e? How is it possible for me to think of you as
Mme. Bocardon?"

They argued the question. Eventually she confessed to the name of Zette.

Her confidence not stopping there, she told him how she came by the
name; how she was brought up by her Aunt Leonie at Raphele, some five
miles from Arles, and many other unexciting particulars of her early
years. Her baptismal name was Louise. Her mother, who died when she was
young, called her Louisette. Aunt Leonie, a very busy woman, with no
time for superfluous syllables, called her Zette.

"Zette!" He cast up his eyes as if she had been canonized and he was
invoking her in rapt worship. "Zette, I adore you!"

Zette was extremely sorry. She, on her side, adored the cruel M.
Bocardon. Incidentally she learned Aristide's name and quality. He was
an _agent d'affaires_, extremely rich--had he not two thousand francs
and an American millionaire in his pocket?

"M. Pujol," she said, "the earth holds but one thing that I desire, the
love and trust of my husband."

"The good Bocardon is becoming tiresome," said Aristide.

Zette's lips parted, as she pointed to a black speck at the iron
entrance gates.

"_Mon Dieu!_ there he is!"

"He has become tiresome," said Aristide.

She rose, displaying to its full advantage her supple and stately
figure. She had a queenly poise of the head. Aristide contemplated her
with the frankest admiration.

"One would say Juno was walking the earth again."

Although Zette had never heard of Juno, and was as miserable and heavy
hearted a woman as dwelt in Nimes, a flush of pleasure rose to her
cheeks. She too was a child of the South, and female children of the
South love to be admired, no matter how frankly. I have heard of
Daughters of the Snows not quite averse to it. She sighed.

"I must go now, monsieur. He must not find me here with you. I am
suffering enough already from his reproaches. Ah! it is unjust--unjust!"
she cried, clenching her hands, while the tears again started into her
eyes, and the corners of her pretty lips twitched with pain. "Indeed,"
she added, "I know it has been wrong of me to talk to you like this. But
_que voulez-vous?_ It was not my fault. Adieu, monsieur."

At the sight of her standing before him in her woeful beauty, Aristide's
pulses throbbed.

"It is not adieu--it is _au revoir_, Mme. Zette," he cried.

She protested tearfully. It was farewell. Aristide darted to his
rejected hat and clapped it on the bac