eak their language as I speak French or my native
Provencal. I have taught in schools in England. I know the country and
the people like my pocket. They have never heard of Perpignan."

His companions acquiesced sadly. Aristide, aglow with a sudden impudent
inspiration, leant across the marble table.

"Monsieur le Maire and Monsieur le President du Syndicat d'Initiative, I
am sick to death of playing the drum, the kettle-drum, the triangle, the
cymbals, the castagnettes and the tambourine in the Tournee Gulland. I
was born to higher things. Entrust to me"--he converged the finger-tips
of both hands to his bosom--"to me, Aristide Pujol, the organisation of
Perpignan-Ville de Plaisir, and you will not regret it."

The Mayor and the President laughed.

* * * * *

But my astonishing friend prevailed--not indeed to the extent of being
appointed a Petronius, _arbiter elegantiarum_, of the town of Perpignan;
but to the extent of being employed, I fear in a subordinate capacity,
by the Mayor and the Syndicat in the work of propagandism. The Tournee
Gulland found another drum and went its tuneful but weary way; and
Aristide remained gloriously behind and rubbed his hands with glee. At
last he had found permanence in a life where heretofore had been naught
but transience. At last he had found a sphere worthy of his genius. He
began to nourish insensate ambitions. He would be the Great Benefactor
of Perpignan. All Roussillon should bless his name. Already he saw his
statue on the Quai Sadi-Carnot.

His rise in the social scale of the town was meteoric, chiefly owing to
the goodwill of Madame Coquereau, the widowed mother of the Mayor. She
was a hard-featured old lady, with a face that might have been made of
corrugated iron painted yellow and with the eyes of an old hawk. She
dressed always in black, was very devout and rich and narrow and
iron-willed. Aristide was presented to her one Sunday afternoon at the
Cafe on the Place Arago--where on Sunday afternoons all the fashion of
Perpignan assembles--and--need I say it?--she fell at once a helpless
victim to his fascination. Accompanying her grandmother was Mademoiselle
Stephanie Coquereau, the Mayor's niece (a wealthy orphan, as Aristide
soon learned), nineteen, pretty, demure, perfectly brought up, who said
"_Oui, Monsieur_" and "_Non, Monsieur_" with that quintessence of modest
grace which only a provincial French Convent can cultivate.

Ari