NEW FRIENDS.
Every arrangement was made that could be made within the confines of
a small schooner to secure the comfort of the strangers. To the young
lady and her maid Claude gave up the state-room which he himself had
thus far occupied, and which was the best on board, while Zac gave up
his to the old man. The others were all comfortably disposed of, and
Zac and Claude stowed themselves away as best they could feeling
indifferent about themselves as long as they could minister to the
wants of their guests. Food and sleep were the things that were the
most needed by all these new-comers, and these they had in abundance.
Under the beneficial effects of these, they began to regain their
strength. The seaman rallied first, as was most natural; and from
these Claude learned the story of their misfortunes.
The lost ship had been the French frigate Arethuse, which had left
Brest about a moth previously, on a voyage to Louisbourg and Quebec.
The old gentleman was the Comte de Laborde, and the two girls whom
they had saved, one was his daughter, and the other her maid. The
other gentleman was the Comte de Cazeneau. This last was on his way
to Louisbourg, where an important post was awaiting him. About a week
before this the Arethuse had encountered a severe gale, accompanied
by a dense fog, in which they had lost their reckoning. To add to
their miseries, they found themselves surrounded by icebergs, among
which navigation was so difficult that the seamen all became
demoralized. At length the ship struck one of these floating masses,
and instantly began to fill. The desperate efforts of the crew,
however, served to keep her afloat for another day, and might have
saved her, had it not been for the continuation of the fog. On the
following night, in the midst of intense darkness, she once more
struck against an iceberg, and this time the consequences were more
serious. A huge fragment of ice fell upon the poop, shattering it and
sweeping it overboard. In an instant all discipline was at an end. It
was _sauve qui peut_. The crew took to the boats. One of these went
down with all on board, while the others passed away into the
darkness. This little handful had thrown themselves upon the ship's
poop, which was floating alongside within reach, just in time to
escape being dragged down by the sinking ship; and there, for days
and nights, with scarcely any food, and no shelter whatever, they had
drifted amid the dense fog, until all hope had died out utterly. Such
had been their situation when rescue came.
Claude, upon hearing this story, expressed a sympathy which was most
sincere; and to the seamen it was all the pleasanter as his accent
showed him to be a countryman. But the general sympathy which the
young man felt, sincere though it was, could not be compared with
that special sympathy which he experienced for the lovely young girl
whom he had borne from the raft into the schooner, and whose deep
glance of speechless gratitude had never since faded from his memory.
She was now aboard, and was occupying his own room. More than this,
she had already taken up a position within his mind which was a
pre-eminent one. She had driven out every thought of everything else.
The highest desire which he had was to see once again that face which
had become so vividly impressed upon his memory, and find out what it
might be like in less anxious moments. But for this he would have to
wait.
Meanwhile the schooner had resumed her voyage, in which, however, she
made but slow progress. The wind, which had come up so opportunely,
died out again; and, though the fog had gone, still for a few days
they did little else than drift.
After the first day and night the Count de Laborde came upon deck. He
was extremely feeble, and had great difficulty in walking; with him
were his daughter and her maid. Although her exhaustion and
prostration on the raft had, apparently, been even greater than his,
yet youth was on her side, and she had been able to rally much more
rapidly. She and her maid supported the feeble old count, and
anxiously anticipated his wants with the fondest care.
Claude had hoped for this appearance, and was not disappointed. He
had seen her first as she was emerging from the valley of the shadow
of death, with the stamp of sorrow and despair upon her features; but
now no trace of despair remained; her face was sweet and joyous
beyond expression, with the grace of a child-like innocence and
purity. The other passenger, whom the lieutenant of the Arethuse had
called the Count de Cazeneau, was also on deck, and, on seeing
Laborde and his daughter, he hastened towards them with the utmost
fervor of congratulations. The lieutenant also went to pay his
respects. The young countess was most gracious, thanking them for
their good wishes, and assuring them that she was as well as ever;
and then her eyes wandered away, and, after a brief interval, at
length rested with a fixed and earnest look full upon Claude. The
glance thrilled through him. For a moment he stood as if fixed to the
spot; but at length, mastering his emotion, he went towards her.
"Here he is, papa, dearest," said she,--"our noble deliverer.--And,
O, monsieur, how can we ever find words to thank you?"
