, 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-Honore. 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.

Away up at the top of No. 213 bis, Rue Saint-Honore, was a little
furnished room to let, and there Aristide installed his sacred charge.
Mme. Bidoux, who, as she herself maintained, would have cut herself into
four pieces for Aristide--did he not save her dog's life? Did he not
marry her daughter to the brigadier of gendarmes (_sale voyou!_), who
would otherwise have left her lamenting? Was he not the most wonderful
of God's creatures?--Mme. Bidoux, although not quite appreciating
Aristide's quixotic delicacy, took the forlorn and fragile wisp of
misery to her capacious bosom. She made her free of the cabbages and
charcoal. She provided her, at a risible charge, with succulent meals.
She told her tales of her father and mother, of her neighbours, of the
domestic differences between the concierge and his wife (soothing idyll
for an Ariadne!), of the dirty thief of a brigadier of gendarmes, of her
bodily ailments--her body was so large that they were many; of the
picturesque death, through apoplexy, of the late M. Bidoux; the brave
woman, in short, gave her of her heart's best. As far as human hearts
could provide a bed for Fleurette, that bed was of roses. As a matter of
brutal fact, it was narrow and nubbly, and the little uncarpeted room
was ten feet by seven; but to provide it Aristide went to his own bed
hungry. And if the bed of a man's hunger is not to be accounted as one
of roses, there ought to be a vote for the reduction of the Recording
Angel's salary.

It must n