“I was therefore obliged to pursue our investigations to Berlin, which takes us six years further back. Your father at that time called himself M. Dumas. And here we have evidence that a fire broke out on the 15th of October 18--in the warehouse of M. Dumas, a bonder of Anjou wines, in the Frischwasserstrasse. Among the rooms completely destroyed was that which M. Dumas, who was at the same time a general agent, used as an office in which to see his clients, most of whom were countrymen of his own. M. Dumas made an affidavit from which it appears that all his papers were burnt. “On this side, consequently, we arrive at a very unfortunate certainty: your family-papers are no longer in existence; that is clear. We have therefore to trace your parents back to the time of their departure from France. Once we have done this and discovered the town in which they used to live, it will be easy, by advertising, to find out who you really are. “Your father had in his employment, in Berlin, a Frenchman of the name of Renaudeau, whom he appears to have trusted absolutely and to have treated, according to the neighbours, as a friend of long standing. When he left Berlin, he made over his business to Renaudeau. Next year, Renaudeau went bankrupt. But he is believed to be at Hamburg. I have written to the French consul there; and I will let you know as soon as I hear from him.” Day after day went by, days like those which followed on her arrival at Domfront. Gilberte once more became the recluse to whom none had access save the poor and destitute of the countryside; and, though they still spoke of her as _la Bonne Demoiselle_ of the Logis and blessed her for her charity, it might well be that they no longer took away with them that impression of comfort which they welcomed no less than the alms. How could she have consoled them, she who herself was yearning for consolation? However, she did not give up all hope. Gilberte had one of those rather passive natures which, in happy hours, overflow with generous gladness, but which, at times of trial, fall back upon themselves and live in that kind of quiet contemplation which is as it were a patient expectation. Mastering her sorrow and checking any signs of rebellion or distress, she appeared less sensitive than others to the most cruel blows with which fate overwhelmed her and, through every obstacle and every vicissitude, she pursued her inward dream, sad or joyous, bright or gloomy, but always built up of love and kindness.