The Joyous Adventures of Aristide Pujol (American Magazine series)/The Adventure of the Kind Mr. Smith

RISTIDE PUJOL started life on his own account as a chasseur 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 travelers 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 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.

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 about 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.

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 mysteries of the past participle and the subjunctive mood, and turned them out quite innocent of the idiomatic quaintnesses of the French tongue. But dis aliter visum. The gods always saw wrong-headedly otherwise in the case of Aristide. A weak-minded governess—and in a governess, a sense of humor 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. “''En avez-vous des-z-homards? Oh les sales bêtes, elles ont du toil aux pattes'',” 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—“Sur le bi, sur le banc, sur le bi du bout du banc,” and delighted them with dissertations on Madame Yvette Guilbert's earlier repertoire. But for him they would have gone to their lives' end without knowing that pognon meant money, rouspétance, assaulting the police, Zune, a five-franc piece, and bouffer, to take nourishment. He made (according to his own statement) French 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 “Eh! ta soeur” was the purest Montmartre; also “fich'-moi la paix mon petit,” and “tu as un toupet, toi,” and the delectable locution, “allons étrangler un perroquet” (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.

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 neighboring 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 “Comment vous portez-vous, ma chère?” was rendered by most of the senior scholars “Ek, ma vieille, ça boulotte?” One innocent and anachronistic damsel writing on the execution of Charles I. declared that he “cracha dans le panier” 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 “al” that took “s” in the plural; no one knew anything at all about the defective verb “échoir,” and the orthography of the school would have disgraced a kindergarten. The head-mistress suspected a lack of method in the teaching of Monsieur Pujol, and one day paid his class a surprise visit.

The sight that met her eyes petrified her. The class, including the governess, bubbled and gurgled and shrieked with laughter. Monsieur 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.

“Il était saoul comme un porc!” he shouted.

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.

“Monsieur Pujol, you have a strange way of giving French lessons.”

“I believe, madam,” said he, with a polite bow, “in interesting my pupils in their studies.”

“Pupils have to be taught, not interested,” said the head-mistress. "Will you kindly put the class through some irregular verbs.”

So for the remainder of the lesson, Aristide, under the freezing eyes of the head-mistress, put his 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.

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 meager 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.

“''Sacré mille cochons! Quel chien de climat'',” he muttered.

A smart footman, standing by, turned quickly and touched his hat.

“Beg pardon, sir, I'm from Mr. Smith.”

“I'm glad to hear it, my friend,” said Aristide.

“You're the French gentleman from Manchester?”

“Decidedly,” said Aristide.

“Then, sir, Mr. Smith has sent the carriage for you.”

“That's very kind of him,” said Aristide.

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?”

“Bah!” said he to himself, “the best way of finding out is to go and see.”

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? Tiens, thought he, there were two little Miss Smiths at the Academy; he had pitied them because they had freckles, chilblains 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 tiens! 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.”

The carriage stopped at a house in Hamstead 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 parlor maid received him in a comfortably furnished hall, and took his hat and great-coat and magnificent bouquet.

“Mr. Smith hasn't come back yet from the city, sir; but Miss Christabel is in the drawing-room.”

"Ah!” said Aristide. “Please give me back my bouquet.”

The maid showed him into the drawing-room—a pretty girl of three and twenty rose from a fender seat, and advanced smilingly to meet him.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur 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.”

This fitted in with his theory. But why Baron? After al why not? The English loved titles.

"He seems to be an intelligent fellow, mademoiselle.”

There was a span of silence. The girl looked at the bouquet, then at Aristide, who looked at the girl, then at the bouquet, and then at the girl again.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “will you deign to accept these poor flowers as a token of my respectful homage.”

Miss Christabel took the flowers, and blushed prettily. She had dark hair and eyes and a fascinating, upturned, little nose and the kindest little mouth in the world.

“An Englishman would not have thought of that,” she said.

Aristide smiled in his roguish way, and raised a deprecating hand.

"Oh, yes, he would. But he would not have had—what you call the cheek to do it.”

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 English 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.

“You have the air of a veritable princess,” said he.

"I once met a princess—at a Charity Bazar—and she was a most matter-of-fact, businesslike person.”

“Bah!” said Aristide. “A princess of a Charity Bazar! I was talking of the princess in a fairy tale. They are the only real ones.”

“Do you know,” said Miss Christabel, “that when men pay such compliments to English girls they are apt to get laughed at.”

“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.”

