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Updated: May 15, 2025
There is Madame de Lastaola for instance, who seems to have vanished from the world which was so much interested in her. You have no idea where she may be now?” Monsieur George remarked grumpily that he couldn’t say. The other tried to appear at ease. Tongues were wagging about it in Paris.
But he seemed very much interested in his surroundings, looked all round the hall, noted the costly wood of the door panels, paid some attention to the silver statuette holding up the defective gas burner at the foot of the stairs, and, finally, asked whether this was in very truth the house of the most excellent Señora Doña Rita de Lastaola.
Not one in a million. Perhaps not one in an age.” “The heiress of Henry Allègre,” I murmured. “Precisely. But John wouldn’t be marrying the heiress of Henry Allègre.” It was the first time that the frank word, the clear idea, came into the conversation and it made me feel ill with a sort of enraged faintness. “No,” I said. “It would be Mme. de Lastaola then.”
But my name, amigo, Henry Allègre had taken from me like all the rest of what I had been once. All that is buried with him in his grave. It wouldn’t have been true. That is how I felt about it. So I took that one.” She whispered to herself: “Lastaola,” not as if to test the sound but as if in a dream.
The audience was over but he noticed my eyes wandering to the portrait and he said in his measured, breathed-out tones: “I owe the pleasure of having this admirable work here to the gracious attention of Madame de Lastaola, who, knowing my attachment to the royal person of my Master, has sent it down from Paris to greet me in this house which has been given up for my occupation also through her generosity to the Royal Cause.
Once or twice in my hearing she had referred to “my rust-coloured hair” with laughing vexation. Even then it was unruly, abhorring the restraints of civilization, and often in the heat of a dispute getting into the eyes of Madame de Lastaola, the possessor of coveted art treasures, the heiress of Henry Allègre.
But he was wrong. It had a name. The hill, or the rock, or the wood, or the whole had a name. I heard of it by chance later. It was—Lastaola.” A cloud of tobacco smoke from Mills’ pipe drove between my head and the head of Mr. Blunt, who, strange to say, yawned slightly.
I suppose all the world knows our Rita for a shameless girl. It was then that the lady took up those glasses on a long gold handle and looked at me through them till I felt very much abashed. She said to me, ‘There is nothing to be unhappy about. Madame de Lastaola is a very remarkable person who has done many surprising things.
She said all this rapidly in one breath and at the end had a sort of anxious gasp which gave me the opportunity to voice my surprise. It was immense. “That lady, the strange lady, spoke to you of your sister first!” I cried. “The lady asked me, after she had been in a little time, whether really this house belonged to Madame de Lastaola.
Moreover, Mme. de Lastaola,” she continued in an insinuating voice, “that most rare and fascinating young woman is, as a friend like you cannot deny, outside legality altogether. Even in that she is an exceptional creature. For she is exceptional—you agree?” I had gone dumb, I could only stare at her. “Oh, I see, you agree. No friend of hers could deny.”
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