Monsieur de Coulevain swore profoundly to express his wonder; stood silently pondering the thing he had been told; then swore again. Blood accounted him a dull, brutish fellow whom any woman would be justified in leaving. If the Colonel felt any tenderness towards his wife, or thankfulness for her delivery from the dreadful fate to which he must suppose her to have been exposed, he kept the emotions to himself. He showed presently, however, that he could be emotional enough over the memory of yesterday's catastrophe. This Blood accounted reasonable until he came to perceive that the man's real concern was less with the sufferings of the people of Basseterre than with the possible consequences to himself when an account of his stewardship should come to be asked of him by the French Government.
Madame, her beauty sadly impaired by her pallor, her weariness and dishevelled condition, interrupted his lament, to recall him to the demands of common courtesy.
«You have not yet thanked this gentleman for the heroic service he has rendered us.»
Blood caught the sneer and perceived its double edge. At last he found it in his heart to pity her a little, to understand the despair which had driven her, reckless of what might betide others, so that she should escape from this boorish egotist.
Belatedly and clumsily M. de Coulevain expressed his thanks. When that was done, Madame took her leave of them. She confessed herself exhausted, and it was the old negro, who had remained in attendance in the background, who came forward to proffer his arm and to assist her. On the threshold a negro woman waited, all tenderness and solicitude, to put her weary mistress to bed.
Coulevain, heavy–eyed, watched her depart, and remained staring until Captain Blood's brisk voice aroused him.
«If you were to offer me some breakfast, sir, that would be a practical measure of repayment.»
Coulevain swore. «Death of my life! How negligent I am! These troubles, sir…the ruin of the town…the abduction of my wife…It is too much, sir. You'll understand. It discomposes a man. You forgive me, Monsieur…I have not the honour to know your name.»
«Vandermeer. Peter Vandermeer, at your service.»
And then another voice cut in, a voice that spoke French with a rasping English accent. «Are you quite sure that that is your name?»