"I know--I know," he said, "it is the riot in the blood. I do not say that you do wrong to go, but you will need some money. I have a few hundred francs by me for which I have no use. They will not come amiss. Let me see--six, seven, eight hundred and fifty. Does Deventer go with you?" "He is waiting on the road below." "I thought as much--well, bid him good luck from me, and now good night, and God be with you, boy! Get your wild-oat sowing done as soon as possible and come back. You will find me waiting for you. You and I will do something yet." My father coughed a little in the draught through the open window, whereupon I made haste to be gone. The movement was purely unconscious, yet it was just such slight things that kept me such a long while from understanding my father. He seemed to be so careful for himself in little matters of health, that he had no care to spare for me, his only son, and this thought, I am ashamed to say, I carried away with me, even while my fingers caressed the eight hundred and fifty francs nestling safely in my breeches pocket. On the road I found Deventer waiting for me. "Well," he said, "I see you are glad you went?" "Yes," I answered, "eight hundred and fifty francs glad, but the old man hurried up my going, because the open window made a draught that irritated his cough." Deventer did not answer directly. "My governor thinks a lot of yours!" he said, and left the reproach to sink in. The which it did, all the more because _I_ thought a lot of Deventer's father, and was presently to think more and better. We took our road between the rows of sleeping houses, alternately black in shadow and mildly radiant under the moon. Not a light showed anywhere, not even in the _auberge_, with the huge branch stuck over the door in token of the excellence of the wine served out within. A vagrant cat or two, a baying dog spasmodically darting in and out of an alley-way, alone took note of our bygoing. The crowning buildings of the _lycee_ on the Convent Ridge showed up massive and almost martial among the dark pines. Then, after a sprinkle of villas, we struck the close-packed town with the clean water from the Gardon river prattling in the sewers at either side of every street. Aramon was one of the towns of the Midi (now rare) where they had not forgotten ancient Roman lessons as to the value of running water.