e.

"And you, madame," said Aristide; "are you going to sacrifice the glory
of God's sunshine to the manufacture of woollen socks?"

She smiled--she had caught the trick at last--and said, in happy
submission: "What would you have me do?"

With one hand he clasped her arm; with the other, in a superb gesture,
he indicated the sunlit world outside.

"Let us drain together," cried he, "the loveliness of Perigueux to its
dregs!"

Greatly daring, she followed him. It was a rapturous escapade--the
first adventure of her life. She turned her comely face to him and he
saw smiles round her lips and laughter in her eyes. Aristide, worker
of miracles, strutted by her side choke-full of vanity. They wandered
through the picturesque streets of the old town with the gaiety of
truant children, peeping through iron gateways into old courtyards,
venturing their heads into the murk of black stairways, talking (on
the part of Aristide) with mothers who nursed chuckling babes on their
doorsteps, crossing the thresholds, hitherto taboo, of churches, and
meeting the mystery of coloured glass and shadows and the heavy smell
of incense.

Her hand was on his arm when they entered the flagged courtyard of an
ancient palace, a stately medley of the centuries, with wrought
ironwork in the balconies, tourelles, oriels, exquisite Renaissance
ornaments on architraves, and a great central Gothic doorway, with
great window-openings above, through which was visible the stone
staircase of honour leading to the upper floors. In a corner stood a
mediaeval well, the sides curiously carved. One side of the courtyard
blazed in sunshine, the other lay cool and grey in shadow. Not a human
form or voice troubled the serenity of the spot. On a stone bench
against the shady wall Aristide and Mrs. Ducksmith sat down to rest.

"_Voila!_" said Aristide. "Here one can suck in all the past like an
omelette. They had the feeling for beauty, those old fellows."

"I have wasted twenty years of my life," said Mrs. Ducksmith, with a
sigh. "Why didn't I meet someone like you when I was young? Ah, you
don't know what my life has been, Mr. Pujol."

"Why not Aristide when we are alone? Why not, Henriette?"

He too had the sense of adventure, and his eyes were more than usually
compelling and his voice more seductive. For some reason or other,
undivined by Aristide--over-excitement of nerves, perhaps--she burst
into tears.

"_Henriette! Henriette, ne pleurez pas._