A Romance of the West Indies. Эжен Сю

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      "Where does he come from, this would-be husband, my dear James?"

      "From France."

      "France! he comes from France to espouse me, the deuce!"

      "Angela, you know that I do not like to hear you swear," says the mulatto, with pretended seriousness.

      "Pardon, Captain Hurricane," replies the young woman, dropping her eyes with a hypocritical air. "I only meant to signify that I find your news very astonishing. It appears that my reputation has reached Europe."

      "Do not be so vain, my dear. It was on board the Unicorn that this worthy paladin heard you spoken of, and by the mere mention of your riches he has become enamored, yes, madly enamored of you. This, I trust, will take down your pride."

      "The impertinent fellow! and who is this man, James?"

      "The Chevalier de Croustillac."

      "Who?"

      "The Chevalier de Croustillac."

      "This is the name of the pretender to my hand?" And Angela breaks into a merry peal of laughter which nothing can arrest, and the mulatto finally joins in her merriment.

      The two have scarcely subsided when Mirette enters preceded by two other mulattresses who carry a table sumptuously set out in gilded dishes. The two slaves place the table near the divan; the captain arises to take a chair, while Angela, kneeling on the edge of the sofa, uncovers the dishes one after another, and examines the table with the air of an epicurean kitten.

      "Are you hungry, James? As for me, I am famished," says Angela. And as if to prove without doubt this assertion, she opens her coral lips and shows two rows of ravishing little pearly teeth which she clinches twice.

      "Angela, my dear, you were certainly badly brought up," said the captain, helping her to a portion of dorado, served with ham and an appetizing sauce.

      "Captain Hurricane, if I receive you at my table, it is not that you may scold," said Angela, making an almost imperceptible grimace to the mulattress. Then she continues, attacking her fish bravely, and pecking at her bread like a bird, "If he scolds me, Mirette, I will not receive him again?"

      "No, mistress," said Mirette.

      "And I will give his place to Rend-your-soul, the buccaneer?"

      "Yes, mistress."

      "Or to Youmäale, the cannibal?"

      "Yes, mistress."

      "You hear that, sir?" said Angela.

      "Never mind, my dear, I am not jealous, you know that; beauty is as the sun, it shines for all the world."

      "Because you are not jealous, then, I will pardon you. Help yourself to what is before you. What is that, Mirette?"

      "Madame, the roe of fish fried in pigeon's fat."

      "Which is not equal to the fat of quail," says the captain, "but it must have the juice of a lemon while it is warm."

      "See what a glutton! Ah! but my future spouse, I had forgotten him. Pour me some wine, Mirette."

      The filibuster, corsair as he is, forestalls the mulattress and pours out some iced sherry for Angela.

      "It must be that I love you, to drink this, I who prefer the wines of France." And Blue Beard drinks resolutely three drops of the sherry, which puts fresh life into her lips and blue eyes and tinged her cheeks a carmine hue.

      "But to return to my future spouse. How is he? Is he agreeable? Is he worthy to join the others?"

      Mirette, in spite of her passive submission, cannot prevent a tremor in hearing her mistress speak thus, although the poor slave must be accustomed to these atrocious pleasantries, and doubtless many greater enormities.

      "What ails you, Mirette?"

      "Nothing, mistress."

      "If you are unwell——"

      "No, mistress."

      "You would be sorry to see me marry again? I shall not do so for a long time. Go, child." Then, addressing Captain Hurricane, "And the Chevalier de—de—what did you say was his name?"

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