n.

"One can't jest with a heavy heart; and mine is very heavy." She broke
down through self-pity. "Oh, I am ashamed!" she cried.

She turned away from him, burying her face in her hands. Her dress,
cut low, showed the nape of her neck as it rose gracefully from her
shoulders. Two little curls had rebelled against being drawn up with the
rest of her hair. The back of a dainty ear, set close to the head, was
provoking in its pink loveliness. Her attitude, that of a youthful
Niobe, all tears, but at the same time all curves and delicious
contours, would have played the deuce with an anchorite.

Aristide, I would have you remember, was a child of the South. A child
of the North, regarding a bewitching woman, thinks how nice it would be
to make love to her, and wastes his time in wondering how he can do it.
A child of the South neither thinks nor wonders; he makes love straight
away.

"Madame," said Aristide, "you are adorable, and I love you to
distraction."

She started up. "Monsieur, you forget yourself!"

"If I remember anything else in the wide world but you, it would be a
poor compliment. I forget everything. You turn my head, you ravish my
heart, and you put joy into my soul."

He meant it--intensely--for the moment.

"I ought not to listen to you," said the lady, "especially when I am so
unhappy."

"All the more reason to seek consolation," replied Aristide.

"Monsieur," she said, after a short pause, "you look good and loyal. I
will tell you what is the matter. My husband accuses me wrongfully,
although I know that appearances are against me. He only allows me in
the house on sufferance, and is taking measures to procure a divorce."

[Illustration: "MADAME," SAID ARISTIDE, "YOU ARE ADORABLE, AND I
LOVE YOU TO DISTRACTION"]

"_A la bonne heure!_" cried Aristide, excitedly casting away his
straw hat, which an unintentional twist of the wrist caused to skim
horizontally and nearly decapitate a small and perspiring soldier who
happened to pass by. "_A la bonne heure!_ Let him divorce you. You are
then free. You can be mine without any further question."

"But I love my husband," she smiled, sadly.

"Bah!" said he, with the scepticism of the lover and the Provencal.
"And, by the way, who is your husband?"

"He is M. Emile Bocardon, proprietor of the Hotel de la Curatterie."

"And you?"

"I am Mme. Bocardon," she replied, with the faintest touch of roguery.

"But your Christian nam