On this little patch of land, this strip of sand, the unhappy exile clung
to his mother France, for once his foot touched the vessel which was to
carry him away, his separation from France would be long, if not eternal.
He started suddenly amidst these thoughts and sighed: he had just
perceived a sail gliding over the waves like a phantom through the
transparent darkness of the southern night. Then a sailor's song was
heard; Murat recognised the appointed signal, and answered it by burning
the priming of a pistol, and the boat immediately ran inshore; but as she
drew three feet of water, she was obliged to stop ten or twelve feet from
the beach; two men dashed into the water and reached the beach, while a
third remained crouching in the stern-sheets wrapped in his boat-cloak.

"Well, my good friends," said the king, going towards Blancard and
Langlade until he felt the waves wet his feet "the moment is come, is it
not? The wind is favourable, the sea calm, we must get to sea."

"Yes," answered Langlade, "yes, we must start; and yet perhaps it would
be wiser to wait till to-morrow."

"Why?" asked Murat.

Langlade did not answer, but turning towards the west, he raised his
hand, and according to the habit of sailors, he whistled to call the
wind.

"That's no good," said Donadieu, who had remained in the boat. "Here are
the first gusts; you will have more than you know what to do with in a
minute.... Take care, Langlade, take care! Sometimes in calling the
wind you wake up a storm."