“Ah, you bought a house?”
“Yes, a nice house with a large garden, in Vine Street, Passy.”
“And you own it still?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you have the title-papers?”
Jacques looked in despair.
“Here, again, fate is against me. There is quite a tale connected with
that house.”
The features of the Sauveterre lawyer grew dark again, much quicker than
they had brightened up just now.
“Ah!” he said,--“a tale, ah!”
“I was scarcely of age,” resumed Jacques, “when I wanted to purchase
this house. I dreaded difficulties. I was afraid my father might hear
of it; in fine, I wanted to be as prudent as the countess was. I asked,
therefore, one of my English friends, Sir Francis Burnett, to purchase
it in his name. He agreed; and he handed me, with the necessary bills of
sale, also a paper in which he acknowledged my right as proprietor.”
“But then”--
“Oh! wait a moment. I did not take these papers to my rooms in my
father’s house. I put them into a drawer of a bureau in my house at
Passy. When the war broke out, I forgot them. I had left Paris before
the siege began, you know, being in command of a company of volunteers
from this department. During the two sieges, my house was successively
occupied by the National Guards, the soldiers of the Commune, and the
regular troops. When I got back there, I found the four walls pierced
with holes by the shells; but all the furniture had disappeared, and
with it the papers.”
“And Sir Francis Burnett?”
“He left France at the beginning of the invasion; and I do not know
what has become of him. Two friends of his in England, to whom I wrote,
replied,--the one that he was probably in Australia; the other that he
was dead.”
“And you have taken no other steps to secure your rights to a piece of
property which legally belongs to you?”
“No, not till now.”
“You mean to say virtually that there is in Paris a house which has no
owner, is forgotten by everybody, and unknown even to the tax-gatherer?”
“I beg your pardon! The taxes have always been regularly paid; and the
whole neighborhood knows that I am the owner. But the individuality is
not the same. I have unceremoniously assumed the identity of my friend.
In the eyes of the neighbors, the small dealers near by, the workmen and
contractors whom I have employed, for the servants and the gardener, I
am Sir Francis Burnett. Ask them about Jacques de Boiscoran, and they
will tell you, ‘Don’t know.’ Ask them about Sir Francis Burnett, and
they will answer, ‘Oh, very well!’ and they will give you my portrait.”