Now, listening to Ferragut's jovial comments on his mate's tranquil life and philosophic sagacity, Toni again e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed mentally, without the captain's suspecting anything from his impa.s.sive countenance: "Now he has quarreled with the woman. He has tired of her. But better so!"

He was more than ever confirmed in this belief on hearing Ferragut's plans. As soon as the boat could be made ready, they were going to anchor in the commercial port. He had been told of a certain cargo for Barcelona,--some cheap freight,--but that was better than going empty.... If the cargo should be delayed, they would set sail merely with ballast. More than anything else, he wished to renew his trips.

Boats were scarcer and more in demand all the time. It was high time to stop this enforced inertia.

"Yes, it's high time," responded Toni who, during the entire month, had only gone ash.o.r.e twice.

The _Mare Nostrum_ left the repair dock coming to anchor opposite the commercial wharf, shining and rejuvenated, with no imperfections recalling her recent injuries.

One morning when the captain and his second were in the saloon under the p.o.o.p undecided whether to start that night--or wait four days longer, as the owners of the cargo were requesting,--the third officer, a young Andalusian, presented himself greatly excited by the piece of news of which he was the bearer. A most beautiful and elegant lady (the young man emphasized his admiration with these details) had just arrived in a launch and, without asking permission, had climbed the ladder, entering the vessel as though it were her own dwelling.

Toni felt his heart thump. His swarthy countenance became ashy pale.

"_Cristo!_... The woman from Naples!" He did not really know whether she was from Naples; he had never seen her, but he was certain that she was coming as a fatal impediment, as an unexpected calamity.... Just when things were going so well, too!...

The captain whirled around in his arm chair, jumped up from the table, and in two bounds was out on deck.

Something extraordinary was perturbing the crew. They, too, were all on deck as though some powerful attraction had drawn them from the orlop, from the depths of the hold, from the metallic corridors of the engine rooms. Even Uncle Caragol was sticking his episcopal face out through the door of the kitchen, holding a hand closed in the form of a telescope to one of his eyes, without being able to distinguish clearly the announced marvel.

Freya was a few steps away in a blue suit somewhat like a sailor's, as though this visit to the ship necessitated the imitative elegance and bearing of the multi-millionaires who live on their yachts. The seamen, cleaning bra.s.s or polishing wood, were pretending extraordinary occupations in order to get near her. They felt the necessity of being in her atmosphere, of living in the perfumed air that enveloped her, following her steps.

Upon seeing the captain, she simply extended her hand, as though she might have seen him the day before.

"Do not object, Ferragut!... As I did not find you in the hotel, I felt obliged to visit you on your ship. I have always wanted to see your floating home. Everything about you interests me."

She appeared an entirely different woman. Ulysses noted the great change that had taken place in her person during the last days. Her eyes were bold, challenging, of a calm seductiveness. She appeared to be surrendering herself entirely. Her smiles, her words, her manner of crossing the deck toward the staterooms of the vessel proclaimed her determination to end her long resistance as quickly as possible, yielding to the sailor's desires.

In spite of former failures, he felt anew the joy of triumph. "Now it is going to be! My absence has conquered her...." And at the same time that he was foretasting the sweet satisfaction of love and triumphant pride, there arose in him a vague instinct of suspicion of this woman so suddenly transformed, perhaps loving her less than in former days when she resisted and advised him to be gone.

In the forward cabin he presented her to his mate. The crude Toni experienced the same hallucination that had perturbed all the others on the boat. What a woman!... At the very first glance he understood and excused the captain's conduct. Then he fixed his eyes upon her with an expression of alarm, as though her presence made him tremble for the fate of the steamer: but finally he succ.u.mbed, dominated by this lady who was examining the saloon as though she had come to remain in it forever.

For a few moments Freya was interested in the hairy ugliness of Toni.

He was a true Mediterranean, just the kind she had imagined to herself,--a faun pursuing nymphs. Ulysses laughed at the eulogies which she pa.s.sed on his mate.

"In his shoes," she continued, "he ought to have pretty little hoofs like a goat's. He must know how to play the flute. Don't you think so, Captain?..."

The faun, wrinkled and wrathful, took himself off, saluting her stolidly as he went away. Ferragut felt greatly relieved at his absence, since he was fearful of some rude speech from Toni.

Finding herself alone with Ulysses, she ran through the great room from one side to the other.

"Is here where you live, my dear shark?... Let me see everything. Let me poke around everywhere. Everything of yours interests me. You will not say now that I do not love you. What a boast for Captain Ferragut!

The ladies come to seek him on his ship...."

She interrupted her ironic and affectionate chatter in order to defend herself gently from the sailor. He, forgetting the past, and wishing to take advantage of the happiness so suddenly presented to him, was kissing the nape of her neck.

"There,... there!" she sighed. "Now let me look around. I feel the curiosity of a child."

She opened the piano,--the poor piano of the Scotch captain--and some thin and plaintive chords, showing many years' lack of tuning, filled the saloon with the melancholy of resuscitated memories.

The melody was like that of the musical boxes that we find forgotten in the depths of a wardrobe among the clothes of some deceased old lady.

Freya declared that it smelled of withered roses.

