"Yes, there was one, and it was that one who murdered my daughter and Monsieur de Maucroix. No one can doubt it."
"But you have no actual knowledge of the fact? You speak upon conjecture?"
"Who else should murder her? Whom did she ever injure, poor child? She was amiability itself—the kindest of comrades, charitable, good to everybody."
"What do you know of this person whom you suspect?"
"Nothing except that which I heard from my daughter."
"Did you never see him?"
"Never. If he had been the Emperor he could not have been more mysterious in his goings to and fro. I was never allowed to see him."
"Was he often at your daughter's apartment?"
"Very often. He used to go there after the theatre. He was devoted to her. There were some who believed that he was her husband, that he loved her too passionately to deny her anything she might ask. When she was not acting he took her abroad, to Italy—to Spain. If it were only for a holiday for a fortnight, he would carry her off to some remote village in the Italian Alps or the Pyrenees. I used to tell her that he was ashamed of his love for her, or he would not have hidden her in those distant places. He would have taken her to Dieppe or Arcachon, where she would have been seen and admired."
"Did you ever find out who this person is?"