Amazed, I leaned on the back of my stall.
I had recognised the pirate of Porquerolles, the pilot of Malta.
I remained riveted to my seat, which was the end one of the orchestra. His seat was in front of mine, no one had to pass by us, and the spectators were slowly filing out.
It was indeed he!
It was his look, his bony, bronzed face, his thick, black eyebrows, his sharp teeth pointed and divided, as I could see, for he smiled with his strange smile, as he gazed at me audaciously.
The footlights were lowered, and the theatre became dark.
"It is you!" I cried, at length coming out of my stupor, and as if my chest had thrown off an enormous weight.
"Yes, certainly 'tis I. You remember me, then? Porquerolles and Malta! that is the password."
"Wretch!" I exclaimed.
"How, wretch?" he replied, with astounding effrontery. "We had a good free fight, I hope! If in boarding I stuck a knife in your shoulder, you answered me with a sharp axe on the head, my good friend! On the other hand, if your English dogs thrashed the crew of my mystic, I had the good luck to rip up your lord's yacht on the reefs of La Wardi. Hence we are even. And now we both meet splitting our sides at 'The Bear and the Pacha;' and, instead of finding the encounter droll, you get mad. Do you know that is a pretty low trick, my good friend?"