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Updated: May 23, 2025
Although he could not be absolutely certain of the destruction of the enemy, the fact that his boat had saved itself would spread abroad the fact that the Mare Nostrum was entirely capable of self-defense. His joy took him to Caragol's domains. "Well done, old man! We're going to write to the Ministry of Marine to give you the Croix de Guerre."
He suffered great remorse in calculating what the boat might have gained were it now under way. The advantage was all for the captain, but he could not avoid despairing over the money lost. The necessity of communicating his impressions to somebody, of protesting in chorus against this lamentable inertia, used to impel him toward Caragol's dominions.
She wished to see the galley and invaded Uncle Caragol's dominions, putting his formal lines of casseroles 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!"
For four days he persisted in his inquiries without any result. He began to doubt Uncle Caragol's veracity. Perhaps he had been drunk on returning to the ship, and had made up such an encounter. But the recollection of that paper written by her discounted such a supposition.... Freya was in Brest. The cook explained it all simply enough when the captain besieged him with fresh questions.
On former days, incredible as it may seem, he had not thought of making even one of his delicious beverages. The return from Naples to Barcelona had been a sad one: the vessel had a funereal air without its master. For all these reasons, Caragol's hand lavishly measured out the rum until the liquid took on a tobacco tone.
The boat was at times near Brazil in sight of Fernando de Noroña, yet even while viewing the conical huts of the negroes installed on an island under an equatorial sun, the crews could almost believe thanks to Uncle Caragol's magic that they were eating in a cabin of the farmland of Valencia, as they passed from hand to hand the long-spouted jug filled with strong wine from Liria.
"Don Antoni!... Don Antoni!..." replied a string of voices from poop to prow, while Uncle Caragol's head poked itself out of the door of his dominions. "Don Antoni" appeared through the hatchway. He had been going all over the boat, after taking leave of his captain. Ferragut received him with averted face, avoiding his glance, and with a complex and contradictory gesture.
Among the venerable antiquities of the city was the Gothic cathedral with its many tombs, among them that of a Spanish saint, St. Vicente Ferrer. This gave a tug at Caragol's heart-strings.
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.
The officers were less optimistic. They had never seen one raise itself up vertically, tilting its stern high in the air before sinking. Perhaps it simply had been damaged and obliged to hide. The loss of the submarine was a sure thing in Caragol's estimation, and he considered it entirely unnecessary to ask the name of the one who had blown it to smithereens.
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