blue suit, really well dressed! No one had seen him before. Such a crowd in front of the monument! About a thousand people! Of course all the women wanted a closer look."

"The women wanted to see the monument closer to?" my father absent-mindedly asked. "Why? Couldn't they wait until the ceremony was over?"

"The monument?" exclaimed my aunt. "What monument? They wanted to see the butcher boy!"

"Ah!" said my father, overcome. "A big dance in the evening, naturally. In the covered market, as usual. The Brioude orchestra came over. I couldn't tell you how many cases of lemonade and beer Chabrillat sold. Oh, he's a smart one. Keeps his eyes open. If he should run in the next election-But that's not the question. The question is that no one knows whom he goes with. I think it's a girl from Sainte-Florine!"

"Why do you think Chabrillat goes with a Sainte-Florine girl?" asked my father. "And, for heaven's sake, why should he be going with any one at all? His wife's the prettiest girl in town.

"Who's talking about Chabrillat? Vidal's new butcher boy's the one that must be going with a SainteFlorine girl, because he hasn't any girl-friend here no matter what the bakery woman's daughter wants people to think.

"And I could tell you plenty about her! The probationary teacher, then the station porter, and after him the brother of the woman who runs the tobacco shop. I'll not go on. At least she used to have some sense. You'd only run across them in out of the way places. But now with this other fellow, the new butcher boy, it's just disgusting the things she does to make everyone think he's her boyfriend. Yes, disgusting. Anyway she's completely mad about him."

Next morning was market-day and I went shopping with my grandmother.

"I wrote down my orders. We'll leave them as we go around. First, the butcher."

My grandmother took the little street by the town hall. I knew that whenever she thought there'd be a lot of customers at the butcher's she'd go in the back way, right into the cutting-room.

Two men were there when we came in, each wearing the traditional butcher's costume: canvas jacket and trousers, with tiny white and bluegray checks, a big white apron, easyfitting shoes with leather tops and wooden soles. One of the men went out. From the threshold where I was standing I had only a glimpse of him. The other one, tall, broad-shouldered, with smoothly-brushed black hair and a solid-looking neck, had his back toward us. He effortlessly unhooked a side of beef and slapped it down on the cutting-block.

"Monsieur Armand, I've brought my order for Saturday and Sunday. Make it up when you like. But for today I'd like a nice veal roast. Could I have one? Good. Can we pick it up about ten o'clock? Fine. Then my grandson will come for it."

The butcher had faced partly toward my grandmother and I saw him in profile: a very pure Latin profile. He listened carefully, only answering her with a nod. But at the words "my grandson" and her gesture toward me, he turned and I found myself gazing for a moment into his intent, black eyes.

"It will be ready, Madame," he

said.

We went out the same way we had come in and in and started toward the bakery.

"Well, what do you think?" asked my grandmother.

"About what?"

"Why, the new butcher boy!"