“Why, their birth-certificates, your own, their marriage-certificate, in fact, everything that established their position and now establishes yours.” “I haven’t them.” “But they must be somewhere.... Can you give me no clue as to where they are?” “No.... But I seem to remember once hearing them talk of papers that had been lost ... or rather burnt in a fire ... or else ... in fact, I can’t say for certain.” ... “Come, come!” cried Maître Dufornéril. “We are on the wrong track altogether! Let us start from the beginning. Where were you born?” “I don’t know.” “How do you mean, you don’t know?” “Mother would never tell me exactly.” “But where was she born? And your father?” “I don’t know that either.” The solicitor looked up. Was she laughing at him? But, at the sight of her sad face and candid eyes, he was silent for a moment and then went on: “You have come from London?” “Yes.” “Did you have friends over there, acquaintances?” “No, we lived quite alone.” “Never mind: if you give me the address of the house you lived in, we shall easily find traces of Mme. Armand.” “Mother was not called Mme. Armand in London; she was called Aubert.” “But Armand is your real name?” “I don’t think so. At Liverpool, where we lived for three years and where father died, last year, after making such a lot of money, we were known by the name of Killner. Before that, at Berlin, it was Dumas.... And, at Moscow.” ... “You don’t know the reason why your parents used to change their name like that?” “No, I do not.” “You saw nothing in your parents’ character to explain it?” “No, nothing.” “Were they on good terms?” “Oh, yes! They were so fond of each other! And mother was so happy!” So happy! How positively Gilberte was able to say that! Happy indeed beside her husband, under his eyes, with her hand in his. But why was she so often caught crying? Why those hours of gloomy melancholy, of inexplicable depression? Why had she one day drawn her daughter to her, stammering: “Ah, my child; my child! Never do anything that you have to hide: it is too painful!” 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....