“Bah!” said he to himself. “I am doing a noble and disinterested act. I am restoring sight to the blind. I am giving life to one in a state of suspended animation. Tron de l’Air! I am playing the part of a soul-reviver! And, parbleu! it isn’t Jean or Jacques that can do that. It takes an Aristide Pujol!”
So, having persuaded himself, in his Southern way, that he was executing an almost divine mission, he continued, with a zest now sharpened by an approving conscience, to revive Mrs. Ducksmith’s soul.
The poor lady, who had suffered the blighting influence of Mr. Ducksmith for twenty years with never a ray of counteracting warmth from the outside, expanded like a flower to the sun under the soul-reviving process. Day by day she exhibited some fresh timid coquetry in dress and manner. Gradually she began to respond to Aristide’s suggestions of beauty in natural scenery and exquisite building. On the ramparts of Angoulême, daintiest of towns in France, she gazed at the smiling valleys of the Charente and the Son stretching away below, and of her own accord touched his arm lightly and said: “How beautiful!” She appealed to her husband.
“Umph!” said he.
Once more (it had become a habit) she exchanged glances with Aristide. He drew her a little farther along, under pretext of pointing out the dreamy sweep of the Charente.
“If he appreciates nothing at all, why on earth does he travel?”
Her eyelids fluttered upwards for a fraction of a second.
“It’s his mania,” she said. “He can never rest at home. He must always be going on—on.”
“How can you endure it?” he asked.
She sighed. “It is better now that you can teach me how to look at things.”