They found, not Juliana, but her hostess, laboriously writing what seemed to be a very long letter. When they were ushered into her boudoir she displayed as much startled surprise as could be expected of anyone so habitually placid. She got up to embrace Léonie, almost falling upon her neck. “ Mon Dieu, is it you, Léonie?” she said, with a fat gasp. Then she held out a checking hand. “Not my cousin Justin? Do not say my cousin Justin is here!” she implored.
“Lord, you wouldn’t see me here if he was in Paris!” said Rupert reassuringly.
“If Fanny is here, I cannot face her!” stated madame in palpitating tones. She pointed to her desk, and the scattered sheets of gilt paper. “I am writing to her now. Why have you come? I am glad, yes, but I do not know why you have come.”
“Glad, are you? Well, it don’t sound like it,” commented his lordship. “We’ve come chasing after that plaguey nephew of mine, and a devilish silly errand it is.”
Madame sank down on to a spindle-legged chair, and stared at him with her mouth open. “You know, then?” she faltered.
“Yes, yes, we know everything!” Léonie said. “Now tell me where is Dominique, Elisabeth? Please tell me quickly.”
“But I do not know!” cried madame, spreading out her two plump hands.
“Oh, peste!” said Léonie impatiently.
“Come now, that’s the only thing we do know,” said his lordship. “Vidal’s gone to Dijon.”
Madame looked from him to Léonie in blank bewilderment. “To Dijon? But why? Gracious God, why to Dijon?”