He groaned, much to Melusine’s relief. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. She moaned, having failed in her mission to find her mother and her God. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. The sword, Jacques. And, for one expedition at least, we will go up this desolate valley here to Mattmark, and so on to Monte Moro. . But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. She had found him! Excitement welled. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally.
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