‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red. There would be no moon. 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. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. ‘Idiot.
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