The truth of this was soon apparent. Captain Le Compte invited us all to share his breakfast, and we repaired to the tent of the French officers, with that purpose. In the mean time, the French sailors were transferring the few articles they intended to carry away, to the ship, with the generous object of leaving their own tents to the immediate occupation of us prisoners. As Monsieur Le Compte's plan was to proceed to the Spanish Main, in order to complete his contemplated traffic in that quarter, no sooner were the tents prepared, than the French began also to ship such articles of their own, as it had originally been proposed to exchange for Spanish dollars. In the mean time, we sat down to breakfast.
“C'est la fortune de guerre!—vat you call fortune of war, messieurs,” observed Captain Le Compte, whirling the stick in a vessel of chocolate, in a very artistical manner, all the while. “Bon—c'est excellente—Antoin—”
Antoin appeared in the shape of a well-smoked, copper-coloured cabin-boy. He was told to take a small pitcher of the chocolate, with Captain Le Compte's compliments to mademoiselle, and to tell her there was now every prospect of their quitting the island in a very few days, and of seeing la belle France, in the course of the next four or five months. This was said in French, and rapidly, with the vehemence of one who felt all he uttered, and more too but I knew enough of the language to understand its drift.
“I suppose the fellow is generalizing on our misfortunes, in his d——d lingo,” growled Marble; “but, let him look out—he's not home yet, by many a thousand miles!”
I endeavoured to explain it all to Marble; but it was useless; he insisted the Frenchman was sending chocolate from his own table, to his crew, in order to play the magnifico, on the score of his own good luck. There was no use in “kicking against the pricks,” and I let Marble enjoy the pleasure of believing the worst of his captor; a sort of Anglo-Saxon propensity, that has garnished many a page in English and American history—to say nothing of the propensities and histories of others, among the great family of nations.
When breakfast was over, Monsieur Le Compte led me aside, in a walk under the trees, to explain his views and intentions. He gave me to understand I had been selected for this communication, on account of his observing the state of mind of my captain. I also comprehended a little French, which was quite convenient in a conversation with one who interlarded his English so much with phrases taken from his mother tongue. I was given to understand that the French would put the schooner into the water that very evening, and that we should find her masts, rigging, and sails all fitted for her. With activity, she could be ready to quit the island in a fortnight, at the farthest. A portion of our own provisions would be landed, as better suited to our habits than those which had been taken from la Pauline, while a portion of the last would be transferred to the Crisis, for the same reason, as applied to the French. As for water-casks, &c., they were all arranged; everything, of the sort having been taken from the wreck, with little or no difficulty, immediately after the loss of the ship. In a word, we should have little more to do, than to step the masts, rig our craft, stow her hold, and proceed at once to the nearest friendly port.
“I zink you shall go to Canton,” added Monsieur Le Compte. “Ze distance shall not be much more than to Sout' America; and zere you shall find plenty of your compatriotes. Of course, you can sleep and go chez vous—vat you call 'home,' with toute la facilité. Oui—cet arrangement est admirable.” So the arrangement might appear to him, though I confess to a decided 'preference to remaining in the “blind Crisis,” as our men had got to call her, after her blundering through the Straits of Magellan. “Allons!” exclaimed the French captain, suddenly. “We are near ze tent of Mademoiselle—we shall go and demand how she carry herself ce beau matin!” On looking up, I saw two small tents within fifty yards of us. They were beautifully placed, in the midst of a thicker portion of the grove than usual, and near a spring of the most exquisitely limpid water I ever beheld. These tents were made of new canvass, and had been fashioned with care and skill. I could see that the one we first approached was carpeted over, and that it had many of the appliances of a comfortable abode. Mons. Le Compte, who was really a good-looking fellow under forty, put on his most amiable appearance as he got near the canvass-door; and he hemmed once or twice, as respectfully as he could, by way of letting his presence be known. In an instant, a maid-servant came out to receive him. The moment I laid eyes on this woman, it struck me her face was familiar, though I could not recall the place, or time, where, or when, we had before met. The occurrence was so singular, that I was still ruminating on it, when I unexpectedly found myself standing in the tent, face to face with Emily Merton and her father! We recognised each other at a glance, and, to Mons. Le Compte's amazement, hearty greetings passed between us, as old acquaintances. Old acquaintances, however, we could scarce be called; but, on an uninhabited island in the South Seas, one is glad to meet any face that he has ever met before. Emily looked less blooming than when we had parted, near a twelvemonth before, in London; but she was still pretty and pleasing. Both she and her father were in mourning, and, the mother not appearing, I at once guessed the truth. Mrs. Merton was an invalid when I knew her, though I had not anticipated for her so speedy a death. I thought Captain Le Compte appeared vexed at my reception. Still, he did not forget his good manners; and he rose, saying he would leave me with my friends to make mutual explanations, while he proceeded to overlook the duty of the day. On taking his leave, I was not pleased to see him approach and kiss Emily's hand. The act was done respectfully, and not entirely without grace; but there were a feeling and manner in it that could not well be mistaken. Emily blushed, as she wished him good morning, and turning to look at me, in spite of a kind of dog-in-the-manger sensation, I could not forbear smiling.
“Never, Mr. Wallingford, never!” Emily said, with emphasis, the instant her admirer was out of hearing. “We are at his mercy, and must keep terms with him; but I can never marry a foreigner.”
“That is poor encouragement for Wallingford, my dear,” said her father, laughing, “should he happen to take a fancy to you himself.”
Emily looked confused, but, what, for the circumstances, was better still, she looked concerned.