delight at this satisfactory settlement of little Jean's
destiny, he started the ramshackle engine and drove triumphantly on his
way. Jean, fatigued by the emotions of the last half-hour, slumbered
peacefully.

"The little angel!" said Aristide.

The sun was shining when they arrived at Salon, the gayest, the most
coquettish, the most laughing little town in Provence. It is a place all
trees and open spaces, and fountains and cafes, and sauntering people.
The only thing grim about it is the solitary machicolated tower in the
main street, the last vestige of ancient ramparts; and even that, close
cuddled on each side by prosperous houses with shops beneath, looks
like an old, old, wrinkled grandmother smiling amid her daintier
grandchildren. Everyone seemed to be in the open air. Those who kept
shops stood at the doorways. The prospect augured well for the Maison
Hieropath.

Aristide stopped before an hotel, disentangled Jean, to the mild
interest of the passers-by, and, carrying him in, delivered him into the
arms of the landlady.

"Madame," he said, "this is my son. I am taking him from his mother, who
is dead, to an aunt who is an invalid. So he is alone on my hands. He is
very hungry, and I beseech you to feed him at once."

The motherly woman received the babe instinctively and cast aside the
travelling-rug in which he was enveloped. Then she nearly dropped him.

"_Mon Dieu! Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?_"

She stared in stupefaction at the stocking-cap and at the long flannel
pyjama legs that depended from the body of the infant, around whose
neck the waist was tightly drawn. Never since the world began had babe
masqueraded in such attire. Aristide smiled his most engaging smile.

"My son's luggage has unfortunately been lost. His portmanteau, _pauvre
petit_, was so small. A poor widower, I did what I could. I am but a
mere man, madame."

"Evidently," said the woman, with some asperity.

Aristide took a louis from his purse. "If you will purchase him some
necessary articles of costume while I fulfil my duties towards the
Maison Hieropath of Marseilles, which I represent, you will be doing me
a kindness."

The landlady took the louis in a bewildered fashion. Allowing for the
baby's portmanteau to have gone astray, what, she asked, had become
of the clothes he must have been wearing? Aristide entered upon a
picturesque and realistic explanation. The landlady was stout, she was
stupid, she could not grasp