of perpetual motion in your pocket and go mad over +it in the privacy of your own chamber.”</p> + +<p>“Very good,” said he, tucking the brain-convulsing +volume under his arm. “I will put it on top of +The Times and the family Bible and I will say +‘Ha! now I am British. Now I am very respectable!’ +What else can I do?”</p> + +<p>“Rent a pew in a Baptist chapel,” said I.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>After a three-mile trudge from St. Albans Aristide, +following directions, found himself on a high +road running through the middle of a straggy common +decked here and there with great elms splendid +in autumn bravery, and populated chiefly by +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> +geese, who when he halted in some perplexity—for +on each side, beyond the green, were indications +of a human settlement—advanced in waddling +flocks towards him and signified their disapproval +of his presence. A Sundayfied youth in a rainbow +tie rode past on a bicycle. Aristide took off his +hat. The youth nearly fell off the bicycle, but British +doggedness saved him from disaster.</p> + +<p>“Beverly Stoke? Will you have the courtesy——”</p> + +<p>“Here,” bawled the youth, with a circular twist +of his head, and, eager to escape from a madman, +he rode on furiously.</p> + +<p>Aristide looked to left and right at the little +houses beyond the green—some white and thatched +and dilapidated, others horridly new and perky—but +all poor and insignificant. As his eyes became +accustomed to the scene they were aware of human +forms dotted sparsely about the common. He +struck across and accosted one, an elderly woman +with a prayer-book. “Miss Honeywood? A lady +from London?”</p> + +<p>“That house over there—the third beyond the +poplar.”</p> + +<p>“And little Jean—a beautiful child about four +years old?”</p> + +<p>“That I don’t know, sir. I live at Wilmer’s End, +a good half mile from here.”</p> + +<p>Aristide made for the third house past the poplar. +First there was a plank bridge across a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> +grass-grown ditch; then a tiny patch of garden; then a +humble whitewashed cottage with a small leaded +casement window on each side of the front door. +Unlike Hope Cottage, it did not look at all the residence +of Miss Janet and Miss Anne. Its appearance, +indeed, was woe-begone. Aristide, however, +went up to the door; as there was neither knocker +nor bell, he rapped with his knuckles. The door +opened, and there, poorly dressed in blouse and +skirt, stood Miss Anne.</p> + +<p>She regarded him for a moment in a bewildered +way, then, recognizing him, drew back into the +stone flagged passage with a sharp cry.</p> + +<p>“You? You—Mr. Pujol?”</p> + +<p>“<em>Oui, Mademoiselle, c’est moi.</em> It is I, Aristide +Pujol.”</p> + +<p>She put her hands on her bosom. “It is rather +a shock seeing you—so unexpectedly. Will you +come in?”</p> + +<p>She led the way into a tiny parlour, very clean, +very simple with its furniture of old oak and brass, +and bade him sit. She looked a little older than +when he had seen her at Aix-en-Provence. A few +lines had marred the comely face and there was +here and there a touch of grey in the reddish hair, +and, though still buxom, she had grown thinner. +Care had set its stamp upon her.</p> + +<p>“Miss Honeywood,” said Aristide. “It is on account +of little Jean that I have come——”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> +She turned on him swiftly. “Not to take him +away!”</p> + +<p>“Then he is here!” He jumped to his feet and +wrung both her hands and kissed them to her great +embarrassment. “Ah, mademoiselle, I knew it. I +felt it. When such an inspiration comes to a man, +it is the <em>bon Dieu</em> who sends it. He is here, actually +here, in this house?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Anne.</p> + +<p>Aristide threw out his arms. “Let me see him. +<em>Ah, le cher petit!</em> I have been yearning after him +for three years. It was my heart that I ripped out +of my body that night and laid at your threshold.”</p> + +<p>“Hush!” said Miss Anne, with an interrupting +gesture. “You must not talk so loud. He is asleep +in the next room. You mustn’t wake him. He is +very ill.”</p> + +<p>“Ill? Dangerously ill?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid so.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Mon Dieu</em>,” said he, sitting down again in the +oak settle. To Aristide the emotion of the moment +was absorbing, overwhelming. His attitude betokened +deepest misery and dejection.</p> + +<p>“And I expected to see him full of joy and +health!”</p> + +<p>“It is not my fault, Mr. Pujol,” said Miss Anne.</p> + +<p>He started. “But no. How could it be? You +loved him when you first set eyes on him at Aix-en-Provence.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +Miss Anne began to cry. “God knows,” said +she, “what I should do without him. The dear +mite is all that is left to me.”</p> + +<p>“All? But there is your sister, the dear Miss +Janet.”</p> + +<p>Miss Anne’s eyes were hidden in her handkerchief. +“My poor sister died last year, Mr. Pujol.”</p> + +<p>“I am very sorry. I did not know,” said Aristide +gently.</p> + +<p>There was a short silence. “It was a great sorrow +to you,” he said.</p> + +<p>“It was God’s will,” said Anne. Then, after another +pause, during which she dried her eyes, she +strove to smile. “Tell me about yourself. How +do you come to be here?”</p> + +<p>Aristide replied in a hesitating way. He was in +the presence of grief and sickness and trouble; the +Provençal braggadocio dropped from him and he +became the simple and childish creature that he was. +He accounted very truthfully, very convincingly, +for his queer life; for his abandonment of little +Jean, for his silence, for his sudden and unexpected +appearance. During the ingenuous <em>apologia pro +vita sua</em> Miss Anne regarded him with her honest +candour.