"Dear monsieur," said the old count, embracing Claude, "Heaven will
reward you; our words are useless.--Mimi," he continued, turning to
his daughter, "your dream was a true one.--You must know, monsieur,
that she dreamed that a young Frenchman came in an open boat to save
us. And so it really was."
Mimi smiled and blushed.
"Ah, papa, dear," she said, "I dreamed because I hoped. I always
hoped, but you always desponded. And now it has been better than our
hopes.--But, monsieur, may we not know the name of our deliverer?"
She held out her little hand as she said this. Claude raised it
respectfully to his lips, bowing low as he did so. He then gave his
name, but hastened to assure them that he was not their preserver,
insisting that Zac had the better claim to that title. To this,
however, the others listened with polite incredulity, and Mimi
evidently considered it all the mere expression of a young man's
modesty. She waved her little hand with a sunny smile.
"_Eh bien_," she said, "I see, monsieur, it pains you to have people
too grateful; so we will say no more about it. We must satisfy
ourselves by remembering and by praying."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the interposition of the
Count de Cazeneau, who came forward to add his thanks to those of
Laborde. He made a little set speech, to which Claude listened with
something of chagrin, for he did not like being placed in the
position of general savior and preserver, when he knew that Zac
deserved quite as much credit for what had been done as he did. This
was not unobserved by Mimi, who appreciated his feelings and came to
his relief.
"M. Motier does not like being praised," said she. "Let us respect
his delicacy."
But Cazeneau was not to be stopped so easily. He seemed like one who
had prepared a speech carefully and with much labor, and was,
accordingly, bound to give it all; so Claude was forced to listen to
an eloquent and inflated panegyric about himself and his heroism,
without being able to offer anything more than an occasional modest
disclaimer. And all the time the deep, dark glance of Mimi was fixed
on him, as though she would read his soul. If, indeed, he had any
skill in reading character, it was easy enough to see in the face of
that young man a pure, a lofty, and a generous nature, unsullied by
anything mean or low, a guileless and earnest heart, a soul _sans
peur et sans reproche_; and it did seem by the expression of her own
face as though she had read all this in Claude.
Further conversation of a general nature followed, which served to
explain the position of all of them with reference to one another.
Claude was the virtual master of the schooner, since he had chartered
it for his own purposes. To all of them, therefore, he seemed first
their savior, and secondly their host and entertainer, to whom they
were bound to feel chiefly grateful. Yet none the less did they
endeavor to include the honest skipper in their gratitude; and Zac
came in for a large share of it. Though he could not understand any
of the words which they addressed to him, yet he was easily able to
guess what they were driving at, and so he modestly disclaimed it all
with the expression,--
"O, sho! sho, now! sho, sho!"
They now learned that Claude was on his way to Louisbourg, and that
they would thus be able to reach their original destination. They
also learned the circumstances of Zac, and his peculiar unwillingness
to trust his schooner inside the harbor of Louisbourg. Zac's scruples
were respected by them, though they all declared that there was no
real danger. They were sufficiently satisfied to be able to reach any
point near Louisbourg, and did not seek to press Zac against his
will, or to change his opinion upon a point where it was so strongly
expressed.
No sooner had these new passengers thus unexpectedly appeared, than a
very marked change came over Pere Michel, which to Claude was quite
inexplicable. To him and to Zac the good priest had thus far seemed
everything that was most amiable and companionable; but now, ever
since the moment when he had turned away at the sight of the face of
Laborde, he had grown strangely silent, and reticent, and
self-absorbed. Old Laborde had made advances which had been coldly
repelled. Cazeneau, also, had tried to draw him out, but without
success. To the lieutenant only was he at all inclined to unbend. Yet
this strange reserve did not last long, and at length Pere Michel
regained his old manner, and received the advances of Laborde with
sufficient courtesy, while to Mimi he showed that paternal gentleness
which had already endeared him to Claude and to Zac.
Several days thus passed, during which but little progress was made.
The schooner seemed rather to drift than to sail. Whenever a slight
breeze would arise, it was sure to be adverse, and was not of long
duration. Then a calm would follow, and the schooner would lie idle
upon the bosom of the deep.
