All eyes were now turned on the notary, who was hurriedly looking through the papers thrown down before him by Lory.
“They have passed through my hands before, when I was a youth, in connection with a boundary dispute,” he said, as if to explain his apparent hastiness. “They are all here—they are correct, monsieur.”
He was a very quick man, and folding the papers as he spoke, he tied them together with the faded pink tape which had been fingered by three generations of Vasselots. He laid the packet on the table close to Lory's hand. Then he glanced at Denise and fell into thought, arranging in his mind that which he had to say to her.
“It is one of those cases, mademoiselle,” he said at length, “common enough in Corsica, where a verbal agreement has never been confirmed in writing. Men who have been friends, become enemies so easily in this country. I cannot tell you upon what terms Mattei Perucca lived in the Casa. No one can tell you that. All that we know is that we have no title-deeds—and that monsieur has them. The Casa may be yours, but you cannot prove it. Such a case tried in a law court in Corsica would go in favour of the litigant who possessed the greater number of friends in the locality. It would go in your favour if it could be tried here. But it would need to go to France. And there we could only look for justice, and justice is on the side of monsieur.”
He apologized, as it were, for justice, of which he made himself the representative in that room. Then he turned towards de Vasselot.
“Monsieur is well within his rights—” he said, significantly, “—if he insist on them.”
“I insist on them,” replied Lory, who was proud of Denise's pride.
And Denise laughed.
The notary turned and looked curiously at her.
“Mademoiselle is able to be amused.”