’ The captain shook his head. The other was helping Trodger with his operation upstairs. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. Me, I have a question for you first. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.
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