It appeared that the old ladies had asked him afterwards, and that M. Duchâtel's solicitude on the point, though vain, had been extreme all the way from Calais to Abbeville. But M. Duchâtel had never, it seemed, been actually unkind (it would not have suited his book, thought La Vireville) and it was not till the episode of the Citizen Pourcelles' declamation that the Verona idea had lost its hold on Anne's mind. But then, child though he was, he had gathered from the turgid but unequivocal statements of the Ode that he was not in the company of those who could in any way be described as 'Papa's friends.' Yet, except for that final shower of tears at Abbeville, it did not appear that the kidnapper had ever had any trouble with the little boy. The rescuer, now, could not say so much. CHAPTER XI "FIFTY FATHOMS DEEP" (1) "We shall never make Jersey with this wind," said the young fisherman. "We _must_!" replied La Vireville firmly. "We could run for Gorey if St. Helier is impossible." The Norman shrugged his shoulders under his faded guernsey. "Much more likely to be blown into St. Malo! She makes a great deal of leeway." The subject of their conversation lay before them at that moment on the beach, an open sixteen-foot fisherman's boat, broad in the beam, ballasted with stones, and lug-rigged. The unlucky north-east wind, strong and steady, whipped La Vireville's cloak about him, and caused him to put a hasty hand to his hat. It was about nine of the spring evening and very dusk. The lights of the upper town of Granville showed about three miles to the left, along the crest of the high rock that jutted out into the sea, and a scrap of an undesired moon served to emphasise the rate at which the clouds were driving over the sky. "At any rate we must put to sea," said the émigré, determined to waste no more words. "Get the boat ready, and I will fetch the child, and then help you down with her. Wherever the wind may drive us to, we cannot remain here."