edless to say, I make no
charge for my services."

Snatching the dog from the arms of the fascinated woman, he darted in
his dragon-fly fashion into the shop, gave a hundred orders to a
stupefied assistant, and--to cut short a story which Aristide told me
with great wealth of detail--mended the precious dog and gained Madame
Bidoux's eternal gratitude. For Madame Bidoux the world held no more
remarkable man than Aristide Pujol; and for Aristide the world held no
more devoted friend than Madame Bidoux. Many a succulent meal, at the
widow's expense--never more enjoyable than in summer time when she set a
little iron table and a couple of iron chairs on the pavement outside
the shop--had saved him from starvation; and many a gewgaw sent from
London or Marseilles or other such remote latitudes filled her heart
with pride. Since my acquaintance with Aristide I myself have called on
this excellent woman, and I hope I have won her esteem, though I have
never had the honour of eating pig's trotters and chou-croute with her
on the pavement of the Rue Saint Honore. It is an honour from which,
being an unassuming man, I shrink.

Unfortunately Madame Bidoux has nothing further to do with the story I
am about to relate, save in one respect:--

There came a day--it was a bleak day in November, when Madame Bidoux's
temporary financial difficulties happened to coincide with Aristide's.
To him, unsuspicious of coincidence, she confided her troubles. He
emptied the meagre contents of his purse into her hand.

"Madame Bidoux," said he with a flourish, and the air of a prince, "why
didn't you tell me before?" and without waiting for her blessing he went
out penniless into the street.

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 Honore, the
Rue de la Paix, along the Grands Boulevards, smiling on a world which
teemed with unexpectednesses, until he reached a cafe 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