Avarice-Anger Part 38

Twelve years after the events we have just related, late in the month of March, 1812, about two o'clock in the afternoon a traveller walked into the inn known as the Imperial Eagle, the only tavern in the town of Sorville, which was then the second station on the post-road between Dieppe and Paris.

This traveller, who was a man in the prime of life, wore a tarpaulin hat and a thick blue reefer jacket, and looked like a petty officer or a sailing master in the merchant service. His hair and whiskers were red, his complexion light, his expression stern and impa.s.sible, and he spoke French without the slightest accent though he was an Englishman.

Walking straight up to the landlord, he said: "Can you tell me if a dark-complexioned man dressed about as I am, but very dark-complexioned and with a strong Italian accent, did not come here this morning? His name is Pietri."

"I have seen no one answering either to that name or description, monsieur."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly sure."

"Is there any other inn in the town?"

"No, thank Heaven! monsieur, so parties travelling either by diligence or post patronise me, as the post-station is only a few yards from my door."

"So there is a relay station near here."

"On the other side of the street, almost directly opposite."

"Can you give me a room and have a breakfast prepared for two persons? I am expecting some one who will call and inquire for Master Dupont, for that is my name."

"Very well, monsieur."

"As soon as this person comes, you will serve breakfast in my room."

"Very well, and monsieur's baggage, shall I send for that?"

"I have no baggage. Have many post-carriages pa.s.sed to-day?"

"Not a single one, monsieur."

"Neither from Paris nor Dieppe?"

"No, monsieur, neither from Paris nor Dieppe. But, by the way, as you came from the last named place, you must have seen those wonderful men everybody is talking about."

"What wonderful men?"

"Why, that famous corsair who is death to the English, the brave Captain l'Endurci (a good name for a privateer, isn't it?). With his brig _The h.e.l.l-hound_ (another appropriate name by the way), that goes through the water like a fish, not a single English s.h.i.+p seems to escape him. He gobbles them all up, his last haul being a number of vessels loaded with wheat, that he captured after a terrible fight. A wonderful piece of good luck, for wheat is so scarce now! They say the people of Dieppe have gone wild over him! He must have been born under a lucky star, for though it is said that he fights like a tiger, he has never been wounded. Is that true? Do you know him? What kind of a looking man is he? He must be terribly ferocious-looking, and people say he dresses very strangely. You, being a sailor, have probably seen him."

"Never," dryly replied the stranger, who did not appear to share the innkeeper's admiration for the privateer.

Then he added:

"Show me to my room, and when the person who inquires for Master Dupont comes, bring him to me at once. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, monsieur."

"And as soon as the person comes you are to serve breakfast."

"Very well, monsieur. I will show you to your room now."

"Is it a front room?"

"Yes, monsieur, with two large windows."

"I want some of your best wine, remember."

"Give yourself no uneasiness; you will be perfectly satisfied, I think,"

replied the innkeeper.

About a quarter of an hour afterward a second guest entered the inn.

This man also wore a heavy pea-jacket, and his swarthy skin, jet-black hair, and hard, almost repulsive features gave him a decidedly sinister appearance. After casting a quick glance around, the newcomer said, in bad French, and with an Italian accent, for he was a native of the island of Malta:

"Is there a man named Dupont here?"

"Yes, monsieur, and I will take you to his room at once if you will follow me."

Subsequently, when the host had placed breakfast on the table, he received orders to retire and not return until he was summoned.

As soon as the two strangers found themselves alone together, the Maltese, striking the table a terrible blow with his clenched fist, exclaimed in English:

"That dog of a smuggler has backed out; all is lost!"

"What are you saying?"

"The truth, as surely as I would take delight in burying this knife in the heart of the coward who betrayed us," and as he spoke he plunged his knife into the table.

"d.a.m.nation!" exclaimed the Englishman, startled out of his usual phlegm, "and the captain is to pa.s.s through the town about nightfall."

"Are you sure?"

"This morning just as I was leaving Dieppe our friend told me that the captain had ordered post-horses for four o'clock this afternoon, so he will arrive here between five and six."

"_Mille tonnerres!_ everything seemed to favour our plans, and but for this miserable smuggler--"

"Pietri, the case is not so desperate as you think, perhaps, after all.

At all events this violence will avail nothing, so let us talk the matter over calmly."

"Calmly, when rage fairly blinds me!"

"A blind man can not see his road."

"If you can be calm, you do not hate this man as I do."

"I do not?"

It is impossible to give the reader any adequate conception of the tone in which the Englishman uttered these words.