"_Je vous remercie, monseigneur_," she replied, in what was obviously her best company manner. "And if ever you will deign to come again to the Café de l'Univers at Carcassonne we will esteem it a great honour." "And so you're going to get married to-morrow?" I remarked, by way of saying something. To congratulate Aristide Pujol on his choice lay beyond my power of hypocrisy. "To-morrow," said he, "my dear Amélie will make me the happiest of men." "We start for Carcassonne by the three-thirty train," said Mme. Gougasse, pulling a great silver watch from some fold of her person. "Then there is time," said I, pointing to a little weather-beaten café in the square, "to drink a glass to your happiness." "_Bien volontiers_," said the lady. "_Pardon, chère amie_," Aristide interposed, quickly. "Unless monseigneur and I start at once for Montpellier, I shall not have time to transact my little affairs before your train arrives there." Parenthetically, I must remark that all trains going from Aigues-Mortes to Carcassonne must stop at Montpellier. "That's true," she agreed, in a hesitating manner. "But----" "But, idol of my heart, though I am overcome with grief at the idea of leaving you for two little hours, it is a question of four thousand francs. Four thousand francs are not picked up every day in the street. It's a lot of money." Mme. Gougasse's little eyes glittered. "_Bien sûr._ And it's quite settled?" "Absolutely." "And it will be all for me?" "Half," said Aristide. "You promised all to me for the redecoration of the ceiling of the café." "Three thousand will be sufficient, dear angel. What? I know these contractors and decorators. The more you pay them, the more abominable will they make the ceiling. Leave it to me. I, Aristide, will guarantee you a ceiling like that of the Sistine Chapel for two thousand francs." She smiled and bridled, so as to appear perfectly well-bred in my presence. The act of smiling caused the tuft of hair on her jaw to twitch horribly. A cold shiver ran down my back. "Don't you think, monseigneur," she asked, archly, "that M. Pujol should give me the four thousand francs as a wedding-present?" "Most certainly," said I, in my heartiest voice, entirely mystified by the conversation. "Well, I yield," said Aristide. "Ah, women, women! They hold up their little rosy finger, and the bravest of men has to lie down with his chin on his paws like a good old watch-dog. You agree, then, monseigneur, to my giving the whole of the four thousand francs to Amélie?" "More than that," said I, convinced that the swarthy lady of the prognathous jaw was bound to have her own way in the end where money was concerned, and yet for the life of me not seeing how I had anything to do with the disposal of Aristide Pujol's property--"More than that," said I; "I command you to do it." "_C'est bien gentil de votre part_," said madame.