Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. "I'll see him fettered myself. Nor Jacques. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. .
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