MIMI AND MARGOT.
While Claude was doing the honors of hospitality to the guests aft,
the crew of the Parson was fraternizing with the seamen of the
wrecked Arethuse, forward. The first and most important act of
friendly intercourse was the work of Jericho, who put forth all his
skill in preparing for the half-starved sailors a series of repasts
upon which he lavished all his genius, together with the greater part
of the stores of the schooner. To these repasts the seamen did ample
justice, wasting but little time in unnecessary words, but eating as
only those can eat who have been on the borders of starvation. Yet it
may be questioned whether their voracity exceeded that of a certain
melancholy boy, who waited on the banquet, and whose appetite seemed
now even more insatiable in the midst of the abundant supplies which
Jericho produced, than it had been in former days, when eatables had
been less choice and repasts less frequent. In fact, Biler outdid
himself, and completely wore out the patience of the long-suffering
Jericho.
"You jes look heah, you Biler," he said; "you better mind, for I
ain't goin' to stand dese yer goins on no longer. Bar's limits to
eberyting--and dese yer 'visiums has got to be 'commonized, an' not
to be all gobbled up by one small boy. Tell you what, I got a great
mind to put you on a lowns, an' gib you one rore turnip a day, an' ef
you can ketch a fish I'll 'gree to cook it. Why, dar ain't de vessel
afloat dat can stand dis yer. You eat fifty-nine meals a day, an'
more. You nebber do notin' else but eat--morn', noon, an' night."
"Arrah, Jerry, let the b'y ate his fill," said Terry: "sure an' a
growin' b'y has to ate more'n a grown man, so as to get flesh to grow
wid."
"Can't do it," said Jerry, "an' won't do it. Didn't mind it so much
afore, but now we'se got to 'commonize. Bar's ebber so many more
moufs aboard now, an' all on 'em eat like sin. Dis yer calm keeps us
out heah in one spot, an' when we're ebber a goin' to get to de end
ov de vyge's more'n I can tell. No use frowin' away our val'ble
'visiums on dis yer boy--make him eat soap fat and oakum--good enough
for him. No 'casium for him to be eatin' a hundred times more'n all
de res ob us. If he wants to eat he'll hab to find his own 'visiums,
an' ketch a shark, an' I'll put it in pickle for he own private use."
With these words Jericho turned away with deep trouble and perplexity
visible on his ebon brow, and Biler, pocketing a few potatoes and
turnips, climbed to the mast-head, where he sat gazing in a
melancholy way into space.
To Terry these new comers were most welcome. At a distance he
professed to hate and despise the French; but now that they appeared
face to face, his hate was nowhere, and in its place there was
nothing but a most earnest desire to form an eternal friendship with
the shipwrecked seamen. There was certainly one difficulty in the way
which was of no slight character; and that was, that neither of them
knew the language of the other. But Terry was not easily daunted, and
the very presence of a difficulty was enough to make him feel eager
to triumph over it.
In his first approaches he made the very common mistake of addressing
the French sailors as though they were deaf. Thus he went up to them
one after the other, shaking hands with each, and shouting in their
ears as loud as he could, "_How do yez do_?" "_Good day_." "_The top
av the mornin' to yez_." To which the good-natured Frenchmen
responded in a sympathetic way, shaking his hand vigorously,--and
grinning and chattering. Terry kept this up for some time; but at
length it became somewhat monotonous, and he set his wits to work to
try to discover some more satisfactory mode of effecting a
communication with them. The next way that he thought of was
something like the first, and, like the first, is also frequently
resorted to by those who have occasion to speak to foreigners. It was
to address them in broken English, or rather in a species of baby
talk; for to Terry it seemed no more than natural that this sort of
dialect would be more intelligible than the speech of full-grown men.
Accordingly, as soon as Terry thought of this, he put it in practice.
He began by shaking hands once more, and then said to them, "Me
berry glad see you--me sposy you berry hundy. Polly want a cracker.
He sall hab penty mate den, so he sall. Did de naughty water boos um
den?"
But unfortunately this effort proved as much of a failure as the
other; so Terry was once more compolled to trust to his wits. Those
wits of his, being active, did not fail, indeed, to suggest many
ways, and of the best kind, by which he brought himself into
communication with his new friends. At the first repast he found this
out, and insisted upon passing everything to them with his own hands,
accompanying each friendly offer with an affectionate smile, which
went straight to the hearts of the forlorn and half-starved guests.
This was a language which was every way intelligible, the language of
universal humanity, in which the noblest precept is, to be kind to
enemies and to feed the hungry.
In addition to this, Terry also found out other ways of holding
communication with them, the chief of which was by the language of
song. Terry's irrepressible tendency to singing thus burst forth in
their presence, and after trolling out a few Irish melodies, he
succeeded in eliciting from them a sympathetic response in the shape
of some lively French songs. The result proved most delightful to all
concerned; and thereafter the muse of Ireland and the muse of France
kept up a perpetual antiphonal song, which beguiled many a tedious
hour.
