“Je vous remercie, monseigneur,” she replied, in what was obviously her best company manner. “And if ever you will deign to come again to the Café de l’Univers at Carcassonne we will esteem it a great honour.”
“And so you’re going to get married to-morrow?” I remarked, by way of saying something. To congratulate Aristide Pujol on his choice lay beyond my power of hypocrisy.
“To-morrow,” said he, “my dear Amélie will make me the happiest of men.”
“We start for Carcassonne by the three-thirty train,” said Mme. Gougasse, pulling a great silver watch from some fold of her person.
“Then there is time,” said I, pointing to a little weather-beaten café in the square, “to drink a glass to your happiness.”
“Bien volontiers,” said the lady.
“Pardon, chère amie,” Aristide interposed, quickly. “Unless monseigneur and I start at once for Montpellier, I shall not have time to transact my little affairs before your train arrives there.”
Parenthetically, I must remark that all trains going from Aigues-Mortes to Carcassonne must stop at Montpellier.
“That’s true,” she agreed, in a hesitating manner. “But——”
“But, idol of my heart, though I am overcome with grief at the idea of leaving you for two little hours, it is a question of four thousand francs. Four thousand francs are not picked up every day in the street. It’s a lot of money.”