It was about four o'clock in the day when a cabriolet stopped at the entrance of a small street in the village of Asnieres. La Louve leaped from it at one bound, threw a five-franc piece to the driver, and proceeded with all haste to the dwelling of old Ferot, the ferryman. La Louve, no longer dressed in her prison garb, wore a gown of dark green merino, a red imitation of cashmere shawl with large, flaming pattern, and a net cap trimmed with riband; her thick, curly hair was scarcely smoothed out, her impatient longing to see Martial having rendered an ordinary attention to her toilet quite impossible. Any other female would, after so long a separation, have exerted her very utmost to appear becomingly adorned at her first interview with her lover; but La Louve knew little and cared less for all these coquettish arts, which ill accorded with her excitable nature. Her first, her predominating desire was to see "her man" as quickly as possible, and this impetuous wish was caused, not alone by the fervour of a love which, in minds as wild and unregulated as hers, sometimes leads on to madness, but also from a yearning to pour into the ear of Martial the virtuous resolutions she had formed, and to reveal to him the bright vista of happiness opened to both by her conversation with Fleur-de-Marie. The flying steps of La Louve soon conducted her to the fisherman's cottage, and there, seated tranquilly before the door, she found Father Ferot, an old, white-headed man, busily employed mending his nets. Even before she came close up to him, La Louve cried out: "Quick, quick, Father Ferot! Your boat! Your boat!" "What! Is it you, my girl? Well, how are you? I have not seen you this long while." "I know, I know; but where is your boat? and take me across to the isle as fast as you can row." "My boat? Well to be sure! Now, how very unlucky! As if it was to be so. Bless you, my girl, it is quite out of my power to ferry you across to-day." "But why? Why is it?" "Why, you see, my son has taken my boat to go up to the boat-races held at St. Ouen. Bless your heart, I don't think there's a boat left all along the river's side." "Distraction!" exclaimed La Louve, stamping her foot and clenching her hand. "Then all is lost; I shall not be able to see him!" "'Pon my honour and word, it's true, though," said old Ferot. "I am extremely sorry I am unable to ferry you over, because, no doubt, by your going on so, he is very much worse." "Who is much worse? Who?" "Why, Martial!" "Martial!" exclaimed La Louve, snatching the sleeve of old Ferot's jacket, "My man ill?" "Bless me! Did you not know it?" "Martial? Do you mean Martial?" "To be sure I do; but don't hold me so tight, you'll tear my blouse. Now be quiet, there's a good girl. I declare you frighten me, you stare about so wildly." "Ill! Martial ill? And how long has he been so?" "Oh, two or three days." "'Tis false! He would have written and told me of it, had it been so."