"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." Aristide flashed the lightning of his wit upon the young man from Atlanta, Georgia. "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 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." "I particularly want to see those in the church of St. Sebald in Nuremberg." "I know them like my pocket," said Aristide. "I will take you there. We start to-day." "But, Mr. Pujol," said the somewhat bewildered Georgian. "I thought you were a man of fortune." "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." 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. "I believe you," said he. "It's a deal. Shake." "And now," said Aristide, after having shaken hands, "come and lunch with me at Nikola's for the last time." He rose, stretched out both arms in a wide gesture and smiled with his irresistible Ancient Mariner's eyes at the young man. "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. _Viens, mon cher ami._ It is the dream of my life." Practically penniless and absolutely disillusioned, the amazing man was radiantly happy. IX THE ADVENTURE OF A SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 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. "I know the very man you're looking for," said I. "Who is he?" "He's a kind of human firework," said I, "and his name is Aristide Pujol." I sketched the man--in my desire to do a good turn to Aristide, perhaps in exaggerated colour.