"Yes, for if you had lost what would have become of Gabrielle? She—poor girl!—-would have sold her last garment for you.... If you had lost she would have been reduced to misery.... It was for her, out of love to her, you cheated. There are people who die for love ... will kill themselves for it.... You, my dear Roger, did more. For a man of our order it takes more courage to ... steal, to put it baldly, than to commit suicide."
("Now, perhaps," the captain interrupted his story to say, "I appear ridiculous to you. I assure you that my friendship for Roger endowed me with a timely eloquence that I am not equal to nowadays; and, devil take it, in saying what I did I spoke in good earnest, and I believe all I said. Ah, I was young then!")
Roger did not make any answer for a long time; then he held out his hand to me.
"My friend," he said, making a great effort over himself, "you think too well of me. I am a cowardly wretch. When I cheated the Dutchman my only thought was to win the twenty-five napoleons, that was all. I never thought of Gabrielle, and that is why I despise myself.... I, to hold my honour in less esteem than twenty-five napoleons!... What baseness! Yes, I could be happy if I could tell myself I stole to keep Gabrielle from wretchedness.... No!... no! I did not think of her.... I was not in love at that moment.... I was a player.... I was a thief.... I stole money to possess it myself,... and the deed has so degraded me, and debased me, that I now have no more courage left nor love.... I can see it; I do not think any longer of Gabrielle.... I am a broken-down man."
He was so wretched, that if he had asked me to hand him his pistols to kill himself I believe I should have given them to him.
One Friday, that day of ill omen, he discovered that a big English frigate, the Alcestis, was chasing us. She carried fifty-eight guns, and we but thirty-eight. He put on all sail to escape from her, but her pace was faster than ours, and she gained on us every minute. It was very evident that before night we should be obliged to engage in an unequal battle. Our captain called Roger to his cabin, where they consulted together for more than a quarter of an hour. Roger came up on the deck again, took me by the arm, and drew me aside.
"In two hours' time," he said, "we shall be engaged. That rash man who struts the quarter-deck has lost his wits. He has two courses to choose from: the first, and the most honourable, would be to let the enemy come up to us, then to board the ship determinedly with a hundred or so of our best men; the other course, which is not bad, but rather cowardly, is to lighten ourselves by throwing some of our guns overboard. Then we could make for the near coast of Africa, which we shall soon find to larboard. The English captain would soon be obliged to give up the chase, for fear of grounding; but our ... captain is neither coward nor hero. He will let himself be destroyed by gunshots a good distance off, and after some hours' fight he will honourably lower his flag. So much the worse for you. The Portsmouth pontoons will be your fate. I have no desire to see them."
"Possibly," I said, "our first shots will damage the enemy suiliciently to compel her to abandon the chase."
"Listen, I do not mean to be taken prisoner; I shall kill myself. It is time I ended it all. If by ill luck I am only wounded, give me your word of honour that you will throw me overboard. It is the proper death-bed for a good sailor."
"What nonsense!" I exclaimed. "What a charge to make me undertake!"