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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Of course I knew it wasn't she that is, I should have known it if I hadn't been so staggered by the resemblance. It was amazing, that resemblance. The face, the voice everything was like hers. I was so dotty about it that I even hunted up one of the chaps in charge and asked him who the girl was. He said she was an Austrian Mademoiselle Juno or Junotte or something. That ended it, of course.
Those in charge for I attended no services knew nothing of Mademoiselle Junotte or Juno. I retired at ten, somewhat discouraged, but stubbornly determined to keep on, for my three days at least. The next morning I consulted Baedeker again, this time for the list of hotels, a list which I found quite as lengthy as that of the churches. Then I once more sought the help of Monsieur Louis.
I closed the Baedeker, lit a cigar, and settled myself for further reflection. The girl was singing somewhere and she called herself Mademoiselle Juno or Junotte, so Heathcroft had said. So much I knew and that was all. It was very, very little. But Herbert Bayliss had come to Paris, I believed, because of what Heathcroft had told him. Did he know more than I? It was possible.
The bearded manager or proprietor was waving his hands once more and begging attention and silence. He got both, in a measure. Then he made his announcement. He begged ten thousand pardons, but Mademoiselle Guinot That was it, Guinot, not Juno or Junotte had been seized with a most regrettable illness. She had been unable to continue her performance.
Monsieur Louis received me politely, listened, with every appearance of interest, to my tale of a young lady, a relative, who was singing at one of the Paris churches and whose name was Juno or Junotte, but, when I had finished, reluctantly shook his head.
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