“Is she pretty?” asked the boy eagerly.

“Very pretty,” replied Caragol.  “And such odors!...  And such a swishing of fine clothes!...”

Telemachus thrilled with contradictory sensations of pride and envy.  He admired his father once more, but this admiration only lasted a few seconds.  A new idea was taking possession of him while the cook continued: 

“He will not come now.  I know what these elegant females are, reeking with perfume.  They are true demons that dig their nails in when they clutch, and it is necessary to cut off their hands in order to loosen them....  And the boat as useless now as though it were aground, while the others are filling themselves with gold!...  Believe me, my son, this is the only truth in the world.”

And he concluded by gulping in one draft all that was left in the second glass.

Meanwhile the boy was forming in his mind an idea prompted by his pleasant intoxication.  What if he should go to Naples in order to bring his father back!...

At this moment everything seemed possible to him.  The world was rose-colored as it always was when he looked at it, glass in hand, near to Uncle Caragol.  All obstacles would turn out to be trifling:  everything would arrange itself with wonderful facility.  Men were able to progress by bounds.

But hours afterward when his thoughts were cleared of their beatific visions, he felt a little fearful when recollecting his absent parent.  How would he receive him upon his arrival?...  What excuses could he give his father for his presence in Naples?...  He trembled, recalling the image of his scowling brow and angry eyes.

On the following day a sudden self-confidence replaced this uneasiness.  He recalled the captain as he had seen him many times on the deck of his vessel, telling of his escapades when rowing in the harbor of Barcelona, or commenting to friends on his son’s strength and intelligence.  The image of the paternal hero now came to his mind with good-humored eyes and a smile passing like a fresh breeze over his face.

He would tell him the whole truth.  He would make him understand that he had come to Naples just to take him away with him, like a good comrade who comes to another’s rescue in time of danger.  Perhaps he might be irritated and give him a blow, but he would eventually accede to his proposition.

Ferragut’s character was reborn in him with all the force of decisive argument.  And if the voyage should prove absurd and dangerous?...  All the better!  So much the better!  That was enough to make him undertake it.  He was a man and should know no fear.

During the next two weeks he prepared his flight.  He had never taken a long journey.  Only once he had accompanied his father on a flying business trip to Marseilles.  It was high time that he should go out in the world like the man that he was, acquainted with almost all the cities of the earth,—­through his readings.