I found Monsieur de Villereine waiting on the quay for me. As soon as we had got clear of the town, I began to speak to him on the subject. As I went on, I was surprised at the extraordinary agitation he exhibited.
“Do I understand from you, my dear sir, that you yourself were carried away from this island when about four years of age?” he asked, pulling up his horse, as if he felt unable to guide the animal, and gazing at me earnestly.
“One of my mates, who has acted the part of a father to me, has assured me so,” I answered, “though I myself have a very indistinct recollection even of events which occurred much after that.”
“The ways of heaven are indeed mysterious,” exclaimed Monsieur de Villereine. “At the time you mention, my second son, two years younger than Henri, while in charge of a black nurse, was lost to us. The poor woman was wounded by a chance shot during an attack from an English squadron, and she died shortly afterwards without being able to give any account of what had become of the child, though we had hopes that he had been carried on board one of the men-of-war. As, however, two of them were afterwards lost, we abandoned all expectation of ever again seeing our son. I must not raise your hopes too high, nor my own, and yet when I look at your features, and think of what my son might have been, I cannot but believe that you are indeed my lost boy. His name, too, was Charles, which may be a remarkable coincidence. You tell me that that name was given you on board the ship.”
As may be supposed, my heart beat violently as Monsieur de Villereine said this; yet I could not help trusting that he was indeed my father.
That he might himself make inquiries of Dick, I offered to send on board at once for my mate. We accordingly drove back into the town. Dick soon arrived at the hotel, where we remained for him. Monsieur de Villereine cross-questioned him narrowly, and on his producing the coral I spoke of, any doubts he might have entertained vanished.
“My dear boy,” he exclaimed, embracing me, “you are indeed my long-lost son. Your recovery will, I trust, be the means of preserving your poor mother’s life, for she has, I fear, a great grief in store for her; for, although she hoped for the best, I cannot but see that your poor brother Henri’s days are numbered.”
I need not repeat what more my father said. Taking Dick in the carriage, we drove rapidly home. My father hurried in first to prepare my mother, and in a few minutes I had the happiness of being clasped in her arms, and receiving the affectionate kisses of my sister Emilie and the warm congratulations of poor Henri.
“I always loved you as a brother,” he exclaimed; “and now I am indeed delighted to find that you are so in reality.”
I was scarcely aware how quickly the time had gone by, when carriage wheels were heard approaching the house.