And as he saw it, the woman's face and form became vaguely familiar. He had seen her somewhere. But in the last few years he had seen thousands of women. "You have had a great misfortune, monsieur?" "That is true, madame." She sat on the bench beside him. "_Vous pleurez_. You must have loved him very much." It was not a stranger speaking to him. Otherwise, he would have risen and, as politely as anguished nerves allowed, would have told her to go to the devil. She made no intrusion on his grief. Her voice fell with familiar comfort on his ear. He was vaguely conscious of her right to offer sympathy. He regarded her, grateful but perplexed. "You don't recognize me? _Enfin_, why should you?" She shrugged her shoulders. "We only met for a few hours many years ago--here in Avignon--but we were good friends." Then Andrew drew a deep breath and turned swiftly round on the bench and shot out both his hands. "_Mon Dieu!_ Elodie!" She smiled sadly. "Ah," said she, "I'm glad you remember." Chapter IX They sat awhile and talked of the tragedy, the dead Prépimpin, at once a link and a barrier between them, lying at their feet. Her ready sympathy brought her near; but while the dog lay there, mangled and bloody, he could think of nothing else. It was Elodie who suggested immediate and decent burial. Why should he not go to the hotel for a workman and a spade? He smiled. "You always seem to come to my help in time of trouble. But while I am absent, what will happen to him?" "I will guard him, my friend," said Elodie. He marched off. In a few minutes he came back accompanied by one of the hotel baggage porters. The grave, on the waste land by the Rhone, was quickly dug, and Prépimpin covered over for ever with the kindly earth. As soon as the body was hidden, Andrew turned away, the tears in his eyes. "And now," said he, "let us sit somewhere else and you shall tell me about yourself. I have been selfish." The tale she had to tell was very old and very sad. She did not begin it, however, until, drawing off her old gloves, for coolness' sake, she disclosed a wedding ring on her finger. His eye caught it at once. "Why, you are married." "Yes," she said, "I am married." "You don't speak in the tone of a happy woman." She shrugged hopeless shoulders. "A woman isn't happy with a _goujat_ for a husband." Now a _goujat_ is a word for which scoundrel, and miscreant, are but weak translations. It denotes lowest depths of infamy. Andrew frowned terribly. "He ill-treats you?" "He did. But that is past. Fortunately I am alone. He has deserted me." "Children?" "Thank God, no," replied Elodie.