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Updated: June 22, 2025
The Emiral had an old comrade in arms, Under-Emiral Vulcanmould, who had served with great distinction, a man as true as gold and as loyal as his sword. Vulcanmould plumed himself on his thoroughgoing independence and he went among the partisans of Crucho and the Minister of the Republic telling both parties what he thought of them.
The Reverend Father Agaric, surrendering to M. Bigourd's reasons and recognising that the existing government could only be destroyed by one of its defenders, cast his eyes upon Emiral Chatillon. He asked a large sum of money from his friend, the Reverend Father Cornemuse, which the latter handed him with a sigh.
The prince will know how to recognise your services, He will give you the Constable's sword and a magnificent grant. I am commissioned, in the mean time, to hand you a pledge of his royal friendship." As she said these words she drew a green cockade from her bosom. "What is that?" asked the Emiral. "It is his colours which Crucho sends you." "Be good enough to take them back."
Wearing his huge black hat, the brims of which looked like the wings of Night, he walked through the Wood of Conils towards the factory where his venerable friend, Father Cornemuse, distilled the hygienic St. Orberosian liqueur, The good monk's industry, so cruelly affected in the time of Emiral Chatillon, was being restored from its ruins.
It is the same word which, unfortunately in a corrupt form, is used to-day among several European nations to designate the highest grade in the naval service. But as there was but one Emiral among the Penguins, a singular prestige, if I dare say so, was attached to that rank. The Emiral did not belong to the nobility. A child of the people, he was loved by the people.
Every evening Chatillon rode upon his white horse round the Queen's Meadow, a place frequented by the people of fashion. The Dracophils posted along the Emiral's route a crowd of needy Penguins who kept shouting: "It is Chatillon we want." The middle classes of Alca conceived a profound admiration for the Emiral. Shopwomen murmured: "He is good-looking."
The Reverend Father Agaric steadfastly endured the rigour of the laws which struck himself personally, as well as the terrible fall of the Emiral of which he was the chief cause. Far from yielding to evil fortune, he regarded it as but a bird of passage. He was planning new political designs more audacious than the first.
"It is what will certainly be done, if not by you, then by some one else. The Generalissimo, to mention him alone, is ready to throw all the ministers, deputies, and senators into the sea, and to recall Prince Crucho." "Oh, the rascal, the scoundrel," exclaimed the Emiral. "Do to him what he would do to you.
And with this sum he hired six hundred butcher boys of Alca to run behind Chatillon's horse and shout, "Hurrah for the Emiral!" Henceforth Chatillon could not take a single step without being cheered. Viscountess Olive asked him for a private interview. He received her at the Admiralty* in a room decorated with anchors, shells, and grenades. * Or better, Emiralty.
"My do you look like that?" asked the Emiral in an uneasy tone. Vulcanmould said to him sadly: "Old brother in arms, all is discovered. For the past half-hour the government knows everything." At these words Chatillon sank down overwhelmed. Vulcanmould continued: "You may be arrested any moment. I advise you to make off." And drawing out his watch: "Not a minute to lose."
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