When they were presented to Captain Kentledge, he was not at all prepossessed in favor of their appearance, and would have been much inclined to receive them coldly; but as he was now called upon to appear in the character of their host, he remembered the courtesy due to them as his guests, and he managed to do the honors of his cabin in a very commendable manner, considering that he said to himself, "for my own sake, I cannot be otherwise than civil to them; but I despise them, notwithstanding."
There was much chattering that amounted to nothing; and much admiration of the cabin, by which, instead of pleasing Uncle Philip, they only incurred his farther contempt, by admiring always in the wrong place, and evincing an ignorance of ships that he thought unpardonable in people that had crossed the Atlantic. On Sam being introduced to them, there were many overstrained compliments on his beauty, and what they called his air distingué. Monsieur Franchimeau thought that le jeune Sammi[6] greatly resembled Mr. Irvine Voshintone, whom he had seen in Paris; but Monsieur Ravigote thought him more like the portrait of Sir Valter Scotch. Madame Franchimeau likened him to the head of the Apollo Belvidere, and Madame Ravigote to the Duke of Berry. But all agreed that he had a general resemblance to La Fayette, with a slight touch of Dr. Franklin. However these various similitudes might be intended as compliments, they afforded no gratification to Uncle Philip, whose secret opinion was, that if Sam looked like anybody, it was undoubtedly Paul Jones. And during this examination, Sam was not a little disconcerted at being seized by the shoulders and twirled round, and taken sometimes by the forehead and sometimes by the chin, that his face might be brought into the best light for discovering all its affinities.
There was then an attempt at general conversation, the chief part of which was borne by the ladies, or rather by Madame Franchimeau, who thought in her duty to atone for the dogged taciturnity of her husband. Monsieur Franchimeau, unlike the generality of his countrymen, neither smiled, bowed, nor complimented. Having a great contempt for the manners of the vieille cour[7] and particularly for those of his father-in-law; he piqued himself on his brusquerie,[8] and his almost total disregard of les bienséances,[9] and set up un esprit fort:[10] but he took care to talk as little as possible, lest his claims to that character should be suspected.
Uncle Philip, though he scorned to acknowledge it, was not in reality destitute of all comprehension of the French language, having picked up some little acquaintance with it from having, in the course of his wanderings, been at places where nothing else was spoken; and though determined on being displeased, he was amused, in spite of himself, at some of the tirades of Madame Franchimeau. Understanding that Monsieur Philippe (as much to his annoyance she called him) had just returned from the West Indies, she began to talk of Cape François, and the insurrection of the blacks, in which, she said, she had lost her first husband, Monsieur Mascaron. "By this terrible blow," said she, "I was parfaitement abimé,[11] and I refused all consolation till it was my felicity to inspire Monsieur Franchimeau with sentiments the most profound. But my heart will for ever preserve a tender recollection of my well-beloved Alphonse. Ah! my Alphonse—his manners were adorable. However, my regards are great for mon ami[12] Monsieur Franchimeau. It is true, he is un pen brusque—c'est son caractère.[13] But his heart is of a goodness that is really inconceivable. He performs the most charming actions, and with a generosity that is heroic. Ah! mon ami—you hear me speak of you—but permit me the sad consolation of shedding yet a few tears for my respectable Alphonse."
Madame Franchimeau then entered into an animated detail of the death of her first husband, who was killed before her eyes by the negroes; and she dwelt upon every horrid particular, till she had worked herself into a passion of tears. Just then, Fanny Clavering (who had for that purpose been sent up to the house by her mother) arrived with a servant carrying a waiter of pine-apples, sugar and Madeira.
Madame Franchimeau stopped in the midst of her tears, and exclaimed—"Ah! des ananas—mon ami (to her husband)—maman—papa—voyez—voyez—des ananas.[14] Ah! my poorest Alphonse, great was his love for these—what you call them—apple de pine. He was just paring his apple de pine, when the detestable negroes rushed in and overset the table. Ah! quel scène—une véritable tragédie![15] Pardonnez, Madame Colavering, I prefer a slice from the largest part of the fruit.—Ah! my amiable Alphonse—his blood flew all over my robe, which was of spotted Japan muslin. I wore that day a long sash of a broad ribbon of the colour of Aurore, fringed at both of its ends. When I was running away, he grasped it so hard that it came untied, and I left it in his hand.—May I beg the favour of some more sugar?—Mon ami, you always prefer the pine-apple bathed in Champagne."
"Yes," replied Franchimeau, "it does me no good, unless each slice is soaked in some wine of fine quality." But Mrs. Clavering acknowledging that she had no Champagne in the house, Franchimeau gruffly replied, that "he supposed Madeira might do."
Madame then continued her story and her pine-apple. "Ah! mon bien-aimé Alphonse,"[16] said she, "he had fourteen wounds—I will take another slice, if you please, Madame Colavering. There—there—a little more sugar. Bien obligé[17]—a little more still. Maman, vous ne mangez pas de bon appetit. Ah! je comprens—vous voulez de la crème avec votre anana.[18]—Madame Colavering, will you do mamma the favour to have some cream brought for her? and I shall not refuse some for myself. Ah! mon Alphonse—the object of my first grand passion! He exhibited in dying some contortions that were hideous—absolument effroyable[19]—they are always present before my eyes—Madame Colavering, I would prefer those two under slices; they are the best penetrated with the sugar, and also well steeped in the jus."[20]
The cream was procured, and the two Madames did it ample justice. Presently the youngest of the French ladies opened her eyes very wide, and exclaimed to her father, "Mon cher papa, vous n' avez pas déjà fini?"[21] "My good friend, Madame Colavering, you know, of course, that my papa cannot eat much fruit, unless it is accompanied by some biscuit—for instance, the cake you call sponge."
"I was not aware of that," replied Mrs. Clavering.