Gilberte was on the point of speaking. A vague sense of shame prevented her. Besides, Maître Dufornéril, who had taken down a few notes in his pocket-book, was beginning again:
“Give me all the particulars that can help us, mademoiselle. The smallest details are of importance.”
She mentioned the towns in which they had lived: Vienna, Trieste, Milan, with their memories of a secluded life, easy of late, but so hard and difficult at first; and then, further back, Barcelona, where they had been very unhappy; and then came memories, more and more indistinct, of poverty, hunger, cold....
“We shall find out, mademoiselle,” declared the solicitor. “It won’t be an easy business, for we have to do with a combination of abnormal circumstances which baffle me a little, I admit. But, after all, it is inconceivable that we should not find out. You have to know, you must know who you are and what name you are entitled to bear. Will you trust your interests to me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, first of all, you must leave this bundle of securities in my hands: I will give you a receipt for it. I will cash the coupons as they fall due and send you the proceeds when you need money. Where were you going with your mother?”
“She was expecting a letter.”
“A letter? That is one clue.”
“But the letter was addressed to the pôste restante; and I don’t know in what name or initials.”
“True.... Then what do you intend to do?”