There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. 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. As a dog eats grass. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. ‘She would say, espéce de diable, this Melusine. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. Men do not understand constancy as women do.
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