"Well, then, in heaven's name, if it be so," cried the captain, "let us talk about something else--and above all, let us drink. This old rum is a sovereign remedy for the blues. Your health, my friend."
Both drank after touching glasses, and then silence again ensued.
"Now, my dear Oliver," resumed the captain, "at last we are safe in Boston. We leave tomorrow. What do you intend to do?"
"You remember our conversation at Brest?"
"I have not forgotten it, but I never seriously entertained the idea. We had dined rather copiously."
"We were very sober. There were two bottles on the table, one empty and the other nearly full. I then told you that though I had only just returned to France after an absence of ten years, I was compelled to leave at a moment's notice, and to leave without raising any suspicion. I wanted to depart without anyone being able to obtain the slightest clue; you remember," he added.
"I do, and I told you that I would run the blockade that very night, if the weather turned out as bad as I expected. Did I keep my promise?"
"With all the loyalty of your honest heart. I also told you I intended remaining in America."
"It is to that madcap resolution I object," said the captain emphatically. "Why not stay with me? You are an excellent sailor--you shall be my chief officer."
"No, my friend. I can accept nothing which can ever tempt me to return to France," he answered.
"Horribly. Come, my friend, as we shall part for ever tomorrow, I will tell you my history."
"I will be brief. Sad as my story is, it is not very long."
"Go on," replied Captain Durand, filling up two more glasses of rum, and lighting a fresh cigar for himself.
"I will not sermonise, but begin at the beginning. I was born in Paris, but might be English, German, or even Russian, for all I know. I am simply aware that my birthplace was Paris, in the house of a doctor, where my mother took refuge. It was in the Rue St. Honoré I first saw the light but, as soon as I could be removed, was sent to the Foundling. There I remained four years, until a loving young couple, who had lost their only child, adopted me. They were poor, and lived on the third floor of a wretched old house, in the Rue Plumet, where, I must own, I had enough, but of very coarse, food."