‘Ah, the tragedy. ’ ‘Melusine,’ repeated the old lady. You are my prisoner, murderer. 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. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here. He taught her how to read and write in Latin and Greek, often rewarding her for her efforts with a flower or a trinket.
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