“I am Monsieur Seguin, any of these good people here know me—” murmurs of assent from the crowd, “you have saved my life at the risk of your own, I am your friend. Ask what you will, I am not poor, my house is yours, and all I possess. My life is yours, for have you not saved it?”
“Nothing, nothing,” cried Gaspard, “I have done nothing. I am not afraid of snakes—” then with a touch of Tartarin in his tone, “They never bite me.”
They never bit him! He who had never handled one before—but the crowd knew nothing of this, they took it as a statement of fact. This man, then, was a prodigy, he handled the dreaded _fer de lance_ as a poulterer handles a chicken. Before noon that fact had become the news of the day in St. Pierre, and Gaspard half a hero, half a wizard.
“All the same,” said old M. Seguin, “you have saved my life, monsieur, but I will thank you in another place than this—have you breakfasted? No? Well then, I pray of you come with me and accept of my hospitality.”
With his hand upon Gaspard’s arm he led him away through the crowd which divided before them, across the Place, across the Rivière Roxelane, into the Rue Victor Hugo.
During the meal the old gentleman who had a strong and vivacious personality of his own, questioned his guest as to his past, present, and future. Though good-hearted, evidently, and evidently a power in St. Pierre, M. Seguin was not of the highest refinement. He shewed this in the manner in which he cross-questioned his _vis-à-vis_, for at once he had gauged Gaspard’s social position and his manner was that of an employer standing treat to an employée, but his every movement and every word, the tone of his voice and the kindness in his old eyes proclaimed the fact that he was a “straight man.”
Gaspard told of the wreck, and sketched his story till he came to the name of Sagesse.
“Sagesse!” cried his questioner. “Pierre Sagesse?”
One might have fancied that another _fer de lance_ had shown itself, so great was the loathing and hatred that appeared in the face of M. Seguin. Then he smothered his emotions and helped himself to more coffee.
“Beware of that man. He is not a man, he is a _fer de lance_. Poisonous. He landed you here? Well, you will of course have no more to do with him.”