“Then, I will begin by asking if you have any remembrance of a young man in your own sphere of society, who, at the time of your marriage, was well known in every Parisian _salon_. I speak of the Marquis de Croisenois.” The Countess leaned back in her chair, and contracted her brow, and pursed up her lips, as though vainly endeavoring to remember the name. “The Marquis de Croisenois?” repeated she. “It seems as if----no--wait a moment. No; I cannot say that I can call any such person to mind.” The doctor felt that he must give the spur to this rebellious memory. “Yes, Croisenois,” he repeated. “His Christian name was George, and he had a brother Henry, whom you certainly must know, for this winter I saw him at the Duchess de Laumeuse’s, dancing with your daughter.” “You are right; I remember the name now.” Her manner was indifferent and careless as she said this. “Then perhaps you also recollect that some twenty-three years ago, George de Croisenois vanished suddenly. This disappearance caused a terrible commotion at the time, and was one of the chief topics of society.” “Ah! indeed?” mused the Countess. “He was last seen at the Café de Paris, where he dined with some friends. About nine he got up to leave. One of his friends proposed to go with him, but he begged him not to do so, saying, ‘Perhaps I shall see you later on at the opera, but do not count on me.’ The general impression was that he was going to some love tryst.” “His friends thought that, I suppose.” “Yes, for he was attired with more care than usual, though he was always one of the best dressed men in Paris. He went out alone, and was never seen again.” “Never again,” repeated the Countess, a slight shade passing across her brow. “Never again,” echoed the unmoved doctor. “At first his friends merely thought his absence strange; but at the end of a week they grew anxious.” “You go very much into details.” “I heard them all at the time, madame, and they were only brought back to my memory this morning. All are to be found in the records of a minute search that the authorities caused to be made into the affair. The friends of De Croisenois had commenced the search; but when they found their efforts useless, they called in the aid of the police. The first idea was suicide: George might have gone into some lonely spot and blown out his brains. There was no reason for this; he had ample means, and always appeared contented and happy. Then it was believed that a murder had been committed, and fresh inquiries were instituted, but nothing could be discovered--nothing.” The Countess affected to stifle a yawn, and repeated like an echo, “Nothing.” “Three months later, when the police had given up the matter in despair, one of George de Croisenois’ friends received a letter from him.” “He was not dead then, after all?” Dr. Hortebise made a mental note of the tone and manner of the Countess, to consider over at his leisure.