Aristide, I would have you remember, was a child of the South. A child of the North, regarding a bewitching woman, thinks how nice it would be to make love to her, and wastes his time in wondering how he can do it. A child of the South neither thinks nor wonders; he makes love straight away. "Madame," said Aristide, "you are adorable, and I love you to distraction." She started up. "Monsieur, you forget yourself!" "If I remember anything else in the wide world but you, it would be a poor compliment. I forget everything. You turn my head, you ravish my heart, and you put joy into my soul." He meant it--intensely--for the moment. "I ought not to listen to you," said the lady, "especially when I am so unhappy." "All the more reason to seek consolation," replied Aristide. "Monsieur," she said, after a short pause, "you look good and loyal. I will tell you what is the matter. My husband accuses me wrongfully, although I know that appearances are against me. He only allows me in the house on sufferance, and is taking measures to procure a divorce." [Illustration: "MADAME," SAID ARISTIDE, "YOU ARE ADORABLE, AND I LOVE YOU TO DISTRACTION"] "_A la bonne heure!_" cried Aristide, excitedly casting away his straw hat, which an unintentional twist of the wrist caused to skim horizontally and nearly decapitate a small and perspiring soldier who happened to pass by. "_A la bonne heure!_ Let him divorce you. You are then free. You can be mine without any further question." "But I love my husband," she smiled, sadly. "Bah!" said he, with the scepticism of the lover and the Provençal. "And, by the way, who is your husband?" "He is M. Émile Bocardon, proprietor of the Hôtel de la Curatterie." "And you?" "I am Mme. Bocardon," she replied, with the faintest touch of roguery. "But your Christian name? How is it possible for me to think of you as Mme. Bocardon?" They argued the question. Eventually she confessed to the name of Zette. Her confidence not stopping there, she told him how she came by the name; how she was brought up by her Aunt Léonie at Raphèle, some five miles from Arles, and many other unexciting particulars of her early years. Her baptismal name was Louise. Her mother, who died when she was young, called her Louisette. Aunt Léonie, a very busy woman, with no time for superfluous syllables, called her Zette. "Zette!" He cast up his eyes as if she had been canonized and he was invoking her in rapt worship. "Zette, I adore you!" Zette was extremely sorry. She, on her side, adored the cruel M. Bocardon. Incidentally she learned Aristide's name and quality. He was an _agent d'affaires_, extremely rich--had he not two thousand francs and an American millionaire in his pocket? "M. Pujol," she said, "the earth holds but one thing that I desire, the love and trust of my husband." "The good Bocardon is becoming tiresome," said Aristide. Zette's lips parted, as she pointed to a black speck at the iron entrance gates.