could resist him? He had, however, one transitory qualm of
conscience, for, with all his vagaries, Aristide was a kindly and
honest man. Was it right to disturb those placid depths? Was it right
to fill this woman with romantic aspirations that could never be
gratified? He himself had not the slightest intention of playing
Lothario and of wrecking the peace of the Ducksmith household. The
realization of the saint-like purity of his aims reassured him. When
he wanted to make love to a woman, _pour tout de bon_, it would not be
to Mrs. Ducksmith.

"Bah!" said he to himself. "I am doing a noble and disinterested act. I
am restoring sight to the blind. I am giving life to one in a state of
suspended animation. _Tron de l'Air!_ I am playing the part of a
soul-reviver! And, _parbleu!_ it isn't Jean or Jacques that can do that.
It takes an Aristide Pujol!"

So, having persuaded himself, in his Southern way, that he was executing
an almost divine mission, he continued, with a zest now sharpened by an
approving conscience, to revive Mrs. Ducksmith's soul.

The poor lady, who had suffered the blighting influence of Mr. Ducksmith
for twenty years with never a ray of counteracting warmth from the
outside, expanded like a flower to the sun under the soul-reviving
process. Day by day she exhibited some fresh timid coquetry in dress and
manner. Gradually she began to respond to Aristide's suggestions of
beauty in natural scenery and exquisite building. On the ramparts of
Angouleme, daintiest of towns in France, she gazed at the smiling
valleys of the Charente and the Son stretching away below, and of her
own accord touched his arm lightly and said: "How beautiful!" She
appealed to her husband.

"Umph!" said he.

Once more (it had become a habit) she exchanged glances with Aristide.
He drew her a little farther along, under pretext of pointing out the
dreamy sweep of the Charente.

"If he appreciates nothing at all, why on earth does he travel?"

Her eyelids fluttered upwards for a fraction of a second.

"It's his mania," she said. "He can never rest at home. He must always
be going on--on."

"How can you endure it?" he asked.

She sighed. "It is better now that you can teach me how to look at
things."

"Good!" thought Aristide. "When I leave them she can teach him to look
at things and revive his soul. Truly I deserve a halo."

As Mr. Ducksmith appeared to be entirely unperceptive of his wife's
spiritual expansion, Ar