"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.
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