"It is I, Aristide. But you have grown! _Pécaïre!_ How you have grown!" He swung her hands apart and laughed merrily in her bewildered eyes. "To think that the little Zette in pigtails and short check skirt should have grown into this beautiful woman! I compliment you on your wife, M. Bocardon." M. Bocardon did not reply, but Aristide's swift glance noticed a spasm of pain shoot across his broad face. "And the good Aunt Léonie? Is she well? And does she still make her _matelotes_ of eels? Ah, they were good, those _matelotes_." "Aunt Léonie died two years ago," said Zette. "The poor woman! And I who never knew. Tell me about her." The _salle à manger_ door stood open. He drew her thither by his curious fascination. They entered, and he shut the door behind them. "_Voilà!_" said he. "Didn't I tell you I should see you again?" "_Vous avez un fameux toupet, vous!_" said Zette, half angrily. He laughed, having been accused of confounded impudence many times before in the course of his adventurous life. "If I told my husband he would kill you." "Precisely. So you're not going to tell him. I adore you. I have come to protect you. _Foi de Provençal._" "The only way to protect me is to prove my innocence." "And then?" She drew herself up and looked him straight between the eyes. "I'll recognize that you have a loyal heart, and will be your very good friend." "Mme. Zette," cried Aristide, "I will devote my life to your service. Tell me the particulars of the affair." "Ask M. Bocardon." She left him, and sailed out of the room and past the bureau with her proud head in the air. If Aristide Pujol had the rapturous idea of proving the innocence of Mme. Zette, triumphing over the fat pig of a husband, and eventually, in a fantastic fashion, carrying off the insulted and spotless lady to some bower of delight (the castle in Perpignan--why not?), you must blame, not him, but Provence, whose sons, if not devout, are frankly pagan. Sometimes they are both.