"Natchitoches has n't changed," he commented. "The everlasting _can-cans!_ when will they have done with them? This is n't little Athénaïse Miché, getting married! _Sapristi!_ but it makes one old! And old Papa Jean-Pierre only dead now? I thought he was out of purgatory five years ago. And who is this Laballière? One of the Laballières of St. James?" "St. James, _mon cher_. Monsieur Alphonse Laballière; an aristocrat from the 'golden coast.' But it is a history, if you will believe me. _Figurez vouz_, Maman Chavan,--_pensez donc, mon ami_"--And with much dramatic fire, during which the cigarette went irrevocably out, she proceeded to narrate her experiences with Laballière. "Impossible!" exclaimed Hector when the climax was reached; but his indignation was not so patent as she would have liked it to be. "And to think of an affront like that going unpunished!" was Maman Chavan's more sympathetic comment. "Oh, the scholars were only too ready to offer violence to poor little André, but that, you can understand, I would not permit. And now, here is mamma gone completely over to him; entrapped, God only knows how!" "Yes," agreed Hector, "I see he has been sending her tamales and _boudin blanc._" "_Boudin blanc_, my friend! If it were only that! But I have a stack of letters, so high,--I could show them to you,--singing of Laballière, Laballière, enough to drive one distracted. He visits her constantly. He is a man of attainment, she says, a man of courage, a man of heart; and the best of company. He has sent her a bunch of fat robins as big as a tub"-- "There is something in that--a good deal in that, mignonne," piped Maman Chavan, approvingly. "And now _boudin blanc!_ and she tells me it is the duty of a Christian to forgive. Ah, no; it's no use; mamma's ways are past finding out." Suzanne was never in Hector's company elsewhere than at Maman Chavan's. Beside the Sunday visit, he looked in upon them sometimes at dusk, to chat for a moment or two. He often treated them to theatre tickets, and even to the opera, when business was brisk. Business meant a little note-book that he carried in his pocket, in which he sometimes dotted down orders from the country people for wine, that he sold on commission. The women always went together, unaccompanied by any male escort; trotting along, arm in arm, and brimming with enjoyment. That same Sunday afternoon Hector walked with them a short distance when they were on their way to vespers. The three walking abreast almost occupied the narrow width of the banquette. A gentleman who had just stepped out of the Hotel Royal stood aside to better enable them to pass. He lifted his hat to Suzanne, and cast a quick glance, that pictured stupefaction and wrath, upon Hector. "It's he!" exclaimed the girl, melodramatically seizing Maman Chavan's arm. "Who, he?" "Laballière!" "No!" "Yes!"