“Diable!” said the Captain, “you are out of your course; how did you get upon this part of the coast?”
“I was landed by my own desire,” returned Julian, “from the brig Sybille, from Bordeaux to Hamburg. The captain and I could not agree, so we parted; he put me ashore close by here. How far is it to Havre?”
“Well, some two leagues,” answered the Captain; “but I tell you what—you had better join my craft. She will be all right in less than a month; I am in want of hands, and as the Vengeance is known to be one of the fastest and most successful privateers out of any French port, you cannot do better.”
“In a month,” observed Julian, appearing to think; “yes, that would suit me well enough. I don’t like the merchant service, and was thinking of serving the Republic, by entering one of their ships of war.”
“Don’t be such a sacre fool,” said the Captain, “take my word for it, no life like a privateer’s man.”
“Well, where shall I hear of you, if I make up my mind before the month’s out?” inquired Julian.
“My craft is repairing at the mouth of the creek,” returned the privateer’s man, “about a mile from here; do you intend stopping at the village yonder?”
“Yes, for an hour or two.”
“Well, then, ask for Dame Moret; she’s my wife’s mother. She’ll give you a good breakfast, and a glass of good eau-de-vie; and if you will join me within the month, seek me there, you’ll hear of me; I like young, active fellows like you. Stay, what’s your name?”
“Louis Lebeau.”