“C’est ma chère amie,” whispered he confidentially in my ear, strongly emphasizing the word “friend” and nodding very knowingly towards the lady herself. “At the present moment the dear little creature is exclusively under my charge and protection, for she is en route to join her husband, a captain in the army at Algiers; but, alas! grâce à Dieu, there’s no chance of a transport so long as this cursed pestilence blockades Marseilles! Do you know the man on your right?—No! Bien! that’s the celebrated S——, the oratorical advocate about whom the papers rang when Louis Philippe began his assault on the press. He’s on his way to Algiers too, and will be more successful in liberalizing the Arabs than the French. That old chap over yonder with the snuffy nose, the snuffy wig, and snuffy coat, is a grand speculator in horses, on his way to the richest cavalry corps of the army; and, as for our maître d’hotel at the head of this segment, pauvre diable, you see what he is without a revelation. The pestilence has nearly used him up. He sits half the day in his bureau on the stairs looking for guests who never come, reading the record which adds no name, cursing the cholera, counting a penitential ave and pater on his rosary, and flying from the despair of silence and desertion to his pans to stew our wretched fare. Voila mon cher, la carte de la table! le Cholera et ses Convives!”
If there is a creature I detest in the world it is a flippant, intrusive, voluntary youth who thrusts his conversation and affairs upon strangers, and makes bold to monopolize their time with his unasked confidence. Such persons are always silly and vulgar pretenders; and before Doctor Du Jean got through his description of the lady, I had already classified him among my particular aversions.
When the doctor nodded so patronizingly to the dame, and spoke of his friendly protectorate, I thought I saw that the quick-witted woman not only comprehended his intimation, but denied it by the sudden glance she gave me from beneath her thin and arching eyebrows. So, when dinner was over, without saying a word to the doctor, I made a slight inclination of the head to Madame Duprez, and rising before the other guests, passed to her side and tendered my arm for a promenade on the balcony.
“Mon docteur,” said I as we left the room, “life, you know, is too short and precarious to suffer a monopoly of such blessings,”—looking intently into the lady’s eyes,—“besides which, we sailors, in defiance of you landsmen, go in for the most ‘perfect freedom of the seas.’”
Madame Duprez declared I was entirely right; that I was no pirate.—“Mais, mon capitaine,” said the fair one, as she leaned with a fond pressure on my arm, “I’d have no objection if you were, so that you’d capture me from that frightful gallipot! Besides, you sailors are always so gallant towards the ladies, and tell us such delightful stories, and bring us such charming presents when you come home, and love us so much while you’re in port, because you see so few when you are away! Now isn’t that a delightful catalogue raisonné of arguments why women should love les mâtelots?”
“Pity then, madame,” said I, “that you married a soldier.”
“Ah!” returned the ready dame, “I didn’t;—that was my mother’s match. In France, you know, the old folks marry us; but we take the liberty to love whomsoever we please!”
“But, what of Monsieur le capitaine, in the present instance?” interrupted I inquiringly.
“Ah! fi donc!” said Madame, “what bad taste to speak of an absent, husband when you have the liberty to talk with a present wife!”
In fact, the lovely Helen of this tavern-Troy was the dearest of coquettes, whose fence of tongue was as beautiful a game of thrust and parry as I ever saw played with Parisian foils. Du Jean had been horribly mortified by the contemptuous manner in which the threadbare Spaniard bore off his imaginary prize; and would probably have assailed me on the spot, before he knew my temper or quality, had not the lawyer drawn him aside on a plea of medical advice and given his inflamed honor time to cool.