“I have no heirs....  I don’t know what to do with my useless fortune.”

And he repeated once more like a complaint against destiny:  “I am rotten with money!...”

The following morning, while Toni was in his cabin adjusting the accounts of the crew, astonished by the munificence of their paying-off, Uncle Caragol came into the saloon, asking to speak to Ferragut.

He had placed an old cape over his flapping and scanty clothing, more as a decoration for the visit than because the cold of Brittany was really making him suffer.

He removed from his shaved head his everlasting palm-leaf hat, fixing his bloodshot eyes on the captain who continued writing after replying to his greeting.

“What does this mean, this order that I’ve just received to prepare to leave the boat within a few hours?...  It must be some kind of a joke of Toni’s; he’s an excellent fellow but an enemy to holy things and likes to tease me because of my piety....”

Ferragut laid aside his pen, swinging around toward the cook whose fate had troubled him as much as the first mate’s.

“Uncle Caragol, we are growing old and we must think about retiring....  I am going to give you a paper; you will guard it just as though it were a sacred picture, and when you present it in Valencia they will give you ten thousand dollars.  Do you know how much ten thousand dollars are?...”

Bringing his mentality down to the level of this simple-minded man, he enjoyed tracing out for him a plan of living.  He could invest his capital in whatever modest enterprise in the port of Valencia might appeal to his fancy; he could establish a restaurant which would soon become famous for its Olympian rice dishes.  His nephews who were fishermen would receive him like a god.  He could also be partner in a couple of barks, dedicated to fishing for the bou.  There was awaiting him a happy and honorable old age; his former sailing companions were going to look upon him with envy.  He could get up late in the morning; he could go to the cafes; as a rich devotee he could figure in all the religious processions of the Grau and of the Cabanal; he could have a place of honor in the holy processions....

Heretofore, when Ferragut was talking, Uncle Caragol had always mechanically interrupted him, saying:  “That is so, my captain.”  For the first time he was not nodding his head nor smiling with his sun-like face.  He was pale and gloomy.  He shook his round head energetically and said laconically: 

“No, my captain.”

Before the glance of astonishment which Ulysses flashed upon him, he found it necessary to explain himself.

“What am I ever going to do ashore?...  Who is expecting me there?...  Or what business with my family would have any interest for me?...”

Ferragut seemed to be hearing an echo of his own thoughts.  He, like the cook, would have nothing to do on land....  He was mortally bored when far from the sea, just as in those months when, still young, he had believed that he could create for himself a new profession in Barcelona.  Besides, it was impossible to return to his home, taking up life again with his wife; it would be simply losing his last illusions.  It would be better to view from afar all that remained of his former existence.