“Mais oui! Eugénie Dubois. You must remember me. There was also le grand Jules—Jules Massart.”
“Yes, I remember,” he said courteously, with a wan smile.
“You saved us both from a pretty mess.”
“I remember the saving; but I forget the mess. It is my rule always to forget such things.”
She laughed gaily, burst into an account of herself. She was a modiste in the great Paris firm of Odille et Compagnie, which had a branch at Cairo. Now she was recalled for the Paris and London season.
“Et justement”—she plucked at his sleeve and led him to a seat—“I am in a tangle of an affair which keeps me awake of nights. You fall upon me from the skies like an angel. Be good and give me a consultation.”
She fished out her purse and extracted a twenty-five piastre piece. He motioned her hand away.
“Mon enfant” said he. “You are an honourable little soul. But I don’t do business on a holiday. Raconte-moi ton affaire.”
But she protested. She would not abuse his kindness. Either a consultation at the regulation price or no consultation at all. At last he said:
“Eh bien! give me your five francs.”