"'Tis too far, Claude! Italy or England—well. But America! Ciel! I should be as content with you in the moon."
"It is no more than a month's voyage in fair weather, I have heard."
"Ay, and six in foul."
"Ah, well—we'll not speak of it now. I—"
"And the language! Recollect your love of the English tongue."
"I do not love French to-day. I swear to you that I will perish at once rather than go to swell the peopling of our Christian Majesty's damnable colonies!"
"Chut! That is treason. Finish your selection of garments there, and let us go out to seek a dinner. I perish of hunger."
"I come, I come. You must not die to-day. Is the suit of olive there, Rochard? Then—"
His next word was interrupted by a tapping at the door.
"Umph! Some gossip to visit you!" growled the Marquis.