"Not past midnight, mother," corrected the Duc de Pomar; "I heard a
clock strike twelve just as we were driving through the Porte Cochere."

"_Bien, Madame, qu'est-ce-que je vous ai dit?_" demanded the Abbe,
turning to me in triumph. He then repeated his story, and I was able to
certify that he had already mentioned it to me on my arrival.

The following day I took my leave of Lady Caithness, with a happy
remembrance of her and her great kindness and hospitality to me during
this pleasant week. She made me promise to let her know whenever I might
happen to be passing through Paris. I wrote to her the next year, when
about to make a short stay in Paris, on returning from Algeria, and
received an answer from the Riviera. She had been wintering there, and
had been packed and ready for the return to Paris, when an obstinate
chill had upset all plans. She begged me to go to the Avenue Wagram when
I arrived and find out the latest news of her, as the doctors might give
leave for the journey at any moment.

Ten days later I _did_ go to her house and interview the lady secretary
(not the one I had seen), who was very grudging in her answers, and gave
me the impression that she was accustomed to deal with persons who had
some "axe to grind" by claiming acquaintance with the Countess.

I did not happen to have the letter in my pocket which authorised my
visit, and should probably not have produced it in any case. So I turned
away rather shortly, leaving my card, saying: "I must trouble you to
forward this at once to Lady Caithness."

The moment the secretary saw my name, her manner entirely changed, and
became as servile as it had been "cavalier."

"Miss Bates, I see? Oh, certainly, I shall communicate at once with her
ladyship. I had no idea it was Miss Bates. Pray excuse me, so many come
and ask for the Duchesse, and we have to be so very particular. But, of
course, _you_ must be the lady the Duchesse is so very fond of. She has
mentioned you often, and warned us to receive you with every courtesy."

And that is my last recollection of the kindly woman, who died a few
months later. No, not absolutely my last recollection: visiting Scotland
in 1896, I made a point of going to Holyrood Chapel for the express
purpose of finding her grave.

The plain stone slab and simple inscription seemed at first a curious
contrast to the gorgeous magnificence of her home and dress and
surroundings. Yet I am inclined to think that they