“But I can’t accept your money,” objected Fleurette.
“Tron de l’air!” he cried. “Did your husband put you in my charge or did he not? Am I your legal guardian, or am I not? If I am your legal guardian, what right have you to question the arrangements made by your husband? Answer me that.”
Fleurette, too gentle and too miserable for intricate argument, sighed.
“But it is your money, all the same.”
Aristide turned to Bocardon. “Try,” said he, “to convince a woman! Do you want proofs? Wait there a minute while I get them from the safe of the Agence Pujol.”
He disappeared into the bureau, where, secure from observation, he tore an oblong strip from a sheet of stiff paper, and, using an indelible pencil, wrote out something fantastic halfway between a cheque and a bill of exchange, forged as well as he could from memory the signature of Reginald Batterby—the imitation of handwriting was one of Aristide’s many odd accomplishments—and made the document look legal by means of a receipt stamp, which he took from Bocardon’s drawer. He returned to the vestibule with the strip folded and somewhat crumpled in his hand. “Voilà,” said he, handing it boldly to Fleurette. “Here is your husband’s guarantee to me, your guardian, for four thousand francs.”
Fleurette examined the forgery. The stamp impressed her. For the simple souls of France there is magic in papier timbré.
“It was my husband who wrote this?” she asked, curiously.
“Mais, oui,” said Aristide, with an offended air of challenge.
Fleurette’s eyes filled again with tears.