The stories polite society wished it could forget.

Women fainted at Franz Liszt's recitals, fought over his broken piano strings, and pressed him — perfumed letter after perfumed letter — for a lock of his hair.

A slim, asthmatic, French-speaking heir to a Hampshire baronetcy was lost off Rio in 1854; twelve years later a butcher from Wagga Wagga arrived at Tilbury weighing eighteen stone, unable to speak one word of French, and the family's old valet accepted him.

What does a sixteen-year-old do when his mother hides his clothes to keep him from following his father to the executioner?

What does a woman do after horsewhipping a Prussian gendarme, a Ballarat editor, and assembling a private army of law students?

What does the wickedest man in the world order for breakfast when he's a sixty-nine-year-old pensioner in a Hastings boarding house?

Her husband, her son, and the neighbor all had reasons — and the mourners brought cornbread to the grave.

What does a royal surgeon do after publishing a forty-page pamphlet certifying that a clothier's wife gave birth to rabbits, four days before she confesses?

What happens when colonists canonize a dead chief they never asked, dress up in bucktail hats, and dance "in the style of those people" while actual Native delegations watch from the docks?

If the world's greatest mystery writer vanished for eleven days and registered at a hotel under her husband's mistress's name, what exactly was she solving?

He spent thirty-six years after his death being moved between increasingly strange rooms across the south of France.