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Can you suppose for a moment that a great people, an intelligent, laborious people, devoted to liberal institutions which. . ." Vulcanmould interrupted with a great sigh: "Ah! If I had time to do it I would relieve you of your difficulty. I would juggle away my Chatillon like a nutmeg out of a thimble. I would fillip him off to Porpoisia." The Minister paid close attention.
People doubted, for they could not understand. This is what had happened: One day as the brave Under-Emiral Vulcanmould happened, as if by chance, to go into the office of M. Barbotan, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, he remarked with his usual frankness: "M. Barbotan, your colleagues do not seem to me to be up to much; it is evident that they have never commanded a ship.
That fool Chatillon gives them a deuced bad fit of the shivers." The Minister, in sign of denial, waved his paper-knife in the air above his desk. "Don't deny it," answered Vulcanmould. "You don't know how to get rid of Chatillon. You do not dare to indict him before the High Court because you are not sure of being able to bring forward a strong enough charge.
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.
"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."
Then Barbotan said with authority: "Under-Emiral Vulcanmould, get rid of this seditious soldier. You will render a great service to Penguinia, and the Minister of Home Affairs will see that your gambling debts are paid." The same evening Vulcanmould called on Chatillon and looked at him for some time with an expression of grief and mystery.
"Have I time to call on the Viscountess Olive?" "It would be mad," said Vulcanmould, handing him a passport and a pair of blue spectacles, and telling him to have courage. "I will," said Chatillon. "Good-bye! old chum." "Good-bye and thanks! You have saved my life." "That is the least I could do." A quarter of an hour later the brave Emiral had left the city of Alca.
Then changing his tone: "But, joking aside, are you not a bit surprised at what is happening to you?" "No, indeed," answered Chatillon. And out went the honest Vulcanmould, banging the door behind him. In the mean time Chatillon had taken a little flat at number 18 Johannes-Talpa Street, so that he might receive Viscountess Olive. They met there every day. He was desperately in love with her.
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