The king chuckled.
“So be it,” said he. “But my good sir, keep yourself in readiness for a commission. I may need you in the Royal Marine!”
“Very good, Sire!” said Jean Bart, and, bowing low, he withdrew.
But he did not get away without an adventure,—quite as exciting as any he had had aboard the rocking decks of one of his privateer ships.
The fame of Jean Bart had stirred up a number of enemies, for, when a man is successful in life, are there not always a hundred unsuccessful fellows who stand about and scoff?
Among these were a few followers of the sea who had determined to make way with this too fortunate privateer. One—Jules Blanc by name—even decided upon murder, if Jean Bart would not agree to leave the privateering business to himself and his companions.
As the sailor from Dunkirk left the presence of the king he was accosted by one of his old acquaintances.
“Ha, Jean Bart,” said he. “Come with me to the Inn. Have a glass with me, my boy, for I see that the king has richly rewarded you. You deserve it, for you have done well, and you must be tired from your journey. Come, let us dine together?”
Suspecting nothing, the gallant privateer followed his companion quite willingly, and, when he arrived at the Inn, was not surprised to find several other seamen from Dunkirk and the neighboring seaports of France. They greeted him warmly.
“To your health!” cried they, raising their glasses of wine. “To the health of the bravest privateer in all of France.”