“I should think so! A little girl who might have been three or four years old at the time when they went away: a dear little duck; and her nurse adored her. It broke the poor thing’s heart to part with her. Since she went mad, she thinks oftener of the baby than of her own three sons. They did say that she heard about the child and that Mme. Despriol used to write to her.” “Did you know this Mme. Despriol, Adèle?” “That I did, at Mme. de la Vaudraye’s, when they lived here.... She was a very nice lady, so cheerful and pleasant; good-looking, too, but, worse luck, so weak with her husband that he did as he liked with her.” “Mme. de la Vaudraye told me something about some jewels....” “Oh, that was quite true! There’s no denying it: a thief she was ... and Mme. de la Vaudraye has good reason not to love her. And how she does detest her! And then she was jealous of M. de la Vaudraye, who ventured to flirt just the least bit with Mme. Despriol. You can imagine how mad Mme. de la Vaudraye was! She turns pale to this day, if you mention Henriette Despriol’s name....” A few days later, Gilberte received another letter from Maître Dufornéril: “MADEMOISELLE, “We are making headway with our enquiries and I hope soon to send you the news of our success. This Renaudeau who took over M. Dumas’ business in Berlin is, as we thought, at Hamburg. He has seen the consul and declares that he knew your father for many years, going back to the date when he was still living in France. He refuses, for the present, to reveal M. Dumas’ real name and antecedents; but I have no doubt that this Renaudeau, who is in a state of the greatest poverty, will yield to certain arguments. “I think I may safely say, therefore, that my next letter will inform you of the name of your parents and the place at which you were born....” XI GILBERTE’S NAME Gilberte, who was less proof against joy than sorrow, awaited her solicitor’s promised letter with feverish impatience. Another four or five days, a week perhaps; and the mystery would be cleared up and the only obstacle to her marriage swept away. She kept more and more indoors. What was the use of short, stealthy walks, when her imagination, which was now unfettered, took her across the immensity of the world, on Guillaume’s arm, under Guillaume’s eyes? She tried to read novels, to calm her excitement. But what are fictitious adventures worth at a time when our own destiny is on the point of fulfilment and when it is to be fulfilled in cloudless happiness? The one and only adventure was that which was leading her towards Guillaume. The story began and ended with Guillaume. Guillaume was its sole hero. “It will come to-morrow,” she said, each day, with the fixed intention of sending the letter, the moment she received it, to Mme. de la Vaudraye. The morning came and the afternoon and brought no letter. She felt not the least disappointment: