Etretat
We were up at an hour which astonished the little fat keeper of the inn, and inquired the location of the office of the registrar of births. It was two steps away in the Rue Alphonse Karr, but would not be open for three hours, at least. Would messieurs have their coffee now? No, messieurs would not have their coffee until they returned. Where would they find the residence of the registrar of births? His residence, that was another matter. His residence was some little distance away, near the Casino, at the right—we should ask for Mâitre Fingret—anyone could tell us. When should messieurs be expected to return? It was impossible to say.
We set off along the street, leaving the inn-keeper staring after us—along the Rue Alphonse Karr, lined on both sides by houses, each with its little shop on the ground floor. Three minutes' walk brought us to the bay, a pretty, even picturesque place, with its perpendicular cliffs and gayly-colored fishing-smacks. But we paused for only a glance at it, and turned toward the Casino at the other end. "Mâitre Fingret?" we inquired of the first passer-by, and he pointed 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 our errand in laborious French, supplemented by much gesticulation—it is wonderful how the hands can help one to talk!—and after a time the little Frenchman caught his meaning, and bustled away to get his hat and coat, scenting a fat fee. Our first step was to be an easy one, thanks to the severity and thoroughness of French administration, but I admit that I saw not what we should do further, once we had verified the date of Miss Holladay's birth. The next step must be left to chance.
The notary unlocked the door, showed us into his office, and set out chairs for us. Then he got down his register of births for 1876. It was not a large book, for the births at Etretat are not overwhelming in 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 back again and read the entries one by one more slowly, with a pucker of perplexity about his lips. He turned the leaf, began farther back, and read through the list again, while we sat watching him. At last he shut the book with a little snap and looked up at us.