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sight of Irene’s unconventional attire.
    They spoke at once, in French, to each other, then to Irene, and finally to me. They ordered, they pleaded. They almost wept with the intensity of their argument, as Frenchmen can when sufficiently stirred.
    I imagine that the burden of all of it was that my presence was not required.
    Or so Irene translated the jabber to me.
    I swept into the passage. That is one of the many advantages of female dress: one can sweep. And one who sweeps has the advantage. I had learned that years ago from Irene, who was unsurpassed in the art of both sweeping and imposing her will on others.
    “Nonsense,” I said, eyeing all three with my sternest expression. “Irene, your accompanying these two men, even though one is known to you, alone . . . at night . . . on who-knows-what errand, is completely improper. I must accompany you. Explain it to them.”
    Irene, looking amused, did. They remonstrated some more, and more loudly, simultaneously spewing both French and English at me so that I could understand neither.
    “If there is need for speed,” I told Inspector le Villard, “you would do better arguing with me in the carriage on the way to Paris.”
    Incredulous, they looked at Irene.
    She shrugged, a very Gallic shrug. “She is English,” she said, as if that explained everything.
    Perhaps it did.

4.
Not So Sweet a Home . . .

    It has been thus enjoined to the maîtresses de maison only to
receive those whose physical appearance suggest that they have
reached at least their seventeenth year . . . .
— CIRCULAR, 1842
    Irene and I were shortly facing each other across the divide of leather-upholstered carriage seats while the driver cracked his whip above the poor horses’ withers until our four-wheeler careened down the dark country road like a runaway beer wagon.
    Bands of light from the carriage lamps streaked across our faces, and there was no talk during this jolting journey, not until the cobblestones of Paris came under our steeds’ hooves, and mist-filtered rays of gaslight streamed into the open carriage windows like skimmed moonlight.
    I could smell the river and the evening damp, the incense of wood fires, the faint odor of manure.
    At last Irene began conversing with our escorts in French, soft-spoken, probing. They answered shortly, almost gruffly. She turned to me.
    “A ghastly crime of some sort has been committed. We are not to know the details because I am needed as a translator. They do not wish foreknowledge to taint my role. A young American girl was apparently a witness. It is she I will be questioning.”
    “Inspector le Villard speaks English passably enough to interrogate an American witness.”
    “You think so, Nell? His superior does not, and in such a case I agree with him. A woman will win her confidence much sooner.”
    I lifted an eyebrow at her attire.
    “If this crime is as brutal as I have been led to believe, my mode of dress will not even catch the poor child’s attention.”
    “She is a child? Then it was well I came along. An English governess can handle a child like none other.”
    “As you say.”
    I always worried when Irene did not disagree with me.
    “You did bring your notebook and pencil, Nell?”
    “I am never without it. And I brought something else.”
    “Oh?”
    I leaned close to whisper into her ear, which was more accessible than usual with her hair pinned up. “My chatelaine. Did you not notice its ostentatious—and noisy—presence at my belt?”
    Irene smothered another quirk of her lips. I suspect she had less faith in the powers of my chatelaine—a gift of sterling silver trinkets from Godfrey—than I did. But to me it served the same function as her little pistol, and I felt quite naked without it. What an exaggerated expression! I, of course, never felt naked at all; nor should any decent woman.
    Our vehicle had drawn up behind a grand building, one of the magnificent hôtels of Paris, I perceived as Irene helped me