"In his excitement one might even so far forget himself as to call a fellow sportsman—a really excellent fellow—a puff-ball."
Suddenly Monsieur Bonticu thrust his fat hand toward Monsieur Pantan.
"You are not a puff-ball, Armand," he said. "You never were a puff-ball!"
Tears leaped to the little man's eyes. He seized the extended hand in both of his and pressed it.
"Aristide!" was all he could say. "Aristide!"
"We shall drink," cried Bonticu, "to the art of truffle-hunting."
"The science—" corrected Pantan, gently.
"To the art-science of truffle-hunting," cried Bonticu, raising his glass.
The moon smiled down on Perigord. On the ancient, twisted streets of Montpont it smiled with particular brightness. Down the Rue Victor Hugo, in the middle of the street, went two men, a very stout big man and a very thin little man, arm in arm, and singing, for all Montpont, and all the world, to hear, a snatch of an old song from some forgotten revue.