There came a lurch, a straining of ropes and a creaking of masts, and the good ship Saint Laurent swam out to sea.

Suddenly the waters trembled and the air shook: the king's man-of-war had fired the admiral's salute.

So the voyage began.
Priests, soldiers, merchants, seamen, peasants and nobles, all stood silent on the poop-deck, watching the rugged promontory sink, turrets and towers and roofs merge into one another, black lines melt into grey; stood watching till the islands became misty in the sunshine and nothing of France remained but a long, thin, hazy line.
"The last of France, for the present," said the poet.
"And for the present," said the vicomte, "I am glad it is the last of France.

France is not agreeable to my throat." The Chevalier threw back his shoulders and stood away from the rail.
The Comte d'Herouville, his face purple with rage and chagrin, came up.
He approached Victor.
"Monsieur," he said, "you lied.

Madame is not on board." He drew back his hand to strike the poet in the face, but fingers of iron caught his wrist and held it in the air.
"The day we land, Monsieur," said the Chevalier, calmly.