The Joyous Adventures of Aristide Pujol

“Five,” said Aristide, promptly.

A sudden gleam came into the little pig’s 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 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!

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.

“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 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.

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

“You’re a confounded impostor,” spluttered Mr. Smith.

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

“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.

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

“There’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 voilà!”

“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. I am here, and here I stay.”

“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 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.”

“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 M. Poiron has more scruples than he has right to the ribbon of the Legion of Honour 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 hearthrug. Aristide sat down in the arm-chair. 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 M. le Baron – by the way, what is my name? And where is my historic château in Languedoc?”

“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.”

“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 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.

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.

“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 a week – like myself. He must go back to his hotel when the business is concluded.”

“Mais, pardon!” 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.”

Aristide appealed to his host. “But he is unreasonable, cher ami. He must play his rôle. 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.”

“Five hundred pounds!” exclaimed M. Poiron. “Qu’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, in a 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 started with a little “Oh!” of surprise.

“I beg your pardon.”

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

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