“Well,” Florence began, “it goes back to long ago. I remember none of it. But the story is familiar. Poor father—I still must call him father—told it to me at least a dozen times. It was in London before I was born. There was a man named Bandoux, a Frenchman. He and Victor Ballau were rivals for my mother’s love. Does it sound stilted?” She smiled sadly. “A rather old-fashioned melodrama,” she continued. “Bandoux was a dashing, unscrupulous sort. And she eloped with him. They were gone about a year and they came back to London with me. Bandoux had refused to marry her, even after I came. In fact, he mistreated, abused and reviled her every hour of the day. And poor Victor still loved her. Mother was young and temperamental and proud, of course. But finally Victor’s love reached her heart. They were married and lived together happily for a year.” “Old Fanny was a little mixed in her dates,” De Medici smiled as she paused, “but otherwise the story is the same—to that point.” He told her briefly of his adventure with the wardrobe mistress and the candlestick. “I don’t remember her,” Florence went on. “Well, father, that is, Victor Ballau, was in charge of the Goldsmith Theater at that time and mother was playing the leads in the repertoire bills they put on. Things were going nicely, and apparently poor mother had forgotten the hell she’d been through with Bandoux. “Then one day father had to leave London on business, and in his absence the leading man fell ill. I forget his name. The manager in charge dashed around frantically in search of some experienced repertoire man to take his place, and found—Bandoux. He’d had a hard time of it and was willing to join the company for anything he could get. Mother objected violently at first. But it was either Bandoux or shutting down for the week, there being no actor available at the price they could pay for a mid-season employment. And so mother finally agreed. Bandoux played in the cast that night. Oh, he was a scoundrel! Everything that has happened, all the tragedy that haunted poor Victor Ballau’s life, came from him and his rottenness. The play that night was Sardou’s ‘Tosca.’ “Father has told me all these details. I was about three years old at the time. But I seem to remember the creature, a flamboyant type of cheap actor. With a grand manner and a nasty temper. Terribly vain of his looks. An unscrupulous rogue who devoted himself to boasting and to women.