He watched her narrowly, but she did not grow pale like a woman whose lover is threatened with mortal peril. She said dryly:—
“You had better have some conversation with him first.”
“Where is he to be found?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “How do I know? He left by the early train this morning that goes in the direction of Tarascon.”
“Then to-morrow,” said Aristide, who knew the ways of commercial travellers, “he will be at Tarascon, or at Avignon, or at Arles.”
“I heard him say that he had just done Arles.”
“Tant mieux. I shall find him either at Tarascon or Avignon. And by the Tarasque of Sainte-Marthe, I’ll bring you his head and you can put it up outside as a sign and call the place the ‘Hôtel de la Tête Bondon.’”
he burst into shrieks of laughter
Early the next morning Aristide started on his quest, without informing the good Bocardon of his intentions. He would go straight to Avignon, as the more likely place. Inquiries at the various hotels would soon enable him to hunt down his quarry; and then—he did not quite know what would happen then—but it would be something picturesque, something entirely unforeseen by Bondon, something to be thrillingly determined by the inspiration of the moment. In any case he would wipe the stain from the family escutcheon. By this time he had convinced himself that he belonged to the Bocardon family.