He had fled in order to save himself; he had shown
himself humble and timorous upon being approached,
believing that it would still be possible to lie out
of it. But the paper that he had tried to hide
in his mouth was now in the hands of the enemy....
It was useless to pretend longer!...
And he drew himself up proudly like every army man
who considers his death certain. The officer
of the military caste reappeared, looking haughtily
at his unknown pursuers, imploring protection only
from the kepis with its band of gold.
Upon discovering Ferragut, he surveyed him fixedly
with a glacial and disdainful insolence. His
lips also curled with an expression of contempt.
They said nothing, but the captain surmised his soundless
words. They were insults. It was the insult
of the man of the superior hierarchy to his faithless
servant; the pride of the noble official who accuses
himself for having trusted in the loyalty of a simple
merchant marine.
“Traitor!... Traitor!” his insolent
eyes and murmuring, voiceless lips seemed to be saying.
Ulysses became furious before this haughtiness, but
his wrath was cold and self-contained on seeing the
enemy deprived of defense.
He advanced toward the prisoner, like one of the many
who were insulting him, shaking his fist at him.
His glance sustained that of the German and he spoke
to him in Spanish with a dull voice.
“My son.... My only son was blown to a
thousand atoms by the torpedoing of the Californian!”
These words made the spy change expression. His
lips separated, emitting a slight exclamation of surprise.
“Ah!...”
The arrogant light in his pupils faded away.
Then he lowered his eyes and soon after hung his head.
The vociferating crowd was shoving and carrying him
along without taking into consideration the man who
had given the alarm and begun the chase.
That very afternoon the Mare Nostrum sailed
from Marseilles.
IN BARCELONA
Four months later Captain Ferragut was in Barcelona.
During the interval he had made three trips to Salonica,
and on the second had to appear before a naval captain
of the army of the Orient. The French officer
was informed of his former expeditions for the victualing
of the allied troops. He knew his name and looked
upon him as does a judge interested in the accused.
He had received from Marseilles a long telegram with
reference to Ferragut. A spy submitted to military
justice was accusing him of having carried supplies
to the German submarines.
“How about that, Captain?...”
Ulysses hesitated, looking at the official’s
grave face, framed by a grey beard. This man
inspired his confidence. He could respond negatively
to such questions; it would be difficult for the German
to prove his affirmation; but he preferred to tell
the truth, with the simplicity of one who does not
try to hide his faults, describing himself just as
he had been,—blind with lust, dragged down
by the amorous artifices of an adventuress.
