It was not until the Seaflower's boat was actually pulling off from the shore, and his feet were sunk in the wet sand of Porhoët Bay, that Fortuné de la Vireville realised how much more serious than he had imagined might prove the results of the ridiculous accident which had befallen him a few hours previously at St. Helier. Embarking, according to arrangement with the Prince de Bouillon, on the lugger Seaflower with a view to being landed, not at Kerdronan as usual, but at Porhoët, where Grain d'Orge was to meet him, he had had the misfortune to receive upon his left foot the full weight of a refractory water-cask of considerable size, which, escaping from the hands of a clumsy sailor, had rolled vehemently down a gang-plank upon him before he could get out of its way. It is true that when he had finished swearing he had found the episode rather ludicrous, and had laughed at himself for his ill-luck, and that on board the lugger, slipping along with an easy evening breeze from Jersey, the damaged foot, though it had sufficiently pained, had not greatly incommoded him. But here, at midnight, alone on the hostile coast of France, he knew for the first time that he was indeed disabled, and that he could not fully rely on that vigorous body of his which for thirty odd years had seldom failed to respond to the often exorbitant demands that he made upon it. It was not at all a pleasant thought, and, standing there at the water's edge, La Vireville uttered a final and more fervent malediction upon the water-cask.
The boat which had landed him, with its muffled oars, was already out of hearing, though it was still visible, a lessening dark lump upon the quiet sea. Even the lugger, farther out, could almost be discerned by one who knew where to look for her, though the moon which, a week ago, had lighted the way to Jersey for Anne-Hilarion, was obscured this evening. La Vireville glanced about the beach. As far as could be ascertained in the dusk, it was quite deserted; there was no sound but the lap of the incoming tide, and no sign whatever of Grain d'Orge, who should of course have been there to meet him. And, since the émigré had no acquaintance with these few miles of coast, without a guide he was helpless; an attempt to penetrate inland would probably end in his running into an enemy patrol—in spite of the truce, the last thing he wished to do—and even in Porhoët village he had no idea which house he was to make for. Moreover, he was lame—a great deal more lame than he had had any idea of, or he would hardly have landed. . . . And, cursing Grain d'Orge, he began to limp away from the water's edge. In any case, it would be more prudent to approach the low cliffs, where it was darker, than to stand where he was; and under the cliffs, if nothing better offered, he must wait for his dilatory guide.
M. de la Vireville went painfully over the tract of large, rolling pebbles between him and the cliffs, the sweat breaking out on his forehead; but, not having 'chouanné' for nothing, he set his teeth and persevered, throwing his weight as much as possible on his sound foot and on the stick with which the captain of the Seaflower had furnished him. "Devilish odd I must look from the cliff," he reflected, "if there's a patrol up there." But, apparently, there was no patrol, and having pursued his way unmolested up the purgatorial bank he sat down, with a sigh of relief, his back against the cliff, and waited, either for discovery or guidance.
"There is at least one thing to be thankful for," he reflected, "and that is, that I have not the child with me now." But all the same it seemed strange not to have him, and to know no anxiety but for his own personal safety—a burden he was so accustomed to carrying that he scarcely felt its weight.
La Vireville had been there, propped against the cliff, for perhaps half an hour, before he heard the owl's cry. He answered it faintly and cautiously, perceiving, to his astonishment, that it came from seaward, and in a little beheld the dim figure of a man detach itself from an overturned boat on the shingle. As it came towards him it looked, by some trick of the faint light, as unreal as the little bay itself, though it wore the usual peasant's costume, appropriate enough to the scene, and had over its shoulder a large net. When this individual was within distance, La Vireville told him softly what he thought of him, for the apparition was Grain d'Orge.
"I was under the boat watching the cliff," said the Chouan, undisturbed by his leader's abuse. "If I had taken Monsieur Augustin up the cliffs when he landed we might both have been shot—in spite of the truce. They shot three men yesterday. But now we can go on to the village."
"I wanted to get farther than that to-night," said La Vireville, "though the devil knows how I am to manage it now. Is it impossible to push on to Carhoët at present?"
"There are hussars quartered at Carhoët to-night," answered his guide. "They leave to-morrow, probably."
La Vireville began to struggle to his feet. "I see. That is sufficient reason against attempting it. There is another reason, too, why I should not get so far. You may have to carry me as it is, mon vieux. I am as lame as a duck. If we should chance to meet a patrol, you must run for it, and leave me to take my chance. Do you hear?"