"No," says Madelon wondering, "I have no relations—only papa."
"No uncles, or aunts, or cousins?"
"No," said Madelon again, "only Uncle Charles, who died, you know."
"Ah, yes—that was an English uncle; but your papa, has he no brothers or sisters in Paris, or anywhere else?"
"I never heard of any," said Madelon, to whom this idea of possible relations seemed quite a new one. "I never go to visit anyone."
"Then you have no friends living in Paris—no little companions, no ladies who come to see you?"
"No," answers Madelon, shaking her head, "we don't know anyone in Paris, except some gentlemen who come to play with papa— like Monsieur Legros, you know—only some are nicer than he is; but I don't know the names of them all. At Wiesbaden I knew a Russian princess, who used to ask me to go and see her at the hotel—oh, yes, and a German Countess, and a great many people that we met at the tables and at the balls, but I daresay I shall never see them again; we meet so many people, you know."
"And you have no other friends?"
"Oh, yes," said Madelon, her eyes shining suddenly, "there was the American artist, who lived in our house in Florence, and the old German who taught me to sing and play the violin; I was very fond of him, he was so good—so good."
"Who were they?" asked Graham.