armly.

"You must be to set up a human god and worship him as you do your
Master. You are the maddest of all of us, Mr. Asticot."

A touch of light scorn in her tone nettled me. Even Joanna should not
speak of him irreverently.

"If he had bought you from your mother for half-a-crown," said I, "and
made you into a student at Janot's, you would worship him too, Madame."

"I have been wondering whether you kept your promise to me," she said--I
wish women were not so disconcertingly irrelevant--"but now I am quite
sure."

"Of course I didn't tell my master," I declared stoutly.

"Good. And this little drive must be a secret too."

"If you wish," I said. "But I don't like to have secrets from him."

"Give me his address," she said after a pause, and I noticed she spoke
with some effort. "Does he still go by that absurd name? What was it?"

"His name is Berzelius Paragot, and he lives at No. 11 Rue des
Saladiers."

"Do you know his real name?"

"Yes, Madame," said I. "It is Gaston de Nerac. I only learned it lately
through Monsieur Izelin."

"Do you know Izelin, too?" she asked.

I explained my stay in Buda-Pesth. I also mentioned Monsieur Izelin's
reticence in speaking of Paragot's early days.

I think he was cautioned by my Master.

"And who do you think I am?" The sudden question startled me.

"You," said I, "are Joanna."

"Indeed? How long have you known that, pray?"

"When I came to you with the tambourine at Aix-les-Bains."

"I don't understand," she said, the frozen blue coming into her eyes.
"Did he tell you then--a child like you?"

"He has never mentioned your name to me, Madame," I said eagerly, for I
saw her resentment.

"Then how did you know?"

I recounted the history of the old stocking. I also mentioned Paragot's
appeal to me as a scholar and a gentleman.

A wan smile played about her lips.

"Was that soon after he bought you for half-a-crown?"

"Yes, Madame," said I.

"And an old stocking?"

"Yes, Madame. And since then we have never spoken of the papers."

"But how did you know I was the--the Joanna of the papers?"

"I guessed," said I. I could not tell her of the _petits pieds si
adores_.

"You are an odd boy," she said. "Tell me all about yourself."

Unversed in woman's wiles I flushed with pleasure at her flattering
interest. I did not perceive that it was an invitation to tell her all
about Paragot. I related, however, artlessly the story of my life from
the morn