But before leaving, he paused to regard once more the portrait of the girl with the Babylonic eyes.

“That was a lovely little épée, that one with the peacock on its pommel. It seems strangely familiar … well, and since the marquis has probably fought his last bout and is on his way back, we leave opportunely,” remarked d’Artois, as the Issotta’s long nose headed toward Bayonne.

At Place de Théâtre we parked, found a table on the paving, well within the shade of the awning. D’Artois called for a weird favorite of his, whose two ingredients he himself mixed, and then diluted with charged water: a milky, curiously flavored drink, Anis del Oso and Cordiale Gentiane, a suave, insipid madhouse in a slim, tall glass. The springs of the Isle of Patmos must have flowed with Anis del Oso!

As we sipped and smoked, I noted the great limousine of Monsieur the Marquis de la Tour de Maracq draw up to the curbing, returning from Biarritz. Lean, aquiline-featured, elegant and courtly in bearing, and haughty as Lucifer was the Marquis. Touching the brim of his high hat with the head of his stick, he acknowledged the salute of the footman, then handed from the limousine a woman whose features, to say the very least, startled me.

“What in—!”

“No, mon cher,” murmured d’Artois, “she is no ghost, though she may be the reincarnation of the lady whose portrait we saw at Château Maracq. There is no telling what deviltry the marquis has worked in his day, but this is a flesh-and-blood woman. And now do you see a light?”

“A light? What in the world has she to do with this mummy?”

D’Artois laughed maliciously.

“I’ll swear you have mummies on the brain! But just wait. Well, that is Mademoiselle Lili Allzaneau of 34 rue Lachepaillet. Like her scriptural counterpart, she lives on the city wall in an apartment overlooking the park.”

Which last was of course superfluous: for the mention of her address was quite sufficient. Yet La Belle Allzaneau bore the stamp of the thoroughbred: the patrician insolence, the smoldering Babylonic eyes, long, narrow, veiled; the slim, gracious hands of a princess of the blood. And her dress, and her figure, and her bearing were all in accord. Behold the grand dame of the château, and her double, La Belle Allzaneau of rue Lachepaillet!

A few days elapsed, during which Pierre left me to my own devices. And then, emerging from his preoccupation, he sought relaxation in a stroll which took us along the Adour, around, and back to the ramparts of Lachepaillet.