“Oh, my friends, I am not a gentleman.”
“Everybody enters Belle-Isle,” continued the fisherman in his strong, pure language, “provided he means no harm to Belle-Isle or its master.”
A slight shudder crept over the body of the musketeer. “That is true,” thought he. Then recovering himself, “If I were sure,” said he, “not to be sea-sick.”
“What, upon her?” said the fisherman, pointing with pride to his pretty round-bottomed bark.
“Well, you almost persuade me,” cried M. Agnan; “I will go and see Belle-Isle, but they will not admit me.”
“We shall enter, safe enough.”
“You! What for?”
“Why, dame! to sell fish to the corsairs.”
“Ha! Corsairs—what do you mean?”
“Well, I mean that M. Fouquet is having two corsairs built to chase the Dutch and the English, and we sell our fish to the crews of those little vessels.”