After a tedious search throughout all the environs of Aix, Graham himself came, by the merest accident, upon the vestiges of Louise’s friend. He had been wandering alone in the country round Aix, when a violent thunderstorm drove him to ask shelter in the house of a small farmer, situated in a field, a little off the byway which he had taken. While waiting for the cessation of the storm, and drying his clothes by the fire in a room that adjoined the kitchen, he entered into conversation with the farmer’s wife, a pleasant, well-mannered person, and made some complimentary observation on a small sketch of the house in water-colours that hung upon the wall. “Ah,” said the farmer’s wife, “that was done by a French lady who lodged here many years ago. She drew very prettily, poor thing.”
“A lady who lodged here many years ago,—how many?”
“Well, I guess somewhere about twenty.”
“Ah, indeed! Was it a Madame Marigny?”
“Bon Dieu! That was indeed her name. Did you know her? I should be so glad to hear she is well and—I hope—happy.”
“I do not know where she is now, and am making inquiries to ascertain. Pray help me. How long did Madame Marigny lodge with you?”
“I think pretty well two months; yes, two months. She left a month after her confinement.”
“She was confined here?”
“Yes. When she first came, I had no idea that she was enceinte. She had a pretty figure, and no one would have guessed it, in the way she wore her shawl. Indeed I only began to suspect it a few days before it happened; and that was so suddenly, that all was happily over before we could send for the accoucheur.”
“And the child lived?—a girl or a boy?”