In a worker's hostel somewhere in Australia, in which I happened to live for some time and which resembled Babylon in miniature for the variety of tongues and nationalities assembled in one compound, I met a Slovenian migrant, who was employed in the kitchen as the fourth cook.

He was a tall, lean man of about 30, and he vividly reminded me of a big swan because of his unusually long neck and prominently protruding Adam's apple.

One could not say that he stood out among other inhabitants of the hostel because of his intelligence, his gifts or his cultural interests. Vice versa, he seemed to be quite an empty and light-minded person, and by his intelligence and cultural level he could hardly earn anybody's admiration.

Nevertheless he at once attracted my attention and earned some admiration, for he seemed to have a remarkable gift which is the most precious, perhaps, of all the gifts a human being can be blessed with: the gift of happiness. At least I thought at first that his happy disposition was not a matter of favourable circumstances, but of inborn talent, for those dull conditions of hostel life and contract work, and the enormous difficulties of settling down in a new and strange country, which every one of us was then facing, could hardly offer any reason for a happy disposition.

He was always in a good, contented mood and shone with happiness. While preparing his pies and soups in the kitchen, he invariably sang and whistled like a nightingale and constantly smiled without any outward reason. His eyes were always shining like those of a child standing before a decorated and illuminated Christmas tree. And what even more: being himself happy, he despised everyone who was sad, disillusioned or discontented, for such a state of mind, in his opinion, was a sure sign of the lack of wisdom.

"They simply do not know how to be happy," he used to say with regard to unhappy people. "They are just silly. Everyone is a smith of his happiness."

As the time advanced, he became sincerely attached to me and began entrusting me with particulars of his private life. So I learned that his happiness was due not to his inborn happy disposition, but to a successful romance with a migrant woman of Maltese nationality.

It must be mentioned, by the way, that there were thousands of male contract workers in the town in question, but only a small number of migrant women, so to have a girl friend was, in those circumstances, a bit of good luck indeed for a male contract worker.

Soon a shining engagement ring appeared on his hand and he told me that his wedding would take place in two or three months. After the wedding, he said to me, he planned to stay in the same hostel to continue his present job until his contract time was over, but his bride would go to university to resume her study of medicine which was interrupted by the events of war.

The time remaining until their wedding they were spending in the merriest possible way, enjoying themselves as much as they could. The happy bridegroom even grew a beard and stubbornly continued sporting it inspite of strong objections by the hostel manager, who thought that a fourth cook of his hostel was not supposed to have a beard.

It was a kind of goatee and with that beard he bore a remarkable resemblance to the French Emperor Napoleon III. It was funny to see Napoleon III busying himself in the kitchen of an Australian workers' hostel.

"Why do you spoil your appearance with that strange beard?" I asked him one day.

"Why do you think I am spoiling my appearance with that beard?" protested he. "My fiancée finds that it, vice versa, suits me very well! If you wish to know why I am growing the beard, here is the answer. We — I mean I and my fiancée — are going to a masked ball in a couple of months, and she wished me to be dressed like a maharaja. To be like a maharaja, I need a suitable beard, you see. Isn't this reason not important in your opinion?"

I often thought what a strange kind of romance it was. How was it possible that an educated woman was in love with such an empty boy? Was there a sincere love from her side or was it just a light-minded game only?

By the way, the residents of the hostel got their mail in the hostel's office. All letters, brought to the hostel, were left, from day to day, on the counter, and everyone, who wished to know whether there was a letter for him, had to look through the whole heap of letters. Every day, while looking through the mail lying on the counter, I noticed that sometimes there were letters addressed to a certain Jean Maurice de Boutique. As I knew for certain that there was no bearer of such a name in the hostel, I couldn't stop wondering who he actually was.

"Who is Jean Maurice de Boutique?" I asked Napoleon III, who had lived in the hostel much longer than myself. "There are sometimes letters for him on the counter?"

"I don't know," answered Napoleon III in an embarrassed manner.

I noticed that he even flushed while answering me.

It looked quite strange to me and I couldn't help thinking that there had to be some connection between Napoleon III and this mysterious Frenchman.

One day Napoleon III approached me with an anxious expression on his face and asked whether I understood French.

"Yes", I answered, "I do a little. But why do you ask?"

"I received a letter in the French language," said Napoleon III, "and I would like to ask you to translate it for me. It is actually a secret matter, therefore I cannot show you this letter now. May I come to your room with the letter tonight?"

I, of course, agreed and so in the evening he came to my room and handed me a letter in French language. I looked at it and saw that it bore the signature of Jean Maurice de Boutique.

"So you actually know him," I remarked.

"Yes, I know him indeed," answered Napoleon III in embarrassment, "but I didn't wish to admit it when you asked me. The truth is that I not only know him, but he even is my friend. I mean, he even was my friend, and my fiancee was originally his fiancee. He is, you see, a French migrant who came to Austalia many years ago. He lived in this hostel when I arrived here. A few months ago he went back to France to visit his parents and to wind up a small legacy left to him by his aunt. He was supposed to be away for few months only, but had to stay in France longer. He had a girl friend here, whom he wished to marry after his return to Australia. So, before his departure he asked me (for I was his best friend) to be, during his absence, a faithful guardian of his beloved fiancee. According to his request, I was supposed steadily to accompany his fiancee by escorting her to the pictures, parties and dances, and loyally to guard her virtues like my own eyeball in this sinful town of ours. But things turned out so that in the meantime she became my own fiancee, and not he, but myself am going to marry her."