Again the girl colored and laughed. “I've always heard that a Frenchman makes love to every woman he meets.”

“Naturally,” said Aristide. “If they are pretty. What else are pretty women for? Otherwise they might as well be hideous.”

“Oh!” said the girl, to whom this Provençal point of view had not occurred.

“So if I make love to you, it is but your due.”

“I wonder what my fiancé would say if he heard you?”

“Your”

“My fiancé! There's his photograph on the table beside you. He is six foot one, and so jealous” she laughed again.

“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 devils can glean a smile?”

“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.”

Aristide sighed: “And the name of this thrice blessed mortal?”

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 Honorable 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 first had made acquaintance.

“Were supposed to have a very fine collection here,” she said, with a motion of her hand.

Aristide looked around 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.

“I thought you were a connoisseur,” she said.

“I am,” said Aristide, his bright eyes fixed on her in frank admiration.

She blushed again; but this time she rose.

“I must go and dress for dinner. Perhaps you would like to be shown your room.”

He hung his head on one side. “Have I been too bold, mademoiselle?”

“I don't know,” she said. “You see, I've never met a Frenchman before.”

“Then a world of undreamed-of homage is at your feet,” said he.

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 out 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.

“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 honorable Harry, this is none the less a corner of paradise.”

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 hearth rug, a bald-headed, beefy-faced Briton with little pigs' eyes and a hearty manner, attired in a dinner suit.

“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.”

“Mademoiselle is too kind,” said Aristide.

“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.”

“Ma foi, 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 the women, saving the respect of mademoiselle, well,—the less said about them the better.”

“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.”

“Yet Paris has its serious side,” argued Aristide. “There is always the Tomb of Napoleon.”

“Papa will never take me to Paris,” sighed the girl.

“You shall go there on your honeymoon,” said Mr. Smith.

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 humors.

“And how is our dear old friend, Jules Dancourt?” he asked.

“Tiens,” 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.”

“So do I, confound it!” said Mr. Smith, drinking sherry.

“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.”

“Men cry, my dear, in France,” Mr. Smith explained. “They also kiss each other.”

“Ah, mais c'est un beau pays, mademoiselle!” 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 humor.

“But I thought, Baron,” said he, “that you lived all your life shut up in that old château of yours.”

“Tiens!” thought Aristide. “I am still a Baron and I have an old château.”

“Tell jus about the château. Has it a fosse and a drawbridge, and a Gothic chapel?” asked Miss Christabel.

“Which one do you mean?” inquired Aristide airily. “For I have two.”

When relating to me this Arabian Nights' adventure, he plumed himself greatly on his astuteness.

His host's eye quivered in a wink. “The one in Languedoc,” said he.

Languedoc! Almost Pujol's own country! With entire lack of morality but with a picturesque 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, boulevards; it had innumerable rooms; in the salle des chevaliers two hundred men-at-arms had his ancestors fed at a sitting. There was the room in which Francois 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.

Miss Christabel shivered. “I should not like to eat frogs.”

“They also eat snails,” said her father.

“I have a snail farm,” said Aristide. “You never saw such interesting little animals. They are so intelligent. If you're kind to them, they come and eat out of your hand.”

“You've forgotten the pictures,” said Mr. Smith.

“Ah! The pictures!” cried Aristide, with a wide sweep of his arm, “galleries full of them. Raphael, Michael Angelo, Wiertz, Reynolds...

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.

“It is a truly historical château,” said he.

“I should love to see it,” said the girl.

Aristide threw out his arms wide across the table. “It is yours, mademoiselle, for your honeymoon,” said he.

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?

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.

“There!” said he; “isn't it a stunner?”

It was a picture all gray skies, and gray water, and gray feathery trees, and a little man in the foreground wore a red cap.

“It is beautiful, but indeed it is magnificent!” cried Aristide, always impressionable to things of beauty.

“Genuine Corot, isn't it?”

“Without doubt,” said Aristide.

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.”

Aristide looked at the beefy face, and caught a look of cunning in the little pigs' eyes.

“Now are you satisfied?” he asked.

“More than satisfied,” said Aristide, though what he was to be satisfied about passed, for the moment, his comprehension.

“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.”

“He does, indeed,” said Aristide Pujol.

“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.”

"Tiens!” said Aristide to himself. “I don't seem to have a château after all.”

“Certainly three thousand,” said he with a grave face.

“That young man thinks he knows a lot, but he doesn't,” said Mr. Smith.

