But her husband will return and pay you. He is my old and intimate
friend. I make myself hoarse in telling it to you, wooden-head that you
are!"

But Bocardon, who had to account to higher powers, the proprietors of
the hotel, was helpless. At the end of the week Fleurette was called
upon to give up her room. She wept with despair; Aristide wept with
fury; Bocardon wept out of sympathy. Already, said Bocardon, the
proprietors would blame him for not using the legal right to detain
madame's luggage.

"_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.
"_Voila_," 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 timbre_.

"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