"My friend," retorted La Vireville, "they are nothing to the risks we run by remaining. I prefer the hospitality of the plateau des Minquiers to that of Granville prison. Shall I give you a hand with the boat?"
In the little cottage on the shore the fisherman's young wife was sitting with Anne-Hilarion, very drowsy, on her knee.
"Monsieur," she said, as her husband and the émigré came in, "it is wicked to take this baby to sea on such a night!"
"For that, Madame," replied La Vireville, "you must blame the women who sent him over to France."
The young woman kissed the sleepy little boy and rose with him in her arms.
"I will carry him down to the boat," she said. "You will have your hands full. There is the water-keg, François, and a basket of provisions. If you get within sight of Jersey this time to-morrow you will be lucky. You have the compass—and the nets?"
"Nets!" exclaimed La Vireville. "Ah, I understand." It was as well to have some ostensible reason for being at sea.
They went down the beach, all laden in their way, for even Anne, half asleep though he was, clutched in one hand the foreign shell which the master of the Trois Frères had given him. In spite of the strong wind there were no breakers of sufficient force to make launching difficult. The fisherman's wife deposited her burden and helped to run the boat down. Then she went back, picked up the child, and gave him into the arms of La Vireville, where he stood knee-deep in the swirling water, with François holding on to the boat on the other side.
"Madame, I thank you for lending me your husband," said the Chouan, as he took the boy from her.