"Yes, Monsieur."
"You never saw Georges again, either in the cemetery or anywhere else?"
"Never."
"I have been told that he was a French Canadian. Have you any knowledge as to his country or his family history?"
"None, Monsieur. I always supposed him to be a Frenchman. I never heard him speak in any other language."
"Did he speak like a Parisian?"
"No, Monsieur. He did not speak exactly like the people about here, or the actors at the Porte-Saint-Martin. I used to think that he was a provincial."
"Did you hear from your mistress what part of England she had visited?"
"I heard, Monsieur, but have forgotten. The names of places were strange to me—such queer names—but I know it was a place in which there were lakes and mountains."
"Was it in Scotland or Ireland?"
"No, it was in England. I am sure of that. And now, if Monsieur would like to see the third floor."
Heathcote said he was most anxious to do so; and he followed Madame Leroux up-stairs, to a landing out of which the door of the apartment opened. The rooms were small and low, but well lighted, and with a balcony looking out on the street. The little salon was neatly furnished, with those very chairs and tables which Marie Prévol had bought out of her first economies as an actress. The things were meagre and shabby after the wear and tear of years; but the perfect neatness and cleanliness of everything made amends. Barbe Leroux was one of those admirable managers who by sheer industry and good taste can make much out of little.
There was a tiny dining-room opening out of the salon, with a window overlooking chimneys and backs of houses, and this window had been filled with painted glass in the time of Monsieur Georges. All the other elegances and luxuries with which he had embellished the cosy little rooms had been disposed of at the sale of Marie Prévol's effects. There had been Venetian mirrors and girandoles on the walls of the dining-room, Barbe explained.
"Madame used to light all the wax candles when she came in from the theatre. There were candles on the supper-table with rose-coloured shades. There were fruit and flowers always. Everything was made to look pretty in honour of Monsieur Georges—and there had to be some delicate little dish for supper, and choicest wine. Monsieur was not a man who cared much what he ate or drank; but Madame wished that everything should be nicely arranged, that the supper-table should look as inviting as at the Café de Paris or at the Maison d'Or."
