‘Come in! come in! you’ll not repent
The entrance money you have spent;
The wondrous mirror in this place
Reveals your future sweetheart’s face.’”
“Bosh!” cried Servadac in disgust; “your verses are detestable trash.”
“As good as any others, captain, squeaked through a reed pipe.”
“Hold your tongue, man,” said Servadac peremptorily; “I have made another couplet.
‘Lovers should, whoe’er they be,
Love in all simplicity;
Lover, loving honestly,
Offer I myself to thee.’”
Beyond this, however, the captain’s poetical genius was impotent to carry him; his farther efforts were unavailing, and when at six o’clock he reached the gourbi, the four lines still remained the limit of his composition.
CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN SERVADAC AND HIS ORDERLY
At the time of which I write, there might be seen in the registers of the Minister of War the following entry:
SERVADAC (Hector), born at St. Trelody in the district of Lesparre, department of the Gironde, July 19th, 18—.