She explained how Jacques Dollon and she had come to settle in Paris, feeling themselves rich on the savings they had inherited from their parents. Elizabeth had become a dressmaker, and Jacques had become an artist-craftsman. Gradually the young man’s talent and industry had enabled his sister to leave her workroom and come to live with him. His reputation was a growing one, and the two young people looked forward to an existence of honest comfort in the near future. They got to know some people, one or two of whom were rich, and had shown their interest in the brother and sister.

Jérôme Fandor interrupted her:

“You always remained on good terms with the Baroness de Vibray?”

At this question the girl’s eyes flashed.

“They have put into print shameful things about this poor dear Baroness, and about my brother also. The papers have represented her as eccentric, as mad; they have said worse things than that, you know that, don’t you?... They have declared that there was a very intimate relation between her and my brother – I cannot say more – it is too hateful! It is all false – as false as false can be. The Baroness was particularly interested in Jacques, but assuredly that was owing to the long standing relations between her family and ours... The suicide of the Baroness has been a sad addition to my grief, for I was very fond of her!...” Fandor had been listening attentively to Elizabeth’s story. He now said:

“You have used the word ‘suicide’, mademoiselle: do you then really think, as everyone seems to do, that your patroness killed herself of her own free will?” Elizabeth reflected a minute before replying.

“That was what she wrote – and one must believe that. Nevertheless...”

“Nevertheless?”

Elizabeth hesitated, passed her hand over her forehead, then said:

“Nevertheless, Monsieur Fandor, the more I think over this death, the more remarkable it seems. The Baroness de Vibray was not the kind of person to commit suicide, even if she were unhappy, even if she were ruined. I have often heard her speak of her money affairs; she even used to joke about the complaints of her bankers, Messieurs Barbey-Nanteuil, because she was too fond of gambling.

That was our poor friend’s weakness: she was a dreadful gambler: she was always betting on horses and gambling on the Bourse.”

“Do you know the Barbey-Nanteuils at all, mademoiselle?”

“A little. I have met them once or twice at Madame de Vibray’s – when she had one of her little evenings. Once or twice my brother has asked their advice about investments – very modest investments I can assure you – and they got one of their friends, a Monsieur Thomery, to buy some of my brother’s art pottery.”

“Have you many acquaintances in Paris, mademoiselle?”