Madame Bazaine was set on shore and ordered the boat to keep within hail. Her devoted accomplice was awaiting her in another boat near the promenade of the Croisette, and they crossed the channel which separates the mainland from the little island of Sainte-Marguerite. There her husband was waiting on the rocks, his clothes torn, face bruised, and hands bleeding. The sea being rather rough, he was obliged to wade through the water to reach the boat, which otherwise would have been dashed to pieces against the coast.
When they returned to the mainland, they cast the boat adrift.
They rejoined the first boat, and then at last the vessel, which had remained with steam up. Madame Bazaine informed the captain that her sister-in-law was not well enough to join her, and pointing to the Marshal, she added:
"Not having a servant, I have hired a valet. The fool has just tumbled down on the rocks and got himself in the mess you see. Send him, if you please, down to the sailors, and give him what is necessary to dress his wounds and mend his clothes."
Bazaine went down and spent the night in the forecastle.
The next morning at break of day, they were out at sea; then Madame Bazaine again changed her mind, and pleading indisposition, had herself reconducted to Genoa.
However, the news of the escape had already spread, and the populace hearing of it, a clamouring mob assembled under the hotel windows. The uproar soon became so violent, that the terrified landlord insisted on the travellers escaping by a private door.
I relate this story as it was told to me, but I guarantee nothing.
We drew near the squadron, the heavy ironclads standing out in single file, like battle towers built in the sea. They were the Colbert, the Dévastation, the Amiral-Duperré, the Courbet, the Indomptable, and the Richelieu; two despatch boats, the Hirondelle and the Milan; and four torpedo boats going through evolutions in the gulf.
I wanted to visit the Courbet, as it passes for the most perfect type in the French navy.