‘I am not so sure of that,’ answered Alphonse. ‘I have known Germans and Danes, and I have known Dutchmen and Swedes who have spoken English as well as madame. Uncle, I know a thing or two. Be a waiter and you will learn much to astonish you. But I agree that she is an Englishwoman, yet not because she speaks English well. Her style is English, and you will find that she is a lady of rank.’
This conversation I was able to imperfectly follow. I felt too ill, too miserably sick at heart to sit in that cabin conversing, and begged Alphonse to conduct me to my berth. He did so with the same gentleness and courteous attention with which he had led me from it. Before leaving me he said, ‘If it is fine to-morrow I shall have the pleasure to take you on deck. The fresh air will do you a great deal of good. And, who knows? your memory doubtless left you while you were in the boat. It is, therefore, in the sea, and when you look at the sea it may come up to you out of it.’
I enjoyed some hours’ sleep that night and awoke refreshed and stronger. I tried to remember if I had dreamt. Before I fell asleep it entered my head to fancy that if I dreamt of even a little bit of my past—that even if in a vision, the merest corner of the black curtain would rise to enable me to catch a glimpse of what was behind when I awoke—then by remembering that I should end in remembering all. But when I tried to think if I had dreamt I found that my slumber had been without visions. I dwelt upon those dark hours of sleep, but they had been dreamless, and there was nothing to evoke.
It was a fine bright morning. The vessel was sailing along almost upright, with a regular succession of floating falls and risings of that hinder part of her in which my berth was situated. The glory of the ocean morning was upon the waters; they flashed in blueish silver windily, and the dazzle rising off them streamed in trembling splendour through the porthole, and filled the little coarse and homely berth with ripples of lustre.
Alphonse brought me some soup, biscuit, and a new-laid egg from the hencoop in which were stocked the few hens which the brig carried. When I had finished the repast I arose and dressed myself, and entered the cabin or living-room, where sat Alphonse playing the fiddle, whilst the mate, Hénin, seated on one of the chests or lockers, with half a tumbler of claret in one hand and a biscuit in the other, kept time by nodding.
‘Very good, indeed, madame; very good, indeed!’ cried Alphonse, putting his fiddle down and clapping his hands. ‘I did not believe you would get up until the afternoon. Come! you are better, and you will be well before we arrive at Toulon, where you will find your memory waiting for you.’
‘I do not understand,’ exclaimed the fierce-looking mate Hénin, staring at me with gleaming eyes, though he addressed Alphonse and spoke in French, ‘why it is that the lady does not remember. Can she recollect yesterday? Undoubtedly,’ he exclaimed with a savage gesture. ‘Then the brain that can recall yesterday should be able to bring back as many yesterdays as it needs. Let the lady try, and she will remember.’
‘Bah!’ said Alphonse. ‘Do not mind this man,’ said he. ‘He does not understand English, and I can say what I like. Do not suppose him fierce because he looks so. He has a tender heart, and weeps easily. Yet there is not a more excellent sailor in the French marine; at least my uncle says so, and my uncle is a very clever man. Shall I now conduct you on deck?’
‘I should like to go on deck,’ said I.
‘Let me see; you will want a chair. You are not yet able to stand long or walk very far, and you have no covering for your head.’