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"Ah, monsieur," returned Julie, "it is treason in my brother to bring you thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon, Penelon!" An old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade in the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid of tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek.
"Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily for twelve hours we sprung a leak. 'Penelon, said the captain, 'I think we are sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold. I gave him the helm, and descended; there was already three feet of water. 'All hands to the pumps! I shouted; but it was too late, and it seemed the more we pumped the more came in.
"The captain, M. Morrel, he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please God, it won't be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and hearty." "Well, now tell your story, Penelon."
"And I also," said Morrel thoughtfully, "have heard something like this from an old sailor named Penelon." "Ah," cried Albert, "it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me; you are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the labyrinth?" "My dear Albert," said Debray, "what you tell us is so extraordinary."
"Well, then, three months," said Penelon. "Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows," said Morrel. "At another time," added he, "I should have said, Give them, besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed, and the little money that remains to me is not my own." Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with them.
In the court he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a hundred francs in either hand, seemed unable to make up his mind to retain them. "Come with me, my friend," said the Englishman; "I wish to speak to you." The Fifth of September.
Four years ago, Penelon was at Trieste Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the garden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener Penelon, when he was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point of embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who called on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this letter on the fifth of September.
The worthy shipowner knew, from Penelon's recital, of the captain's brave conduct during the storm, and tried to console him. He brought him also the amount of his wages, which Captain Gaumard had not dared to apply for. As he descended the staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was going up. Penelon had, it would seem, made good use of his money, for he was newly clad.
She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M. Morrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of the senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the testimony.
An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling the remains of a tarpaulin between his hands. "Good-day, M. Morrel," said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles the previous evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon. "Good-day, Penelon," returned Morrel, who could not refrain from smiling through his tears, "where is the captain?"
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