D’Artagnan had already advanced too far in this direction; besides, the chalands being gone, there remained nothing at Pirial but a single bark—that of the old man, and it did not look fit for sea without great preparation. D’Artagnan therefore patted Furet, who as a new proof of his charming character, resumed his march with his feet in the salt-mines, and his nose to the dry wind, which bends the furze and the broom of this country. They reached Croisic about five o’clock. If D’Artagnan had been a poet, it was a beautiful spectacle: the immense strand of a league or more, the sea covers at high tide, and which, at the reflux, appears gray and desolate, strewed with polypi and seaweed, with pebbles sparse and white, like bones in some vast old cemetery. But the soldier, the politician, and the ambitious man, had no longer the sweet consolation of looking towards heaven to read there a hope or a warning. A red sky signifies nothing to such people but wind and disturbance. White and fleecy clouds upon the azure only say that the sea will be smooth and peaceful. D’Artagnan found the sky blue, the breeze embalmed with saline perfumes, and he said: “I will embark with the first tide, if it be but in a nutshell.” At Croisic as at Pirial, he had remarked enormous heaps of stone lying along the shore. These gigantic walls, diminished every tide by the barges for Belle-Isle were, in the eyes of the musketeer, the consequence and the proof of what he had well divined at Pirial. Was it a wall that M. Fouquet was constructing? Was it a fortification that he was erecting? To ascertain that he must make fuller observations. D’Artagnan put Furet into a stable; supped, went to bed, and on the morrow took a walk upon the port or rather upon the shingle. Le Croisic has a port of fifty feet, it has a look-out which resembles an enormous brioche (a kind of cake) elevated on a dish. The flat strand is the dish. Hundreds of barrowsful of earth amalgamated with pebbles, and rounded into cones, with sinuous passages between, are look-outs and brioches at the same time. It is so now, and it was so two hundred years ago, only the brioche was not so large, and probably there were to be seen no trellises of lath around the brioche, which constitute an ornament, planted like gardes-fous along the passages that wind towards the little terrace. Upon the shingle lounged three or four fishermen talking about sardines and shrimps. D’Artagnan, with his eyes animated by rough gayety, and a smile upon his lips, approached these fishermen. “Any fishing going on to-day?” said he. “Yes, monsieur,” replied one of them, “we are only waiting for the tide.” “Where do you fish, my friends?” “Upon the coasts, monsieur.” “Which are the best coasts?” “Ah, that is all according. The tour of the isles, for example?” “Yes, but they are a long way off, those isles, are they not?” “Not very; four leagues.” “Four leagues! That is a voyage.” The fisherman laughed in M. Agnan’s face.