“Perfectly, monsieur. Perhaps monsieur knows them.”
“Yes, I know them.”
“Truly!” He affected dejection. “And poor Madame Brossard thought monsieur had returned to our old hotel because he liked it, and remembered our wine of Beaune and the good beds and old Gaston’s cooking!”
“Do not weep, Amedee,” I said. “I have come to paint; not because I know the people who have taken Quesnay.” And I added: “I may not see them at all.”
In truth I thought that very probable. Miss Elizabeth had mentioned in one of her notes that Ward had leased Quesnay, but I had not sought quarters at Les Trois Pigeons because it stood within walking distance of the chateau. In my industrious frame of mind that circumstance seemed almost a drawback. Miss Elizabeth, ever hospitable to those whom she noticed at all, would be doubly so in the country, as people always are; and I wanted all my time to myself—no very selfish wish since my time was not conceivably of value to any one else. I thought it wise to leave any encounter with the lady to chance, and as the by-paths of the country-side were many and intricate, I intended, without ungallantry, to render the chance remote. George himself had just sailed on a business trip to America, as I knew from her last missive; and until his return, I should put in all my time at painting and nothing else, though I liked his sister, as I have said, and thought of her—often.
Amedee doubted my sincerity, however, for he laughed incredulously.
“Eh, well, monsieur enjoys saying it!”
“Certainly. It is a pleasure to say what one means.”
“But monsieur could not mean it. Monsieur will call at the chateau in the morning”—the complacent varlet prophesied—“as early as it will be polite. I am sure of that. Monsieur is not at all an old man; no, not yet! Even if he were, aha! no one could possess the friendship of that wonderful Madame d’Armand and remain away from the chateau.”
“Madame d’Armand?” I said. “That is not the name. You mean Mademoiselle Ward.”