Aristide went to the doorway, and stood there looking out into the not too savoury street. On the opposite side, which was in the shade, the tenants of the modest little shops sat by their doors or on chairs on the pavement. There was considerable whispering among them and various glances were cast at him. Presently footsteps behind caused him to turn. There was Zette. She had evidently been weeping since they had parted, for her eyelids were red. She started on beholding him.
“You?”
He laughed and shook her hesitating hands.
“It is I, Aristide. But you have grown! Pécaïre! How you have grown!” He swung her hands apart and laughed merrily in her bewildered eyes. “To think that the little Zette in pigtails and short check skirt should have grown into this beautiful woman! I compliment you on your wife, M. Bocardon.”
M. Bocardon did not reply, but Aristide’s swift glance noticed a spasm of pain shoot across his broad face.
“And the good Aunt Léonie? Is she well? And does she still make her matelotes of eels? Ah, they were good, those matelotes.”
“Aunt Léonie died two years ago,” said Zette.
“The poor woman! And I who never knew. Tell me about her.”
The salle à manger door stood open. He drew her thither by his curious fascination. They entered, and he shut the door behind them.
“Voilà!” said he. “Didn’t I tell you I should see you again?”