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.
"Messieurs," he said quietly, "no such birth is recorded here. I have
examined 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 that
responsibility."
"For a large fee, perhaps," suggested my companion.
"In Paris that may, sometimes, be possible. But in a small place like
this, I should have heard of it, and it would have been my duty to
investigate."
"You have been here for that length of time, then?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur," smiled the little man. "For a much longer time
than that."
Mr. Royce leaned forward toward him. He was getting back all his old
power as a cross-examiner.
"Monsieur Fingret," he began impressively, "I am quite certain that
Hiram W. Holladay and his wife were here during the months of May,
June, and July, 1876, and that while they were here a daughter was
born to them. Think again--have you no recollection of them or of the
event?"
The little notary sat for some moments with knitted brows. At last he
shook his head.
"That would be the height of the season, you see, monsieur," he said
apologetically. "There are a great many people here, at that time, and
I cannot know all of them. Nevertheless, it seemed to me for a moment
that there was about the name a certain familiarity--as of an old
tune, you know, forgotten for years. Yet it must have been my fancy
merely, for I have no recollection of the event you mention. I cannot
believe 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 the
name 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 of
no avail? Where was my premonition, now? If we had lost the trail thus
early in the chase, what hope was there that we should ever run down
the quarry? And how explain the fact that no record had been made of
Frances Holladay's birth? Why should her parents have wished to
conceal it? Would they not naturally have been anxious to see that it
was properly recorded?
An hour had passed; the shops were opening, and a bustle of life
reached us through the open door. People began to pass by twos and
threes.
"The first train for three days is about to arrive," said the little
notary. "You see, this is a very small town, messieurs. The arrival
of a train is an event."
Again we fell silent. Mr. Royce got out his purse and paid the fee. We
had come to an _impasse_--a closed way, we could go no farther. I
could see that the notary was a-hungered for his roll and coffee. With
a sigh, I arose to go. The notary stepped to the door and looked up
the street.
"Ah," he said, "the train has arrived, but it seems there were not
many passengers. Here is one, though, who has finished a long
journey."
He nodded to someone who approached slowly, it seemed. He was before
the door--he passed on--it was Martigny!
"That is the man!" I cried to Mr. Royce. "That is Martigny! Ask who he
really 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 and
seems very ill, poor fellow."
"And he lives here?"
"Oh, surely; on the cliffs just above the town--the first house--you
cannot miss it--buried in a grove of trees. He married the daughter of
Madame Alix some years ago--he was from Paris."
"And his wife is living?"
"Oh, surely, she is living; she herself returned from America but
three weeks ago, together with her mother and sister. The sister, they
say, is--well----" and he finished with a significant gesture toward
his head.
I saw my companion's face turn white--I steadied myself with an
effort. 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 more
astonishment. "They have been keeping close at home since their
return--they will permit no one to see the--invalid. There has been
much 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 remember
it now--it was the link which was wanting, and you have supplied
it--Holladay, a millionaire of America, his wife, Madame Alix--she did
not live in the villa, then, messieurs. Oh, no; she was very poor, a
nurse--anything to make a little money; her husband, who was a
fisherman, was drowned, and left her to take care of the children as
best she could. Ah, I remember--one a mere baby!"
He had got down another book, and was running his finger rapidly down
the page--his finger all a-tremble with excitement. Suddenly, he
stopped 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 the
English:
"Holladay, Hiram W., and Elizabeth, his wife, of the city of New York,
United States of America; from Céleste Alix, widow of Auguste Alix,
her daughter Céleste, aged five months. All claim surrendered in
consideration of the payment of 25,000 francs."
Mr. Royce caught up the book and glanced at the back. It was the
"Record of Adoptions."