on both cheeks.

"_Mais, c'est toi, Pujol!_"

"_C'est toi, Roulard!_"

Roulard dragged Aristide to his frosty table and ordered drinks. Roulard
had played the trumpet in the regimental band in which Aristide had
played the kettle drum. During their military service they had been
inseparables. Since those happy and ear-splitting days they had not met.
They looked at each other and laughed and thumped each other's
shoulders.

"_Ce vieux Roulard!_"

"_Ce sacre Pujol._"

"And what are you doing?" asked Aristide, after the first explosions of
astonishment and reminiscence.

A cloud overspread the battered man's features. He had a wife and five
children and played in theatre orchestras. At the present time he was
trombone in the "Tournee Gulland," a touring opera company. It was not
gay for a sensitive artist like him, and the trombone gave one a thirst
which it took half a week's salary to satisfy. _Mais enfin, que
veux-tu?_ It was life, a dog's life, but life was like that. Aristide,
he supposed, was making a fortune. Aristide threw back his head, and
laughed at the exquisite humour of the hypothesis, and gaily disclosed
his Micawberish situation. Roulard sat for a while thoughtful and
silent. Presently a ray of inspiration dispelled the cloud from the
features of the battered man.

"_Tiens, mon vieux_," said he, "I have an idea."

It was an idea worthy of Aristide's consideration. The drum of the
Tournee Gulland had been dismissed for drunkenness. The vacancy had not
been filled. Various executants who had drummed on approval--this being
an out-week of the tour--had driven the chef d'orchestre to the verge of
homicidal mania. Why should not Aristide, past master in drumming, find
an honourable position in the orchestra of the Tournee Gulland?

Aristide's eyes sparkled, his fingers itched for the drumsticks, he
started to his feet.

"_Mon vieux Roulard!_" he cried, "you have saved my life. More than
that, you have resuscitated an artist. Yes, an artist. _Sacre nom de
Dieu!_ Take me to this chef d'orchestre."

So Roulard, when the hour of rehearsal drew nigh, conducted Aristide to
the murky recesses of a dirty little theatre in the Batignolles, where
Aristide performed such prodigies of repercussion that he was forthwith
engaged to play the drum, the kettle-drum, the triangle, the cymbals,
the castagnettes and the tambourine, in the orchestra of the Tournee
Gulland at the dazzling salary of thirty francs a we