</p> + +<p>“Janet and I both understood,” she said. “Janet +was gifted with a divine comprehension and pity. The +landlady at the hotel, I remember, said some unkind +things about you; but we didn’t believe them. We +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> +felt that you were a good man—no one but a good +man could have written that letter—we cried over +it—and when she tried to poison our minds we said +to each other: ‘What does it matter? Here God in +his mercy has given us a child.’ But, Mr. Pujol, +why didn’t you take us into your confidence?”</p> + +<p>“My dear Miss Anne,” said Aristide, “we of the +South do things impulsively, by lightning flashes. +An idea comes suddenly. <em>Vlan!</em> we carry it out in +two seconds. We are not less human than the +Northerner, who reflects two months.”</p> + +<p>“That is almost what dear, wise Janet told me,” +said Miss Anne.</p> + +<p>“Then you know in your heart,” said Aristide, +after a while, “that if I had not been only a football +at the feet of fortune, I should never have deserted +little Jean?”</p> + +<p>“I do, Mr. Pujol. My sister and I have been +footballs, too.” She added with a change of tone: +“You tell me you saw our dear home at Chislehurst?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“And you see this. There is a difference.”</p> + +<p>“What has happened?” asked Aristide.</p> + +<p>She told him the commonplace pathetic story. +Their father had left them shares in the company +of which he had been managing director. For +many years they had enjoyed a comfortable income. +Then the company had become bankrupt and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> +only a miserable ninety pounds a year had been +saved from the wreckage. The cottage at Beverly +Stoke belonging to them—it had been their mother’s—they +had migrated thither with their fallen fortunes +and little Jean. And then Janet had died. +She was delicate and unaccustomed to privation +and discomfort—and the cottage had its disadvantages. +She, Anne herself, was as strong as a horse +and had never been ill in her life, but others were +not quite so hardy. “However”—she smiled—“one +has to make the best of things.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Parbleu</em>,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>Miss Anne went on to talk of Jean, a miraculous +infant of infinite graces and accomplishments. Up +to now he had been the sturdiest and merriest +fellow.</p> + +<p>“At nine months old he saw that life was a big +joke,” said Aristide. “How he used to laugh.”</p> + +<p>“There’s not much laugh left in him, poor darling,” +she sighed. And she told how he had caught +a chill which had gone to his lungs and how the +night before last she thought she had lost him.</p> + +<p>She sat up and listened. “Will you excuse me +for a moment?”</p> + +<p>She went out and presently returned, standing +at the doorway. “He is still asleep. Would you +like to see him? Only”—she put her fingers on her +lips—“you must be very, very quiet.”</p> + +<p>He followed her into the next room and looked +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> +about him shyly, recognizing that it was Miss +Anne’s own bedroom; and there, lying in a little +cot beside the big bed, he saw the sleeping child, +his brown face flushed with fever. He had a curly +shock of black hair and well formed features. An +old woolly lamb nose to nose with him shared his +pillow. Aristide drew from his pocket a Teddy +bear, and, having asked Miss Anne’s permission +with a glance, laid it down gently on the +coverlid.</p> + +<p>His eyes were wet when they returned to the +parlour. So were Miss Anne’s. The Teddy bear +was proof of the simplicity of his faith in her.</p> + +<p>After a while, conscious of hunger, he rose to +take leave. He must be getting back to St. Albans. +But might he be permitted to come back later in +the afternoon? Miss Anne reddened. It outraged +her sense of hospitality to send a guest away from +her house on a three-mile walk for food. And +yet——</p> + +<p>“Mr. Pujol,” she said bravely, “I would ask you +to stay to luncheon if I had anything to offer you. +But I am single handed, and, with Jean’s illness, +I haven’t given much thought to housekeeping. The +woman who does some of the rough work won’t +be back till six. I hate to let you go all those miles—I +am so distressed——”</p> + +<p>“But, mademoiselle,” said Aristide. “You have +some bread. You have water. It has been a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> +banquet many a day to me, and this time it would be +the most precious banquet of all.”</p> + +<p>“I can do a little better than that,” faltered Miss +Anne. “I have plenty of eggs and there is bacon.”</p> + +<p>“Eggs—bacon!” cried Aristide, his bright eyes +twinkling and his hands going up in the familiar +gesture. “That is superb. <em>Tiens!</em> you shall not do +the cooking. You shall rest. I will make you an +<em>omelette au lard</em>—<em>ah!</em>”—he kissed the tips of his +fingers—“such an omelette as you have not eaten +since you were in France—and even there I doubt +whether you have ever eaten an omelette like mine.” +His soul simmering with omelette, he darted towards +the door. “The kitchen—it is this way?”</p> + +<p>“But, Mr. Pujol——!” Miss Anne laughed, protestingly. +Who could be angry with the vivid and +impulsive creature?</p> + +<p>“It is the room opposite Jean’s—not so?”