With breathless interest we follow Aristide's career until, with a chuckle and a sigh of regret, we close the book on his last adventure—that of matrimony.
;al. Then he went for his keys.
"I'll not say good-bye," Aristide Pujol declared, amiably. "I'll get through my business long before you've done your sight-seeing, and you'll find me waiting for you near the hotel. Au revoir, cher ami."
He smiled, lifted his hat, waved his hand in a friendly way, and darted off across the square. The old gardien came out with the keys and took me off to the Tour de Constance, where Protestants were imprisoned pell-mell after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes; thence to the Tour des Bourguignons, where I forget how many hundred Burgundians were massacred and pickled in salt; and, after these cheery exhibitions, invited me to walk round the ramparts and inspect the remaining eighteen towers of the enceinte. As the mistral, however, had sprung up and was shuddering across the high walls, I declined, and, having paid him his fee, descended to the comparative shelter of the earth.
There I found Aristide Pujol awaiting me at the corner of