“Bah!” said he, with the scepticism of the lover and the Provençal. “And, by the way, who is your husband?”
“He is M. Émile Bocardon, proprietor of the Hôtel de la Curatterie.”
“And you?”
“I am Mme. Bocardon,” she replied, with the faintest touch of roguery.
“But your Christian name? How is it possible for me to think of you as Mme. Bocardon?”
They argued the question. Eventually she confessed to the name of Zette.
Her confidence not stopping there, she told him how she came by the name; how she was brought up by her Aunt Léonie at Raphèle, some five miles from Arles, and many other unexciting particulars of her early years. Her baptismal name was Louise. Her mother, who died when she was young, called her Louisette. Aunt Léonie, a very busy woman, with no time for superfluous syllables, called her Zette.
“Zette!” He cast up his eyes as if she had been canonized and he was invoking her in rapt worship. “Zette, I adore you!”
Zette was extremely sorry. She, on her side, adored the cruel M. Bocardon. Incidentally she learned Aristide’s name and quality. He was an agent d’affaires, extremely rich—had he not two thousand francs and an American millionaire in his pocket?
“M. Pujol,” she said, “the earth holds but one thing that I desire, the love and trust of my husband.”