</p> + +<p>She followed him into the clean little kitchen, +half amused, half flustered. Already he had hooked +off the top of the kitchen range. “Ah! a good fire. +And your frying-pan?” He dived into the scullery.</p> + +<p>“Please don’t be in such a hurry,” she pleaded. +“You will have made the omelette before I’ve had +time to lay the cloth, and it will get cold. Besides, +I want to learn how to do it.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Trés bien</em>,” said Aristide, laying down the frying-pan. +“You shall see how it is made—the omelette +of the universe.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> +So he helped Miss Anne to lay the cloth on the +gate-legged oak table in the parlour and to set it +out with bread and butter and the end of a tinned +tongue and a couple of bottles of stout. After +which they went back to the little kitchen, where +in a kind of giggling awe she watched him shred +the bacon and break the eggs with his thin, skilful +fingers and perform his magic with the frying-pan +and turn out the great golden creation into the +dish.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said he, pulling her in his enthusiasm, +“to table while it is hot.”</p> + +<p>Miss Anne laughed. She lost her head ever so +little. The days had been drab and hopeless of +late and she was still young; so, if she felt excited +at this unhoped for inrush of life and colour, who +shall blame her? The light sparkled once more in +her eyes and the pink of her naturally florid complexion +shone on her cheek as they sat down to +table.</p> + +<p>“It is I who help it,” said Aristide. “Taste +that.” He passed the plate and waited, with the +artist’s expectation for her approval.</p> + +<p>“It’s delicious.”</p> + +<p>It was indeed the perfection of omelette, all its +suave juiciness contained in film as fine as goldbeater’s +skin.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it’s good.” He was delighted, childlike, at +the success of his cookery. His gaiety kept the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> +careworn woman in rare laughter during the meal. +She lost all consciousness that he was a strange +man plunged down suddenly in the midst of her +old maidish existence—and a strange man, too, who +had once behaved in a most outrageous fashion. +But that was ever the way of Aristide. The moment +you yielded to his attraction he made you feel +that you had known him for years. His fascination +possessed you.</p> + +<p>“Miss Anne,” said he, smoking a cigarette, at +her urgent invitation, “is there a poor woman in +Beverly Stoke with whom I could lodge?”</p> + +<p>She gasped. “You lodge in Beverly Stoke?”</p> + +<p>“Why yes,” said Aristide, as if it were the most +natural thing in the world. “I am engaged in the +city from ten to five every day. I can’t come here +and go back to London every night, and I can’t +stay a whole week without my little Jean. And I +have my duty to Jean. I stand to him in the relation +of a father. I must help you to nurse him +and make him better. I must give him soup and +apples and ice cream and——”</p> + +<p>“You would kill the darling in five minutes,” interrupted +Miss Anne.</p> + +<p>He waved his forefinger in the air. “No, no, I +have nursed the sick in my time. My dear friend,” +said he, with a change of tone, “when did you go to +bed last?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she answered in some confusion. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> +“The district nurse has helped me—and the doctor +has been very good. Jean has turned the corner +now. Please don’t worry. And as for your coming +to live down here, it’s absurd.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, if you formally forbid me to do so, +mademoiselle, and if you don’t want to see me——”</p> + +<p>“How can you say a thing like that? Haven’t I +shown you to-day that you are welcome?”</p> + +<p>“Dear Miss Anne,” said he, “forgive me. But +what is that great vast town of London to me who +know nobody there? Here in this tiny spot is concentrated +all I care for in the world. Why +shouldn’t I live in it?”</p> + +<p>“You would be so dreadfully uncomfortable,” +said Miss Anne, weakly.</p> + +<p>“Bah!” cried Aristide. “You talk of discomfort +to an old client of <em>L’Hôtel de la Belle Étoile</em>?”</p> + +<p>“The Hotel of the Beautiful Star? Where is +that?” asked the innocent lady.</p> + +<p>“Wherever you like,” said Aristide. “Your bed +is dry leaves and your bed-curtains, if you demand +luxury, are a hedge, and your ceiling, if you are +fortunate, is ornamented with stars.”</p> + +<p>She looked at him wide-eyed, in great concern.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that you have ever been homeless?”</p> + +<p>He laughed. “I think I’ve been everything imaginable, +except married.”</p> + +<p>“Hush!” she said. “Listen!” Her keen ear had +caught a child’s cry. “It’s Jean. I must go.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> +She hurried out. Aristide prepared to light another +cigarette. But a second before the application +of the flaring match an idea struck him. He +blew out the match, replaced the cigarette in his +case, and with a dexterity that revealed the professional +of years ago, began to clear the table. He +took the things noiselessly into the kitchen, shut the +door, and master of the kitchen and scullery washed +up. Then, the most care-free creature in the world, +he stole down the stone passage into the wilderness +of Beverly Stoke.</p> + +<p>An hour afterwards he knocked at the front door, +Anne Honeywood admitted him.</p> + +<p>“I have arranged with the good Mrs. Buttershaw. +She lives a hundred yards down the road. +I bring my baggage to-morrow evening.”</p> + +<p>Anne regarded him in a humorous, helpless way. +“I can’t prevent you,” she said, “but I can give you +a piece of advice.”