And Aristide gave up tobacco and coffee and the mild refreshment at cafés essential to the existence of every Frenchman, and degraded his soul by taking half-franc tips from tourists—a source of income which, as Director, M. le Directeur, Herr Direktor of the Agence Pujol, he had hitherto scorned haughtily—in order to provide Fleurette with underdone beefsteaks.
All his leisure he devoted to her. She represented something that hitherto had not come into his life—something delicate, tender, ethereal, something of woman that was exquisitely adorable, apart from the flesh. Once, as he was sitting in the little shop, she touched his temple lightly with her fingers.
“Ah, you are good to me, Aristide.”
He felt a thrill such as no woman’s touch had ever caused to pass through him—far, far sweeter, cleaner, purer. If the bon Dieu could have given her to him then and there to be his wife, what bond could have been holier? But he had bound himself by a sacred obligation. His friend on his return should find him loyal.
“Who could help being good to you, little Fleurette?” said he. “Even an Apache would not tread on a lily of the valley!”
“But you put me in water and tend me so carefully.”
“So that you can be fresh whenever the dear Reginald comes back.”
She sighed. “Tell me what I can do for you, my good Aristide.”
“Keep well and happy and be a valiant little woman,” said he.
Fleurette tried hard to be valiant; but the effort exhausted her strength. As the days went on, even Aristide’s inexhaustible conversation failed to distract her from brooding. She lost the trick of laughter. In the evenings, when he was most with her, she would sit, either in the shop or in the little room at the back, her blue childish eyes fixed on him wistfully. At first he tried to lure her into the gay street; but walking tired her. He encouraged her to sit outside on the pavement of the Rue Saint-Honoré and join with Mme. Bidoux in the gossip of neighbours; but she listened to them with uncomprehending ears. In despair Aristide, to coax a smile from her lips, practised his many queer accomplishments. He conjured with cards; he juggled with oranges; he had a mountebank’s trick of putting one leg round his neck; he imitated the voices of cats and pigs and ducks, till Mme. Bidoux held her sides with mirth. He spent time and thought in elaborating what he called bonnes farces, such as dressing himself up in Mme. Bidoux’s raiment and personifying a crabbed customer.