‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. In a sense I don’t care. \" She whispered back. ‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. ’ ‘Valade?’ ‘Aye, sir.
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