“Les gueux, les gueux, sont des gens heureux,” he quoted.
“You’re the first person who has made me believe in the happiness of beggars.”
“In time I shall make you believe in lots of things,” he retorted. “No. I hadn’t one sou to buy a ticket, and Amélie never left me. I spent my last franc on the journey from Carcassonne to Aigues-Mortes. Amélie insisted on accompanying me. She was taking no chances. Her eyes never left me from the time we started. When I ran to your assistance she was watching me from a house on the other side of the place. She came to the hotel while we were lunching. I thought I would slip away unnoticed and join you after you had made the tour des remparts. But no. I must present her to my English friend. And then—voyons—didn’t I tell you I never lost a visiting-card? Look at this?”
He dived into his pocket, produced the letter-case, and extracted a card.
“Voilà.”
I read: “The Duke of Wiltshire.”
“But, good heavens, man,” I cried, “that’s not the card I gave you.”
“I know it isn’t,” said he; “but it’s the one I showed to Amélie.”
“How on earth,” I asked, “did you come by the Duke of Wiltshire’s visiting-card?”
He looked at me roguishly.