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. Made me fetch up Trodger and a couple more men, and together we searched his luggage and got hold of every single paper the man possessed. Pistols and pictures? Now it fair goes agin’ me nature to act rough with a lady, but you’ll come along of me at once. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Had she expected to wed Valade herself? Had the fellow broken a vow of betrothal, or abandoned her? He must find out more. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss.
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