“Some seventeen leagues, I should say, sire, by Montcontour and Loudeac.”
“And it was Thursday?”
“A Thursday, sire, when madame set out.”
The Vicomte had halted and appeared to be counting the ripples that a swallow’s wings had raised on the quiet waters of the pool.
“Then I shall judge that they reached Josselin on the Sabbath, Girard—eh?”
“I should judge so, sire.”
“And to-day is Tuesday.”
“To-day is Tuesday.”
“Then on the morrow or the next day we should have good news?”
“To-morrow or the next day, sire, we should have good news.”