A short while afterwards Aristide, valise in hand, presented himself at the bureau of the Hôtel de la Curatterie. It was a shabby little hotel, with a shabby little oval sign outside, and was situated in the narrow street of the same name. Within, it was clean and well kept. On the right of the little dark entrance-hall was the _salle à manger_, on the left the bureau and an unenticing hole labelled _salon de correspondance_. A very narrow passage led to the kitchen, and the rest of the hall was blocked by the staircase. An enormous man with a simple, woe-begone fat face and a head of hair like a circular machine-brush was sitting by the bureau window in his shirt-sleeves. Aristide addressed him. "M. Bocardon?" "At your service, monsieur." "Can I have a bedroom?" "Certainly." He waved a hand towards a set of black sample boxes studded with brass nails and bound with straps that lay in the hall. "The omnibus has brought your boxes. You are M. Lambert?" "M. Bocardon," said Aristide, in a lordly way, "I am M. Aristide Pujol, and not a commercial traveller. I have come to see the beauties of Nîmes, and have chosen this hotel because I have the honour to be a distant relation of your wife, Mme. Zette Bocardon, whom I have not seen for many years. How is she?" "Her health is very good," replied M. Bocardon, shortly. He rang a bell. A dilapidated man in a green baize apron emerged from the dining-room and took Aristide's valise. "No. 24," said M. Bocardon. Then, swinging his massive form halfway through the narrow bureau door, he called down the passage, "Euphémie!" A woman's voice responded, and in a moment the woman herself appeared, a pallid, haggard, though more youthful, replica of Zette, with the dark rings of sleeplessness or illness beneath her eyes which looked furtively at the world. "Tell your sister," said M. Bocardon, "that a relation of yours has come to stay in the hotel." He swung himself back into the bureau and took no further notice of the guest. "A relation?" echoed Euphémie, staring at the smiling, lustrous-eyed Aristide, whose busy brain was wondering how he could mystify this unwelcome and unexpected sister. "Why, yes. Aristide, cousin to your good Aunt Léonie at Raphèle. Ah--but you are too young to remember me." "I will tell Zette," she said, disappearing down the narrow passage. Aristide went to the doorway, and stood there looking out into the not too savoury street. On the opposite side, which was in the shade, the tenants of the modest little shops sat by their doors or on chairs on the pavement. There was considerable whispering among them and various glances were cast at him. Presently footsteps behind caused him to turn. There was Zette. She had evidently been weeping since they had parted, for her eyelids were red. She started on beholding him. "You?" He laughed and shook her hesitating hands.