Aristide Pujol, unlinking himself from this unattractive female, advanced and saluted me with considerable deference.
“Monseigneur——” said he.
As I am neither a duke nor an archbishop, but a humble member of the lower automobiling classes, the high-flown title startled me.
“Monseigneur, will you permit me,” said he, in French, “to present to you Mme. Gougasse? Madame is the patronne of the Café de l’Univers, at Carcassonne, which doubtless you have frequented, and she is going to do me the honour of marrying me to-morrow.”
anything less congruous as the bride-elect of the debonair aristide pujol it was impossible to imagine
The unexpectedness of the announcement took my breath away.
“Good heavens!” said I, in a whisper.
Anyone less congruous as the bride-elect of the debonair Aristide Pujol it was impossible to imagine. However, it was none of my business. I raised my hat politely to the lady.
“Madame, I offer you my sincere felicitations. As an entertaining husband I am sure you will find M. Aristide Pujol without a rival.”