"_Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ what is to become of me?" wailed Fleurette. "You forget, madame," said Aristide, with one of his fine flourishes, "that you are the sacred trust of Aristide Pujol." "But I can't accept your money," objected Fleurette. "_Tron de l'air!_" he cried. "Did your husband put you in my charge or did he not? Am I your legal guardian, or am I not? If I am your legal guardian, what right have you to question the arrangements made by your husband? Answer me that." Fleurette, too gentle and too miserable for intricate argument, sighed. "But it is your money, all the same." Aristide turned to Bocardon. "Try," said he, "to convince a woman! Do you want proofs? Wait there a minute while I get them from the safe of the Agence Pujol." He disappeared into the bureau, where, secure from observation, he tore an oblong strip from a sheet of stiff paper, and, using an indelible pencil, wrote out something fantastic halfway between a cheque and a bill of exchange, forged as well as he could from memory the signature of Reginald Batterby--the imitation of handwriting was one of Aristide's many odd accomplishments--and made the document look legal by means of a receipt stamp, which he took from Bocardon's drawer. He returned to the vestibule with the strip folded and somewhat crumpled in his hand. "_Voilà_," said he, handing it boldly to Fleurette. "Here is your husband's guarantee to me, your guardian, for four thousand francs." Fleurette examined the forgery. The stamp impressed her. For the simple souls of France there is magic in _papier timbré_. "It was my husband who wrote this?" she asked, curiously. "_Mais, oui_," said Aristide, with an offended air of challenge. Fleurette's eyes filled again with tears. "I only inquired," she said, "because this is the first time I have seen his handwriting." "_Ma pauvre petite_," said Aristide. "I will do whatever you tell me, M. Pujol," said Fleurette, humbly. "Good! That is talking like _une bonne petite dame raisonnable_. Now, I know a woman made up of holy bread whom St. Paul and St. Peter are fighting to have next them when she goes to Paradise. Her name is Mme. Bidoux, and she sells cabbages and asparagus and charcoal at No. 213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré. She will arrange our little affair. Bocardon, will you have madame's trunks sent to that address?" He gave his arm to Fleurette, and walked out of the hotel, with serene confidence in the powers of the sainted Mme. Bidoux. Fleurette accompanied him unquestioningly. Of course she might have said: "If you hold negotiable security from my husband to the amount of four thousand francs, why should I exchange the comforts of the hotel for the doubtful accommodation of the sainted Mme. Bidoux who sells cabbages?" But I repeat that Fleurette was a simple soul who took for granted the wisdom of so flamboyant and virile a creature as Aristide Pujol.