“Thus your ancestors, the Argonauts, must have drunk,” she said gayly.  “Thus your grandfather, Ulysses, undoubtedly drank.”

And herself filling the captain’s glass with an exaggeratedly careful division of the parts of water and wine, she added gayly: 

“We are going to make a libation to the gods.”

These libations were very frequent.  Freya’s peals of laughter made the Englishmen, interrupted in their conscientious work, turn their glances toward her.  The sailor felt himself overcome by a warm feeling of well-being, by a sensation of repose and confidence, as though this woman were unquestionably his already.

Seeing that the two lovers, terminating their luncheon hastily, were arising with blushing precipitation as though overpowered by some sudden desire, his glance became tender and fraternal....  Adieu, adieu, companions!

The voice of the widow recalled him to reality.

“Ulysses, make love to me....  You haven’t yet told me this whole day long that you love me.”

In spite of the smiling and mocking tone of this order, he obeyed her, repeating once more his promises and his desires.  Wine was giving to his words a thrill of emotion; the musical moaning of the orchestra was exciting his sensibilities and he was so touched with his own eloquence that his eyes slightly filled with tears.

The high voice of the tenor, as though it were an echo of Ferragut’s thought, was singing a romance of the fiesta of Piedigrotta, a lamentation of melancholy love, a canticle of death, the final mother of hopeless lovers.

“All a lie!” said Freya, laughing.  “These Mediterraneans....  What comedians they are for love!...”

Ulysses was uncertain as to whether she was referring to him or to the singer.  She continued talking, placid and disdainful at the same time, because of their surroundings.

“Love,... love!  In these countries they can’t talk of anything else.  It is almost an industry, somewhat scrupulously prepared for the credulous and simple people from the North.  They all harp on love:  this howling singer, you ... even the oysterman....”

Then she added maliciously: 

“I ought to warn you that you have a rival.  Be very careful, Ferragut!”

She turned her head in order to look at the oysterman.  He was occupied in the contemplation of a fat lady with grisled hair and abundant jewels, a lady escorted by her husband, who was looking with astonishment at the vendor’s killing glances without being able to understand them.

The lady-killer was stroking his mustache affectedly, looking from time to time at his cloth suit in order to smooth out the wrinkles and brush off the specks of dust.  He was a handsome pirate disguised as a gentleman.  Upon noticing Freya’s interest, he changed the course of his glances, poised his fine figure and replied to her questioning eyes with the smile of a bad angel, making her understand his discretion and skillfulness in ingratiating himself behind husbands and escorts.