Château de Férouzat, ..., 18...
No indeed, my dear Louis, I am neither dead nor ruined, nor have I
turned pirate, trappist, or rural guard, as you might imagine in order
to explain my silence these four months since I last appeared at your
illustrious studio. No, you witty giber, my fabulous heritage has not
taken wings! I am dwelling neither in China on the Blue River, nor in
Red Oceania, nor in White Lapland. My yacht, built of teak, still lies
in harbour, and is not swaying me over the vasty deep. It is no good
your spinning out laborious and far-fetched hyperboles on the subject of
my uncle's will: your ironical shafts all miss the mark. My uncle's will
surpasses the most astonishing feat of its kind ever accomplished by
notary's pen; and your poor imagination could not invent, or come
anywhere near inventing, such remarkable adventures as those into which
this registered document has led me.
First of all, in order that your feeble intellect may be enabled to rise
to the level of the subject, I must give you some description of "the
Corsair," as you called him after you met him in Paris last winter; for
it is only by comprehending the peculiarities of his life and character
that you can ever hope to understand my adventures.
Unfortunately, at this very point, a considerable difficulty arises, for
my uncle still remains and always will remain a sort of legendary
personage. Born at Marseilles, he was left an orphan at about the age of
fourteen, alone in the world with one little sister still in the cradle,
whom he brought up, and who subsequently became my mother: hence his
tender regard for me. Nevertheless, and notwithstanding the fact that we
two constituted the whole family, I only saw him during the intervals on
shore of his sea-faring life. Endowed with truly remarkable qualities
and with an energy that recognized no obstacles, he was the best fellow
in the world, as you must have observed for yourself; but certainly he
was also, from what I know of him, a most original character. I don't
believe that in the course of his eventful career, he ever did a single
act like other men, unless, may be, in the getting of children--yet even
these were only his "god-children." He has left fourteen in the
Department of Le Gard, scattered over the different estates on which he
lived by turns after he had quitted the East; and we may well believe he
would not have stopped short at that number, but that four months ago,
as he was returning from the South Pole, he happened to die of a
sunstroke, at the age of sixty-three. This last touch completes the
picture of his life. As to his history, all that is known of it is
confined to the following facts: