CHAPTER IV. — 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.
"Amérique—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.