Aristide Pujol bade me a sunny farewell at the door of the Hotel du
Luxembourg at Nimes, 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, _aperitifs_, 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.
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 Montelimar; had spent several hours in his company, with the result
that he had convinced him of two things: first, that the dry,
crumbling, shortbread-like nougat of Montelimar 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 Montelimar 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--_hinc ille Colorado_--and he was to accompany his principal the
next day to Montelimar, _en route_ 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.
I congratulated him on his almost fantastic good fortune and gladly
accepted his offer.
"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?"
"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 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 Hotel de la Curatterie."
In the course of the day he related to me the following artless history.
* * * * *
Aristide Pujol arrived at Nimes one blazing day in July. He had money in
his pocket and laughter in his soul. He had also deposited his valise at
the Hotel 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 Nimois regard as maniacal in the
sweltering July heat--he walked about the baking streets for his own
good pleasure.
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 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.
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.
Etienne 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. Etienne, to work upon the ironmaster's sense of 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.
The question of the all-important meeting between the millionaire and
the managing director then arose. As Aristide was at St. Etienne it
was arranged that they should meet at a halfway stage on the latter's
journey from Perpignan to Marseilles. The Hotel du Luxembourg at Nimes
was the place, and two o'clock on Thursday the time appointed.
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 wealth jingling and
crinkling in his pockets he fled the town and arrived at Nimes on
Wednesday morning, a day before his appointment.
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.
Aristide threw himself on a bench and fanned himself with his straw hat.
"_Mon Dieu!_ it's hot!" he remarked to another occupant of the seat.
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
Arlesienne's Roman beauty--the finely chiselled features, the calm,
straight brows, the ripe lips, the 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.
"Why, you're crying, madame!" said he.
"Evidently," murmured the lady.
"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."
"You jest, monsieur," said the lady, drying her eyes.
"By no means," said he. "The sight of so beautiful a woman in distress
is painful."
"Ah!" she sighed. "I am very unhappy."
Aristide drew nearer still.
"Who," said he, "is the wretch that has dared to make you so?"
"My husband," replied the lady, swallowing a sob.
"The scoundrel!" said Aristide.
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.
"There never was a husband yet," he added, "who appreciated a beautiful
wife. Husbands only deserve harridans."
"That's true," said the Arlesienne, "for when the wife is good-looking
they are jealous."
"Ah, that is the trouble, is it?" said Aristide. "Tell me all about it."
The beautiful Arlesienne again contemplated her slender fingers.
"I don't know you, monsieur."
"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.
"Monsieur," she said, "I have been married to my husband for four years,
and have always been faithful to him."
"That's praiseworthy," said Aristide.
"And I love him very much."
"That's unfortunate!" said Aristide.
"Unfortunate?"
"Evidently!" said Aristide.
Their eyes met. They burst out laughing. The lady quickly recovered and
the tears sprang again.
"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.
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 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.
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.
"Madame," said Aristide, "you are adorable, and I love you to
distraction."