While the various characters on board the schooner were thus entering
into communication with one another, Zac endeavored also to scrape an
acquaintance with one of the rescued party, who seemed to him to be
worth all the rest put together. This was Mimi's maid, Margot, a
beautiful little creature, full of life and spirit, and fit companion
for such a mistress as hers. The good little Margot was very
accessible, and had not failed to pour forth in language not very
intelligible her sense of gratitude to Zac. She had not forgotten
that it was Zac who had conveyed her in his strong arms from death to
life, and therefore persisted in regarding him not only as the
preserver of her own self, but as the real and only preserver of all
the others.
Margot had one advantage which was delightful to Zac; and that was,
she could speak a little English. She had once spent a year in
England, where she had picked up enough of the language to come and
go upon, and this knowledge now proved to be of very great advantage.
The calm weather which continued gave Zac many opportunities of
drifting away towards Margot, and talking with her, in which talks
they gradually grew to be better acquainted.
"I am so happy zat I spik Ingelis!" said Margot; "I nevar did sink
dat it was evare useful."
"An' pooty blamed lucky it's ben for me, too," said Zac, in a joyous
tone; "for as I don't know French, like Claude over there, I have to
trust to you to keep up the conversation."
"I not know mooch Ingelis," said Margot, "for I not understan de
mooch of what you say."
"O, you'll learn dreadful fast out here," said Zac.
"But I not weesh to stay here so long as to learn," said Margot.
"Not wish! Sho, now! Why, it's a better country than France."
"Than France--better!" cried Margot, lifting her hands and throwing
up her eyes in amazement. "France! Monsieur, France is a
heaven--mais--dees--dees--is different."
"Why, what's the matter with America?" said Zac.
"Amerique--eet ees all full of de sauvage--de Indian--de wild
men--an' wild beasts--an' desert."
"O, you ain't ben to Boston; that's clar," said Zac, mildly. "Jest
you wait till you see Boston; that's all."
"Boston! I nevare hear of Boston," said Margot, "till you tell me. I
do not believe eet it is more magnifique dan Paris."
"The most magnificent town in the hull world," said Zac, calmly. "You
take the House of Assembly an' Govement House--take King Street and
Queen Street, an' I'd like to know whar you'll find a better show any
whar on airth."
"Sais pas," said Margot; "nevare see Boston. Mais vous--you nevare
see Paris--so we are not able to compare."
"O, well, it's nat'ral enough for you," said Zac, with magnanimity,
"nat'ral enough for you, course, to like your own place
best--'twouldn't be nat'ral ef you didn't. All your friends live
thar, course. You were born thar, and I s'pose your pa an' ma may be
there now, anxiously expectin' to hear from you."
Zac put this in an interrogative way, for he wanted to know. But as
he said these words, the smiling face of Margot turned sad; she shook
her head, and said,--
"No; I have no one, no one!"
"What! no relatives!" said Zac, in a voice full of commiseration and
tender pity.
Margot shook her head.
"An' so you've got no father nor mother, an' you're a poor little
orphan girl!" said Zac, in a broken voice.
Margot shook her head, and looked sadder than over.
Tears came to Zac's eyes. He felt as he had never felt before. There
was something so inexpressibly touching about this orphan! He took
her little hand tenderly in his own great, brown, toil-worn fist, and
looked at her very wistfully. For a few moments he said nothing.
Margot looked up at him with her great brown eyes, and then looked
meekly at the deck. Zac heaved a deep sigh; then he placed his
disengaged hand solemnly upon her head.
"Wal," said he, gravely, "I'll protect you. Ef anybody ever harms
you, you jest come to me. I'll--I'll be--a father to you."
Again Margot looked up at him with her great brown eyes.
"O, dat's noting," she said. "I don't want you to be my fader. But,
all de same, I tink you one very nice man; an' you safe my life; an'
I sall not forget--nevare; an' I weesh--. Sall I tell you what I
weesh?"
"Yes, yes," said Zac, eagerly, with a strange thrill of excitement.
Margot threw a quick look around.
"Dees Monsieur de Cazeneau," said she, drawing nearer to Zac, and
speaking in a low, quick voice, "I 'fraid of heem. Dere is danjaire
for my mademoiselle. He is a bad man. He haf a plot--a plan. You moos
safe us. Dees Monsieur Motier is no good. You haf safe us from death;
you moos safe us from dees danjaire."
"How?" asked Zac, who took in at once the meaning of Margot's words,
though not fully understanding them.
"I will tell. Dess Monsieur de Cazeneau wish to get us to Louisbourg,
where he will ruin us all--dat is, de ole count and de mademoiselle.
You moos turn about, and take us to Boston."
"Take you to Boston! But this schooner is engaged to go to Louisbourg
with Mr. Motier."
