or the change
of name. Once we launched a new perfume that made a big hit. Afterwards
we discovered that we had named it from the wrong flower. But could we
correct the mistake? It goes today by the wrong name all over the world."

I was glad to get into the open air again, and started to walk along the
narrow Rue Droite--which makes a curve every hundred feet!--to find the
Artist. I had seen enough of Grasse's industry. Now I was free to
wander at will through the maze of streets of the old town. But the law
of the Persians follows that of the Medes. Half a dozen urchins spied me
coming out of the perfumery, and my doom was sealed. They announced that
they would show me the way to the confectionery. I might have refused to
enter the perfumery. But, having entered, there was no way of escaping
the confectionery. I resigned myself to the inevitable. It was by no
means uninteresting, however,--the half hour spent watching violets,
orange blossoms and rose petals dancing in cauldrons of boiling sugar,
fanned dry on screens, and packed with candied fruits in wooden boxes for
America. And I had followed the flowers of Grasse to their destination.

The Artist had finished his _cul-de-sac_. I knew that to find him I had
only to continue along the Rue Droite to the first particularly appealing
side street. He would be up that somewhere. The Artist is no
procrastinator. He takes his subjects when he finds them. The buildings
of the Rue Droite are medieval from _rez-de-chaussee_ to cornice. The
sky was a narrow curved slit of blue and gray, not as wide as the street;
for the houses seemed to lean towards one another, and here and there
roofs rubbed edges. Sidewalks would have prevented the passage of
horse-drawn vehicles, so there were none. The Rue Droite is the
principal shopping-street of Grasse. But shoppers cannot loiter
indefinitely before windows. All pedestrians must be agile. When you
hear the _Hue!_ of a driver, you must take refuge in a doorway or run the
risk of axle-grease and mud. Twentieth-century merchandise stares out at
you from either side--Paris' hats and gowns, American boots, typewriters,
sewing-machines, phonographs, pianos. One of the oldest corner
buildings, which looks as if it needed props immediately to save you from
being caught by a falling wall, is the emporium of enamel bathtubs and
stationary washstands, with shining nickel spigots labeled "Hot" and
"Cold." These must b