"Let me have a look at him," said Blessington. "He may be anywhere on the continent of Europe," said I. "How long can you give me to produce him?" "A week. Not longer." "I'll do my best," said I. By good luck my telegram, sent off about four o'clock, found him at 213 _bis_ Rue Saint-Honoré. He had just returned to Paris after some mad dash for fortune (he told me afterwards a wild and disastrous story of a Russian Grand-Duke, a Dancer and a gold mine in the Dolomites) and had once more resumed the dreary conduct of the Agence Pujol at the Hôtel du Soleil et de l'Ecosse. My summons being imperative, he abandoned the Agence Pujol as a cat jumps off a wall, and, leaving the guests of the Hotel guideless, to the indignation of Monsieur Bocardon, whom he had served this trick several times before, paid his good landlady, Madam Bidoux, what he owed her, took a third-class ticket to London, bought, lunatic that he was, a ripe Brie cheese, a foot in diameter, a present to myself, which he carried in his hand most of the journey, and turned up at my house at eight o'clock the next morning with absolutely empty pockets and the happiest and most fascinating smile that ever irradiated the face of man. As a matter of fact, he burst his way past my scandalized valet into my bedroom and woke me up. "Here I am, my dear friend, and here is something French you love that I have brought you," and he thrust the Brie cheese under my nose. "-- -- --," said I. If you were awakened by a Brie cheese, an hour before your time, you would say the same. Aristide sat at the foot of the bed and laughed till the tears ran down his beard. As soon as it was decent I sent him into the city to interview Blessington. Three hours afterward he returned more radiant than ever. He threw himself into my arms; before I could disentagle myself, he kissed me on both cheeks; then he danced about the room. "_Me voici_," he said, "accredited representative of the great Maison Dulau et Compagnie. I have hundreds of pounds a year. I go about. I watch. I control. I see that the Great British Public can assuage its thirst with the pure juice of the grape and not with the dregs of a laboratory. I test vintages. I count barrels. I enter them in books. I smile at Algerian wine growers and say, 'Ha! ha! none of your _petite piquette frélateé_ for me but good sound wine.' It is diplomacy. It is as simple as kissing hands. And I have a sustained income. Now I can be _un bon bourgeois_ instead of a stray cat. And all due to you, _mon cher ami_. I am grateful--_voyons_--if anybody ever says Aristide Pujol is ungrateful, he is a liar. You believe me! Say you believe me." He looked at me earnestly. "I do, old chap," said I.