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. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. Little by little, she stopped hating him. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. . “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. We came on here at once. ‘Allow me. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice.
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