“I will answer myself to M. André to-morrow.”
When she was gone, my good mother pressed me to go—though she would a thousand times rather have kept me at home. But she knew that it is necessary for a man to be doing something. Ah, she is a woman, indeed!
“This will be an easy berth, Pierre,” she said. “You will be at home with me here all the winters, with the Zéphire safely laid up in dock.”
The next day I called upon M. André at his office.
“I accept the command of your yacht, monsieur,” I said. “I shall always do my best for you, I hope.”
The wages were liberal. I was to choose a crew of picked men—all old sailors.
“We wish to sail in a week,” said M. André. “Can you be ready by then?”
“I can,” was my answer.
It was not the wheedling of Cécile; it was not my mother’s urging me; it was not the beautiful yacht of M. André’s, nor his good wages, that made me decide to become captain of the Zéphire.
It was because the Lépante had gone north.