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When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. There’s hardly a night she doesn’t sneak out of the house. We went our ways. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb.
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