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Rh the dust by their meanness. And then when Marie gave her money she spent it recklessly—she ate and drank like a princess—she took a voiture de place, whenever she went out: she thought that Marie could never do too much for her or her son's orphan child Léonie."

"Léonie lived with her grandmother, did she not?"

"Yes, Madame Lemarque had kept her since she was three years old. It was a dull life for a child. She used to sit on a little stool in that corner, and thread needles for her grandmother. When she was eight years old she could work very neatly; she ran errands too. She earned her daily bread, poor child. But her happiest days were those she spent with her aunt in the Rue Lafitte."

"Mademoiselle Prévol was good to her?"

"Good to her? Yes, and to every one who came in her way. I tell you she was a creature made up of sweetness and love."

"And was she devoted to this Monsieur Georges?"

"At one time, yes. It was an adoration on both sides. Marie used to tell me of their journeys in foreign countries, under a southern sky. Of their happy life, far away from the crowd; of his boundless love for her, his generosity, his devotion. She had a fever in Venice, and he nursed her, and watched beside her bed day and night—thirteen days and thirteen nights—till she was out of danger. It was a love such as one reads of in poetry."

"Have you any reason to think that she was his lawful wife?"

"I cannot tell. His constancy and devotion were those of the best of husbands. She wore a wedding-ring, and she was always called by his name when they travelled, as well as in her lodgings. It was almost at the beginning of their attachment that he took her to England. I have sometimes thought that they were married in England."

"Did he introduce her to his friends in Paris?"

"Only a few artists and writers whom she used to meet at supper. They were some of the wildest young men in Paris."

"But he introduced her to no ladies—to no families of good standing?"

"I doubt if he could have had any such friends. He lived too eccentric a life to cultivate what you call respectable acquaintance."

"Was he himself an artist?"

"I think not. He was too rich for a painter or an author."

"And you have never heard of him since Marie Prévol's death?"

"Never."

"What became of the jewels and other property which had belonged to Mademoiselle Prévol?"