(3)
Fortuné shifted the child so that he should lie more comfortably. Tear-stains were on Anne-Hilarion's cheeks, and round his mouth traces of the refreshment which his harassed uncle had forced upon his appetite. "Pauvre mioche!" thought 'Monsieur Augustin,' looking down at the head now resting on his arm. And he thought also, "I never knew he had it in him to be so troublesome!"
For himself, he fell into reflection over recent events—the first opportunity, so it seemed to him, that he had had to review them in quiet, for on board the Trois Frères, a peaceable enough refuge in itself, he felt always on the point of having to talk to the captain or to fend off awkward inquiries. Yet it was in the captain's cabin, after breakfast that first morning, that Anne had given him a more or less detailed account of happenings at Rose Cottage; how M. Duchâtel had taken him to the Cathedral and had been very friendly and talkative, and of the particularly sound sleep which had come upon him, Anne-Hilarion, that evening. It had needed questioning to bring out the story of Mlle. Angèle's nasty-tasting posset, for he was too innocent to connect that draught with his slumbers. No details, however, could be furnished of the departure from Dover, anxious as Fortuné was to obtain them, for the simple reason that the small traveller had not wakened till midway between England and France, in what he had reported to be "a little ship, not so big as this." From what he could gather La Vireville thought it must have been a lugger, Heaven knew how procured.
On arrival at Calais, M. Duchâtel appeared to have conveyed Anne, frightened, as he admitted, but still somewhat stupefied, to a private house—unidentifiable from the child's description—to have put him to bed and left him behind a locked door, lest, as he put it, his father's enemies should break in and steal him away. For he had told Anne that he was taking him to France by his father's wish, expressed through the old ladies, his father's friends, and the child had believed him. So Anne thought he was going to Verona, and at first was not ill-pleased.
It had been, he thought, afternoon when he had been imprisoned in this way at Calais, and yet they had not left that town till next day; of that Anne was positive. He could give no reason for the delay. La Vireville was driven to suppose that Duchâtel had some secret service business of his own in Calais—possibly unknown to Mme. de Chaulnes, who had spoken so exultantly about the twenty-four hours' start. Moreover, he probably little expected to be pursued so soon. But the delay in Calais had been providential from Fortuné's point of view. He could not help wondering now, or a second or two, whether, supposing the pursued to be at present hunting the pursuer, the soup episode might not prove as providential from Duchâtel's.
That was all the conversation which he and Anne had had on the point at the time, owing to the advent of a sailor into the cabin; but later, that evening in fact, as Anne was looking over the side at the water, tinged with sunset, which heaved slowly past, he suddenly said:
"The ship I came from England in moved about more than this, M. le Chevalier."
"Mon oncle," corrected La Vireville, looking round to see if anyone was in earshot. "Did it, Annibal? Were you frightened?"
"I was down in a cabin," said Anne. "I could not see the sea then. But I knew I was in a ship. And I thought"—he paused, and then went on—"I thought you were drowned, mon oncle, and that it was my fault."
"Thought I was drowned, child? How could that be—and why should it be your fault?"