He had sold the ship to the French:—­a rapid and magnificent piece of business....  Whoever would have said when he bought the Mare Nostrum that some day they would give him such an enormous sum for it?...  In no country could they find any vessels for sale.  The invalids of the sea, rusting in the harbors as old iron, were now bringing fabulous prices.  Boats, aground and forgotten on remote coasts, were placed afloat for enterprises that were gaining millions by this resurrection.  Others, submerged in tropical seas, had been brought up to the surface after a ten years’ stay under the water, renewing their voyages.  Every month a new shipyard sprang into existence, but the world war could never find enough vessels for the transportation of food and instruments of death.

Without any bargaining whatever, they had given Ferragut the price that he had exacted; fifteen hundred francs per ton,—­four million and a half for the boat.  And to this must be added the nearly two millions that it had gained in its voyages since the beginning of the war.

“I am rotten with money,” concluded the captain.

And he said it sadly, remembering with a homesick longing the days of peace when he was wrestling with the problems of a badly paying business.  But then his son was living.  Of what avail was all this wealth that was assaulting him on all sides as though it were going to crush him with its weight?...  His wife would be able to lavish money with full hands on works of charity; she would be able to give her nieces the dowry suitable for daughters of high-born personages....  Nothing more!  Neither he nor she could for one moment resuscitate their past.  These useless riches could only bring him a certain tranquillity in thinking of the future of his wife, who was his entire family.  She was at liberty henceforth to dispose freely of her existence.  Cinta, on his death, would fall heir to millions.

In order to evade the emotions of farewell, he spoke to Toni very authoritatively.  A chart of the Atlantic was lying on the table and with his index finger he marked out the mate’s course; this course was not across the sea, but far from it, following an inland route.

“To-morrow,” he said, “the French are coming to take possession.  You may leave whenever you please, but it will be convenient to have you go as soon as possible....”

He explained his return trip to Toni, just as though he were giving him a lesson in geography.  This sea-rover became timid and downhearted when they talked to him about railroad time-tables and changing trains.

“Here is Brest....  Follow this line to Bordeaux; from Bordeaux to the frontier.  And once there, turn to Barcelona or go to Madrid, and from Madrid to Valencia.”

The mate contemplated the map silently, scratching his beard.  Then he raised his canine eyes slowly until he fixed them upon Ulysses.

“And you?” he asked.