During these days Mimi steadily regained her strength; and the bloom
and the sprightliness of youth came back, and the roses began to
return to her cheeks, and her wan face resumed its plumpness, and her
eyes shone with the light of joyousness. Within the narrow confines
of a small schooner, Claude was thrown in her way more frequently
than could have been the case under other circumstances; and the
situation in which they were placed towards one another connected
them more closely, and formed a bond which made an easy way to
friendship, and even intimacy. As a matter of course, Claude found
her society pleasanter by far than that of any one else on board;
while, on the other hand, Mimi did not seem at all averse to his
companionship. She seemed desirous to know all about him.
"But, monsieur," she said once, in the course of a conversation, "it
seems strange to me that you have lived so long among the English
here in America."
"It is strange," said Claude; "and, to tell the truth, I don't
altogether understand myself how it has happened."
"Ah, you don't understand yourself how it has happened," repeated
Mimi, in a tone of voice that was evidently intended to elicit
further confidences.
"No," said Claude, who was not at all unwilling to receive her as his
confidante. "You see I was taken away from France when I was an
infant."
"When you were an infant!" said Mimi. "How very, very sad!" and
saying this, she turned her eyes, with a look full of deepest
commiseration, upon him. "And so, of course, you cannot remember
anything at all about France."
Claude shook his head.
"No, nothing at all," said he. "But I'm on my way there now; and I
hope to see it before long. It's the most beautiful country in all
the world--isn't it?'
"Beautiful!" exclaimed Mimi, throwing up her eyes; "there are no
words to describe it. It is heaven! Alas! how can I ever bear to live
here in this wild and savage wilderness of America!"
"You did not wish to leave France then?" said Claude, who felt
touched by this display of feeling.
"I!" exclaimed Mimi; "I wish to leave France! Alas, monsieur! it was
the very saddest day of all my life. But dear papa had to go, and I
do not know why it was. He offered to let me stay; but I could not
let him go alone, for he is so old and feeble, and I was willing to
endure all for his sake."
"What part of France did you live in?" asked Claude.
"Versailles."
"That is where the court is," said Claude.
"Of course," said Mimi, with a smile. "But how funny it seems to hear
a Frenchman make such a remark, and in such an uncertain way, as
though he did not feel quite sure. Why, monsieur, in France
Versailles is everything; Versailles is the king and court. In a
word, monsieur, Versailles is France."
"I suppose you saw very much of the splendor and magnificence of the
court?" said Claude.
"I!" said Mimi; "splendor and magnificence! the court! _Ma foi_,
monsieur, I did not see any of it at all. In France young girls are
kept close-guarded. You have lived among the English, and among them
I have heard that young girls can go anywhere and do anything. But
for my part I have always lived most secluded--sometimes at school,
and afterwards at home."
"How strange it is," said Claude, "that your father should leave
France, when he is so old and feeble, and take you, too, and come to
this wild country!"
"O, it is very strange," said Mimi, "and very sad; and I don't know
why in the world it was, for he will never tell me. Sometimes I think
that something unfortunate has happened, which has made him go into
exile this way. But then, if that were so, I don't see why he should
remain in French possessions. If his political enemies have driven
him away, he would not be safe in French colonies; and so I don't
know why in the world he ever left home."
"Does he intend to remain at Louisbourg, or go farther?" asked
Claude, after a thoughtful pause.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Mimi; "but I don't think he has decided
yet. It is just as if he was looking for something, and as if he
would travel about till he found it; though what it is that he wants
I can hardly tell. And such, monsieur, is our mournful position. We
may remain at Louisbourg a short time or a long time: it depends upon
circumstances. We may go to Quebec, or even to New Orleans."
"New Orleans!" exclaimed Claude.
"Yes; I heard him hint as much. And he said, also, that if he did go
as far as that, he would leave me at Quebec or Louisbourg. But I will
never consent to that, and I will go with him wherever he goes."
"I should think that such a roving life would make you feel very
unhappy."
"O, no; I am not unhappy," said Mimi, cheerfully. "I should, indeed,
feel unhappy if I were left behind in France, or anywhere else, and
if poor papa should go roaming about without any one to care for him.
I am not much; but I know that he loves me dearly, and that he is
very much happier with me than without me. And that is the reason why
I am determined to go with him wherever he goes,--yes, even if he
goes among the savages. Besides, while I am with him, he has a
certain amount of anxiety about me, and this distracts his thoughts,
and prevents him from brooding too much over his own personal
troubles. But O, how I envy you, Monsieur Motier, and O, how I should
love to be going back to France, if dear papa were only going there
too! I shall never be happy again, I know, never, till I am back
again in France."