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Updated: June 4, 2025
And the child gave over his instinctive but rather inconsecutive efforts to retrace his history: his daily life at Troyon's furnished compelling and obliterating interests. Madame saw to that.
I uttered it merely to confirm my identity to you; it is the only name I ever knew you by in the old days, when you were in the British Secret Service and I a famous thief with a price upon my head, when you and I played hide and seek across half Europe and back again in the days of Troyon's and 'the Pack, the days of De Morbihan and Popinot and...."
Then the boy set his face against the world: alone, lonely, and remembering. His return to Troyon's, whereas an enterprise which Lanyard had been contemplating for several years in fact, ever since the death of Bourke came to pass at length almost purely as an affair of impulse.
And remembering what he had said, that his own trials had come to an end only when he awakened to the fact that he was, as he had put it, "less than half alive" there at Troyon's, and had simply "walked out into life," she was persuaded that the cure for her own discomfort and discontent would never be found in any other way. But she lacked courage to adventure it.
It is very like the café at Troyon's, at this hour especially, when there are so few English about." "Troyon's?" "A restaurant in Paris. Famous in its day. Several years ago before the war it burned down one night, cremating many memories. While it stood I hated it, now I miss it; Paris without it is no more the Paris that I knew." "Why did you hate it, sir?" "Because I suffered there."
He viewed this stroke of good-fortune with intense disgust: the shambling, weather-beaten animal between the shafts promised a long, damp crawl to the Lutetia. And on this reflection he yielded to impulse. Heaving in his luggage "Troyon's!" he told the cocher....
It must have been Bourke who first said that even if you knew your way about Paris you had to lose it in order to find it to Troyon's. But then Bourke was proud to be Irish. Troyon's occupied a corner in a jungle of side-streets, well withdrawn from the bustle of the adjacent boulevards of St. Germain and St.
Stepping out, he slammed the door and strode briskly round the corner, as if making for the cab-rank that lines up along the Luxembourg Gardens side of the rue de Medicis; his boot-heels made a cheerful racket in that quiet hour; he was quite audibly going away from Troyon's.
But now it appeared he had procrastinated fatally: Time and Change had left little other than the shell of the Troyon's he remembered.
To Troyon's on a wet winter night in the year 1893 came the child who as a man was to call himself Michael Lanyard. He must have been four or five years old at that time: an age at which consciousness is just beginning to recognize its individuality and memory registers with capricious irregularity.
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