‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. The clever hostess having let fall that several distinguished guests from France would be present, the world had flocked to her doors to catch, like the gossip-hungry vultures they were, a glimpse of them. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. ‘How dull it must have been for you, poor little one. It was you who were so much amazed that I did not try—the music hall stage here.
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