"Imbecile! Triple fool!" she cried. Aristide turned tail and fled. There was nothing else to do. And that was the end of his career at Perpignan. Vanished were the dreams of civic eminence; melted into thin air the statue on the Quai Sadi-Carnot; faded, too, the vision of the modest Stéphanie crowned with orange-blossom; gone forever the two hundred and fifty thousand francs. Never since Alnaschar kicked over his basket of crockery was there such a hideous welter of shattered hopes. If the Mayor had been allowed to go disguised to the Police Station, he could have disclosed his identity and that of the lady in private to awe-stricken functionaries. He might have forgiven Aristide. But Aristide had exposed him to the derision of the whole of Roussillon and the never ending wrath of Madame Coquereau. Ruefully Aristide asked himself the question: why had the Mayor not taken him into the confidence of his masquerading escapade? Why had he not told him of the pretty widow, whom, unknown to his mother, he was courting? Why had he permitted her to wear the ring which he had given her so as to spite his sainted Aunt Philomène? And why had he gone on wearing the pig's head after Aristide had told him of his suspicions? Ruefully Aristide found no answers save in the general chuckle-headedness of mankind. "If it hadn't been such a good farce I should have wept like a cow," said Aristide, after relating this story. "But every time I wanted to cry, I laughed. _Nom de Dieu!_ You should have seen his face! And the face of Madame Coquereau! She opened her mouth wide showing ten yellow teeth and squealed like a rabbit! Oh, it was a good farce! He was very cross with me," he added after a smiling pause, "and when I got back to Paris I tried to pacify him." "What did you do?" I asked. "I sent him my photograph," said Aristide. VI THE ADVENTURE OF FLEURETTE One day, when Aristide was discoursing on the inexhaustible subject of woman, I pulled him up. "My good friend," said I, "you seem to have fallen in love with every woman you have ever met. But for how many of them have you really cared?" "_Mon Dieu!_ For all of them!" he cried, springing from his chair and making a wind-mill of himself. "Come, come," said I; "all that amorousness is just Gallic exuberance. Have you ever been really in love in your life?" "How should I know?" said he. But he lit a cigarette, turned away, and looked out of window. There was a short silence. He shrugged his shoulders, apparently in response to his own thoughts. Then he turned again suddenly, threw his cigarette into the fire, and thrust his hands into his pockets. He sighed. "Perhaps there was Fleurette," said he, not looking at me. "_Est-ce qu'on sait jamais?_ That wasn't her real name--it was Marie-Joséphine; but people called her Fleurette. She looked like a flower, you know." I nodded in order to signify my elementary acquaintance with the French tongue.