DEAR LITTLE MOTHER-my only friend in all the world is taken from me. Blacqueville is dead and here I am, at sea, alone in my grief, in this foul bunk, dictating to this common clown whose fine calligraphy gives no inkling of his malevolence and criminality and whose only punishment for his crimes is that he must now write them down himself, and we can only trust that he is chastised in a world to come, or in America, although the former is likely to arrive before the latter.

I am informed that you know what occurred at Le Havre. Have you been told that we were visiting the chateau of the Countess S, as you had asked us to remember you to her? There, fleeing death as you had wished, it found us. At the countess's salon, among other persons of wit and rank, was one Monsieur d'Audloy. This gentleman, on hearing of our intention to travel to America, called me a traitor and a coward at which Blacqueville, in the full generosity of his heart, took upon himself the responsibility for both our honors and before anyone was quite aware of what had happened, seconds were appointed. Naturally I imagined the duel would take place in the early morning and was seeking counsel from the Comte du Beugnot without knowing that pistols had been provided and the combatants had already presented themselves in the orchard. Learning this, I rushed to prevent the damage, but I was no farther than the terrace when I heard the single shot. Thence in the horrid gray light, in drizzling rain, I found my dear Blacqueville dead as death itself, and it may be said that my behavior was neither dignified nor manly for all I could think was to lift him in my arms and order him to life.

Of course there was no question of my fleeing now and I determined that I would cash my ticket and return to Paris and there honor my friend in death as I had failed to do in life. I had the shipping company open their office, but when at last the manager appeared I was informed that I must now present myself to the captain on board and only then might I obtain our refund, and so, with the awful copyist at my side this is where I went.

I thought the Dutch captain exceedingly civil. He received me in his cabin with great solicitude and sympathy, and had I not accepted his brandy I doubt I would be where I am now-that is, far at sea without hope of return, surrounded by the most appalling bourgeoisie and worse, this servant you have provided, with his wretched cocky walk and his mouth always on the edge of the most horrid smirk. It would be better for me to have stayed in Paris. I would prefer being pulled to pieces by the mob. Doubtless you think me despicable, but never mind, I have clearly been dispatched, against my will, on your instructions. This is a tragedy worthy of the Greeks-that in seeking to save my life you have assured my death-for it is certain no one will survive this awful sea.

I am sure you could never imagine the conversation-if you could call it that-of the Americans. Certainly there is no talk of the tragedies, Greek or otherwise. The conversationalists include among their number a rich manufacturer of nails, a farmer turned banker, his wife, his two skinny daughters, and a Jew named Eckerd who dubs himself an impresario and is traveling with a certain Mlle Desclee, allegedly an opera singer! This Eckerd frets continually about his awful carrier pigeons, which poor lousy creatures he plans to release when we are off the coast of America. The birds will carry news of the opera singer's arrival to the waiting press, so all is vulgarity and ostentation, and although the banker, despite the comic name of Peek, is a good enough fellow, and I might, I suppose, benefit from his conversation, I cannot think of anything but my dear Blacqueville who died so bravely on my own behalf while I, so far from gloire, am sunk in ignominy on this filthy bunk with no other company but this copyist. He has no sponsor but M. de Tilbot who, if you will permit me to speak bluntly, seems capable of destroying all the good sense and religious principles which have been the guiding lights of your life.

As you can see, I have sent the servant away and am now writing with my own hand whose graceless stutterings no tutor ever could correct. More money wasted. This Master Larrit is not even who Tilbot thinks he is, I am sure. He has taken advantage of my drugged state to smuggle his paramour and her dreadful mother aboard. What with the banker and his jolly daughters, the impresario and his singer, and the servant's own menagerie a la marseillaise, the moral tone here is very poor, and whatever you have paid in your desire to save me from harm, your panic has once again ensured that you were robbed. I am certain you could not have imagined this confinement, or, if you did, I am sure you will beg God's forgiveness for abandoning your son to such a fate.

Goodbye.

Olivier

THIS CAPTAIN OF THE HAVRE was as hard and scrawny as a piece of rope. He had rheumy squinting eyes, a tobacco-stained mustache, a rum drinker's nose, and absolutely no arse at all. But his fingers were large and white and soft, made for the dark and secret places of a sailor's life. So when Monsieur, who had a great skill in this department, had rolled a quantity of paper currency, the captain swiftly folded himself around the bribe and found himself able to accommodate some passengers whose names had hitherto been absent from his list. That is, although he had lost one chap through tragedy, it now seemed he had gained two more, and much money needed to pass hands due to this change of plan.

How or why this situation had arisen no one bothered to inform me but it appeared that my darling Mathilde and her old maman were standing on the dock, and although my beloved would not so much as look at me, she was confidently waiting for a cabin to be free. All around her, in a great jumble of wrapped and unwrapped, was every single item from her studio. I recognized the bust of Cicero on which the old lady sat, puffing on her pipe. I was in no state to be a reliable witness, but you know the human mind-it will tell you anything in order to be believed. This mind of mine informed me that Mathilde wished to deny our private relationship at the very moment she was publicly claiming it, but once I had her in her cabin, she would soon have the pillow hard between her teeth. This was very credible, and edible as well, but I also knew my tempestuous darling and I did not doubt the weather would be fairer soon.

In any case, Monsieur had promised the two women passage, and now Mathilde would oblige him to keep his word no matter what the booking agent said.

Monsieur waited in the captain's cabin, playing solitaire. Not two feet from his elbow lay Olivier-Jean-Baptiste de Clarel de Garmont, drugged as death upon the captain's bunk.

I had some vague apprehension that negotiations were not proceeding simply, but all I could think was that I would not lose my beloved after all, and I could have wept with joy for I was really too old to go through such grief again.

The little captain threw his sausage fingers in the air and I noticed the Marquis de Tilbot once more slip his hand into an inner pocket in his cloak. I watched this dreamily-the silky surface of the cloak remained as still as a mill pond but it was easy to imagine his fingers in the dark, like the legs of some antipodean beast which makes its living squashing bees' knees for its hungry young.

The captain now turned exceeding thoughtful. Perhaps he was reflecting that only he and the mate, a nineteen-year-old boy from Nantucket, were capable of performing the common but indispensable business of steering, and that this was one man short, to put it mildly. I held my breath now, waiting for Monsieur, anticipating the single hand emerging with a golden egg within the palm.