Chapter LXX: A Crisis

Some days after this, Georgette and I were in the recess of a window of the drawing-room, ostensibly to watch the sunbeams casting their broad flakes of hazy light athwart the wooded hills, and on the slopes that lay between them and the sea. We were hand in hand, but silent and full of our own thoughts, which a gentle pressure from time to time alone indicated.

"My dear Georgette," said I; "I envy your peaceful seclusion here."

"You envy us!"

"Yes."

"You, a soldier--one who has led a life of bustle and excitement, and who, by the account of his friends, has been a veritable Wandering Jew?"

"Nevertheless, 'tis true; I envy this rural solitude; here we are quite lost in a forest of flowers, aloes, and palms."

"How romantic we are becoming!" said she merrily; "but when our tastes are so different, monsieur----"

"Ah, do not say so!"

"Even our races, and our creeds," she added, sighing; "so be pleased to say how or why?"

"Well; in your heart there seems to be filled here all the domestic void I feel in my own--a circle of near and dear relations. You have a father to consult and to embrace. Mine is in his grave, and I scarcely ever knew him. You have a mother, who, whenever she kisses you, makes me think of mine whom I left in her old age; you have two sisters, each beautiful as yourself, Georgette, who, each time that I behold them near you, make me think of my poor little Lotty in Scotland, far away."

"Ecosse! I have heard papa talk of that country; the sun never shines in England; and an old Abbé once assured me that the moon is only seen sometimes in Scotland; now tell me, M. l'Ecossais, is that true?"

"One day you shall see for yourself."

"Oh, Oliver," said she, almost weeping; "papa will never consent to your loving me."

"Do not say so, Georgette; for though I have my own fears on the subject, your misgivings make me wretched."

"Come, we must not be cast down," said she, with sudden gaiety, for she was full of impulses; and shaking back her rich golden hair, while her beautiful dark eyes sparkled with love and light, she opened the piano, and ran her rapid little fingers over the ivory keys.

"I shall sing to you."

"Thanks, Georgette."

"But what shall it be?"

"Whatever you please."

"Well then,--

Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!
Les aristocrats à la lanterns!"

"Georgette!"

"What is the matter?"

"Can you profane your dear lips by a song so horrible?"

"So republican, you would say. Ah, _mon Dieu_," said she, shrugging her white shoulders, "I only meant to be droll, and you actually scold me already. Well--is this better?"

Halte là! halte là!
La Garde Royale est là!

And she waggishly sang a verse of this song, which was wont to be a favourite with the Chevalier Dutriel.

"'Tis a camp ditty, and if mamma hears me, she will not be pleased. Ah," she added, turning over her music, "here is something you will like better:--

Adieu, charmant pays de France!
Que je dois tant chérir,
Berceau de mon heureuse enfance,
Adieu, te quitter c'est mourir!"

and so on, she sang with exquisite sweetness the _Adieux de Marie Stuart_. We were, I thought, alone; my arm was around her, and turning her dear little face to mine, I kissed her tenderly.

"_Morbleu!_" said an angry voice close by.

I turned, and saw her father surveying us sternly, as he appeared with unpleasant suddenness at one of the drawing-room windows, which unfolded to the tiled floor of the verandah. Striking his gold-headed cane with great irritation on the tiles, with his wig and old-fashioned coat, he bore the closest resemblance to the angry Father of the old comedy that ever I beheld.

"Retire, mademoiselle," said he; "and as for _you_, M. le Capitaine, you will be pleased--_sacre!_--to follow me to the library."

Georgette retired--she almost fled, while I followed Père de Thoisy into his library, which was decorated in a very florid style, after that of his late Most Christian Majesty's "snuggery" in the Louvre. Coldly, but politely, the old gentleman at once brought me "to book" on the subject of my intentions.

"Monsieur," said he, "I owe you much--my family owe you much; but you must pardon me demanding on what terms you are with my eldest daughter?"

"Monsieur de Thoisy," I began, not knowing what the deuce to say; "I beseech you to consider----"

"To the point at once," said he drily, "to the point, M. le Capitaine, as a man of honour, for such I deem you.",

"M. de Thoisy, I love her."

"_Parbleu_! I dreaded some such _dénoûment_ as this! but is it honest--is it a fair return for my hospitality--my unceasing kindness to you?"

"We cannot control our hearts, my dear sir."

"But we may control our passions!" said he impetuously; "and I believe there is no heart in the matter."

"Alas! sir, do not talk thus; what heart could have escaped here? If I had not fallen in love with Georgette, I must have done so with Julie--if not with Julie, with Claire; for three girls more winning and charming----"

"_Sacre_! I can understand all that; but tell me, does Georgette love you in return?"

"I rejoice in the hope----"

"Only the hope?"

"In the promise--the avowal that she does love me."

"Georgette will be rich, M. le Capitaine; I can give each of my girls a portion fit for any demoiselle at the Court of the Most Christian King (the hat was raised at these words), while you, monsieur, have only your epaulettes and your sword."

"My epaulettes I won at the risk of my life in the struggle we have commenced to save French Royalists from French Republicans; what other mission brought us here? My sword, M. de Thoisy, saved you from a dreadful death, when all your francs and livres would have failed to do so."

"_Parbleu!_ you are right--pardon me," said the old French gentleman, who did not lack generosity.

"Georgette's wealth would be quite enough for two; but I shall make over to her, or to you," said I, by a happy thought, and with an air of splendid generosity, "a ship that I possess."

"A ship?"

"A ship containing thirty millions of pieces of eight."

"_Mon Dieu_! M. le Capitaine, are you in your senses?" exclaimed De Thoisy, holding up his hands.

"Quite," said I, while M. de Thoisy elevated his shoulders to his ears, and his eyebrows to the roots of his periwig.

"Where is this ship--what is this you tell me?--what is her name?"

"_La Lima_."

"That sounds Spanish."

"She was Spanish."

"Thirty millions of pieces of eight!"

"I give you my word of honour that I can put you in possession of such a ship, as her existence is known to me alone."

"Is it credible--_mille tonnerres!_--can it be?"

"You believe me?"

The old French gentleman laid his hand upon his breast, and replied by a profound bow.

"But will monsieur be so good as explain?"

I then related my history of the sunken galleon in the Isle of Tortoises, and he heard with growing wonder my detail of her exact position in the cavern, and the treasure she contained.

"Thirty millions of pieces of eight--ah! Marie, Mère de Dieu! One must boil a good many acres of sugar-cane to realize such a sum as that!"

"Well, take her, monsieur, and all she contains--but give me your daughter."

"M. le Capitaine--Georgette is yours."

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