</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t wash up for Mrs. Buttershaw.”</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>So it came to pass that Aristide Pujol took up +his residence at Beverly Stoke, trudging every +morning three miles to catch his business train at +St. Albans, and trudging back every evening three +miles to Beverly Stoke. Every morning he ran +into the cottage for a sight of little Jean and every +evening after a digestion-racking meal prepared by +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> +Mrs. Buttershaw he went to the cottage armed with +toys and weird and injudicious food for little Jean +and demanded an account of the precious infant’s +doings during the day. Gradually Jean recovered +of his congestion, being a sturdy urchin, and, to +Aristide’s delight, resumed the normal life of childhood.</p> + +<p>“<em>Moi, je suis papa</em>,” said Aristide. “He has got +to speak French, and he had better begin at once. +It is absurd that anyone born between Salon and +Arles should not speak French and Provençal; we’ll +leave Provençal till later. <em>Moi, je suis papa, Jean.</em> +Say <em>papa</em>.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t quite see how he can call you that, Mr. +Pujol,” said Anne, with the suspicion of a flush on +her cheek.</p> + +<p>“And why not? Has the poor child any other +papa in the whole wide world? And at four years +old not to have a father is heart-breaking. Do you +want us to bring him up an orphan? No. You +shan’t be an orphan, <em>mon brave</em>,” he continued, +bending over the child and putting his little hands +against his bearded face, “you couldn’t bear such a +calamity, could you? And so you will call me +<em>papa</em>.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Papa</em>,” said Jean, with a grin.</p> + +<p>“There, he has settled it,” said Aristide. “<em>Moi +je suis papa.</em> And you, mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“I am Auntie Anne,” she replied demurely.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> +Saturday afternoons and Sundays were Aristide’s +days of delight. He could devote himself entirely +to Jean. The thrill of the weeks when he had +paraded the child in the market places of France +while he sold his corn cure again ran through his +veins. The two rows of cottages separated by the +common, which was the whole of Beverly Stoke, +became too small a theatre for his parental pride. +He bewailed the loss of his automobile that had +perished of senile decay at Aix-en-Provence. If he +only had it now he could exhibit Jean to the astonished +eyes of St. Albans, Watford—nay London +itself!</p> + +<p>“I wish I could take him to Dulau & Company,” +said he.</p> + +<p>“Good Heavens!” cried Miss Anne in alarm, for +Aristide was capable of everything. “What in the +world would you do with him there?”</p> + +<p>“What would I do with him?” replied Aristide, +picking the child up in his arms—the three were +strolling on the common—“<em>Parbleu!</em> I would use +him to strike the staff of Dulau & Company green +with envy. Do you think the united efforts of the +whole lot of them, from the good Mr. Blessington +to the office boy, could produce a hero like this? +You are a hero, Jean, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, papa,” said Jean.</p> + +<p>“He knows it,” shouted Aristide with a delighted +gesture which nearly cast Jean to the circumambient +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> +geese. “Miss Anne, we have the most wonderful +child in the universe.”</p> + +<p>This, as far as Anne was concerned, was a +proposition which for the past three years +she had regarded as incontrovertible. She +smiled at Aristide, who smiled at her, and +Jean, seeing them happy, smiled largely at them +both.</p> + +<p>In a very short time Aristide, who could magically +manufacture boats and cocks and pigs and +giraffes out of bits of paper, who could bark like +a dog and quack like a goose, who could turn himself +into a horse or a bear at a minute’s notice, +whose pockets were a perennial mine of infantile +ecstasy, established himself in Jean’s mind as a kind +of tame, necessary and beloved jinn. Being a loyal +little soul, the child retained his affection for Auntie +Anne, but he was swept off his little feet by his +mirific parent. The time came when, if he was +not dressed in his tiny woollen jersey and knee +breeches and had not his nose glued against the +parlour window in readiness to scramble to the +front door for Aristide’s morning kiss, he would +have thought that chaos had come again. And +Anne, humouring the child, hastened to get him +washed and dressed in time; until at last, so greatly +was she affected by his obsession, she got into the +foolish habit of watching the clock and saying to +herself: “In another minute he will be here,” or: +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> +“He is a minute late. What can have happened +to him?”