"Doubtless it is a mistake in art, and one that must be discovered before long," said Heathcote soothingly. "But tell me, Mademoiselle, in all your visits to the Rue de Lafitte, did you never encounter Georges?"
"Never."
"Strange! And did your friend Mademoiselle Prévol talk much of this Monsieur Georges?"
"Yes, she used to talk to me a great deal about him at one time, poor child: I think she talked even more freely to me than to her mother. Madame Lemarque was just a little too fond of money, too eager for gifts from her child, and that wounded Marie's generous nature. 'You value people only for what they can give you,' she said once to her mother. 'If Georges were Satan, you would like him just as well—provided you got enough of his money.' And then there was a quarrel, as you may suppose, Monsieur. There were excuses to be made for Madame Lemarque, poor soul. She had been rich once—an atelier in the Rue de la Paix—a country house at Asnières—but these man-milliners had spoiled her trade, and at this time she was very poor, living in these rooms which you see, and working for half a dozen shabby customers who ground her to the dust by their meanness. And then when Marie gave her money she spent it recklessly—she ate and drank like a princess—she took a voiture de place, whenever she went out: she thought that Marie could never do too much for her or her son's orphan child Léonie."
"Léonie lived with her grandmother, did she not?"
"Yes, Madame Lemarque had kept her since she was three years old. It was a dull life for a child. She used to sit on a little stool in that corner, and thread needles for her grandmother. When she was eight years old she could work very neatly; she ran errands too. She earned her daily bread, poor child. But her happiest days were those she spent with her aunt in the Rue Lafitte."
"Mademoiselle Prévol was good to her?"
"Good to her? Yes, and to every one who came in her way. I tell you she was a creature made up of sweetness and love."
"And was she devoted to this Monsieur Georges?"
"At one time, yes. It was an adoration on both sides. Marie used to tell me of their journeys in foreign countries, under a southern sky. Of their happy life, far away from the crowd; of his boundless love for her, his generosity, his devotion. She had a fever in Venice, and he nursed her, and watched beside her bed day and night—thirteen days and thirteen nights—till she was out of danger. It was a love such as one reads of in poetry."