She calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. “You are not content then with stealing from me my name. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. ’ ‘It is money you mean, no?’ Melusine asked with scorn. Anyhow, that is how things are. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. . ’ Then she frowned. 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. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms.
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