“Il était saoûl comme un porc,” he shouted.
And then came the hush of death. The rest of the artless tale about the man as drunk as a pig was never told. The head mistress, indignant majesty, strode up the room.
“M. Pujol, you have a strange way of giving French lessons.”
“I believe, madame,” said he, with a polite bow, “in interesting my pupils in their studies.”
“Pupils have to be taught, not interested,” said the head mistress. “Will you kindly put the class through some irregular verbs.”
So for the remainder of the lesson Aristide, under the freezing eyes of the head mistress, put his sorrowful class through irregular verbs, of which his own knowledge was singularly inexact, and at the end received his dismissal. In vain he argued. Outraged Minerva was implacable. Go he must.
We find him, then, one miserable December evening, standing on the arrival platform of Euston Station (the academy was near Manchester), an unwonted statue of dubiety. At his feet lay his meagre valise; in his hand was an enormous bouquet, a useful tribute of esteem from his disconsolate pupils; around him luggage-laden porters and passengers hurried; in front were drawn up the long line of cabs, their drivers’ waterproofs glistening with wet; and in his pocket rattled the few paltry coins that, for Heaven knew how long, were to keep him from starvation. Should he commit the extravagance of taking a cab or should he go forth, valise in hand, into the pouring rain? He hesitated.
“Sacré mille cochons! Quel chien de climat!” he muttered.
A smart footman standing by turned quickly and touched his hat.