“M. Bocardon,” said Aristide, in a lordly way, “I am M. Aristide Pujol, and not a commercial traveller. I have come to see the beauties of Nîmes, and have chosen this hotel because I have the honour to be a distant relation of your wife, Mme. Zette Bocardon, whom I have not seen for many years. How is she?”
“Her health is very good,” replied M. Bocardon, shortly. He rang a bell.
A dilapidated man in a green baize apron emerged from the dining-room and took Aristide’s valise.
“No. 24,” said M. Bocardon. Then, swinging his massive form halfway through the narrow bureau door, he called down the passage, “Euphémie!”
A woman’s voice responded, and in a moment the woman herself appeared, a pallid, haggard, though more youthful, replica of Zette, with the dark rings of sleeplessness or illness beneath her eyes which looked furtively at the world.
“Tell your sister,” said M. Bocardon, “that a relation of yours has come to stay in the hotel.”
He swung himself back into the bureau and took no further notice of the guest.
“A relation?” echoed Euphémie, staring at the smiling, lustrous-eyed Aristide, whose busy brain was wondering how he could mystify this unwelcome and unexpected sister.
“Why, yes. Aristide, cousin to your good Aunt Léonie at Raphèle. Ah—but you are too young to remember me.”
“I will tell Zette,” she said, disappearing down the narrow passage.