</p> + +<p>So Aristide, in his childlike way, found remarkable +happiness in Beverly Stoke. A very wet summer +had been followed by a dry and mellow autumn. +Aristide waxed enthusiastic over the English climate +and rejoiced in the mild country air. He was +also happy under my friend Blessington, who spoke +of him to me in glowing terms. At the back of all +Aristide’s eccentricities was the Provençal peasant’s +shrewdness. He realized that, for the first time in +his life, he had taken up a sound and serious avocation. +Also, he was no longer irresponsible. He +had found little Jean. Jean’s future was in his +hands. Jean was to be an architect—God knows +why—but Aristide settled it, definitely, off-hand. +He would have to be educated. “And, my dear +friend,” said he, when we were discussing Jean—and +for months I heard nothing but Jean, Jean, +Jean, so that I loathed the brat, until I met the +brown-skinned, black-eyed, merry little wretch and +fell, like everybody else, fatuously in love with him—“my +dear friend,” said he, “an architect, to be +the architect that I mean him to be, must have universal +knowledge. He must know the first word +of the classic, the last word of the modern. He +must be steeped in poetry, his brain must vibrate +with science. He must be what you call in England +a gentleman. He must go to one of your great +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> +public schools—Eton, Winchester, Rugby, Harrow—you +see I know them all—he must go to Cambridge +or Oxford. Ah, I tell you, he is to be a big +man. I, Aristide Pujol, did not pick him up on +that deserted road, in the Arabia Petrea of Provence, +between Salon and Arles, for nothing. He was +wrapped, as I have told you, in an old blanket—and +<em>ma foi</em> it smelt bad—and I dressed him in my +pyjamas and made a Neapolitan cap for him out of +one of my socks. The <em>bon Dieu</em> sent him, and I +shall arrange just as the <em>bon Dieu</em> intended. Poor +Miss Anne Honeywood with her ninety pounds a +year, what can she do? Pouf! It is for me to look +after the future of little Jean.”</p> + +<p>By means of such discourse he convinced Miss +Anne that Jean was predestined to greatness and +that Providence had appointed him, Aristide, as +the child’s agent in advance. Very much bewildered +by his riotous flow of language and +very reluctant to sacrifice her woman’s pride, she +agreed to allow him to contribute towards Jean’s +upbringing.</p> + +<p>“Dear Miss Anne,” said he, “it is my right. It is +Jean’s right. You would love to put him on top +of the pinnacle of fame, would you not?”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Miss Anne.</p> + +<p>“<em>Eh bien!</em> we will work together. You will give +him what can be given by a beautiful and exquisite +woman, and I will do all that can be done by the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> +accredited agent of Dulau et Compagnie, Wine +Shippers of Bordeaux.”</p> + +<p>So, I repeat, Aristide was entirely happy. His +waking dreams were of the four-year-old child. +The glad anticipation of the working day in Great +Tower St., E. C., was the evening welcome from +the simple but capable gentlewoman and the sense +of home and intimacy in her little parlour no bigger +than the never-entered and nerve-destroying salon +of his parents at Aigues Mortes, but smiling with +the grace of old oak and faded chintz. At Aigues +Mortes the salon was a comfortless, tasteless convention, +set apart for the celebrations of baptisms +and marriages and deaths, a pride and a terror to +the inhabitants. But here everything seemed to be +as much a warm bit of Anne Honeywood as the +tortoise-shell comb in her hair and the square of +Brussels lace that rose and fell on the bosom of +her old evening frock. For, you see, since she expected +a visitor in the evenings, Anne had taken +to dressing for her sketch of a dinner. For all +her struggle with poverty she had retained the +charm that four years before had made her +touch upon Jean seem a consecration to the +impressionable man. And now that he entered +more deeply into her life and thoughts, he found +himself in fragrant places that were very strange +to him. He discovered, too, with some surprise, +that a man who has been at fierce grips with +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> +Fortune all his life from ten to forty is ever so little +tired in spirit and is glad to rest. In the tranquility +of Anne Honeywood’s presence his soul was +singularly at peace. He also wondered why Anne +Honeywood seemed to grow younger, and, in her +gentle fashion, more laughter-loving, every day.</p> + +<p>The Saint Martin’s summer lasted to the beginning +of December, and then it came to an end, and +with it the idyll of Aristide and Anne Honeywood.</p> + +<p>One Saturday afternoon, when the rain was falling +dismally, she received him with an embarrassment +she could scarcely conceal. The usual heightened +colour no longer gave youth to her cheek; an +anxious frown knitted her candid brows; and there +was no laughter in her eyes. He looked at her +questioningly. Was anything the matter with Jean? +But Jean answered the question for himself by running +down the passage and springing like a puppy +into Aristide’s arms. Anne turned her face away, +as if the sight pained her, and, pleading a headache +and the desire to lie down, she left the two together. +Returning after a couple of hours with the tea-tray, +she found them on the floor breathlessly absorbed +in the erection of card pagodas. She bit her lip +and swallowed a sob. Aristide jumped up and took +the tray. Was not the headache better? He was +so grieved. Jean must be very quiet and drink up +his milk quietly like a hero because Auntie was +suffering. Tea was a very subdued affair. Then +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> +Anne carried off Jean to bed, refusing Aristide’s +helpful ministrations. It was his Saturday and +Sunday joy to bath Jean amid a score of crawly +tin insects which he had provided for the child’s +ablutionary entertainment, and it formed the climax +of Jean’s blissful day. But this afternoon Anne +tore the twain asunder. Aristide looked mournfully +over the rain-swept common through the leaded +panes, and speculated on the enigma of woman. A +man, feeling ill, would have been only too glad for +somebody to do his work; but a woman, just because +she was ill, declined assistance. Surely +women were an intellect-baffling sex.