"Did you not know it?"
"Martial?"
"Yes, certainly; but you will tear my blouse; do be quiet."
"He is sick. Since when?"
"Two or three days ago."
"It is false; he would have written to me."
"Ah, well, yes! he is too sick to write."
"Too sick to write! And he is on the island; you are sure of that?"
"Don't get me into a scrape; this is the story: this morning I said to the widow, 'For two days past I have not seen Martial, his boat is there. Is he in the city?' Thereupon the widow looked at me with her wicked eyes: 'He is sick on the island; and so sick that he will never come off again.' I said to myself, 'How can that be? Three days ago—' Well," said Ferot, interrupting himself, "where are you going to— where the devil is she running to now?"
Believing the life of Martial menaced by the inhabitants of the island, La Louve, overcome with alarm, and transported with rage, listened no longer to the fisherman, but ran along the Seine.