CHAPTER XVII
Etretat
We were up at an hour which astonished the little fat keeper of theinn, and inquired the location of the office of the registrar ofbirths. It was two steps away in the Rue Alphonse Karr, but would notbe open for three hours, at least. Would messieurs have their coffeenow? No, messieurs would not have their coffee until they returned.Where would they find the residence of the registrar of births? Hisresidence, that was another matter. His residence was some littledistance away, near the Casino, at the right--we should ask for MaitreFingret--anyone could tell us. When should messieurs be expected toreturn? It was impossible to say.
We set off along the street, leaving the inn-keeper staring afterus--along the Rue Alphonse Karr, lined on both sides by houses, eachwith its little shop on the ground floor. Three minutes' walk broughtus to the bay, a pretty, even picturesque place, with itsperpendicular cliffs and gayly-colored fishing-smacks. But we pausedfor only a glance at it, and turned toward the Casino at the otherend. "Maitre Fingret?" we inquired of the first passer-by, and hepointed us to a little house, half-hidden in vines.
A knock brought the notary himself to the door, a little dried-up man,with keen face, and eyes incredibly bright. My companion explained ourerrand in laborious French, supplemented by much gesticulation--it iswonderful how the hands can help one to talk!--and after a time thelittle Frenchman caught his meaning, and bustled away to get his hatand coat, scenting a fat fee. Our first step was to be an easy one,thanks to the severity and thoroughness of French administration, butI admit that I saw not what we should do further, once we hadverified the date of Miss Holladay's birth. The next step must be leftto chance.
The notary unlocked the door, showed us into his office, and set outchairs for us. Then he got down his register of births for 1876. Itwas not a large book, for the births at Etretat are not overwhelmingin number.
"The name, I think you said, was Holladay?" he asked.
"Hiram W. Holladay," nodded Mr. Royce.
"And the date June 10th?"
"Yes--June 10th."
The little man ran his finger rapidly down the page, then went backagain and read the entries one by one more slowly, with a pucker ofperplexity about his lips. He turned the leaf, began farther back, andread through the list again, while we sat watching him. At last heshut the book with a little snap and looked up at us.
"Messieurs," he said quietly, "no such birth is recorded here. I haveexamined the record for the months of May, June, and July."
"But it must be there!" protested Mr. Royce.
"Nevertheless it is not here, monsieur."
"Could the child have been born here and no record made of it?"
"Impossible, monsieur. No physician in France would take thatresponsibility."
"For a large fee, perhaps," suggested my companion.
"In Paris that may, sometimes, be possible. But in a small place likethis, I should have heard of it, and it would have been my duty toinvestigate."
"You have been here for that length of time, then?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur," smiled the little man. "For a much longer timethan that."
Mr. Royce leaned forward toward him. He was getting back all his oldpower as a cross-examiner.
"Monsieur Fingret," he began impressively, "I am quite certain thatHiram W. Holladay and his wife were here during the months of May,June, and July, 1876, and that while they were here a daughter wasborn to them. Think again--have you no recollection of them or of theevent?"
The little notary sat for some moments with knitted brows. At last heshook his head.
"That would be the height of the season, you see, monsieur," he saidapologetically. "There are a great many people here, at that time, andI cannot know all of them. Nevertheless, it seemed to me for a momentthat there was about the name a certain familiarity--as of an oldtune, you know, forgotten for years. Yet it must have been my fancymerely, for I have no recollection of the event you mention. I cannotbelieve that such a birth took place at Etretat."
There was one other chance, and I gave Mr. Royce the clew.
"Monsieur Fingret," he asked, "are you acquainted with a man by thename of Pierre Bethune?"
And again the notary shook his head.
"Or Jasper Martigny?"
"I never before heard either name, monsieur," he answered.
We sat silent a moment, in despair. Was our trip to Etretat to be ofno avail? Where was my premonition, now? If we had lost the trail thusearly in the chase, what hope was there that we should ever run downthe quarry? And how explain the fact that no record had been made ofFrances Holladay's birth? Why should her parents have wished toconceal it? Would they not naturally have been anxious to see that itwas properly recorded?
An hour had passed; the shops were opening, and a bustle of lifereached us through the open door. People began to pass by twos andthrees.
"The first train for three days is about to arrive," said the littlenotary. "You see, this is a very small town, messieurs. The arrivalof a train is an event."
Again we fell silent. Mr. Royce got out his purse and paid the fee. Wehad come to an _impasse_--a closed way, we could go no farther. Icould see that the notary was a-hungered for his roll and coffee. Witha sigh, I arose to go. The notary stepped to the door and looked upthe street.
"Ah," he said, "the train has arrived, but it seems there were notmany passengers. Here is one, though, who has finished a longjourney."
He nodded to someone who approached slowly, it seemed. He was beforethe door--he passed on--it was Martigny!
"That is the man!" I cried to Mr. Royce. "That is Martigny! Ask who hereally is."
He understood on the instant, and caught the notary's arm.
"Monsieur Fingret, who is that man?"
The notary glanced at him, surprised by his vehemence.
"That," he said, "is Victor Fajolle. He is just home from America andseems very ill, poor fellow."
"And he lives here?"
"Oh, surely; on the cliffs just above the town--the first house--youcannot miss it--buried in a grove of trees. He married the daughter ofMadame Alix some years ago--he was from Paris."
"And his wife is living?"
"Oh, surely, she is living; she herself returned from America butthree weeks ago, together with her mother and sister. The sister, theysay, is--well----" and he finished with a significant gesture towardhis head.
I saw my companion's face turn white--I steadied myself with aneffort. I knew that, at last, the veil was to be lifted.
"And they are at home now?"
"I believe so," said the notary, eying him with more and moreastonishment. "They have been keeping close at home since theirreturn--they will permit no one to see the--invalid. There has beenmuch talk about it."
"Come, we must go!" I cried. "He must not get there before us!"
But a sudden light gleamed in the notary's eyes.
"Wait, messieurs!" he cried. "A moment. But a moment. Ah, I rememberit now--it was the link which was wanting, and you have suppliedit--Holladay, a millionaire of America, his wife, Madame Alix--she didnot live in the villa, then, messieurs. Oh, no; she was very poor, anurse--anything to make a little money; her husband, who was afisherman, was drowned, and left her to take care of the children asbest she could. Ah, I remember--one a mere baby!"
He had got down another book, and was running his finger rapidly downthe page--his finger all a-tremble with excitement. Suddenly, hestopped with a little cry of triumph.
"Here it is, messieurs! I knew I could not be mistaken! See!"
Under the date of June 10, 1876, was an entry of which this is theEnglish:
"Holladay, Hiram W., and Elizabeth, his wife, of the city of New York,United States of America; from Celeste Alix, widow of Auguste Alix,her daughter Celeste, aged five months. All claim surrendered inconsideration of the payment of 25,000 francs."
Mr. Royce caught up the book and glanced at the back. It was the"Record of Adoptions."
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