If there is in our civilized¹ states a profession more arduous² than others it is surely that of the sailor. So arduous is it, that we are almost disposed to ask how men can be found bold enough to embrace it, and firm enough in their resolution not to abandon it after having tried it. Not because of the hazards, the fatigues⁴, and the dangers connected with it, but because it creates an existence apart, and because the conditions it imposes seem to be incompatible⁵ with free will.  
Still no one is more attached to his home than the sailor. There are few among them who are not married. And by a kind of special grace they are apt to enjoy their short happiness as if it were for eternity⁶, indifferent as to what the morning may bring.
 
But behold⁷! one fine morning, all of a sudden, a big letter comes from the department.
 
It is an order to sail.
 
He must go, abandoning every thing and everybody,—mother, family, and friends, the wife he has married the day before, the young mother who sits smiling by the cradle of her first-born, the betrothed⁸ who was looking joyfully⁹ at her bridal veil. He must go, and stifle¹⁰ all those ominous¹¹ voices which rise from the depth of his heart, and say to him, “Will you ever return? and, if you return, will you find them all, your dear ones? and, if you find them, will they not have changed? will they have preserved your memory as faithfully as you have preserved theirs?”
 
To be happy, and to be compelled to open to mishap¹² this fatal door, absence! Hence it is only in comic operas, and inferior novels, that the sailors are seen to sing their most cheerful songs at the moment when a vessel¹³ is about to sail on a long and perilous¹⁴ voyage. The moment is, in reality, always a sad one, very grave and solemn.
 
Such could not fail to be the scene also, when “The Conquest” sailed,—the ship on board of which Daniel Champcey had been ordered as lieutenant¹⁶. And certainly there had been good reasons for ordering him to make haste and get down to the port where she lay; for the very next day after his arrival, she hoisted¹⁷ anchor. She had been waiting for him only.
 
Having reached Rochefort at five o’clock in the morning, he slept the same night on board; and the next day “The Conquest” sailed. Daniel suffered more than any other man on board, although he succeeded in affecting a certain air of indifference¹⁸. The thought of Henrietta being left in the hands of adventurers who were capable of any thing was a thorn in his side, which caused him great and constant pain. As he gradually calmed down, and peace returned to his mind, a thousand doubts assailed¹⁹ him concerning Maxime de Brevan: would he not be exposed to terrible temptation when he found himself thrown daily into the company of a great heiress? Might he not come to covet²⁰ her millions, and try to abuse her peculiar²¹ situation in order to secure them to himself?
 
Daniel believed too firmly in his betrothed to apprehend²² that she would even listen to Brevan. But he reasoned, very justly, that his darling would be in a desperate condition indeed, if M. de Brevan, furious at being refused, should betray his confidence, and go over to the enemy, to the Countess Sarah.
 
“And I,” he thought, “who in my last directions urged her to trust implicitly²³ in Maxime, and to follow his advice as if it were my own!”
 
In the midst of these terrible anxieties, he hardly recollected²⁵ that he had intrusted to Maxime every thing that he possessed²⁶. What was his money to him in comparison!
 
Thus it appeared to him a genuine favor of Providence²⁷ when “The Conquest,” six days out at sea, experienced a violent storm, which endangered her safety for nearly seventy-two hours. His thoughts disappeared while he felt his grave responsibility, as long as the sea tossed the vessel to and fro like a mere²⁸ cork²⁹, and while the crew fought with the elements till they were overcome by fatigue³. He had actually a good night’s rest, which he had not enjoyed since he left Paris.
 
When he awoke, he was surprised to feel a certain peace of mind. Henceforth his fate was no longer in his own hands; he had been shown very clearly his inability to control events. Sad resignation succeeded to his terrible anxiety.
 
A single hope now kept him alive,—the hope of soon receiving a letter from Henrietta, or, it might be, of finding one upon arriving at his destination; for it was by no means impossible for “The Conquest” to be outstripped³¹ by some vessel that might have left port three weeks later. “The Conquest,” an old wooden frigate³², and a sailing vessel, justified³³ her bad reputation of being the worst sailor in the whole fleet. Moreover, alternate calms and sudden blows kept her much longer than usually on the way. The oldest sailors said they had never seen a more tedious voyage.
 
