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.” “He’s not here, mademoiselle,” said the young man, rising with great politeness. “He’s not been here this afternoon.” But behind a desk, another clerk, whom she did not see, threw out, in a sour voice that betrayed a long-accumulating grudge: “Go and ask Mrs. Frasne.” Margaret blushed up to her ears, but thanked him, and without further delay went, in fact, and rang the bell of Mrs. Frasne’s apartment. She was told that madame had gone out. She was relieved for a moment by this news, but after a few steps, regretted it, for her best chance of finding her brother had been there. Where should she discover him now? She went next to Favre Street, to Mrs. Marcellaz, her sister-in-law, who was just coming back from a walk with her three children. Little Julian threw himself upon his aunt, and would not let himself be separated from her, while her sister replied, indifferently: “No, Maurice is not here. He scarcely ever comes to see me.” A bump that Adrienne had given herself and was fretting over took up all her further attention. After these checks, Margaret began to search first one place, then another, in the town, without much hope, walking very fast, as if fear were at her heels. Underneath the Porticoes she passed her fiancé, who made a movement as if to stop her; she passed beyond him, then turned and came back to him a moment. “Good-day, Raymond,” she said, without a moment to lose. “Haven’t you seen Maurice anywhere?” “No, Margaret. Are you looking for him?” “Yes.” “Shall I help you?” “No, thanks. I’ll see you this evening.” Raymond turned and watched her as she walked briskly off.