The Parisians — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best novels ever txt) 📕

many years ago. She drew very prettily, poor thing.”

“A lady who lodged here many years ago,—how many?”

“Well, I guess somewhere about twenty.”

“Ah, indeed! Was it a Madame Marigny?”

“Bon Dieu! That was indeed her name. Did you know her? I should be so glad to hear she is well and—I hope—happy.”

“I do not know where she is now, and am making inquiries to ascertain. Pray help me. How long did Madame Marigny lodge with you?”

“I think pretty well two months; yes, two months. She left a month after her confinement.”

“She was confined here?”

“Yes. When she first came, I had no idea that she was enceinte. She had a pretty figure, and no one would have guessed it, in the way she wore her shawl. Indeed I only began to suspect it a few days before it happened; and that was so suddenly, that all was happily over before we could send for the accoucheur.”

“And the child lived?—a girl or a boy?”

“A girl,—the prettiest baby.”

“Did she take the child with her when she went?”

“No; it was put out to nurse with a niece of my husband who was confined about the same time. Madame paid liberally in advance, and continued to send money half-yearly, till she came herself and took away the little girl.”

“When was that,—a little less than five years after she had left it?”

“Why, you know all about it, Monsieur; yes, not quite five years after. She did not come to see me, which I thought unkind, but she sent me, through my niece-in-law, a real gold watch and a shawl. Poor dear lady—for lady she was all over,—with proud ways, and would not bear to be questioned. But I am sure she was none of your French light ones, but an honest wife like myself, though she never said so.”

“And have you no idea where she was all the five years she was away, or where she went after reclaiming her child?”

“No, indeed, Monsieur.”

“But her remittances for the infant must have been made by letters, and the letters would have had post-marks?”

“Well, I dare say; I am no scholar myself. But suppose you see Marie Hubert, that is my niece-in-law, perhaps she has kept the envelopes.”

“Where does Madame Hubert live?”

“It is just a league off by the short path; you can’t miss the way. Her husband has a bit of land of his own, but he is also a carrier—‘Max Hubert, carrier,’—written over the door, just opposite the first church you get to. The rain has ceased, but it may be too far for you to-day.”

“Not a bit of it. Many thanks.”

“But if you find out the dear lady and see her, do tell her how pleased I should be to hear good news of her and the little one.”

Graham strode on under the clearing skies to the house indicated. He found Madame Hubert at home, and ready to answer all questions; but, alas! she had not the envelopes. Madame Marigny, on removing the child, had asked for all the envelopes or letters, and carried them away with her. Madame Hubert, who was as little of a scholar as her aunt-in-law was, had never paid much attention to the post-marks on the envelopes; and the only one that she did remember was the first, that contained a bank-note, and that post-mark was “Vienna.”

“But did not Madame Marigny’s letters ever give you an address to which to write with news of her child?”

“I don’t think she cared much for her child, Monsieur. She kissed it very coldly when she came to take it away. I told the poor infant that that was her own mamma; and Madame said, ‘Yes, you may call me maman,’ in a tone of voice—well, not at all like that of a mother. She brought with her a little bag which contained some fine clothes for the child, and was very impatient till the child had got them on.”

“Are you quite sure it was the same lady who left the child?”

“Oh, there is no doubt of that. She was certainly tres belle, but I did not fancy her as aunt did. She carried her head very high, and looked rather scornful. However, I must say she behaved very generously.”

“Still you have not answered my question whether her letters contained no address.”

“She never wrote more than two letters. One enclosing the first remittance was but a few lines, saying that if the child was well and thriving, I need not write; but if it died or became dangerously ill, I might at any time write a line to Madame ——-, Poste Restante, Vienna. She was travelling about, but the letter would be sure to reach her sooner or later. The only other letter I had was to apprise me that she was coming to remove the child, and might be expected in three days after the receipt of her letter.”

“And all the other communications from her were merely remittances in blank envelopes?”

“Exactly so.”

Graham, finding he could learn no more, took his departure. On his way home, meditating the new idea that his adventure that day suggested, he resolved to proceed at once, accompanied by M. Renard, to Munich, and there learn what particulars could be yet ascertained respecting those certificates of the death of Louise Duval, to which (sharing Richard King’s very natural belief that they had been skilfully forged) he had hitherto attached no importance.