One
thing I could not do, I would not do. I would not remain in America. I
was rich, I would travel and try to drown my sorrow and my hatred. I did
not go to a hotel, for I did not wish any one to find me. What good
could it do? I looked in the 'Transcript' and found a boarding place.
There I met Mdme. Archimbault, a widow, a French-Canadian lady, who had
come to Boston in search of a niece who had left her home in Canada some
five years before. Mdme. Archimbault had spent all the money she had in
her unavailing search for her relative, and she told me, with tears in
her eyes and expressive French gestures, that she would have to sell her
jewelry to pay her board, as she had no way of making a living in a
foreign land. Then I told her part of my story. She was sure her niece
was dead, and so I asked her to be my mother, to let me take her name
and be known as her daughter. I told her I was rich and that I would
care for her as long as our compact was kept and the real truth not
known. My visit to Nice and my meeting with Algernon Hastings, he has no
doubt told you.
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