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 wished to kill me, you highwayman!...”

Before he should clearly recall that night of violence, Freya continued her recollections with feminine astuteness....  It was Ulysses who had wanted to kill her; she reiterated it without admitting any reply.

“We shall visit the doctor,” she continued.  “The poor woman wants to see you and has asked me to bring you.  She is very much interested in you because she knows that I love you, my pirate!”

After having arranged the hour of meeting, Freya wished to depart.  But before returning to her launch, she felt curious to inspect the boat, just as she Had examined the saloon and the staterooms.

With the air of a reigning princess, preceded by the captain and followed by the officials, she went over the two decks, entered the galleries of the engine room and the four-sided abyss of the hatchways, sniffing the musty odor of the hold.  On the bridge she touched with childish enthusiasm the large brass hood of the binnacle and other steering instruments glistening as though made of gold.

She wished to see the galley and invaded Uncle Caragol’s dominions, putting his formal lines of casseroles into lamentable disorder, and poking the tip of her rosy little nose into the steam arising from the great stew in which was boiling the crew’s mess.

The old man was able to see her close with his half-blind eyes.  “Yes, indeed, she was pretty!” The frou-frou of her skirts and the frequent little clashes that he had with her in her comings and goings, perturbed the apostle.  His chef-like, sense of smell made him feel annoyed by the perfume of this lady.  “Pretty, but with the smell of ...” he repeated mentally.  For him all feminine perfume merited this scandalous title.  Good women smelled of fish and kitchen pots; he was sure of that....  In his faraway youth, the knowledge of poor Caragol had never gone beyond that.