Margot shook her head.
"You moos do it," said she, "or we sall be ruin. You moos tell
Monsieur Motier--"
Zac now began questioning her further; but Margot could not remain
any longer; she therefore hurried away, with the promise to see him
again and explain more about it; and Zac was left alone with his own
thoughts, not knowing exactly what he could say to Claude, or how he
could make up, out of Margot's scanty information, a story which
might offer sufficient ground for a change in the purpose of the
voyage.
Meanwhile Claude had seen Mimi at various times, and had conversed
with her, as before, in a very confidential manner. The danger of
which Margot had spoken was present in Mimi's thoughts, also; and she
was anxious to secure Claude's assistance.
Thus it was that Mimi communicated to Claude all about her personal
affairs. There was something almost childish in this ready
communicativeness; but she knew no reason for concealing anything,
and therefore was thus frank and outspoken. Claude, also, was quite
as willing to tell all about himself; though his own story was
somewhat more involved, and could not be told piecemeal, but required
a longer and more elaborate explanation.
"Have you many friends in France?" asked Mimi, in an abrupt sort of
way, the next time they met.
"Friends in France?" repeated Claude; "not one, that I know of."
"No friends! Then what can you do there?" she asked, innocently.
"Well, I don't know yet," said he. "I will see when I get there. The
fact is, I am going there to find out something about my own
family--my parents and myself."
At this Mimi fastened her large eyes upon Claude with intense
interest.
"How strangely you talk!" said she.
"I'll tell you a secret," said Claude, after a pause.
"What?" she asked.
"You will never tell it to any one? It's very important."
"I tell it?" repeated Mimi; "I! Never. Of course not. So, now, what
is the secret?"
"Well, it's this: my name is not Motier."
"Well," said Mimi, "I'm sure I'm very glad that it isn't; and it
seemed strange when you told me first, for Motier is a plebeian name;
and you certainly are no plebeian."
"I am not a plebeian," said Claude, proudly. "You are right. My name
is one of the noblest in France. I wonder if you can tell me what I
want to know!"
"I! Why, how can I?" said Mimi. "But I should so like to know what
it is that you want to know! And O, monsieur, I should so love to
know what is your real name and family!"
"Well," said Claude, "I don't as yet know much about it myself. But I
do know what my real name is. I am the Count de Montresor."
"Montresor," exclaimed Mimi, "Montresor!"
As she said this, there was an evident agitation in her voice and
manner which did not escape Claude.
"What's the matter?" said he. "You know something. Tell me what it
is! O, tell me!"
Mimi looked at him very earnestly.
"I don't know," said she; "I don't know anything at all. I only know
this, that poor papa's troubles are connected in some way with some
one whose name is Montresor. But his troubles are a thing that I am
afraid to speak about, and therefore I have never found out anything
about them. So I don't know anything about Montresor, more than this.
And the trouble is something terrible, I know," continued Mimi, "for
it has forced him, at his time of life, to leave his home and become
an exile. And I'm afraid--that is, I imagine--that he himself has
done some wrong in his early life to some Montresor. But I'm afraid
to ask him; and I think now that the sole object of his journey is to
atone for this wrong that he has done. And O, monsieur, now that you
tell your name, now that you say how you have been living here all
your life, I have a fearful suspicion that my papa has been the cause
of it. Montrosor! How strange!"
Mimi was very much agitated; so much so, indeed, that Claude repented
having told her this. But it was now too late to repent, and he could
only try to find some way of remedying the evil.
"Suppose I go to your father," said he, "and tell him who I am, and
all about myself."
"No, no," cried Mimi, earnestly; "do not! O, do not! I would not have
you for worlds. My hope is, that he may give up his search and go
home again, and find peace. There is nothing that you can do. What it
is that troubles him I don't know; but it was something that took
place before you or I were born--many, many years ago. You can do
nothing. You would only trouble him the more. If he has done wrong to
you or yours, you would only make his remorse the worse, for he would
see in you one whom his acts have made an exile."
"O, nonsense!" said Claude, cheerily; "I haven't been anything of the
kind. For my part, I've lived a very happy life indeed; and it's only
of late that I found out my real name. I'll tell you all about it
some time, and then you'll understand better. As to anybody feeling
remorse about my life, that's all nonsense. I consider my life rather
an enviable one thus far."
At this Mimi's agitation left her, and she grew calm again. She
looked at Claude with a glance of deep gratitude, and said,--
"O, how glad, how very glad, I am to hear you say that! Perhaps you
may be able yet to tell that to my dear papa. But still, I do not
wish you to say anything to him at all till I may find some time when
you may do it safely. And you will promise me--will you not?--that
you will keep this a secret from him till he is able to bear it."
"Promise? Of course," said Claude.
She held out her hand, and Claude took it and carried it to his lips.
They had been sitting at the bows of the schooner during this
conversation. No one was near, and they had been undisturbed.