So Aristide, out of love for his friend, and out of he knew not what for his friend's wife, continued to show them the sights of Paris. They went to the cabarets of Montmartre--the _Ciel_, where one is served by angels; the _Enfer_, where one is served by red devils in a Tartarean lighting; the _Néant_, where one has coffins for tables--than all of which vulgarity has imagined no more joy-killing dreariness, but which caused Fleurette to grip Aristide's hand tight in scared wonderment and Batterby to chuckle exceedingly. They went to the Bal Bullier and to various other balls undreamed of by the tourist, where Fleurette danced with Aristide, as light as an autumn leaf tossed by the wind, and Batterby absorbed a startling assortment of alcohols. In a word, Aristide procured for his friends prodigious diversion. "How do you like this, old girl?" Batterby asked one night, at the Moulin de la Galette, a dizzying, not very decorous, and to the unsophisticated visitor a dangerous place of entertainment. "Better than Great Coram Street, isn't it?" She smiled and laid her hand on his. She was a woman of few words but of many caressing actions. "I ought to let you into a secret," said he. "This is our honeymoon." "Who would have thought it?" [Illustration: FLEURETTE DANCED WITH ARISTIDE, AS LIGHT AS AN AUTUMN LEAF TOSSED BY THE WIND] "A fortnight ago she was being killed in a Bloomsbury boarding-house. There were two of 'em--she and a girl called Carrie. I used to call 'em Fetch and Carrie. This one was Fetch. Well, she fetched me, didn't you, old girl? And now you're Mrs. Reginald Batterby, living at your ease, eh?" "Madame would grace any sphere," said Aristide. "I wish I had more education," said Fleurette, humbly. "M. Pujol and yourself are so clever that you must laugh at me." "We do sometimes, but you mustn't mind us. Remember--at the what-you-call-it--the little shanty at Versailles----?" "The Grand Trianon," replied Aristide. "That's it. When you were showing us the rooms. 'What is the Empress Josephine doing now?'" He mimicked her accent. "Ha! ha! And the poor soul gone to glory a couple of hundred years ago." The little mouth puckered at the corners and moisture gathered in the blue eyes. "_Mais, mon Dieu_, it was natural, the mistake," cried Aristide, gallantly. "The Empress Eugénie, the wife of another Napoleon, is still living." "_Bien sûr_," said Fleurette. "How was I to know?" "Never mind, old girl," said Batterby. "You're living all right, and out of that beastly boarding-house, and that's the chief thing. Another month of it would have killed her. She had a cough that shook her to bits. She's looking better already, isn't she, Pujol?"