He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. He's on the ragged edge. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. He tried this sentence with expletives. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. ‘You do not understand, Gérard.
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