“Madame,” he said to me, “since we are, as it seems, more acquainted than we thought, may I dare to gratify my curiosity?”—
I fancied I saw the claw of a cat preparing to play with its mouse, so I answered, coldly:—
“Artists, I am told, are often indiscreet in their curiosity.”
I put a well-marked stiffness into my manner which completed the meaning of the words. I could not see that it baffled him.
“I hope,” he replied, “that my question is not of that kind. I only desire to ask if you have a sister.”
“No, monsieur,” I replied, “I have no sister—none, at least, that I know of,” I added, jestingly.
“I thought it not unlikely, however,” continued Monsieur Dorlange, in the most natural manner possible; “for the family in which I have met a lady bearing the strongest resemblance to you is surrounded by a certain mysterious atmosphere which renders all suppositions possible.”
“Is there any indiscretion in asking the name of that family?”
“Not the least; they are people whom you must have known in Paris in 1829-1830. They lived in great state and gave fine parties. I myself met them in Italy.”
“But their name?” I said.