CHAPTER LXXXIX.
MARSEILLES--MR. MOLE AS A LINGUIST--AN UGLY CUSTOMER AND HIS ENGLISHCONFEDERATE--A COMPACT OF MYSTERY--MR. MARKBY PLAYS A VERY DEEPGAME--THE SHADOW OF DANGER.
Our friends had been some days at sea.
The weather was fair, and their progress was for a time slow.
At length one day there was a cry--
"Land ho!"
"Which?" said our hero, who was anxious for any thing that would makehim forget his great sorrow for Thyra.
"I remarked 'Land ho!' Jack," said Mr. Mole, for he it was who firstdetected it.
"And I observed 'Which?' sir," said Jack.
"And why that unmeaning interrogation?" demanded Mr. Mole.
"Your speech is an anomaly, Mr. Mole," responded Jack, mimicking thevoice of his tutor in his happiest manner.
"Why so?"
"You say my question is unmeaning, and yet you ask an explanation ofit. If there is no meaning in it, how can I explain it?"
"Ahem!" coughed Mr. Mole. "No matter. You are too much given to uselessarguments, Jack. I believe you would argue with the doctor attendingyou on your deathbed--yea, with the undertaker himself who had to buryyou."
"That's piling it on, sir," said Jack, in a half-reflective mood. "Idare say I should have a shy at the doctor if he tried to provesomething too idiotic, but we must draw the line at the doctor. Icouldn't argue with the undertaker at my own funeral, but I'll tell youwhat, Mr. Mole, no doubt I shall argue with him if he puts it on toostiff in his bill when we put you away."
"Jack!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, inexpressibly shocked.
"A plain deal coffin," pursued Jack, apparently lost in deepcalculation; "an economical coffin, only half the length of an ordinarycoffin, because you could unscrew your legs, and leave them tosomeone."
"That is very unfeeling to talk of my funeral, dreadful!"
"You are only joking there, I know, sir," returned Jack, "because youwere talking of mine."
"Ahem!" said Mole, "do you see how near we are to land?"
"Quite so, quite so."
"Go and ask the captain the name of this port."
It proved to be Marseilles, and the captain knew it, as he had beensailing for it, and, moreover, they were very quickly ashore.
Mr. Mole was especially eager to air his French.
"You speak the language?" asked Jack.
Mr. Mole smiled superciliously at the question.
"Like a native, my dear boy, like a native," he replied.
"That's a good thing," said Jack, tipping the wink to Harry Girdwood;"for you can interpret all round."
* * * *
France was then going through one of its periodical upsets, and a gooddeal of unnecessary bother was made along the coast upon the landing ofpassengers.
Passports were partly dispensed with, but questions were put by fierceofficials as to your name and nationality, which all led up to nothing,for they accepted your reply implicitly as truth, and while itinconvenienced the general public, the Royalist, Republican, Orleanist,or whoever might chance to be of the revolutionary party for the timebeing, could chuckle as he told his fibs and passed on to the forbiddenland.
M. le Commissaire confronted Mr. Mole, and barred his passage tointerrogate him.
"_Pardon, m'sieur, veuillez bien me dire votre nom?_"
"What's that?" said Mole.
"_Votre nom, s'il vous plait_," repeated the commissaire.
"Really, I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"_Sapristi!_" ejaculated the commissaire, to one of his subordinates."_Quel type!_"
"Now, Mr. Mole," said Jack, who was close behind the old gentleman,"why don't you speak up?"
"I don't quite follow him."
"He's only asking a question, you know. You polly-voo like a native."
"Yes; precisely, Jack. But I don't follow his accent. He's somepeasant, I suppose."
"_Votre nom!_" demanded the official, rather fiercely this time.
"Now, then, Mr. Mole," cried a voice in the rear, "you're stoppingeveryone. Get it out and move on."
"Dear, dear me!" said Mole. "What does it mean?"
"He's asking your name," said Jack, "and you can't understand it."
"Oh!"
"I'll tell him for you, as you don't seem to know a word," said Jack."_Il s'appelle Ikey Mole_," he added to the commissaire.
"_Aike Moll_," repeated the commissaire. "_Il est Arabe?_"
"_Oui, monsieur. C'est un des lieutenants du grand Abd-el-Kader._"
"_Vraiment!_" exclaimed the commissaire, in a tone of mingled surpriseand respect. "_Passez, M'sieur Aike Moll._"[2]
[2] "He calls himself Ikey Mole," says Jack to the _commissaire de police_.
"_Aike Moll!_" repeats the commissaire, pronouncing the incongruous sounds as nearly as he can. "Why, he must be an Arab."
To which Jack, with all his ready impudence, replies--
"Yes, sir, he is an Arab. He was one of Abd-el-Kader's lieutenants."
We need scarcely remind our readers that Abd-el-Kader was the doughty Arab chief who made so heroic a resistance to the French in Algiers.
This satisfied the commissaire, who respectfully bade Mole pass on.
They went on, and Mole anxiously questioned Jack.
"I'm getting quite deaf," said he, by way of a pretext for not havingunderstood the conversation. "Whatever were you saying?"
"I told him your name was Isaac Mole, sir," returned Jack.
"You said Ikey Mole, sir," retorted Mole, "and that is a very greatliberty, sir."
"Not at all. Ike is the French for Isaac," responded the unblushingJack.
"But what was all that they were saying about Arab?"
"Arab!" repeated Jack, in seeming astonishment.
