“How did he learn the way to you?”
“He was in the secret, to a certain extent; he had to be. But he should not have come; it was against the agreement.”
“And your mother, Fifine?”
“She is long dead. She was an actress. She was in the company of the Comédie Française when they played in that Roman Theatre at Orange the year I was born. A Provençale by birth, my papa had brought her south to prepare for the two events, first the domestic and later the professional. We stayed on in Orange for three years: I don’t know how we lived or where; and then one day she ran away from Papa and from me. I think it killed his heart. He could never bear to speak of that time; and so it is all a shadow to me. But it was so strange sitting up there in the theatre, and thinking what it meant to me, both first and last.”
“Not the least poetic of the dramas played in it, I’ll go bail. Now tell me, Fifine: how is your father called?”
“Fréron, Felix.”
“And your yourself?”
“It is truly my own name—mine as well as hers. I am Josephine Fréron.”
“So? That is something saved from the wreck—just a plank or a spar as I was going under. You haven’t another remnant for me to cling to, I suppose—your age, for instance?”
“I am nineteen.”