He made him describe many times the tomb of the saint, the only one in the transept of the cathedral, the moth-eaten tapestries that perpetuated his miracles, the silver bust which guarded his heart…. Furthermore, the principal portal of Vannes was called the gate of St. Vicente and recollections of the saint were still alive in their chronicles.
Caragol proposed to visit this city also when the ship should return to Brest. Brittainy must be very holy ground, the holiest in the world, since the miracle-working Valencian, after traversing so many nations, had wished to die there.
It, therefore, did not produce the slightest astonishment that this slip of a boy who had been picked up at Dixmude covered with wounds, was now showing himself sane and vigorous…. On board the Mare Nostrum he was the head gunner. He and two comrades had charge of the quickfirers. For Caragol there was not the slightest doubt as to the fate of every submarine that should venture to attack them; the "lad from Vannes" would send them to smithereens at the first shot. A picture post-card, a gift of the lad from Brittany, showing the tomb of the saint, occupied the position of honor in the galley. The old man used to pray before it as though it were a miracle-working print, and the Cristo del Grao was relegated to second place.
One morning Caragol went in search of the captain and found him writing in his stateroom. He had just come from making purchases in the shore market. While passing through the rue de Siam, the most important road in Brest, where the theaters are, the moving-picture shows, and the cafes, he had had an encounter. "An unexpected meeting," he continued with a mysterious smile. "Who do you suppose it was with?…" Ferragut shrugged his shoulders. And, noting his indifference, the old man could not keep the secret any longer.
"The lady-bird!" he added. "That handsome, perfumed lady-bird that used to come to see you…. The one from Naples…. The one from Barcelona…." The captain turned pale, first with surprise and then with anger. Freya in Brest!… Her spy work was reaching even here?…
Caragol went on with his story. He was returning to the ship, and she, who was walking through the rue de Siam, had recognized him, speaking to him affectionately.
"She asked to be remembered to you…. She has been informed that no foreigner can come aboard. She told me that she had tried to come to see you."
The cook began a search through his pockets, extricating a bit of wrinkled paper, a white sheet snatched from an old letter.
"She also gave me this paper, written right there in the street with a lead pencil. You will know what it says. I did not wish to look at it."
Ferragut, on taking the paper, recognized immediately her handwriting, although uneven, nervous and scribbled with great precipitation. Six words, no more:—"Farewell, I am going to die."