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 pass the threshold, without loosening
her hold on the brass doorknob 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 glasses filled with a ruddy and
foamy cocktail,--an intoxicating and sweet mixture, a composite of all
the knowledge acquired by the _chef_ in his intercourse with the
drunkards of the principal 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 glass in a solemn manner.
She was offering her libation to Eros, the god of Love, the most
beautiful of the gods, and Ferragut who always had a certain terror of
the infernal and agreeable concoctions of his cook, gulped the glass in
one swallow, in order to join in the invocation.

All was arranged between the two. She was giving the orders. Ferragut
would return ashore, 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
Nazionale_.... Yes, there where you