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 they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. "I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully.
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