Aristide did his best to comfort her, threw her in the companionship of decent women staying at the hotel, and devoted his evenings to her entertainment. But the days passed, and Reginald Batterby, with the good, honest face, neither wrote nor ordered whisky and soda. Fleurette began to pine and fade.
One day she came to Aristide.
“M. Pujol, I have no more money left.”
“Bigre!” said Pujol. “The good Bocardon will have to give you credit. I’ll arrange it.”
“But I already owe for three weeks,” said Fleurette.
Aristide sought Bocardon. One week more was all the latter dared allow.
“But her husband will return and pay you. He is my old and intimate friend. I make myself hoarse in telling it to you, wooden-head that you are!”
But Bocardon, who had to account to higher powers, the proprietors of the hotel, was helpless. At the end of the week Fleurette was called upon to give up her room. She wept with despair; Aristide wept with fury; Bocardon wept out of sympathy. Already, said Bocardon, the proprietors would blame him for not using the legal right to detain madame’s luggage.
“Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! what is to become of me?” wailed Fleurette.
“You forget, madame,” said Aristide, with one of his fine flourishes, “that you are the sacred trust of Aristide Pujol.”