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.
“Il était saoûl 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.
“M. Pujol, you have a strange way of giving French lessons.”
“I believe, madame,” 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 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.
“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 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 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 Hampstead, 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.
“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-stool and advanced smilingly to meet him.
“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.”
This fitted in with his theory. But why Baron? After all, 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, then at the girl again.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “will you deign to accept these 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 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 bazaar – and she was a most matter-of-fact, businesslike person.”
“Bah!” said Aristide. “A princess of a charity bazaar! I was talking of the princess in a fairytale. 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 coloured 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
