Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. See, it is on my cards—M. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge.
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