He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressingdown? Very well. So far as I'm concerned, nothing could please me more. That bruise will answer the same purpose. Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable physiognomy. On his third visit to the island she had surprised him, that is, she had glanced up suddenly and caught the look of the beast in his eyes.
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