“And the wind.”
“Well, and the wind.”
“Without doubt; the current of the Loire carries barks almost as far as Croisic. If they want to lie by a little, or to refresh the crew, they come to Piriac along the coast; from Piriac they find another inverse current, which carries them to the Isle-Dumal, two leagues and a half.”
“Granted.”
“There the current of the Vilaine throws them upon another isle, the Isle of Hoedic.”
“I agree with that.”
“Well, monsieur, from that isle to Belle-Isle the way is quite straight. The sea, broken both above and below, passes like a canal—like a mirror between the two isles; the chalands glide along upon it like ducks upon the Loire; that’s how it is.”
“It does not signify,” said the obstinate M. Agnan; “it is a long way round.”
“Ah! yes; but M. Fouquet will have it so,” replied, as conclusive, the fisherman, taking off his woolen cap at the enunciation of that respected name.
A look from D’Artagnan, a look as keen and piercing as a sword-blade, found nothing in the heart of the old man but a simple confidence—on his features, nothing but satisfaction and indifference. He said, “M. Fouquet will have it so,” as he would have said, “God has willed it.”