Ten Years Later. Dumas Alexandre

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could not put it to anybody better than to me, for in truth I can make you a famous reply. Imagine, my lord, that when putting into Ostend to sell the few mackerel we had caught, I saw the ex-king walking on the downs waiting for his horses, which were to take him to the Hague. He is a rather tall, pale man, with black hair, and somewhat hard-featured. He looks ill, and I don't think the air of Holland agrees with him."

      Monk followed with the greatest attention the rapid, heightened, and diffuse conversation of the fisherman, in a language which was not his own, but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility. The fisherman on his part, employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an English word, and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any language, but was, in truth, pure Gascon. Fortunately his eyes spoke for him, and that so eloquently, that it was possible to lose a word from his mouth, but not a single intention from his eyes. The general appeared more and more satisfied with his examination. "You must have heard that this ex-king, as you call him, was going to the Hague for some purpose?"

      "Oh, yes," said the fisherman, "I heard that."

      "And what was his purpose?"

      "Always the same," said the fisherman. "Must he not always entertain the fixed idea of returning to England?"

      "That is true," said Monk, pensively.

      "Without reckoning," added the fisherman, "that the stadtholder – you know, my lord, William II.?"

      "Well?"

      "He will assist him with all his power."

      "Ah! did you hear that said?"

      "No, but I think so."

      "You are quite a politician, apparently," said Monk.

      "Why, we sailors, my lord, who are accustomed to study the water and the air – that is to say, the two most changeable things in the world – are seldom deceived as to the rest."

      "Now, then," said Monk, changing the conversation, "I am told you are going to provision us."

      "I shall do my best, my lord."

      "How much do you ask for your fish in the first place?"

      "Not such a fool as to name a price, my lord."

      "Why not?"

      "Because my fish is yours."

      "By what right?"

      "By that of the strongest."

      "But my intention is to pay you for it."

      "That is very generous of you, my lord."

      "And the worth of it – "

      "My lord, I fix no price."

      "What do you ask, then?"

      "I only ask to be permitted to go away."

      "Where? – to General Lambert's camp?"

      "I!" cried the fisherman; "what should I go to Newcastle for, now I have no longer any fish?"

      "At all events, listen to me."

      "I do, my lord."

      "I shall give you some advice."

      "How, my lord! – pay me and give me good advice likewise! You overwhelm me, my lord."

      Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, about whom he still appeared to entertain some suspicion. "Yes, I shall pay you, and give you a piece of advice, for the two things are connected. If you return, then, to General Lambert – "

      The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which signified, "If he persists in it, I won't contradict him."

      "Do not cross the marsh," continued Monk: "you will have money in your pocket, and there are in the marsh some Scotch ambuscaders I have placed there. Those people are very intractable; they understand but very little of the language which you speak, although it appears to me to be composed of three languages. They might take from you what I had given you, and, on your return to your country, you would not fail to say that General Monk has two hands, the one Scotch, and the other English; and that he takes back with the Scotch hand what he has given with the English hand."

      "Oh! general, I shall go where you like, be sure of that," said the fisherman, with a fear too expressive not to be exaggerated. "I only wish to remain here, if you will allow me to remain."

      "I readily believe you," said Monk, with an imperceptible smile, "but I cannot, nevertheless, keep you in my tent."

      "I have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship should point out where you will have me posted. Do not trouble yourself about us – with us a night soon passes away."

      "You shall be conducted to your bark."

      "As your lordship pleases. Only, if your lordship would allow me to be taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful."

      "Why so?"

      "Because the gentlemen of your army, in dragging my boat up the river with a cable pulled by their horses, have battered it a little upon the rocks of the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my hold, my lord."

      "The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think."

      "My lord, I am quite at your orders," said the fisherman; "I shall empty my baskets where you wish; then you will pay me, if you please to do so; and you will send me away, if it appears right to you. You see I am very easily managed and pleased, my lord."

      "Come, come, you are a very good sort of a fellow," said Monk, whose scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a single shade in the clear eye of the fisherman. "Holloa, Digby!" An aide-de-camp appeared. "You will conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little tents of the canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be near their bark, and yet will not sleep on board to-night. What is the matter, Spithead?"

      Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of tobacco for his supper. Spithead, having entered the general's tent without being sent for, had drawn this question from Monk.

      "My lord," said he, "a French gentleman has just presented himself at the outposts and wishes to speak to your honor."

      All this was said, be it understood, in English; but notwithstanding, it produced a slight emotion in the fisherman, which Monk, occupied with his sergeant, did not remark.

      "Who is the gentleman?" asked Monk.

      "My lord," replied Spithead, "he told it me, but those devils of French names are so difficult to pronounce for a Scotch throat, that I could not retain it. I believe, however, from what the guards say, that it is the same gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and whom your honor would not receive."

      "That is true; I was holding a council of officers."

      "Will your honor give any orders respecting this gentleman?"

      "Yes, let him be brought here."

      "Must we take any precautions?"

      "Such as what?"

      "Binding

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