ted the place, as though a corpse were
somewhere in the house.

Aristide drank his coffee at the nearest cafe in a complicated state of
mind. He had fallen furiously in love with the lady, believing her to be
the victim of a jealous husband. In an outburst of generous emotion he
had taken the husband to his heart, seeing that he was a good man
stricken to death. Now he loved the lady, loved the husband, and hated
the villain Bondon. What Aristide felt, he felt fiercely. He would
reconcile these two people he loved, and then go and, if not assassinate
Bondon, at least do him some bodily injury. With this idea in his head,
he paid for his coffee and went back to the hotel.

He found Zette taking her turn at the bureau, for clients have to be
attended to, even in the most distressing circumstances. She was talking
to a new arrival, trying to smile a welcome. Aristide, loitering near,
watched her beautiful face, to which the perfect classic features gave
an air of noble purity. His soul revolted at the idea of her mixing
herself up with a sordid wretch like Bondon. It was unbelievable.

"_Eh bien_?" she said as soon as they were alone.

"Mme. Zette, to-day I called your husband a scoundrel and a crocodile. I
was wrong. I find him a man with a beautiful nature."

"You needn't tell me that, M. Aristide."

"You are breaking his heart, Mme. Zette."

"And is he not breaking mine? He has told you, I suppose. Am I
responsible for what I know nothing more about than a babe unborn? You
don't believe I am speaking the truth? Bah! And your professions this
afternoon? Wind and gas, like the words of all men."

"Mme. Zette," cried Aristide, "I said I would devote my life to your
service, and so I will. I'll go and find Bondon and kill him."

He watched her narrowly, but she did not grow pale like a woman whose
lover is threatened with mortal peril. She said dryly:--

"You had better have some conversation with him first."

"Where is he to be found?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "How do I know? He left by the early train
this morning that goes in the direction of Tarascon."

"Then to-morrow," said Aristide, who knew the ways of commercial
travellers, "he will be at Tarascon, or at Avignon, or at Arles."

"I heard him say that he had just done Arles."

"_Tant mieux._ I shall find him either at Tarascon or Avignon. And by
the Tarasque of Sainte-Marthe, I'll bring you his head and you can
put it up outside as a sign and cal