“Does Madame de Sonnes know of this? Has she not sent here? May I not see her?”
“Dost thou know any one here? Where does she live?”
“In the Rue de Martin. The house Albertas.”
“Thou fool! there is no Rue de Martin in all Marseilles. Thou art still feverish, I think, or dost thou not know that thou art in Marseilles?”
“In Marseilles? What, in Marseilles am I? Am I not in Nismes? How long have I been here?”
“May be three weeks. I can easily believe that thou, poor devil, dost not know of it. Thou hast been raving in a burning fever till last night. Thou must have a strong constitution. We thought we should have to bury thee to-day.”
“What am I to do here?”
“When thou art recovered thou wilt put on that dress; dost thou know it?”
“That is a galley slave’s dress. What? pray tell me, am I then—I will—I cannot believe—have I been sentenced?”
“Perhaps so; only for twenty-nine years to the oars, as they say.”