"There ain't no devils, then?" I asked.
"Sacré mille diables, No!" he shouted. "Haven't I been exhausting myself with telling you so?"
I said little, but to this day I remember the thrilling sense of deliverance from a horror which had gone far to crush the little childish joy allowed me by circumstance. There was no fiery hell, no red-hot pincers, no eternal frizzling and sizzling of the flesh, like unto that of the fish in Mr. Samuel's fish-shop. Paragot had transformed me by a word into a happy young pagan. My eyes swam as I swallowed my last bit of bread and butter.
"What is your name?" asked Paragot.
"Augustus, Sir."
"Augustus, what?"
"Smith," I murmured. "Same as mother's."
"I was forgetting," said he. "Now if there is one name I dislike more than Smith it is Augustus. I have been thinking of a very nice name for you. It is Asticot. It expresses you better than Augustus Smith."
"It is a very good name, Sir," said I politely.
I learned soon after that it is a French word meaning the little grey worms which fishermen call "gentles," and that it was not such a complimentary appellation as I had imagined; but Asticot I became, and Asticot I remained for many a year.