Part 9 (1/2)
And he looked at me for a minute, and then laughed, and said, ”Yes, I've got it too. Don't you come near me,” for I had come into the room at sound of Carette's voice, and he looked very much nicer when he laughed.
”Oh--Hilaire!” cried the unseen Carette. ”What a great big--”
”Ta-ta!” laughed her brother. ”Little yellow heels should keep out of sight,”--which was not meant in rudeness, but only, according to an Island saying, that little people should not express opinions on matters which don't concern them.
Before he could say more, the door behind me swung open and a surprised voice cried--
”Diantre! What is this? And who are you, mon gars?” and I was facing Carette's father, Jean Le Marchant, of whose doings I had heard many a wild story on Sercq.
He was a very striking-looking man, tall and straight, and well-built. His face was keen as a hawk's, and tanned and seamed and very much alive. His eyes were very sharp and dark, under s.h.a.ggy white eyebrows. They seemed to go through me like a knife, and made me wish I had not come. His hair was quite white, and was cut so short that it bristled all over, and added much to his fierce wide-awake look, as though he scented dangers all round and was ready to tackle them with a firm hand. He had a long white moustache and no other hair on his face.
While I was still staring at him, Carette's voice came from its hiding-place--
”It is Phil Carre come to look for me, father. He is my good friend. You will give him welcome.”
”Ah-ha! Mademoiselle commands,” and the keen face softened somewhat and broke into a smile, which was still somewhat grim. ”Monsieur Phil Carre, I greet you! I can hardly say you are welcome, as I do not care for visitors.
But since you came to get news of the little one, I promise not to kill and eat you, as you seem to expect.”
”Merci, monsieur!” I faltered. For, from all accounts, he was quite capable of the first, though the second had not actually suggested itself to me.
”How did you come? I did not see any boat.”
”By the Gale de Jacob. I swam across.”
”Ma foi! Swam across! You have courage, mon gars;” and I saw that I had risen in his estimation.
”He swims like a fish and he has no fear,” chirped Carette from her hiding-place.
”All the same, bon Dieu, the Gouliot is no pond,” and he looked through me again. ”How old are you, mon gars?”
”Thirteen next year.”
”And what are you going to make of yourself when you grow up?”
”I don't know.”
”For boys of spirit there are always openings,” he said, and I knew very well what he meant, and shook my head.
”Ah, so! You are not free-traders at Belfontaine,” he laughed. At which I shook my head again, feeling a trifle ashamed of our uncommon virtue, which could not, I thought, commend itself to so notorious a defier of preventive law.
”All the same, he is a fine man, your grandfather, and a seaman beyond most. You will follow the sea?--or are you for the farming?”
”The sea sure, but it will be in the trading, I expect.”
”It is larger than the farming, but not very large after all.”
”When will I be able to see Carette, m'sieur?”
”Not for ten days or so. As soon as she is well enough I shall carry her over to Mistress Falla's. Then you can see her.”