Gilberte saw her mother’s face wrung with such anguish that she was silent and fondly kissed her hand. Mme. Armand went on:
“Yes, you are right. I am a little mysterious, very mysterious even; but if you only know how it hurts me to be so! Still, I will answer you this time, dear: the letter I am expecting is from your nurse.”
“From my nurse? Then I was brought up in France? But where?”
Mme. Armand was silent. Gilberte waited a few moments, then put on her hat and cloak and said:
“Go and lie down, mother. You poor dear, you look as you do on your bad days.... There, I’ll leave you in peace.”
“You won’t go out, will you, dear?”
“Go out? I, who have never left your side? Why, I should be afraid to walk down the street all by myself! I shall be back soon, dearest.”
She opened the door and went downstairs. Above the reception-rooms, which occupied a wing consisting of a single floor, to the right of the garden, was a terrace covered with tents and wicker chairs. She sat down there.
It was a mild and balmy October day. The wide, deserted beach was bright with sunshine. The sea was very calm and edged with a narrow fringe of foam.
An hour passed.