“On our return to Paris, when later in the season Louis appeared, his daily pilgrimages from our quarter to the heights of Montmartre told the story clearly, and for male companionship Bob and I were left alone.”

— “A Chronicle of Friendships” by Will Low

So where in Paris, on the heights of Montmartre, did Robert Louis Stevenson go alone, apparently unconcerned about his friends? He went to 8 Rue de Douay, fourth floor. That’s where Mrs. Fanny Osbourne, 35, had taken rooms with her daughter Isobel, “Belle,” 18, and her son Lloyd, 8. Along with his mother, these three people would be Stevenson’s immediate family who would be with him 18 years later when he died in 1894. In 1916, Lloyd and Belle, as well as Mrs. Isobel Field, joined the Stevenson Society in Saranac Lake and began their generous donations of memorabilia. In 1934, Mrs. Field sent the Stevenson Society a letter which is reproduced here, describing an incident at the very beginning of their adventures-to-be with the author-to-be of “Treasure Island.” From Montmartre, on a fall day in 1876:

“Louis Stevenson and I were sitting on the floor before the fireplace, playing that old game of finding pictures in the coals.

“It was years ago in France — my mother had taken a little flat up in Montmartre that most picturesque part of old Paris, and here Louis had climbed four flights of slippery waxed stairs to take her out to dinner. While she was dressing he joined me on the hearth rug.

“Louis was in his mid-twenties, a vivid slender young man with yellow hair and blazing dark eyes. He was so vitally alive that other people seemed colorless beside him. No one ever said of R.L.S., ‘I don’t remember whether I ever met him or not.’ He made an instant impression that was un-forgettable.

“I knew him then as a charming and entertaining young man who had literary aspirations. In a letter to a friend I described him at the time as ‘such a good talker; I’d rather listen to him than read the best novel ever written.’

“He made any game exciting for whatever he did was entered into with enthusiasm. He led our canoe fights on the river at Grez, when we tried to upset each other in mid-stream. He was the moving spirit in our charades at the old Chevillon Inn — the masquerade when we all dressed in improvised costumes, and it was he who suggested the trials we all made to see which one of us could best express an emotion — anger — hospitality — envy — jealousy, etc., each in turn trying to outdo the others. Our frantic endeavors and the comments of the rest of the company made the game hilariously funny.

“It was like Louis to have turned that half hour of waiting by the fire with me into one of the red-letter memories of my life. He made the finding of pictures in the coals a thrilling adventure — pointing out odd and amazing combinations that formed castles and clouds and animals. Then by the falling of the coals and shifting of light a perfect doorway was pictured before us.

“I remember that doorway as deep and shadowy — overhung by a porch and decorated on the sides by carvings. It grew more and more distinct as I saw it through Louis’s imagination. He grew enthusiastic as he described it minutely. His voice was resonant with a deep rich quality that lent a touch of drama to anything he said.

“When he told me there was a young man running down the street, I actually saw him and thrilled with terror when the men-at-arms chased him into the shadowy doorway shouting drunkenly and flashing their swords. It seemed so real to me that I cried out, ‘He can’t escape! They are killing him!’

“Then Louis told me how the young man at bay, determined to make a last gallant stand to defend his life, had leaned back against the door — to his surprise, it opened behind him. He slipped inside — and was safe now from his pursuers — but in what a strange predicament! The great door had clanged shut — and our hero in a dark unknown place — was unable to open it. There was no knob or catch — his hands, sliding desperately over the panels found only a smooth surface. The men-at-arms had gone off shouting and singing their drunken songs.

“The young man, trapped in a strange house in a pitch dark room turned and saw in the distance a streak of light — a long thin line where two heavy curtains failed to meet. Should he stay where he was — cowering in the dark or boldly advance into the unknown? I was so absorbed in the story that it was a real shock to be brought back to reality by my mother who came in dressed and ready. She apologized for keeping Louis waiting and they left me dazed and protesting that I wanted to hear the end of the story.

“Several times after that when I met Louis I would ask — indeed I would beg to know — what the young man found behind the curtains, but he always laughed and turned the conversation. Some weeks later he came in throwing a magazine — The Temple Bar — in my lap and said, ‘Here’s your story!’ I turned eagerly to the list of contents and found ‘The Sire de Maletroit’s Door’ by Robert Louis Stevenson.”