on his arm.

"Pardon, my friend," said he, "what are you doing there?"

"You shall hear, monsieur," replied Aristide, clutching the drumsticks.

"For the love of Heaven!" cried the other hastily interrupting. "Tell me
what are you doing?"

"I am crying the loss of a bracelet, monsieur!"

"But who are you?"

"I am Aristide Pujol, and I play the drum, kettle-drum, triangle,
cymbals, castagnettes and tambourine in the orchestra of the Tournee
Gulland. And now, in my turn, may I ask to whom I have the honour of
speaking?"

"I am the Mayor of Perpignan."

Aristide raised his hat politely. "I hope to have the pleasure," said
he, "of Monsieur le Maire's better acquaintance."

The Mayor, attracted by the rascal's guileless mockery, laughed.

"You will, my friend, if you go on playing that drum. You are not the
Town Crier."

Aristide explained. Pere Bracasse was ill, suffering from rheumatism,
bronchitis, fever and corns. He was replacing him. The Mayor retorted
that Pere Bracasse being a municipal functionary could not transmit his
functions except through the Administration. Monsieur Pujol must desist
from drumming and crying. Aristide bowed to authority and unstrung his
drum.

"But I was enjoying myself so much, Monsieur le Maire. You have spoiled
my day," said he.

The Mayor laughed again. There was an irresistible charm and roguishness
about the fellow, with his intelligent oval face, black Vandyke beard
and magically luminous eyes.

"I should have thought you had enough of drums in your orchestra."

"Ah! there I am cramped!" cried Aristide. "I have it in horror, in
detestation. Here I am free. I can give vent to all the aspirations of
my soul!"

The Mayor mechanically moved from the spot where they had been standing.
Aristide, embroidering his theme, mechanically accompanied him; and,
such is democratic France, and also such was the magnetic, Ancient
Mariner-like power of Aristide--did not I, myself, on my first meeting
with him at Aigues-Mortes fall helplessly under the spell--that, in a
few moments, the amateur Town Crier and the Mayor were walking together,
side by side, along the Quai Sadi-Carnot, engaged in amiable converse.
Aristide told the Mayor the story of his life--or such incidents of it
as were meet for Mayoral ears--and when they parted--the Mayor to lunch,
Aristide to yield up the interdicted drum to Pere Bracasse--they shook
hands warmly and mutually expressed the wish that they would s