She hurried with Jack as fast as she could to the open door to the passage. I said to myself, ‘this will come. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. ‘But you,’ she said in the friendliest way imaginable, ‘are a person tout à fait sympathique, I think. He parried without apparent effort. After all, life had still its pulsations. 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.
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