“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps at Frasne’s office. Anyway, the town is not large. You’ll run across him. God forbid that you shouldn’t.”
“I’ll go there first.”
“You understand,” added Mr. Roquevillard quietly, “I couldn’t go myself.”
“Oh, no; not you. He isn’t worth it. He’s been too funny for quite a while. You’d almost say he didn’t like us as much as he used to.”
Father and daughter looked at each other and understood, but did not pursue the subject further.
She put on her hat and jacket hastily, and vanished in pursuit of Maurice. In the street she turned her back to the castle, went down Boigne Street, and by one of those numerous side passages that make a network of Chambéry, she reached the City Hall Square. It was the old Place de Lans, where the commercial life of the city flowed in other days. Some crooked buildings, one of those Italian houses ornamented with veranda and loggia, which may be decorative in photographs and postal cards, but which in reality are dirty, worm-eaten and forlorn, did not succeed in imparting any interest to it. On the wall of a building that had been restored, a black marble tablet was let in, bearing this inscription:
IN THIS HOUSE
WERE BORN
JOSEPH DE MAISTRE, APRIL 1ST, 1758
AND
XAVIER DE MAISTRE, NOVEMBER 8TH, 1763
Below, a gilded shield announced a lawyer’s office. Margaret Roquevillard searched for the historic landmark with her eyes and mounted the staircase. Her heart beating, for her hurried walk had taxed her strength, she knocked on the door of the Frasne office, entered and accosted the first clerk she saw, demanding:
“My brother, Mr. Maurice Roquevillard, please.”