nder a different aspect. Never has it appeared to me
sweeter and more irresponsible. Don't you feel it? But I forgot. You
haven't any motley. I apologise for my want of tact. Blanquette," he
added in French, "why haven't you found a costume for Asticot?"

Blanquette replied in her matter-of-fact way that she hadn't any. They
walked on together, and I dropped behind suddenly realising my
pariahdom. I wondered whether these magnificent beings would be ashamed
of my company when we arrived at Chambery. I pictured myself sitting
lonesome with Narcisse in the market-place while they revelled in their
splendour, and the self-pity of the child overcame me.

"Master," said I dismally, "what shall Narcisse and I do while you are
at the wedding?"

He wheeled round and regarded me, and I knew by the light in his eyes
that an inspiration was taking shape behind them.

"I'll buy you a red shirt and pomade your hair, and you shall be one of
us, my son, and go round with the hat."

I exulted obviously.

"Now the dog will feel out of it," said he, perplexed. "I will consult
Blanquette. Do you think we could shave Narcisse and make him think he's
a poodle?"

"That would be impossible, Monsieur," replied Blanquette gravely.

As Narcisse was enjoying himself to his heart's content, darting from
side to side of the road and sniffing for the smells his soul delighted
in, I did not concern myself about his feelings.

For Paragot's suggestion which I knew was ironically directed against
myself, I did not care. So long as I was to be with my companions and of
them, irony did not matter. I caught the twinkle in his eye and laughed.
He was as joyous as Narcisse. The gladness of the July morning danced in
his veins. He pulled the violin and bow out of the old baize bag and
fiddled as we walked. It must have been an amazing procession.

* * * * *

And the old man whose clothes and functions we had assumed lay cold and
stiff in the little lonely room with candles at his head and his feet.
During our railway journey to Chambery Blanquette told us in her artless
way what she knew of his history. In the flesh he had been a crabbed and
crotchety ancient addicted to drink. He had passed some years of his
middle life in prison for petty thefts. In his youth--Blanquette's mind
could not grasp the idea of Pere Paragot having once been young--he must
have been an astonishing blackguard. He had been wont to beat
Bl