Then, leaving the piano, she opened one after the other, all the doors of the staterooms surrounding the saloon. She stopped at the captain's sleeping room without wishing to pa.s.s the threshold, without loosening her hold on the bra.s.s doork.n.o.b in her right hand. Ferragut behind her, was pushing her with treacherous gentleness, at the same time repeating his caresses on her neck.

"No; here, no," she said. "Not for anything in the world!... I will be yours, I promise you; I give you my word of honor. But where I will and when it seems best to me.... Very soon, Ulysses!"

He felt complete gratification in all these affirmations made in a caressing and submissive voice, all possible pride in such spontaneous, affectionate address, equivalent to the first surrender.

The arrival of one of Uncle Caragol's acolytes made them recover their composure. He was bringing two enormous gla.s.ses filled with a ruddy and foamy c.o.c.ktail,--an intoxicating and sweet mixture, a composite of all the knowledge acquired by the _chef_ in his intercourse with the drunkards of the princ.i.p.al ports of the world.

She tested the liquid, rolling up her eyes like a greedy tabby. Then she broke forth into praises, lifting up the gla.s.s in a solemn manner.

She was offering her libation to Eros, the G.o.d of Love, the most beautiful of the G.o.ds, and Ferragut who always had a certain terror of the infernal and agreeable concoctions of his cook, gulped the gla.s.s in one swallow, in order to join in the invocation.

All was arranged between the two. She was giving the orders. Ferragut would return ash.o.r.e, lodging in the same _albergo_. They would continue their life as before, as though nothing had occurred.

"This evening you will await me in the gardens of the _Villa n.a.z.ionale_.... Yes, there where you wished to kill me, you highwayman!..."

Before he should clearly recall that night of violence, Freya continued her recollections with feminine astuteness.... It was Ulysses who had wanted to kill her; she reiterated it without admitting any reply.

"We shall visit the doctor," she continued. "The poor woman wants to see you and has asked me to bring you. She is very much interested in you because she knows that I love you, my pirate!"

After having arranged the hour of meeting, Freya wished to depart. But before returning to her launch, she felt curious to inspect the boat, just as she Had examined the saloon and the staterooms.

With the air of a reigning princess, preceded by the captain and followed by the officials, she went over the two decks, entered the galleries of the engine room and the four-sided abyss of the hatchways, sniffing the musty odor of the hold. On the bridge she touched with childish enthusiasm the large bra.s.s hood of the binnacle and other steering instruments glistening as though made of gold.

She wished to see the galley and invaded Uncle Caragol's dominions, putting his formal lines of ca.s.seroles into lamentable disorder, and poking the tip of her rosy little nose into the steam arising from the great stew in which was boiling the crew's mess.

The old man was able to see her close with his half-blind eyes. "Yes, indeed, she was pretty!" The frou-frou of her skirts and the frequent little clashes that he had with her in her comings and goings, perturbed the apostle. His _chef_-like, sense of smell made him feel annoyed by the perfume of this lady. "Pretty, but with the smell of ..." he repeated mentally. For him all feminine perfume merited this scandalous t.i.tle. Good women smelled of fish and kitchen pots; he was sure of that.... In his faraway youth, the knowledge of poor Caragol had never gone beyond that.

As soon as he was alone, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up a rag, waving it violently around, as though he were driving away flies. He wished to clear the atmosphere of bad odors. He felt as scandalized as though she had let a cake of soap fall into one of his delicious rice compounds.

The men of the crew crowded to the railings in order to follow the course of the little launch that was making toward sh.o.r.e.

Toni, standing on the bridge, also contemplated her with enigmatic eyes.

"You are handsome, but may the sea swallow you up before you come back!"

A handkerchief was waving from the stern of the little boat. "Good-by, Captain!" And the captain nodded his head, smiling and gratified by the feminine greeting while the sailors were envying him his good luck.

Again one of the men of the crew carried Ferragut's baggage to the _albergo_ on the sh.o.r.e of _S. Lucia_. The porter, as though foreseeing the chance of getting an easy fee from his client, took it upon himself to select a room for him, an apartment on a floor lower than on his former stay, near that which the _signora_ Talberg was occupying.

They met in mid-afternoon in the _Villa n.a.z.ionale_, and began their walk together through the streets of Chiaja. At last Ulysses was going to know where the doctor was hiding her majestic personality. He antic.i.p.ated something extraordinary in this dwelling-place, but was disposed to hide his impressions for fear of losing the affection and support of the wise lady who seemed to be exercising so great a power over Freya.

They entered into the vestibule of an ancient palace. Many times the sailor had stopped before this door, but had gone on, misled by the little metal door plates announcing the offices and counting-houses installed on the different floors.

He beheld an arcaded court paved with great tiled slabs upon which opened the curving balconies of the four interior sides of the palace.

They climbed up a stairway of resounding echoes, as large as one of the hill-side streets, with broad turnings which in former time permitted the pa.s.sage of the litters and chairmen. As souvenirs of the white-wigged personages and ladies of voluminous farthingales who had pa.s.sed through this palace, there were still some cla.s.sic busts on the landing places, a hand-wrought iron railing, and various huge lanterns of dull gold and blurred gla.s.s.

They stopped on the first floor before a row of doors rather weather-beaten by the years.