“How old were you then?” I asked, much interested.
“I could not have been more than six, possibly seven. It was in Rouen. They took me to a big, fashionable street I did not remember having ever been in before, kissed me again and again once more, stood me by the porte-cochère, and rang the bell. Then they went hurriedly away. By the time the bell was answered, they had disappeared. I was questioned by a tall man-servant—after that, I don’t exactly recollect what happened, except that the Baronne adopted me. She lived in the big house.”
“And it was in Rouen, you say?”
“Yes, in Rouen.”
“Do you think you would recognise it if you saw the outside of it again?” I asked quickly.
She paused.
“I think I should,” she said thoughtfully, “though we did not stay there long—not more than a few months. Why do you ask?”
“Only,” I answered, “because I have an idea. But now let us leave this place. It is nearly four o’clock.”
Yes, we were a truly unconventional quartette.
The hotel people were surprised, on the following morning, to find one of our two rooms occupied by two fair visitors, while in the other Faulkner and I slept, tucked up together. But in gay, reckless Monte nobody is surprised at anything.