So it came to pass that Aristide Pujol took up his residence at Beverly Stoke, trudging every morning three miles to catch his business train at St. Albans, and trudging back every evening three miles to Beverly Stoke. Every morning he ran into the cottage for a sight of little Jean and every evening after a digestion-racking meal prepared by Mrs. Buttershaw he went to the cottage armed with toys and weird and injudicious food for little Jean and demanded an account of the precious infant’s doings during the day. Gradually Jean recovered of his congestion, being a sturdy urchin, and, to Aristide’s delight, resumed the normal life of childhood.
“Moi, je suis papa,” said Aristide. “He has got to speak French, and he had better begin at once. It is absurd that anyone born between Salon and Arles should not speak French and Provençal; we’ll leave Provençal till later. Moi, je suis papa, Jean. Say papa.”
“I don’t quite see how he can call you that, Mr. Pujol,” said Anne, with the suspicion of a flush on her cheek.
“And why not? Has the poor child any other papa in the whole wide world? And at four years old not to have a father is heart-breaking. Do you want us to bring him up an orphan? No. You shan’t be an orphan, mon brave,” he continued, bending over the child and putting his little hands against his bearded face, “you couldn’t bear such a calamity, could you? And so you will call me papa.”
“Papa,” said Jean, with a grin.
“There, he has settled it,” said Aristide. “Moi je suis papa. And you, mademoiselle?”
“I am Auntie Anne,” she replied demurely.
Saturday afternoons and Sundays were Aristide’s days of delight. He could devote himself entirely to Jean. The thrill of the weeks when he had paraded the child in the market places of France while he sold his corn cure again ran through his veins. The two rows of cottages separated by the common, which was the whole of Beverly Stoke, became too small a theatre for his parental pride. He bewailed the loss of his automobile that had perished of senile decay at Aix-en-Provence. If he only had it now he could exhibit Jean to the astonished eyes of St. Albans, Watford—nay London itself!
“I wish I could take him to Dulau & Company,” said he.