“When do you think those wounds will heal?” asked Ferragus.
“I don’t know,” said the other man. “The doctors say those wounds will require seven or eight more dressings.”
“Well, then, good-bye until to-night,” said Ferragus, holding out his hand to the man, who had just replaced the bandage.
“Yes, to-night,” said the other, pressing his hand cordially. “I wish I could see you past your sufferings.”
“To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal’s papers will be delivered to us, and Henri Bourignard will be dead forever,” said Ferragus. “Those fatal marks which have cost us so dear no longer exist. I shall become once more a social being, a man among men, and more of a man than the sailor whom the fishes are eating. God knows it is not for my own sake I have made myself a Portuguese count!”
“Poor Gratien!—you, the wisest of us all, our beloved brother, the Benjamin of the band; as you very well know.”
“Adieu; keep an eye on Maulincour.”
“You can rest easy on that score.”
“Ho! stay, marquis,” cried the convict.
“What is it?”