king of his sons battling at the front. And this uneasiness gave a
hard and ferocious tone to his patriotic enthusiasm.

"It's a good thing she is dead.... She was a woman, and shooting a
woman is a painful thing. It is always repugnant to be obliged to treat
them like men.... But according to what they tell me, this individual
with her spy-information brought about the torpedoing of sixteen
vessels.... Ah, the wicked beast!..."

And he said no more, changing the subject. Every one evinced the same
revulsion on recalling the spy.

Ferragut eventually shared the same sentiments, his brain having
divested itself of the contradictory duality which had attended all the
critical moments of his existence. Remembering only her crimes, he
hated Freya. As a man of the sea, he recalled his nameless
fellow-sailors killed by torpedoes. This woman had indirectly prepared
the ground for many assassinations.... And at the same time he recalled
another image of her as the mistress who knew so well how to keep him
spellbound by her artifices in the old palace of Naples, making that
voluptuous prison her best souvenir.

"Let's think no more about her," he said to himself energetically. "She
has died.... She does not exist."

But not even after her death did she leave him in peace. Remembrance of
her soon came surging back, binding her to him with a tragic interest.

The very evening that he was talking with his friend in the cafe of the
_Cannebiere_, he went to the post office to get the mail which had been
forwarded to him at Marseilles. They gave him a great package of
letters and newspapers. By the handwriting on the envelopes, and the
postmarks on the postals, he tried to make out who was writing to
him:--one letter only from his wife, evidently but a single sheet,
judging from its slender flexibility, three very bulky ones from
Toni,--a species of diary in which he continued relating his purchases,
his crops, his hope of seeing the captain,--all this mixed in with
abundant news about the war, and the wretched condition of the people.
There were, besides, various sheets from the banking establishments at
Barcelona, rendering Ferragut an account of the investment of his
capital.

At the foot of the staircase he completed his examination of the
outside of his correspondence. It was just what was always awaiting him
on his return from his voyages.

He was about to put the package in his pocket and continue on his way
when his