The young woman had risen, and her brows contracted; she seemed agitated and spoke with difficulty.
“Forgive me, sir; but I always feel strangely moved whenever I have occasion to mention my name.”
“Why, pray?” demanded M. Moche, courteously.
“Why? Oh, sir! some years ago my name acquired a sad notoriety through the tragic, the lamentable deaths of the dearest of my family. First, my father was murdered under mysterious circumstances in a railway carriage; then it was my brother who disappeared, struck down by an odious criminal, who furthermore caused him to be accused, even after his death, of the commission of atrocious crimes.”
These statements, succinct as they were, sufficed to reanimate M. Moche’s recollection.
“I have it,” he cried, “yes, I know ... Dollon ... the Dollon case ... Jacques Dollon ... so he was your brother? Jacques Dollon, whom they called the ‘Messenger of Evil.’”
The girl, greatly agitated by this reminder of a terrible past, merely nodded her head affirmatively, while great tears filled her eyes.
M. Moche expressed his sympathy: “I am truly sorry, mademoiselle,” he said, “to have recalled such mournful memories to your mind; but as landlord of the house where you wish to take rooms, I was bound to know your name; but I assure you that from henceforth ...”
He broke off, but presently resumed:
“You spoke just now of a small alteration in the flat you wish to rent.” He had guessed from the first what it was and was quite ready to agree.