THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
He drew the fugitives to a small room, or closet. When the door was shut he sat down, his mouth and face writhing with the import of the information he could not bring himself to convey.
“Ods-life, man,” growled Cornbury, “have ye the twitches? Speak out!”
“Monsieur le Chevalier,” said Jacquard, “’tis no cruise for you. We go to the Havana and Maracaibo and—” He hesitated again.
“Out with it before ye get in irons. Ye hang in the wind like a fluttering maid.”
“Well, monsieur, we are a flibustier—no more, no less,” he growled. “Voilà, you have it. I had hoped—”
To his surprise, Monsieur Mornay broke into a wild laugh. “You, Jacquard—honest Jacquard—a farbon, a pirato?”
“Well, not just that, monsieur—a flibustier,” he said, sulkily. “There is a difference. Besides, the times were bad. I went to the Spanish Main—”
“And became a boucanier—”
“Monsieur, listen. We are not a common pirato. No, monsieur. This ship is owned by a
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