“At the Hotel de Ville or at the headquarters of madame’s section.”
She considered a moment. “To the section, then. Be so good as to tell my coachman to drive to the Bondy Section.”
He saluted her and stepped back. “Section Bondy, Rue des Morts,” he bade the driver.
Madame sank into her seat again, in a state of agitation fully shared by mademoiselle. Rougane set himself to pacify and reassure them. The section would put the matter in order. They would most certainly be accorded a permit. What possible reason could there be for refusing them? A mere formality, after all!
His assurance uplifted them merely to prepare them for a still more profound dejection when presently they met with a flat refusal from the president of the section who received the Countess.
“Your name, madame?” he had asked brusquely. A rude fellow of the most advanced republican type, he had not even risen out of deference to the ladies when they entered. He was there, he would have told you, to perform the duties of his office, not to give dancing-lessons.
“Plougastel,” he repeated after her, without title, as if it had been the name of a butcher or baker. He took down a heavy volume from a shelf on his right, opened it and turned the pages. It was a sort of directory of his section. Presently he found what he sought. “Comte de Plougastel, Hotel Plougastel, Rue du Paradis. Is that it?”
“That is correct, monsieur,” she answered, with what civility she could muster before the fellow’s affronting rudeness.
There was a long moment of silence, during which he studied certain pencilled entries against the name. The sections had been working in the last few weeks much more systematically than was generally suspected.
“Your husband is with you, madame?” he asked curtly, his eyes still conning that page.