"O," said I, "what a change of roles! But why does he write in French to you? He must know that you don't speak French. What language did you use speaking to each other?"

"English."

"Why, then, French?"

"He is not good at English. Besides, I think that he might have heard of my betrothal to his bride, and wished to abuse me from the bottom of his heart. As one can abuse in such a manner in one's native tongue only, he might naturally prefer to use the French language."

It was logic with which it was hard to disagree. It turned out, however, that he was wrong.

I began to read the letter.

"My dear Friend, I wish to express to you once more my sincere gratitude for the good services you rendered to me. I must say that I highly appreciate your generous readiness to share, in my absence, your distinguished company with my beloved fiancee. The knowledge that it is you who helps, in the most self-sacrificing way, my poor fiancee to overcome her loneliness, is a great consolation to me in these sad days of separation. I hope, however, that soon they will be over and I shall be able to meet you and to thank you personally for your remarkable kindness and generosity. Accept please my best regards and my most sincere wishes. Eternally your devoted friend Jean Maurice de Boutique."

"I don't wish to be in your shoes, when your friend Jean Maurice de Boutique is back," I said after we both recovered from our initial surprise.

"Why?" asked the Bride's Guardian. "I think he must accuse not me, but only himself. One should not be so stupid as to entrust one's fiancee to another man, be it even his best friend."

And he continued to be happy. Unscrupulously happy, if one can say so.

While he was still happy, another letter arrived for him from his friend Jean Maurice de Boutique. I again was asked to translate it. "It must again be a letter of gratitude, I suppose," remarked the Bride's Guardian.

But it wasn't.

"You dirty swine," wrote Jean Maurice de Boutique. "I have learngd from reliable sources that you have grossly abused my trust and recklessly undermined my belief in your honesty and in sincerety of your friendship do not blame my fiancee, this helpless and naive creature, but only you, the dishonest seducer and mean dog. In a few weeks I shall be able to wind up my business here and to return to Australia, and then I shall, o you stinky pig, inscribe my opinion of you with my fist upon. your dirty nose. Jean Maurice de Boutique."

"I can't understand," said the Bride's Guardian, "why he blames me, not himself! Only a fool can entrust his fiancee to somebody else. I never could be such a fool!"

But one day a sudden change occured in him. He suddenly lost all his happiness, became upset and uneasy. Blue patches appeared under his eyes and all joy of life seemed to have left him.

"What is the matter?" I asked him. "Why are you so upset?"

"Ah!" sighed the Bride's Guardian. "My bride had left me. My own friend has pinched her from me. What baseness!"

"How did it happen?" I asked in astonishment.

"Well, I see no reason to hide it from you," he said. "One evening we were supposed to go to a dancing party, but I had a terrible toothache. My cheek was badly swollen arid I was unable to go. On the other hand, I didn't wish to victimize my fiancee, who is very keen on dancing. So, in my innocence, I asked one of my compatriots, who was also my best friend, to escort her on my behalf to that party. And since that evening I have lost her. Now she is in love with my friend and doesn't want to know me at all. What to do, my friend? Help me! Give me a good advice!"

I thought a little.

"Well," I "the best thing you can do is to translate the first letter of Jean Maurice de Boutique into Slovenian language, slightly alter it in accordance with the differences in circumstances, sign it by your own name and then send it to this friend of yours. It is the easiest thing to do, too!"

"I would never send such a nice letter to such a swine!"

"Then you can translate and send him the second letter. It should be even easier, for no modification would be required," I suggested.

"What is the use of sending him such a letter if I can't beat him up?" he said sadly. "He is much stronger than myself."

"Then I am at a loss to see any alternative."

The Bride's Guardian scratched the nape of his neck. Then he brightened up and struck himself upon his forehead. A splendid idea had seemingly crossed his mind.

"Do you know what?" he exclaimed. "I will let Jean Maurice de Boutique substitute me in taking my friend to task! Really, why not? After all, she originally was his fiancee, so that it is, in the first place, his responsibility to beat up my unfaithful friend!"

"lie might take you both to task," said I.

"What sense would there be for him to beat me up now, when we are in the same boat? He is not a fool, but a sensible man, this friend of mine Jean Maurice de Boutique." said the Bride's Guardian with strong conviction.

And what, do you think happened when Jean Maurice de Boutique arrived? Who got a thrashing from him, the Bride's Guardian or his compatriot, or both?

Well, nobody. When Jean Maurice de Boutique arrived back in the town in an extremely militant mood, he was met at the railway station by his former fiancee with many flowers and many tender kisses. She explained to him that she still loved him and that her flirt with Napoleon III was just to show her beloved Jean Maurice de Boutique that he should not trust his insidious friend. Jean Maurice de Boutique believed her story. So they were soon married and lived together ever after. How happily, I don't know.