To add to the discomfort³⁴, “The Conquest” was so crammed³⁵ full with passengers, that sailors and officers had hardly half of the space usually allotted³⁶ to them on board ship. Besides the crew, there were on board a half battalion³⁷ of marines, and a hundred and sixty mechanics of various trades, whom government sent out for the use of the colony. Some of these artisans had their families with them, having determined³⁸ to become settlers in Cochin China; others, generally quite young yet, only made the voyage in order to have an opportunity for seeing foreign lands, and for earning, perhaps, a little money. They were occasionally called upon to assist in handling the ship, and were, on the whole, good men, with the exception of four or five, who were so unruly that they had to be put in irons more than once.
 
The days passed, nevertheless; and “The Conquest” had been out three months, when one afternoon, as Daniel was superintending a difficult manoeuvre³⁹, he was suddenly seen to stagger, raise his arms on high, and fall backwards⁴⁰ on the deck.
 
They ran up to him, and raised him up; but he gave no sign of life; and the blood poured forth³⁰ from his mouth and nose in streams. Daniel had won the hearts of the crew by his even temper, his strict attention to duty, and his kindness, when off duty, to all who came in contact with him. Hence, when the accident became known, in an instant sailors and officers came hurrying up from one end of the frigate to the other, and even from the lowest deck, to see what had happened to him.
 
What had happened? No one could tell; for no one had seen any thing. Still it must be a very grave matter, to judge from the large pool of blood which dyed the deck at the place where the young man had fallen down so suddenly. They had carried him to the infirmary; and, as soon as he recovered his senses, the surgeons discovered the cause of his fall and his fainting.
 
He had an enormous contused wound on the back of his head, a little behind the left ear,—a wound such as a heavy hammer in the hands of a powerful man might have produced. Whence came this terrible blow, which apparently⁴¹ a miracle alone had prevented from crushing the skull⁴²? No one could explain this, neither the surgeons, nor the officers who stood around the bed of the wounded man. When Daniel could be questioned, he knew no more about it than the others. There had been no one standing⁴³ near him; nor had he seen anybody come near him at the time of the accident; the blow, moreover, had been so violent, that he had fallen down unconscious. All these details soon became current among the sailors and passengers who had crowded on deck. They were received with incredulous smiles, and, when they could no longer be held in doubt, with bursts of indignation.
 
What! Lieut. Champcey had been struck in broad daylight, in the midst of the crew! How? By whom?
 
The whole matter was so wrapped up in mystery, that it became all important to clear it up; and the sailors themselves opened at once a kind of court of inquest. Some hairs, and a clot⁴⁴ of blood, which were discovered on an enormous block, seemed to explain the riddle⁴⁵. It would seem that the rope to which this enormous block was fastened had slipped out of the hands of one of the sailors who were engaged in the rigging, carrying out the manoeuvre superintended by Daniel.
 
Frightened by the consequences of his awkwardness, but, nevertheless preserving his presence of mind, this man had, no doubt, drawn⁴⁶ up the block so promptly⁴⁷, that he had not been noticed. Could it be hoped that he would accuse himself? Evidently not. Besides, what would be the use of it? The wounded man was the first to request that the inquiries⁴⁸ might be stopped.
 
When, at the end of a fortnight, Champcey returned to duty, they ceased talking of the accident; unfortunately, such things happen but too frequently on board ship. Besides, the idea that “The Conquest” was drawing near her destination filled all minds, and sufficed for all conversations.
 
And really, one fine evening, as the sun was setting, land was seen, and the next morning, at daybreak, the frigate sailed into the Dong-Nai, the king of Cochin Chinese rivers, which is so wide and so deep, that vessels⁴⁹ of the largest tonnage can ascend⁵⁰ it without difficulty till they reach Saigon.
 
Standing on deck, Daniel watched the monotonous⁵¹ scenes which they passed,—a landscape strange in form, and exhaling⁵² mortal fevers from the soil, and the black yielding slime.
 
