“It strikes me as odd,” said I at last, somewhat ironically, “that so vital a person as yourself should find scope for your energies in this dead-and-alive place.”
He threw up his hands. “I live here? I crumble and decay in Aigues-Mortes? For whom do you take me?”
I replied that, not having the pleasure of knowing his name and quality, I could only take him for an enigma.
He selected a card from his letter-case and handed it to me across the table. It bore the legend:—
Aristide Pujol,
Agent.
213 bis, Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris.
“That address will always find me,” he said.
Civility bade me give him my card, which he put carefully in his letter-case.
“I owe my success in life,” said he, “to the fact that I have never lost an opportunity or a visiting-card.”
“Where did you learn your perfect English?” I asked.
“First,” said he, “among English tourists at Marseilles. Then in England. I was Professor of French at an academy for young ladies.”