Aristide was never happier than when he had not a penny piece in the world. He believed, I fancy, in a dim sort of way, in God and the Virgin and Holy Water and the Pope; but the faith that thrilled him to exaltation was his faith in the inevitable happening of the unexpected. He marched to meet it with the throbbing pulses of a soldier rushing to victory or a saint to martyrdom. He walked up the Rue Saint Honoré, the Rue de la Paix, along the Grands Boulevards, smiling on a world which teemed with unexpectednesses, until he reached a café on the Boulevard des Bonnes Filles de Calvaire. Here he was arrested by Fate, in the form of a battered man in black, who, springing from the solitary frostiness of the terrace, threw his arms about him and kissed him on both cheeks. "_Mais, c'est toi, Pujol!_" "_C'est toi, Roulard!_" Roulard dragged Aristide to his frosty table and ordered drinks. Roulard had played the trumpet in the regimental band in which Aristide had played the kettle drum. During their military service they had been inseparables. Since those happy and ear-splitting days they had not met. They looked at each other and laughed and thumped each other's shoulders. "_Ce vieux Roulard!_" "_Ce sacré Pujol._" "And what are you doing?" asked Aristide, after the first explosions of astonishment and reminiscence. A cloud overspread the battered man's features. He had a wife and five children and played in theatre orchestras. At the present time he was trombone in the "Tournée Gulland," a touring opera company. It was not gay for a sensitive artist like him, and the trombone gave one a thirst which it took half a week's salary to satisfy. _Mais enfin, que veux-tu?_ It was life, a dog's life, but life was like that. Aristide, he supposed, was making a fortune. Aristide threw back his head, and laughed at the exquisite humour of the hypothesis, and gaily disclosed his Micawberish situation. Roulard sat for a while thoughtful and silent. Presently a ray of inspiration dispelled the cloud from the features of the battered man. "_Tiens, mon vieux_," said he, "I have an idea." It was an idea worthy of Aristide's consideration. The drum of the Tournée Gulland had been dismissed for drunkenness. The vacancy had not been filled. Various executants who had drummed on approval--this being an out-week of the tour--had driven the chef d'orchestre to the verge of homicidal mania. Why should not Aristide, past master in drumming, find an honourable position in the orchestra of the Tournée Gulland? Aristide's eyes sparkled, his fingers itched for the drumsticks, he started to his feet. "_Mon vieux Roulard!_" he cried, "you have saved my life. More than that, you have resuscitated an artist. Yes, an artist. _Sacré nom de Dieu!_ Take me to this chef d'orchestre."