“Ah!” said Aristide with singular laconicism.

“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 & 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 or so.”

“Has he seen the picture?” asked Aristide.

“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 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”

“Good,” thought Aristide. “This is the same Honorable Harry, M. P., who is engaged to the ravishing Miss Christabel.”

“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.”

Aristide went back to the table and poured himself out a fresh glass of his kind host's 1865 brandy and drank it off.

“Exquisite, my dear fellow,” said he. “I've none finer in my historic château.”

"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 pigs' 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?”

“Five,” said Aristide, promptly.

A sudden gleam came into the little pigs' eyes.

“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.

They shook hands to seal the bargain and drank another glass of old brandy. At that moment a servant, entering, took the host aside.

“Please excuse me a moment,” said he, and went with the servant out of the room.

Aristide left alone, lighted another of his kind host's fat cigars and threw himself into a great leathern armchair 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!

His cheerful reflections were soon disturbed by the sudden irruption of his host and a grizzled, elderly, foxy-faced: gentleman with a white mustache, wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in the buttonhole of his overcoat.

“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?”

Aristide rose and, putting his hands behind the tails of his frock coat, stood smiling radiantly on the hearth rug. 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.



“I, my dear friend,” said he, "am the Baron de Je ne Sais Plus.”

“You're a damned impostor,” spluttered Mr. Smith.

“And this gentleman here to whom I have not had the pleasure of being introduced?” asked Aristide, blandly.

“I am Monsieur Poiron, Monsieur, the agent of, Messrs. Brauneberger & Compagnie, Art dealers of the Rue Notre Dame des Petits Champs of Paris,” said the new-comer with an air of defiance.

“Ah, I thought you were the baron,” said Aristide.

“”here's no blooming baron at all about it!” screamed Mr. Smith. “Are you Poiron, or is he?”

“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.”

“How the blazes did you get here?”

“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—et voila!”

“Then clear out of here this very minute,” said Mr. Smith, reaching forward his hand to the bell-push. Aristide checked his impulsive action.

“Pardon me, dear host,” said he. “It is raining dogs and cats outside. I am very comfortable in your luxurious home. J'y suis, j'y reste.”

“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?”

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.

“You forget, mon cher ami,” said he, “that neither the beautiful Miss Christabel nor her affianced, the Honorable 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.”

“So it's blackmail, eh?”

“Precisely,” said Aristide, “and I don't blush at it.”

“You infernal little blackguard!”

“I seem to be in congenial company,” said Aristide. “I don't think our friend Monsieur Poiron has more scruples than he has right to the ribbon of the Legion of Honor which he is wearing.”

“How much will you take to go out? I have a cheque-book handy.”

Mr. Smith moved a few steps from the hearth rug. Aristide sat down in the armchair. An engaging, fantastic impudence was one of the charms of Aristide Pujol.

“I'll take five hundred pounds,” said he, “to stay in.”

“Stay in?” Mr. Smith grew apoplectic.

“Yes,” said Aristide. “You can't do without me. Your daughter and your servants know me as Monsieur le Baron—by the way, what is my name? And where is my historic château in Languedoc?”

“Mireilles,” said Monsieur Poiron, who was sitting grim and taciturn on one of the dining-room chairs. “And the place is the same, near Montpellier.”

“I like to meet an intelligent man,” said Aristide.

“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.”

“Anything you like,” said Aristide, “so long as we all swing together.”

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.

“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 threepence 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.

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 Honorable Harry, had arranged for the Baron who was visiting England to bring it over and despatch 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 Honorable Harry in person. In whatever transaction ensued, Mr Smith, as 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 Monsieur Poiron. He should be the eminent Parisian expert who, chancing to be in London, had been telephoned for by the kind Mr. Smith.



“It would not be wise for Monsieur Poiron,” said Aristide, chuckling inwardly with Puckish glee, “to stay here for the night—or for two or three days—or a week—like myself. He must go back to his hotel when the business is concluded.”

“Mais, pardon!” cried Monsieur 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.”

Aristide appealed to his host. “But he is unreasonable, cher ami. He must play his rôle. Monsieur Poiron has been telephoned for. He can't possibly stay here. Surely five hundred pounds is worth one little night of discomfort?”

“Five hundred pounds!” exclaimed Monsieur Poiron. “Que'est-ce que vous chantez là? I want more than five hundred pounds.”

“Then you're jolly well not going to get it,” cried Mr. Smith, ina rage. “And as for you”—he turned on Aristide—“I'll wring your infernal neck yet.”

