“Then it grows in the North?”
“For the most part, yes, monsieur, and even there it is something rare: that, without doubt, is why it is esteemed so dearly by the common folk. It grows only near the snows, the high snows. There are but few white peaks there, and on them a few such roses. The country beyond Alegria is the place of all places for them. If monsieur wants to find the Azure Rose, he should go to the wild country beyond Alegria.”
“Do you know that country?” asked Cartaret.
The young man shrugged. He ought to know it: he had been brought up there. But it was no place for strangers; it was very wild.
“I wonder,” said Cartaret, hope shining in his brown eyes—“I wonder if you ever heard of a family there by the name of Urola?”
The farmer shook his head. Urola? No, he had never heard of Urola. But stay: there was the great family, the Ethenard-Eskurola d’Alegria. Eskurola was somewhat like Urola; indeed, Urola was part of Eskurola. Perhaps, monsieur——
Cartaret was leaning far over the table.
“Is there,” he asked, “a young lady in that family named Vitoria?”
The farmer reflected.
“There was one daughter,” he said; “a little girl when I was a lad. She was the Lady Dolorez. She had, however, many names: people of great houses among us have many names, monsieur, and Vitoria is not uncommonly among them. Vitoria? Yes, I think she was also called Vitoria.”