How far the Coquette had run during the night does not appear, but when her commander made his appearance on the following morning, his long and anxious gaze met no other reward than a naked horizon.  On every side, the sea presented the same waste of water.  No object was visible, but the sea-fowl wheeling on his wide wing, and the summits of the irregular and green billows.  Throughout that and many succeeding days, the cruiser continued to plow the ocean, sometimes running large, with every thing opened to the breeze that the wide booms would spread, and, at others, pitching and laboring with adverse winds, as if bent on prevailing over the obstacles which even nature presented to her progress.  The head of the worthy Alderman had got completely turned; and though he patiently awaited the result, before the week was ended, he knew not even the direction in which the ship was steering.  At length he had reason to believe that the end of their cruise approached.  The efforts of the seamen were observed to relax, and the ship was permitted to pursue her course, under easier sail.

It was past meridian, on one of those days of moderate exertion, that Francois was seen stealing from below, and staggering from gun to gun, to a place in the centre of the ship, where he habitually took the air, in good weather, and where he might dispose of his person, equally without presuming too far on the good-nature of his superiors, and without courting too much intimacy with the coarser herd who composed the common crew.

“Ah!” exclaimed the valet, addressing his remark to the midshipman who has already been mentioned by the name of Hopper—­“Voila la terre!  Quel bonheur!  I shall be so happy—­le batiment be trop agreable, mais vous savez, Monsieur Aspirant; que je ne suis point marin—­What be le nom du pays?”

“They call it, France,” returned the boy, who understood enough of the other’s language to comprehend his meaning; “and a very good country it is—­for those that like it.”

“Ma foi, non!”—­exclaimed Francois, recoiling a pace, between amazement and delight.

“Call it Holland, then, if you prefer that country most.”

“Dites-moi, Monsieur Hoppair,” continued the valet, laying a trembling finger on the arm of the remorseless young rogue; “est-ce la France?”

“One would think a man of your observation could tell that for himself.  Do you not see the church-tower, with a chateau in the back-ground, and a village built in a heap, by its side.  Now look into yon wood!  There is a walk, straight as a ship’s wake in smooth water, and one—­two—­three—­ay, eleven statues, with just one nose among them all!”

“Ma foi—­dere is not no wood, and no chateau and no village, and no statue, and no no nose,—­mais Monsieur, je suis age—­est-ce la France?”

“Oh, you miss nothing by having an indifferent sight, for I shall explain it all, as we go along.  You see yonder hill-side, looking like a pattern-card, of green and yellow stripes, or a signal-book, with the flags of all nations, placed side by side—­well, that is—­les champs; and this beautiful wood, with all the branches trimmed till it looks like so many raw marines at drill, is—­la foret——­”