</p> + +<p>She came back, having put Jean to bed.</p> + +<p>“My dear friend,” she said, with a blurt of bravery, +“I have something very hard to say, but I must +say it. You must go away from Beverly Stoke.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” cried Aristide, “is it I, then, that give you +a headache?”</p> + +<p>“It’s not your fault,” she said gently. “You have +been everything that a loyal gentleman could be—and +it’s because you’re a loyal gentleman that you +must go.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand,” said he, puzzled. “I must +go away because I give you a headache, although +it is not my fault.”</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing to do with headaches,” she explained. +“Don’t you see? People around here are +talking.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> +“About you and me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Miss Anne, faintly.</p> + +<p>“<em>Saprelotte!</em>” cried Aristide, with a fine flourish, +“let them talk!”</p> + +<p>“Against Jean and myself?”</p> + +<p>The reproach brought him to his feet. “No,” +said he. “No. Sooner than they should talk, I +would go out and strangle every one of them. But +it is infamous. What do they say?”</p> + +<p>“How can I tell you? What would they say in +your own country?”</p> + +<p>“France is France and England is England.”</p> + +<p>“And a little cackling village is the same all the +world over. No, my dear friend—for you are my +dear friend—you must go back to London, for the +sake of my good name and Jean’s.”</p> + +<p>“But let us leave the cackling village.”</p> + +<p>“There are geese on every common,” said Anne.</p> + +<p>“<em>Nom de Dieu!</em>” muttered Aristide, walking about +the tiny parlour. “<em>Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!</em>” +He stood in front of her and flung out his arms +wide. “But without Jean and you life will have +no meaning for me. I shall die. I shall fade away. +I shall perish. Tell me, dear Miss Anne, what they +are saying, the miserable peasants with souls of +mud.”</p> + +<p>But Anne could tell him no more. It had been +hateful and degrading to tell him so much. She +shivered through all her purity. After a barren +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> +discussion she held out her hand, large and generous +like herself.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye”—she hesitated for the fraction of a +second—“Good-bye, Aristide. I promise you shall +provide for Jean’s future. I will bring him up to +London now and then to see you. We will find +some way out of the difficulty. But you see, don’t +you, that you must leave Beverly Stoke?”</p> + +<p>Aristide went back to his comfortless lodgings +aflame with bewilderment, indignation and despair. +He fell upon Mrs. Buttershaw, a slatternly and sour-visaged +woman, and hurled at her a tornado of questions. +She responded with the glee of a hag, and +Aristide learned the amazing fact that in the matter +of sheer uncharitableness, unkindness and foulness +of thought Beverly Stoke, with its population +of three hundred hinds, could have brought down +upon it the righteous indignation of Sodom, Gomorrah, +Babylon, Paris, and London. For a fortnight +or so Anne Honeywood’s life in the village +had been that of a pariah dog.</p> + +<p>“And now you’ve spoke of it yourself,” said +Mrs. Buttershaw, her hands on her hips, “I’m glad. +I’m a respectable woman, I am, and go to church +regularly, and I don’t want to be mixed up in such +goings on. And I never have held with foreigners, +anyway. And the sooner you find other lodgings, +the better.”</p> + +<p>For the first and only time in his life words +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> +failed Aristide Pujol. He stood in front of the virtuous +harridan, his lips working, his fingers convulsively +clutching the air.</p> + +<p>“You—you—you—you naughty woman!” he +gasped, and, sweeping her away from the doorway +of his box of a sitting-room, he rushed up to his +tinier bedroom and in furious haste packed his portmanteau.</p> + +<p>“I would rather die than sleep another night beneath +your slanderous roof,” he cried at the foot +of the stairs. “Here is more than your week’s +money.” He flung a couple of gold coins on the +floor and dashed out into the darkness and the rain.</p> + +<p>He hammered at Anne Honeywood’s door. She +opened it in some alarm.</p> + +<p>“You?—but——” she stammered.</p> + +<p>“I have come,” said he, dumping his portmanteau +in the passage, “to take you and Jean away from +this abomination of a place. It is a Tophet reserved +for those who are not good enough for hell. In +hell there is dignity, <em>que diable!</em> Here there is none. +I know what you have suffered. I know how they +insult you. I know what they say. You cannot stay +one more night here. Pack up all your things. +Pack up all Jean’s things. I have my valise here. +I walk to St. Albans and I come back for you in an +automobile. You lock up the door. I tell the policeman +to guard the cottage. You come with me. We +take a train to London. You and Jean will stay at +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> +a hotel. I will go to my good friend who saved +me from Madam Gougasse. After that we will +think.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just like you,” she said, smiling in spite +of her trouble, “you act first and think afterwards. +Unfortunately I’m in the habit of doing the reverse.