"Yes."
"Didn't hear it myself."
"I certainly thought I caught the word Arab," said Mr. Mole, givingJack a very suspicious glance.
"You never made a greater mistake, sir, in your life."
"How very odd."
"Very."
* * * *
The Cannebiere is the chief promenade in Marseilles, and theinhabitants of this important seaport are not a little proud of it.
Two men sat smoking cigarettes and sipping lazily at their _grog auvin_ at the door of one of then numerous cafes in the Cannebiere.
To these two men we invite the reader's attention.
One was a swarthy-looking Frenchman from the south, a man of a decentexterior, but with a fierce and restless glance.
He was the sort of man whom you would sooner have as a friend than asan enemy.
A steadfast friend--an implacable foe!
That was what you read in his peculiar physiognomy, in that odd mixtureof defiance and fearlessness, those anxious glances, frankness anddeceit, the varied expressions of which passed in rapid successionacross his countenance.
This man called himself Pierre Lenoir, although he was known in otherports by other names.
Pierre Lenoir was a sort of Jack of all trades.
He had been apprenticed to an engraver, and had shown remarkableaptitude for that profession, but, being of a roving and restlessdisposition, he ran away from his employer to ship on board a merchantvessel.
After a cruise or two he was wrecked, and narrowly escaped with hislife.
Tired of the sea, for awhile he obtained employment with a medallist,where his skill as an engraver stood him in good stead.
From this occupation he fled as soon as his ready adaptability had madehim a useful hand to his new master, and took to a roving life again.What he was now doing in Marseilles no one could positively assert.
How it was that Pierre Lenoir had such an abundant supply of readymoney, the progress of our narrative will show--for with it areconnected several of not the least exciting episodes in the career ofyo
ung Jack Harkaway.
So much for Pierre Lenoir.
Now for his companion at the cafe.
He was called Markby, and, as his name indicates, he was an Englishman.
Being but a poor French scholar, he had scraped up an acquaintance withPierre Lenoir, chiefly on account of the latter's proficiency in theEnglish language.
There is little to be said concerning Markby's past history, forreasons which will presently be apparent.
What further reason he may have had for cultivating the friendship ofthe rover, Pierre Lenoir, will probably show itself in due course.
* * * *
"I have disposed of that last batch of five-franc pieces," said Markby."Here are the proceeds."
"Keep it back," exclaimed Lenoir hurriedly.
"What for?"
"It is sheer madness for us to be seen conversing together," repliedLenoir, casting an anxious glance about him from behind his hat, whichhe held in his hand so as to shield his features, "much less to be seenexchanging money--why, it is suicidal--nothing less."
"Is there any danger, do you think?"
"Do I think? Do I know? Why, this place is literally alive withspies--_mouchards_ as we called them here. Every second man you meetis a _mouchard_."
"Do you mean it?"
"Rather."
"That's not a pleasant thing to know," said Markby.
"I don't agree with you there," replied Lenoir. "'Forewarned,forearmed,' is a proverb in your language. But now tell me about thisfriend and countryman of yours."
"He's no friend of mine," returned Markby. "I know him as a greattraveller, and one who has opportunities of placing more false----"
"Hush, imprudent!" interrupted Lenoir. "Call it stock. You know not howmany French spies may be passing, or how near we may be to danger."
Markby took the hint given him, and continued--
"Well, stock. He can place more--he has probably placed more than anyman alive. He travels about _en grand seigneur_--lords it in high placesand disposes of the counterf----"
"Stock."
"Stock, in regular loads. But he's as wary as a fox--nothing canapproach him in cunning."
"The very man I want," exclaimed Lenoir. "This fellow could, with myaid, make a fortune for himself and me in less than a year--a largefortune."
"You are very sanguine," said Markby, with a smile.
"I am, but not over sanguine. I speak by the book, for I know well whatI am talking of. You must introduce me."
"You are running on wildly," said Markby. "Did I not tell you that hedid not know me--that he would not know me if he did? So careful is hethat his own brother would fail to draw any thing from him concerningthe way in which he gets his living."
"_Dame!_" muttered Lenoir, "he seems a precious difficult fellow toapproach."
"Yes, on that subject," responded Markby; "but he's genial andagreeable enough if you introduce yourself by accident, as it were, andchat upon social topics generally, without the vaguest reference to thesubject nearest your heart."
"How shall I ever lead him up to the point?"
"Easily. For instance, talk about art matters. Allude to your galleryof sculpture. Ask him, is he fond of bas reliefs? Tell him of yourskill as a medallist."
"Medallist might put him on the scent, if he is so dreadfully wary,"said Lenoir.
"No fear. He would never dream of such a thing. Medalling being a sortof sister art to what most interests him, he would be sure to bite atthe chance. You lead him to your little underground snuggery, and oncethere all need for his wonderful caution will be at an end."
"I see," said Lenoir, rubbing his hands. "But stay"--and here his facegrew a bit serious--"this fellow is faithful?"
"True as steel," responded Markby.
"That's right," said Lenoir, with a look that caused a twinge ofuneasiness to be felt by his companion, "for woe betide the man thatplays me false."
"No fear of this man--man, I call him, but he is in appearance at leastlittle more than a lad, although he was travelled all over the world."
Here Markby arose to move away.
"Stop a bit," said Lenoir. "I have forgotten to ask rather an importantdetail."
"What is it?"
"The name of this fellow?"
"Jack Harkaway," was the reply.