He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. This was done, and Austin returned with a crest-fallen look to the table. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals.
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