“At the little house next the church—I beg its pardon, the Temple of . . . what is it the Temple of, Madame, Age, or Genius, or Fame, or what?”
“I have never enquired,” returned the Duchesse, with a shade of contempt. “The Temple of Lunacy, I should think.—Who lives in that little house now? It used to be . . . let me see—Nicole, the locksmith, and his family.”
“Nicole the locksmith?” repeated the priest, ceasing to masticate. “He has not lived there for seven years, I understand, since Mirabel was sacked.”
“Is that so?” asked Valentine. “What happened to him?”
“I do not know,” answered the Abbé. “I only know the bare fact from the old man who lives there now.—Did you then know Mirabel-le-Château as long ago as that, Madame Vidal?”
“Yes, I have known Mirabel a long time,” said Valentine, after a slight hesitation. If she were going eventually to ask him to say a Mass here for the Duc de Trélan, she must give him some sort of ground for making the request.
“You have lived here before, perhaps?”
“Yes,” admitted Mme de Trélan. “How I have come to live here again, under such different auspices, is the result of circumstances with which I need not trouble you. But, since I knew the château before it changed owners, perhaps you will not think it strange that I should show curiosity as to how you came into possession of the plan of which M. de Céligny spoke, and of which I saw a copy in M. de Brencourt’s possession. M. de Céligny said something about an old lady who was dying, whom you visited. But how did she come to have this paper, and why did she desire to give it to . . . to M. de Trélan?”
M. Chassin wiped his mouth. “It is a long story how it came into her possession, Madame, but a much shorter one why she desired it to go to its rightful owner. She had been tiring-woman to M. de Trélan’s mother, the Duchesse Eléonore.”
“What was her name?” demanded Valentine, a little breathlessly.