“And in whose house, monsieur?”
“I don’t know—” I glanced instinctively at the tarnished coronet on the canopy above the bed. “Do you know, Madame la Comtesse?”
“I ought to,” she said, faintly amused. “I was born in this room. It was to this house that I desired to come before—my exile.”
Her eyes softened as they rested first on one familiar object, then on another.
“The house has always been in our family,” she said. “It was once one of those fortified farms in the times when every hamlet was a petty kingdom—like the King of Yvetôt’s domain. Doubtless the ancient Trécourts also wore cotton night-caps for their coronets.”
“I remember now,” said I, “a stone turret wedged in between two houses. Is this it?”
“Yes, it is all that is left of the farm. My ancestors built this crazy old row of houses for their tenants.”
After a silence I said, “I wish I could look out of the window.”
She hesitated. “I don’t suppose it could harm you?”