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s I who am doing all the thinking for +you. I have thought till my brain is red hot.” He +laughed in his luminous and excited way, and, seizing +both her hands, kissed them one after the other. +“There!” said he, “be ready by the time I return. +Do not hesitate. Do not look back. Remember +Lot’s wife!” He flourished his hat and was gone +like a flash into the heavy rain and darkness of the +December evening. Anne cried after him, but he +too remembering Lot’s wife would not turn. He +marched on buoyantly, heedless of the wet and +the squirting mud from unseen puddles. It was +an adventure such as he loved. It was a knightly +errand, <em>parbleu!</em> Was he not delivering a beautiful +lady from the dragon of calumny? And in +an automobile, too! His imagination fondled the +idea.</p> + +<p>At a garage in St. Albans he readily found a car +for hire. He was all for driving it himself—that is +how he had pictured the rescue—but the proprietor, +dull and unimaginative tradesman, declined firmly. +It was a hireling who drove the car to Beverly +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> +Stoke. Anne, unhatted and uncloaked, admitted +him.</p> + +<p>“You are not ready?”</p> + +<p>“My dear friend, how can I——?”</p> + +<p>“You are not coming?” His hands dropped to +his sides and his face was the incarnation of disappointment.</p> + +<p>“Let us talk things over reasonably,” she urged, +opening the parlour door.</p> + +<p>“But I have brought the automobile.”</p> + +<p>“He can wait for five minutes, can’t he?”</p> + +<p>“He can wait till Doomsday,” said Aristide.</p> + +<p>“Take off your dripping coat. You must be wet +through. Oh, how impulsive you are!”</p> + +<p>He took off his overcoat dejectedly and followed +her into the parlour, where she tried to point +out the impossibility of his scheme. How could +she abandon her home at a moment’s notice? Failing +to convince him, she said at last in some embarrassment, +but with gentle dignity: “Suppose we +did run away together in your romantic fashion, +would it not confirm the scandal in the eyes of this +wretched village?”</p> + +<p>“You are right,” said Aristide. “I had not +thought of it.”</p> + +<p>He knew himself to be a madman. It was not +thus that ladies were rescued from calumny. But +to leave her alone to face it for time indefinite was +unthinkable. And, meanwhile, what would become +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> +of him severed from her and little Jean? He sighed +and looked around the little room where he had +been so happy, and at the sweet-faced woman whose +companionship had been so dear to him. And then +the true meaning of all the precious things that had +been his life for the past two months appeared before +him like a smiling valley hitherto hidden and +now revealed by dissolving mist. A great gladness +gathered round his heart. He leaned across the +table by which he was sitting and looked at her and +for the first time noticed that her eyes were red.</p> + +<p>“You have been crying, dear Anne,” said he, +using her name boldly. “Why?”</p> + +<p>A man ought not to put a question like that at +a woman’s head and bid her stand and deliver. How +is she to answer? Anne felt Aristide’s bright eyes +upon her and the colour mounted and mounted and +deepened on her cheeks and brow.</p> + +<p>“I don’t like changes,” she said in a low voice.</p> + +<p>Aristide slipped noiselessly to the side of her chair +and knelt on one knee and took her hand.</p> + +<p>“Anne—my beloved Anne!” said he.</p> + +<p>And Anne neither moved nor protested, but looked +away from him into the fire.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>And that is all that Aristide told me. There are +sacred and beautiful things in life that one man does +not tell to another. He did, however, mention that +they forgot all about the unfortunate chauffeur +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> +sitting in the rain till about three hours afterwards, +when Aristide sped away to a St. Albans hotel in +joyous solitude.</p> + +<p>The very next day he burst in upon me in a state +of bliss bordering on mania.</p> + +<p>“But there is a tragic side to it,” he said when the +story was over. “For half the year I shall be exiled +to Bordeaux, Marseilles and Algiers as the representative +of Dulau et Compagnie.”</p> + +<p>“The very best thing that could happen for your +domestic happiness,” said I.</p> + +<p>“What? With my heart”—he thumped his heart—“with +my heart hurting like the devil all the +time?”</p> + +<p>“So long as your heart hurts,” said I, “you know +it isn’t dead.”</p> + +<p>A short while afterwards they were married in +London. I was best man and Jean, specklessly attired, +was page of honour, and the vicar of her own +church at Chislehurst performed the ceremony. The +most myopic of creatures could have seen that Anne +was foolishly in love with her rascal husband. How +could she help it?</p> + +<p>As soon as the newly wedded pair had received +the exhortation, Aristide, darting to the altar-rail, +caught Jean up in his arms, and, to the consternation +of the officiating clergy, the verger, and Anne’s +conventional friends, cried out exultingly:</p> + +<p>“<em>Ah, mon petit.</em> It was a lucky day for both of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> +us when I picked you up on the road between Salon +and Arles. Put your hands together as you do when +you’re saying your prayers, <em>mon brave</em>, and say, +‘God bless father and mother.’”</p> + +<p>Jean obediently adopted the attitude of the infant +Samuel in the pictures.</p> + +<p>“God bless father and mother,” said he, and the +childish treble rang out queerly in the large, almost +empty church.</p> + +<p>There was a span of silence and then all the +women-folk fell on little Jean and that was the end +of that wedding.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">The End</span>.