After a voyage of several months, he derived⁵³ a melancholy⁵⁴ pleasure from seeing the banks of the river overshadowed by mango trees and mangroves, with their supple⁵⁶, snakelike roots wandering far off under water; while on shore a soft, pleasant vegetation presented to the eye the whole range of shades in green, from the bluish, sickly green of the idrys to the dark, metallic⁵⁷ green of the stenia. Farther inland, tall grapes, lianes, aloes, and cactus⁵⁸ formed impenetrable thickets⁶⁰, out of which rose, like fluted⁶¹ columns, gigantic cocoa-palms, and the most graceful⁶² trees on earth, areca-palms. Through clearings here and there, one could follow, as far as the eye reached, the course of low, fever-breeding marshes⁶³, an immense mud-plain covered with a carpet of undulating verdure, which opened and closed again under the breeze, like the sea itself.
 
“Ah! That is Saigon, is it?” said to Daniel a voice full of delight.
 
He turned round. It was his best friend on board, a lieutenant like himself, who had come to his side, and, offering him a telescope, said with a great sigh of satisfaction,—
 
“Look! there, do you see? At last we are here. In two hours, Champcey, we shall be at anchor.”
 
In the distance one could, in fact, make out upon the deep blue of the sky the profile of the curved roof of the pagodas⁶⁴ in Saigon. It took a long hour yet, before, at a turn in the river, the town itself appeared, miserable⁶⁵ looking,—with all deference⁶⁶ to our geographies, be it said,—in spite of the immense labor⁶⁷ of the French colony.
 
Saigon consists mainly of one wide street running parallel with the right bank of the Dong-Nai, a primitive⁶⁸, unpaved street cut up into ruts, broken in upon by large empty spaces, and lined with wooden houses covered with rice-straw or palm-leaves.
 
Thousands of boats crowd against the banks of the river along this street, and form a kind of floating suburb, overflowing⁶⁹ with a strange medley⁷⁰ of Annamites, Hindoos, and Chinamen. At a little distance from the river, there appear a few massive buildings with roofs of red tiles, pleasing to the eye, and here and there an Annamite farm, which seems to hide behind groups of areca-palms. Finally, on an eminence⁷¹, rise the citadel⁷², the arsenal⁷³, the house of the French commander, and the former dwelling⁷⁴ of the Spanish colonel.
 
But every town is beautiful, where we land after a voyage of several months. Hence, as soon as “The Conquest” was safely at anchor, all the officers, except the midshipman on duty, went on shore, and hastened to the government house to ask if letters from France had arrived there before them. Their hopes were not deceived. Two three-masters, one French, the other English, which had sailed a month later than “The Conquest,” had arrived there at the beginning of the week, bringing despatches.
 
There were two letters for Daniel, and with feverish⁷⁵ hands and beating heart he took them from the hand of the old clerk. But at the first glance at the addresses he turned pale. He did not see Henrietta’s handwriting. Still he tore open the envelopes, and glanced at the signatures. One of the letters was signed, “Maxime de Brevan;” the other, “Countess Ville-Handry,” nee Sarah Brandon.
 
Daniel commenced with the latter. After informing him of her marriage, Sarah described at great length Henrietta’s conduct on the wedding-day.
 
“Any other but myself,” she said, “would have been incensed⁷⁶ at this atrocious insult, and would abuse her position to be avenged⁷⁷. But I, who never yet forgave anybody, I will forgive her, Daniel, for your sake, and because I cannot see any one suffer who has loved you.”
 
A postscript⁷⁸ she had added ran thus,—
 
“Ah! why did you not prevent my marriage, when you could do so by a word? They think I have reached the summit of my wishes. I have never been more wretched.”
 
This letter made Daniel utter an exclamation⁸⁰ of rage. He saw nothing in it but bitter irony⁸¹.
 
“This miserable woman,” he thought, “laughs at me; and, when she says she does not blame Henrietta, that means that she hates her, and will persecute⁸² her.”
 
Maxime’s letter fortunately reassured⁸³ him a little. Maxime confirmed Sarah’s account, adding, moreover, that Miss Henrietta was very sad, but calm and resigned; and that her step-mother treated her with the greatest kindness. The surprising part was, that Brevan did not say a word of the large amounts that had been intrusted to his care, nor of his method of selling the lands, nor of the price which he had obtained.
 
But Daniel did not notice this; all his thoughts were with Henrietta.
 
“Why should she not have written,” he thought, “when all the others found means to write?”
 
Overwhelmed with disappointment, he had sat down on a wooden bench in the embrasure of one of the windows in the hall where th............