A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. There was a flash and a loud report. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. And in the Avenue she had an encounter with Ramage. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion.
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