"Don't go…. They're having a consultation."
Upon opening the door of the landing that corresponded to his quarters he saw, on various occasions, the green screened door of the office closing behind many men, all of them of Teutonic aspect, travelers who had just disembarked in Naples with a certain precipitation, neighbors from the city who used to receive orders from the doctor.
She appeared much more preoccupied than usual. Her eyes would pass over
Freya and the sailor as though she did not see them.
"Bad news from Rome," Ferragut's companion told him. "Those accursed mandolin-strummers are getting away from us."
Ulysses began to feel a certain boredom in these monotonously voluptuous days. His senses were becoming blunted with so many indulgences mechanically repeated. Besides, a monstrous debilitation was making him think in self-defense of the tranquil life of the hearth. He timidly began calculating the time of his seclusion. How long had he been living with her?… His confused and crowded memory besought her aid.
"Fifteen days," replied Freya.
Again he persisted in his calculations, and she affirmed that only three weeks had passed by since his steamer had left Naples.
"I shall have to go," said Ulysses hesitatingly. "They will be expecting me in Barcelona; I have no news…. What will become of my vessel?…"
She who generally listened to these inquiries with a distraught air, not wishing to understand his timid insinuations, responded one afternoon unequivocally:
"The time is approaching when you are going to fulfill your word of honor in regard to sacrificing yourself for me. Soon you will be able to go to Barcelona, and I—I shall join you there. If I am not able to go, we shall meet again…. The world is very small."