I.
Who could she be—the little stranger asleep in the cabin?
Nobody could tell.
She must have come aboard unnoticed, hours ago, at the French port where the vessel had been lying for repairs. Had she wandered away from her home, and innocently lain down here to rest? In that home there would be grief, and anxiety, and long waiting, or ever she would return; for the ship was now many leagues out at sea, and the child had just been discovered.
The sound of voices talking the matter over wakened the little girl, and she shrank timidly from all the eyes fixed inquiringly upon her. So the captain sent every one away, and sat down by her, and in her own language questioned:
“How came you here, little one?”
“Is not this, then, the ship which goes to America? There was a man in the street who told me it should go to America. Is it, then, a mistake?”
“No, not a mistake. And you wish to go to America?”
“Oui, monsieur. I go to Julien.”
“And who is Julien?”
“He is my brother.”
“But how does it happen that you go alone?”
“I have none to accompany me.”
“Have you neither father nor mother?”
“Non, monsieur.”
“Does your brother know you are coming?”
“Non, monsieur, he does not know it. It will be a surprise.”
“But what put it into your head, little—what shall I call you? What is your name?”
“Julie Leblanc.”
“Well, then, my little Julie, how is it that you happen to be going to America? America is a long way off, do you know it?”
“But no! is it, then? It cannot be far away where Julien is. Is it farther than Paris?”
“A good deal farther, Julie.”
“But what to do! No home, no friend. Only Julien.”
“No home, no friend!” repeated the captain, stroking the dark hair, pityingly. “Did the father fall in battle?”
“Yes, monsieur, many years ago, before I can remember.”
“And how long is it that little Julie has been without home or friends?”
“Since they took my dear mamma away to the burial,” answered the child, her eyes brimming with tears.
After awhile the captain asked:
“Julie, do you know just where your brother is, in what part of America?”
“In what part, monsieur? Is it then so great a city? But, without doubt, there will be one who can tell me where he lives. In our village one knew everybody.”
“Whew!” exclaimed the captain, twirling his thumbs.
“Or I will stand at the corner of the street until he passes by. I shall know him, without doubt, he is so handsome. Oh, monsieur, I would know him anywhere. I knew him instantly the last time I saw him, although he wore the clothes of Jacques, the mason.”
As the captain seemed interested, Julie explained:
“I awoke in the night. It was the dear mamma who stood by my bed with a candle in the hand, and one with her like Jacques until I meet his beautiful eyes. Then I laugh gaily and cry, ‘Ah, behold thee, my brother, covered with plaster! and thy coat too large for thee! Didst thou think to fool me?’ But our mother lays the finger upon her lip, and her face is very pale; and Julien kisses and embraces me without ceasing, and with tears, and I know not what to make of it. Soon they go out and I fall again to sleep. Oh, monsieur, he came that same night to America! It was not an hour after, while I slept—mamma has told me it—that the wicked gendarmes came and searched the house for him!”
“Ah! the gendarmes! and why?”
“Because—mamma said—he had written something in the journals which meant that the Emperor was not a good Emperor; and for that the wicked gendarmes would have put my poor brother in prison.”
“Go on, my pretty one,” said the captain, smiling, “thou knowest how to talk. Thou art more entertaining than a book. How old art thou?”
“Ten years.”
“You are small for that age. Have you ever been to school?”
“Never, monsieur. It was the governess who taught me.”
“The governess—bah! Did she ever see a geography?”
“Geography, monsieur? What is that? Is it an animal?”
“Bah! What did she teach you?”
“The dance, and the drawing, and the embroidery, and the music—”
“The music?—can you sing?”
“A little, monsieur.”
“Sing me, then, a little song.”
So Julie sang a little song. It was the “Farewell.”
Adieu! ne m’oublie pas, etc.
“Bravo!” applauded the captain when she had finished. Then he went up on deck.
Julie recollected something as he passed out. She carefully drew a small package from the folds of her dress and ran after him. The rolling of the ship made her dizzy. She reeled and would have fallen, had not a sailor caught her hand.
“Merci” (thank you), she said.
That brought another to the rescue.
“Merci, merci!” she repeated.
Half a dozen of the crew came to learn the cause of alarm.
“Merci, merci, merci!” she screamed. Would they never understand?
The captain did, and laughed heartily.
“And what can I do for mademoiselle?” he asked as she approached, smiling at sight of his bronzed and furrowed face—already that of an old friend among this crowd of seamen—strangers, from a country where “mercy!” is a frequent exclamation.
“Because this, mamma said, must pay for my voyage.”—[Page 99.]
“Good monsieur, are you the man who takes the moneys? Because this, mamma said, must pay for my voyage.” She gave to him the little parcel.
The captain opened it, and found therein a beautiful cross of solid gold, curiously wrought and thickly studded with precious stones.
“Will it not do, monsieur? There was nothing else. No money. The woman demanded so much for the room and all! Poor mamma was so long sick! Oh, monsieur, monsieur, but for that—if she had not been sick, she also would have come to America—to Julien! ‘Take it,’ she said—all so slow—she whispered it all so slow—‘Take it and go to Julien. It will pay the passage.’ And she whispered still a little more. I could not hear. But I thought she went to sleep. When the morning came, and I could see her face—so pale! so cold! so still—”
“Here, my little Julie,” interrupted the captain, pressing his hand an instant over his eyes, “take thy cross. Keep it. Thou shalt have it to remember her by. And I—I am very well pleased to have a little passenger.”
“Oh, mon oncle! how good you are!” and the child covered his great brown hand with kisses.
The captain stooped to rub her soft cheek with his grizzled beard.
He had no reason to be surprised; for wherever he went, the wide world over, did not all children call him “Uncle?”