“Calm yourself, calm yourself!” smiled Aristide, who was enjoying himself hugely.

At this moment the door opened and Miss Christabel appeared. On seeing the decorated stranger she stared with a little “Oh!” of surprise.

“I beg your pardon.”

Mr. Smith's angry face wreathed itself in smiles.

“This, my darling, is Monsieur Poiron, the eminent Paris expert who has been good enough to come and give us his opinion on the picture.”

Monsieur Poiron bowed. Aristide advanced.

“Mademoiselle, your appearance is like a mirage in a desert.”

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.”

“Bring him in, dear child, bring him in!” said Mr. Smith, with all the heartiness of the fine old English gentleman.

'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 Honorable Harry Ralston, a tall, soldierly fellow, with close-cropped, fair curly hair and a fair mustache, 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.

“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.”

“Ma foi,” said Aristide, “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”

“You were saying, Monsieur le Baron,” said Poiron, “that your respected grandfather bought this direct from Corot himself.”

“A commission,” said Aristide. “My grandfather was a patron of Corot.”

“Do you like it, dear?” asked the Honorable Harry.

“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?”

“For me,” said Aristide, “it would be a visit of enchantment.”

“You must take me then,” she whispered to Harry. 'The baron has been telling us about his lovely old château.”

“Will you come, monsieur?” asked Aristide.

“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.”

Aristide took Miss Christabel, now more bewitching than ever with the glow of young love in her eyes and a flush on her cheek, a step or two aside and whispered:

“But he is charming, your fiancé! He almost deserves his good fortune.”

“Why almost?” she laughed shyly.

“It is not a man, but a demigod that would deserve you, mademoiselle.”

Monsieur Poiron's harsh voice broke out.

“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.”



“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.”

“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.”

“Well, Baron,” said the young man cheerfully. “What's your idea?”

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 stood Mr. Smith and Poiron, on his right Miss Christabel and the Honorable Harry.

“I'll not take three thousand pounds for it,” said Aristide. “A picture like that! Non, jamais!”

“I assure you it would be a fair price,” said Monsieur Poiron.

“You mentioned that figure yourself, only just now,” said Mr. Smith, with an ugly glitter in his little pigs' eyes.

“I presume, gentlemen,” said Aristide, “that this picture is my own property.” He turned engagingly to his host. “Is it not, cher ami?”

“Of course it is. Who said it wasn't?”

“And you, Monsieur Poiron, acknowledge formally that it is mine?” he asked, in French.

“Sans aucun doute.”

“Eh bien,” said Aristide, throwing open his arms and gazing round sweetly. “I have changed my mind. I do not sell the picture at all.”

“Not sell it? What the—what do you mean?” asked Mr. Smith, striving to mellow the gathering thunder on his brow.

“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 center of the stage. “I have an announcement to make to you. I have fallen desperately in love with mademoiselle.”

There was a general gasp. Mr. Smith looked at 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.

“My dear sir—” he began.

“Pardon,” said Aristide, disarming him with the merry splendor of his glance, “I do not wish to take mademoiselle from you. My love is hopeless! 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 you as a wedding present.”

He stood, with the air of a hero, both arms extended toward the amazed pair of lovers.

“I give it you,” said he. “It is mine. I have no wish but for your happiness. In my château there are a hundred others.”

“This is madness!” said Mr. Smith, bursting with suppressed indignation.

“My dear fellow,” said Mr. Harry Ralston, “it is unheard-of generosity on your part; but we can't accept it.”

“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.”

Mr. Smith caught him by the wrist and dragged him out of the room.

“You little brute, do you want your neck broken?”

“Do you want the marriage of your daughter with the rich and Honorable Harry broken?” asked Aristide.

“Oh, damn!” cried Mr. Smith, stamping about helplessly and half weeping. “Oh, damn! Oh, damn! Oh, damn!”

Aristide entered the dining room and beamed on the company.

“The kind Mr. Smith has consented. Monsieur Honorable Harry and Miss Christabel, there is your Corot. And now may I be permitted?” He rang the bell. A servant appeared.

“Some champagne to drink to the health of the fiancés,” he cried. “Lots of champagne.”

Mr. Smith looked at him almost admiringly. “By Jove!” he muttered. “You have got a nerve.”

“Voilà,” said Aristide, when he had finished the story.

“And did they really accept the Corot?” I asked.

“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.”

“And what about their honeymoon visit to Languedoc?”

“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.”