“God knows. After the performance, when François acted miserably, and was hissed and hit on the head by a cabbage thrown at him—and he deserved it for his bad acting, and nearly breaking Madame Grandin’s neck in his acrobatic turn—he disappeared. Grandin owed him some money, too. All we could ever find out was, that François was seen during the night on board the old boat, tied up on the riverside. The police saw a man with a lantern moving about the boat. They went on board, and found it was François, and they drove him off. Oddly enough, not two hours later, there was a fire on the dock, and the wind blew the sparks to the boat, and it was burned to the water’s edge. You may imagine, with you and François gone, and Mademoiselle Rose a flat failure, and the boat burned up, it was pretty serious for Grandin. They had a little money, you know, and so they gave up the show business and went to a little town in the French Alps and took to raising chickens. It was as if, with your going, the old life and everything melted away like a dream.”
“And then, what did you do?”
“Oh, I got an engagement in the Bienville theatre that took me through the season. I got on very well, and in two years I came to Paris.”
“And how about that scamp, the Marquis Egmont de St. Angel?” asked Diane in a perfectly natural voice.
“I didn’t like to mention him,” answered Jean; “I thought you might—perhaps—well, I—”
“You needn’t mind,” promptly responded Diane; “I was a great fool, of course, but no more so than any other inexperienced girl in my position. I thought I loved him. I know now that he was nothing more than a peg to hang my emotions on. It sounded so grand to be a marquise!”
She laughed so naturally and unaffectedly, that a great load was lifted from Jean’s heart. The Marquis was rightly appraised by Diane, and she had no regrets for such a scoundrel. Then she kept on, still laughing:
“I should have been perfectly ridiculous as a marquise!”
“He was kicked out of the army,” said Jean.
“Served him right,” replied Diane, vigorously. “One thing rejoices me—that awful whack I let him have in the face, and I shall always love you, Jean, for the beating you gave him. He deserved it all for his treatment of his wife and child. What became of the poor lady?”