‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting. He had been thrilled at her attitude about the subject, which was simply not to turn others into vampires. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance.
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