The Minister, in sign of denial, waved his paper-knife in the air above his desk.

“Don’t deny it,” answered Vulcanmould.  “You don’t know how to get rid of Chatillon.  You do not dare to indict him before the High Court because you are not sure of being able to bring forward a strong enough charge.  Bigourd will defend him, and Bigourd is a clever advocate. . . .  You are right, M. Barbotan, you are right.  It would be a dangerous trial.”

“Ah! my friend,” said the Minister, in a careless tone, “if you knew how satisfied we are. . . .  I receive the most reassuring news from my prefects.  The good sense of the Penguins will do justice to the intrigues of this mutinous soldier.  Can you suppose for a moment that a great people, an intelligent, laborious people, devoted to liberal institutions which. . .”

Vulcanmould interrupted with a great sigh: 

“Ah!  If I had time to do it I would relieve you of your difficulty.  I would juggle away my Chatillon like a nutmeg out of a thimble.  I would fillip him off to Porpoisia.”

The Minister paid close attention.

“It would not take long,” continued the sailor.  “I would rid you in a trice of the creature. . . .  But just now I have other fish to fry. . . .  I am in a bad hole.  I must find a pretty big sum.  But, deuce take it, honour before everything.”

The Minister and the Under-Emiral looked at each other for a moment in silence.  Then Barbotan said with authority: 

“Under-Emiral Vulcanmould, get rid of this seditious soldier.  You will render a great service to Penguinia, and the Minister of Home Affairs will see that your gambling debts are paid.”

The same evening Vulcanmould called on Chatillon and looked at him for some time with an expression of grief and mystery.

“My do you look like that?” asked the Emiral in an uneasy tone.

Vulcanmould said to him sadly: 

“Old brother in arms, all is discovered.  For the past half-hour the government knows everything.”

At these words Chatillon sank down overwhelmed.

Vulcanmould continued: 

“You may be arrested any moment.  I advise you to make off.”

And drawing out his watch: 

“Not a minute to lose.”

“Have I time to call on the Viscountess Olive?”

“It would be mad,” said Vulcanmould, handing him a passport and a pair of blue spectacles, and telling him to have courage.

“I will,” said Chatillon.

“Good-bye! old chum.”

“Good-bye and thanks!  You have saved my life.”

“That is the least I could do.”

A quarter of an hour later the brave Emiral had left the city of Alca.

He embarked at night on an old cutter at La Cirque and set sail for Porpoisia.  But eight miles from the coast he was captured by a despatch-boat which was sailing without lights and which was under, the flag of the Queen of the Black Islands.  That Queen had for a long time nourished a fatal passion for Chatillon.