Cécile went on, like a Frenchwoman, flatteringly, “Pierre—for I will call you by the old name; I like it best—I cannot be so stiff with an old friend as to keep calling you Monsieur Crépin; but, if you will let me, I will call you Captain Crépin.”
Again I bowed, slightly mystified.
“Captain Crépin, you are—you are brave. All Bénévent knows it. You are an able and experienced seaman.”
“Madame is too good.”
“Not a bit,” put in my mother, who would have heard me called angel with pleasure.
“I love the sea. M. André does not; but he humours me in everything. I have made him buy a fine yacht—large, strong, swift, of English build. You have seen her. I have called her the Zéphire. She lies in the harbour there, and wants a captain and a crew. You must be the captain, P-i-e-r-r-e!”
You know how women wheedle—handsome, especially?
“This summer,” continued Cécile, “we intend to cruise north. I long to see new countries. I am tired of life here. I long to skim over the waves and feel the cool breezes of northern seas.”
“Madame, I will consider. I must have time. You must give me time.”
“You will not refuse me—nobody would. I shall feel safe only with you in command of our yacht. What answer shall I give M. André, who is all impatience to know?”