"Bad news?"
"The worst."
"Volpetti is saved?"
"Saved and on the road to Paris."
Louis Pierre's voice uttered an inarticulate growl, but the girl recovered sufficient courage to say:
"Come, take heart! How did he save himself?"
"He and three others swam ashore. The waves dashed them against the rocks, wounding and bruising them seriously. One of the men died from the effects; two others are lying on their backs in a fisherman's hut, and the only other of the party—was ever misfortune equal to this?—the only other,—he whose bruises amounted only to pinches and who speedily recovered sufficient strength to write a number of letters,—each of which is a dagger thrust in our sides—is that—cursed dog,—that—fiend—Volpetti!"
Giacinto clutched his fine black hair and tore a handful from his head.
"Fate is against us," said Louis Pierre gloomily. "And Soliviac?"
"Aboard the Polipheme, on the sea, coasting toward Cherbourg. He would gladly sail away to Hamburg, out of danger's way, were he not a knight. He stays because we may have need of him."