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> The Adventures of the Foundling.</p></div> + +</div> + +<p> </p> + +<div class="box2"> + +<p> </p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE GLORY OF CLEMENTINA</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>BY</strong></p> + +<h2>William J. Locke</h2> + +<p class="center">Author of “The Belovèd Vagabond,” “Simon the +Jester,” etc.</p> + +<p class="center"> +<em>Cloth</em> <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>12mo</em></span> <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>$1.30 net</em></span> <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>Postage 12 cents</em></span></p> + +<p class="center">Illustrations by Arthur I. Keller</p> + +<p>“Mr. Locke has succeeded in uniting with the firm carefulness +of his early work the rapid, fluent, vibrating style that +makes his later books so delightful; therefore it is easy to make +the deduction that ‘Clementina’ is the best piece of work he has +done.”—<em>New York Evening Sun</em></p> + +<p>“Among the novels of the past five years no books have more +consistently produced an effect at once certain, satisfactory and +delightful than those of William J. Locke. This latest addition +to his shelf is full of life and laughter and the love not only of +man for woman but of man for man and for humanity. Mr. +Locke is a born story-teller and a master of the art of expression.”—<em>The Outlook</em></p> + +<p>“The book contains a mass of good material, with original +characterization, and is written in a style piquant and clever.”—<em>The Literary Digest</em></p> + +<p>“A story containing the essence of humanity, with an abundance of +sensible and sensitive, casual and unobtrusive commentary +upon life and man, and especially upon woman.”—<em>Boston Evening Transcript</em></p> + +<p>“It contains even more of the popular qualities than are usually +associated with the writings of this noted author.”—<em>Boston Times</em></p> + +<p>“Mr. Locke’s flights into the realms of fancy have been a +delight to many readers. He has a lightness of touch that is +entirely captivating, and his remarkable characterization of inconsequent +people gives them a reality that is very insistent.”—<em>Baltimore Evening Sun</em></p> + +<p>“Never has he drawn so deeply from that well that is the +human heart; never so near those invisible heights which are +the soul; and, if we are not altogether mistaken, ‘The Glory of +Clementina’ will also prove to be that of its author.”—<em>Baltimore News</em></p> + +<p>“A fascinating story with delicate, whimsical touches.”—<em>Albany Times-Union</em></p> + +<p>“The book seems destined to live longer than any written +by the author to date, because it is so sane and so fundamentally true.”—<em>Philadelphia Enquirer</em></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%; color: black; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: -1em;" /> + +<h1>JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK</h1> + +</div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="box2"> + +<p> </p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span></p> +<h2>MANALIVE</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>BY</strong></p> + +<h2>Gilbert K. Chesterton</h2> + +<p class="center">Author of “The Innocence of Father Brown,” +“Heretics,” “Orthodoxy,” etc.</p> + +<p class="center"> +<em>Cloth</em> <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>12mo</em></span> <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>$1.30 net</em></span> <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>Postage 12 cents</em></span> +</p> + +<p class="center">Frontispiece and Jacket Illustration by Will Foster</p> + +<p>“Mr. Chesterton has undertaken in this quaint narrative to +make burlesque the vehicle of a sermon and a philosophy. It +is all a part of the author’s war upon artificial attitudes which +enclose the living men like a shell and make for human purposes +a dead man of him. He speaks here in a parable—a parable of +his own kind, having about it a broad waggishness like that of +Mr. Punch and a distinct flavor of that sort of low comedy which +one finds in Dickens and Shakespeare. You are likely to find, +before you are done with the parable, that there has been forced +upon your attention a possible view of the life worth living. +‘Manalive’ is a ‘Peterpantheistic’ novel full of Chestertonisms.”—<em>New +York Times</em></p> + +<p>“One of the oddest books Mr. Chesterton has yet given us.”—<em>New +York Evening Globe</em></p> + +<p>“The fun of the book (and there is plenty of it) comes quite +as much from the extraordinary and improbable characters as +from the situations. Epigrams, witticisms, odd fancies, queer +conceits, singular whimsies, follow after one another in quick +succession.”—<em>Brooklyn Eagle</em></p> + + +<p>“One of the most humorous tales of modern fiction, combined +with a very tender and appealing love story.”—<em>Cleveland +Plain Dealer</em></p> + +<p>“The book is certain to have a wide circulation, not only +because of the name of the author attached to it, but because +of its own intrinsic worth.”—<em>Buffalo Commercial</em></p> + +<p>“There can be no doubt as to the iridescent brilliance of the +book. Page after page—full of caustic satire, humorous sally and +profound epigram—fairly bristles with merriment. The book is +a compact mass of scintillating wit.”—<em>Philadelphia Public Ledger</em></p> + +<hr style="width: 100%; color: black; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: -1em;" /> + +<h1>JOHN LANE CO., NEW YORK</h1> + + +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Joyous Adventures of Aristide Pujol, by +William J. 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