The burns of Martin and the Frenchman had been treated with oil and flour, and it was Susan Gollop’s opinion that, except for a scar or two, they would show no permanent marks of their recent terrible experience.
“And I daresay Martin won’t show none at all,” she said. “He’s young, and young skin has time to change itself over and over again. And as to Mounseer—well, he’s old, and I don’t suppose he’ll mind if he do bear a blemish or two.”
“That is philosophy, madam,” said the Frenchman with a smile.
“Your box is marked worse than you,” Susan went on, eyeing with simple curiosity the small leather casket that lay on the table at Mounseer’s right hand. “You can’t make a new thing of a bit of old leather, specially when it’s had a thorough good scorching.”
“That is true, madam.” Mounseer laid his hand on the casket. “It is old, older than I am; it was to my grandfather.”
“Gracious me! Then it must be very ancient, for you ain’t a chicken yourself. I don’t mean no offence, Mounseer.”
“I am sure of that: it is just the English way. Eh well, my friends, you have been so good to me that I owe you to explain. One does not talk of the private affairs until the time comes. This is the time.”
And then he proceeded to relate a story that held the rapt attention of his hearers. Escaping from persecution in France, he had brought with him nothing but his rapier and the casket that contained a number of valuable jewels, heirlooms in his family. These were his only means of support. One by one, as he needed money, he had sold them to Mr. Slocum. His wants being simple, he had made the money go a long way, and he hoped that the contents of the casket would last for the rest of his life.
“There now!” exclaimed Susan. “And you would buy lollipops for Lucy! You didn’t ought to, Mounseer, and I wouldn’t have allowed it if I’d known.”
“And so you would have robbed me of a great pleasure,” said the old gentleman.