The good Dutchman looked his sympathy; he had taken on this passenger who was willing to pay his way, and the thrifty man did not despise the money, though his was but a small merchantman. He was making the return trip to New York and had seen something of the life of the engagé. “You vas locky to get owet alretty,” he remarked.
M. Hervieu drew a long, free breath. It was good to take in the air of absolute liberty once more.
“Vat you vas calt?” asked the skipper. He must converse in English with this passenger who knew only a little of that language and French.
“I am called Theodore Hervieu now,” was the reply.
The skipper took the pipe from his mouth and stared at his companion. “Py tam!” he exclaimed. And then he lapsed into a silence from which no remark of M. Hervieu aroused him for half an hour.
CHAPTER XX
MATHILDE’S TABLEAUX
Mathilde was in a flutter of excitement. For the first time since her marriage she meant to give an entertainment to her friends. Small evening companies were quite a usual thing among the lively French emigrants, and an excuse to entertain one’s friends was seldom wanting. Alaine had declared that she had no heart to dance, but Mathilde had a fertile brain; there should be something else. She, so deft with brush and needle, would arrange some tableaux. These would help to occupy Alaine and give her something new to think about. She had been under such a nervous strain and needed diversion. Mathilde quite appreciated Michelle’s concern; they must rouse this triste Alaine. Life was sad enough at best, why not try to put some joy into it? Therefore Mathilde flitted about like some small bright-eyed bird, singing as she worked. Her slim, clever little fingers gave a twist to this, a touch to that, and lo, an artistic result.
“You are far more clever than I,” Alaine would say, admiringly, “and yet I thought myself not deficient in embroidery and flower-painting. The sisters used to say I was an industrious pupil. Those lovely laces, Mathilde, where did you get them? And those muslins, so beautiful they are.”
“They are what remain of my mother’s wardrobe,” Mathilde told her, fingering the stuffs lovingly. “You shall wear this in the bower of roses which I mean for the rose maiden.”
Alaine gave a little joyless laugh. “I, a rose maiden? No, no, do not press me into any such service; rather am I a weeping Niobe, a desolate Mara.”