The King's Own. Фредерик Марриет

      “Ah, sare,” replied the Frenchman, relaxing the stern wrinkles of his brow, “c’est bien dit; you will make de apology to de dog. Sans doute, he is de principal, I am only de second. C’est une affaire arrangée. Moustache, viens ici Moustache” (the dog came up to his master). Monsieur est très faché de t’avoir brulé le nez.

      “Monsieur Moustache,” said McElvina, taking off his hat with mock gravity to the dog, who seemed determined to keep at a respectful distance, “je vous demande mille excuses.”

      “Ah! que c’est charmant!” cried some of the fair sex, who, as well as the men, had been attracted by, and were listening to the dispute. “Que Monsieur l’Anglais est drôle: et voyez Moustache, comme il a l’air content—vraiment c’est un chien d’esprit.”

      “Allez, Moustache,” said his master, who was now all smiles, “donnez la patte à monsieur—donnez donc. Ah, sare, he forgive you, I am very sure—il n’a pas de malice, but he is afraid of de cigar. De burnt shild dred de vater, as your great Shakespeare say.”

      “C’est un chien de talent: il a beaucoup de sentiment. Je suis bien fâché de t’avoir blessé, monsieur.”

      “Et monsieur parle Français?”

      “I should esteem myself fortunate, if I spoke your language as well as you do mine,” replied McElvina, in French.

      This compliment, before so many bystanders, completely won the heart of the vain and choleric Frenchman.

      “Ah, sare, you are too complaisant. I hope I shall have de pleasure to make your acquaintance. Je m’appelle Monsieur Auguste de Poivre. J’ai l’honneur de vous présenter une carte d’adresse. I live on de top of my mother’s—sur l’entresol. My mother live on de ground—rez-de-chaussée. Madame ma mère will be delighted to receive a monsieur of so much vit and adresse.” So saying, away went Monsieur Auguste de Poivre, followed by Moustache, who was “all von and de same ting.”

      “Well, we live and learn,” said McElvina, laughing, as soon as the Frenchman was at a little distance; “I never thought that I should have made an apology to a dog.”

      “Oh, but,” replied Debriseau, “you forget that he was Un chien de sentiment.”

      “You may imagine, from my behaviour, that I consider him a wiser puppy than his master, for he ran away from fire, whereas his master tried all he could to get into it. Some of our countrymen would have humoured him, and turned a comedy into a tragedy—I set a proper value on my life, and do not choose to risk it about trifles.”

      “There has been more than one valuable life thrown away about a dog, in my remembrance,” said Debriseau. “I think you behaved in a sensible manner to get rid of the affair as you did; but you would have done better not to have burnt the dog’s nose.”

      “Granted,” replied McElvina; “the more so, as I have often remarked, that there is no object in the world, except your children or your own self; in which the meum is so powerful, and the tuum so weak. You caress your own dog, and kick a strange one; you are pleased with the clamorous barking of your own cur, and you curse the same noise from another. The feeling is as powerful, almost, as that of a mother, who thinks her own ugly cub a cherub compared to others, and its squallings the music of the spheres. It is because there is no being that administers so much to the self-love of his master. He submits, with humility, to the blows inflicted in the moment of irritation, and licks the hand that corrects. He bears no revengeful feelings, and is ready to fondle and caress you the moment that your good humour returns. He is, what man looks in vain for among his kind, a faithful friend, without contradiction—the very perfection of a slave. The abject submission on his part, which would induce you to despise him, becomes a merit, when you consider his courage, his fidelity, and his gratitude. I cannot think what Mahomet was about when he pronounced his fiat against them, as unclean.”

      “Well,” said Debriseau, “I agree with Mahomet that they are not clean, especially puppies. There’s that little beast at Monsieur Picardon’s, I declare—”

      “Pooh,” interrupted McElvina, laughing, “I don’t mean it in that sense—I mean that, in a despotic country, the conduct of a dog towards his master should be held up as an example for imitation; and I think that the banner of the Moslem should have borne the dog, instead of the crescent, as an emblem of blind fidelity and tacit submission.”

      “That’s very true,” said Debriseau; “but, nevertheless, I wish mademoiselle’s puppy were either taught manners or thrown over the quay.”

      “Ce n’est pas un chien de sentiment,” replied McElvina, laughing. “But it is nearly dark. Allons au cabaret.”

      They returned to the inn; and the wind, on the ensuing morning, blowing strong from a favourable quarter, Willy and Debriseau accompanied McElvina down to the mole, from whence he embarked on board of the sloop, which was already under way, and in the course of an hour was out of sight.

      On the following day, Captain Debriseau accompanied Willy to the pension, where our hero remained nearly five months, occasionally visited by the Guernsey captain, when he returned from his smuggling trips, and more rarely receiving a letter from McElvina, who had safely landed his cargo, and was latterly at Havre, superintending the fitting out of his new vessel. Our hero made good progress during the few months that he remained at the pension, and when McElvina returned to take him away, not only could speak the French language with fluency, but had also made considerable progress in what Sir W. C—used to designate in his toast as “the three R’s,”—viz., “Reading, ’Riting, and ’Rithmetic.”

      The lugger which had been built for McElvina by his employer was now ready, and, bidding farewell to Debriseau, who continued in the Cherbourg trade, our hero and his protector journeyed en diligence to Havre.