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Updated: May 24, 2025
At this point Benjamin Arsdale's name disappeared even from the magazines, and save to a very few people he was as though dead and buried beneath his odd house. An old Frenchman, his wife, and his son Jacques Moisson seemed content to live there and look after the household duties.
"Gracious, Moisson, tell me about it;" and without further solicitation, Moisson told me the following story: "My mother was a Brécourt, whose ancestor was a bastard of Gaston d'Orleans, and she was on this account a royalist, and very proud of her nobility. The Brécourts, who were fighting people, had never become rich, and the Revolution ruined them completely.
The telephone rang imperiously and Arsdale went to answer it, chewing invectives. Donaldson crossed to the side of the girl. "Where is Marie?" he asked. "She is in bed again. Her poor knees are troubling her." "I have both good news and bad news for you," he said after a moment's hesitation, "the real assailant has been found and it is Jacques Moisson." The girl recoiled. "Jacques!"
Moisson knew nothing about it; he had never seen her or her lover or husband, Mme. de Combray having quarrelled with all of them. I was most anxious to learn more, but to do that it would be necessary to consult the report of the trial in the record office at Rouen. I never had time.
The tower is still there, far from the château, at the summit of a wooded hill in the centre of a clearing, which commands the river valley. It is a squat, massive construction, of forbidding aspect, such as Moisson described, with thick walls, and windows so narrow that they look more like loopholes.
The journey from Moisson to Aldershot was completed at a speed of 36 miles an hour, but the airship was damaged while being towed into its shed.
And at the same time he condemns as "strange" and "romantic" the simplest of all these adventures that of Moisson! He scoffs at his hiding-places in the roofs of the old château, and it is precisely in the roofs of the old château that the police found the famous refuge which could hold forty men with ease.
I mentioned it to M. Gustave Bord, to Frédéric Masson and M. de la Sicotière, and thought no more about it even after the interesting article published in the Temps, by M. Ernest Daudet, until walking one day with Lenôtre in the little that is left of old Paris of the Cité, the house in the Rue Chanoinesse, where Balzac lodged Mme. de la Chanterie, reminded me of Moisson, whose adventure I narrated to Lenôtre, at that time finishing his "Conspiration de la Rouërie."
I see nothing better at the moment, and so my mind is soon made up. But here we are; this is our resting-place." The "Moisson d'Or," although not known to me, was then the most celebrated place for dining in Paris. The habits of the house for there was no table d'hôte required that everything should be ordered beforehand, and the parties all dined separately.
He was certainly, as well as Bonnoeil, Mme. de Combray's eldest son, one of the three guests with whom Moisson took supper on the evening of his arrival. The one who was always playing cards or tric-trac with the Marquise, and whom she called her lawyer, might well have been d'Aché himself.
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