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Updated: June 14, 2025
She shuddered on remembering the doctor's wrath when on her return from one of her trips she learned of the death of her faithful Karl. To her, Captain Ferragut was a species of invulnerable and victorious demon who was escaping all dangers and murdering the servants of a good cause.
Toni learned of it from the captain of a Spanish vessel that had just arrived from Marseilles exactly one day after the newspapers of Barcelona had announced the death of Esteban Ferragut in the torpedoing of the Californian.
The Mistral was approaching and every owner of an establishment was ordering this maneuver in order to withstand the icy hurricane that overturns tables, snatches away chairs, and carries off everything which is not secured with marine cables. To Ferragut this famous avenue of Marseilles was a reminder of the antechamber of Salonica.
Besides, they owed to him the discovery and arrest of an important spy. "Your hand, Captain," he concluded, holding out his own. "All that we have said will be just between ourselves. It is a sacred, confessional secret. I will arrange it with the Council of War.... You may continue lending your services to our cause." And Ferragut was not annoyed further about the affair of Marseilles.
A familiar admiration like that of an ancient squire for his paladin, or of an old subaltern for a superior officer, bound him to Ferragut. The books that filled the captain's stateroom recalled his agonies upon being examined in Cartagena for his license as a pilot.
Besides this, there is always floating on top some of the remains of the booty that the crafty crab in his wandering impunity has gathered below. Ferragut, on passing from one tank to the other, mentally established the gradation of the fauna from the primitive protoplast to the perfect organism.
With a sharp click a curtain of his memory seemed to be dashed aside, letting in torrents of light.... It was the counterfeit Russian count, he was sure of that, shaven and disguised, who undoubtedly was "operating" in Marseilles, directing new services, months after having prepared the entrance of the submersibles into the Mediterranean. Surprise held Ferragut spellbound.
"The land of knightly gentlemen.... Cervantes ... Lope!... The Cid!..." She stopped hunting for more celebrities. Suddenly she seized the sailor's arm, exclaiming as energetically as though she had just made a discovery through the little door of the coach. "Calderon de la Barca!" Ferragut saluted her. "Yes, Señora."
Perhaps they were imploring help, but the wet desert was absorbing the most furious cries, converting them into distant bleating. Of the Mare Nostrum there was no longer visible either the mouth of the smokestack nor the point of a mast; the abyss had swallowed it all.... Ferragut began to doubt if his ship had ever really existed.
"I am a Republican!... I am a Republican!" he repeated energetically, as though having said that, there was nothing more to add. Ferragut, not knowing how to answer this simple and solid enthusiasm, gave way to his temper. "Get out, you brute!... I don't want to see you again, ungrateful wretch! I shall do the thing alone; I don't need you.
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