Part 31 (1/2)

It's the steward's champagne c.o.c.ktail; and you know how good they are.

And remember, if you will put your head into the clouds, don't take your feet off the deck.”

Fitzgerald expanded under his tactful interpretation. A long breath of relief issued from his heart, and the rending doubt was dissipated: the vulture-shadow spread its dark pennons and wheeled down the west. A priceless thing is that friend upon whom one may s.h.i.+ft the part of a burden. It seemed to be one of Cathewe's occupations in life to absorb, in a kindly, unemotional manner, other people's troubles. It is this type of man, too, who rarely shares his own.

It would be rather graceless to say that after drinking the c.o.c.ktail Fitzgerald resumed his aforetime rosal lenses. He was naturally at heart an optimist, as are all men of action. And so the admiral, who had begun to look upon him with puzzled commiseration, came to the conclusion that the young man's liver had resumed its normal functions.

An old woman would have diagnosed the case as one of heart (as Mrs.

Coldfield secretly and readily and happily did); but an old fellow like the admiral generally compromises on the liver.

When one has journeyed for days on the unquiet sea, a touch of land underfoot renews, Antaeus-wise, one's strength and mental activity; so a festive spirit presided at the dinner table. The admiral determined to vault the enforced repression of his secret. Inasmuch as it must be told, the present seemed a propitious moment. He signed for the attendants to leave the salon, and then rapped on the table for silence. He obtained it easily enough.

”My friends,” he began, ”where do you think this boat is really going?”

”Ma.r.s.eilles,” answered Coldfield.

”Where else?” cried M. Ferraud, as if diversion from that course was something of an improbability.

”Corsica. We can leave you at Ma.r.s.eilles, Mr. Ferraud, if you wish; but I advise you to remain with us. It will be something to tell in your old age.”

Cathewe glanced across to Fitzgerald, as if to ask: ”Do you know anything about this?” Fitzgerald, catching the sense of this mute inquiry, nodded affirmatively.

”Corsica is a beautiful place,” said Hildegarde. ”I spent a spring in Ajaccio.”

”Well, that is our port,” confessed the admiral, laying his precious doc.u.ments on the table. ”The fact is, we are going to dig up a treasure,” with a flourish.

Laughter and incredulous exclamations followed this statement.

”Pirates?” cried Coldfield, with a good-natured jeer. He had cruised with the admiral before. ”Where's the cutla.s.s and jolly-roger? Yo-ho!

and a bottle o' rum!”

”Yes. And where's the other s.h.i.+p following at our heels, as they always do in treasure hunts, the rival pirates who will cut our throats when we have dug up the treasure?”--from Cathewe.

”Treasures!” mumbled M. Ferraud from behind his pineapple. Carefully he avoided Fitzgerald's gaze, but he noted the expression on Breitmann's face. It was not pleasant.

”Just a moment,” the admiral requested patiently. ”I know it smells fishy. Laura, go ahead and read the doc.u.ments to the unbelieving giaours. Mr. Fitzgerald knows and so does Mr. Breitmann.”

”Tell us about it, Laura. No joking, now,” said Coldfield, surrendering his incredulity with some hesitance. ”And if the treasure involves no fighting or diplomatic tangle, count me in. Think of it, Jane,” turning to his wife; ”two old church-goers like you and me, a-going after a pirate's treasure! Doesn't it make you laugh?”

Laura unfolded the story, and when she came to the end, the excitement was hot and Babylonic. Napoleon! What a word! A treasure put together to rescue him from St. Helena! Gold, French gold, English gold, Spanish and Austrian gold, all mildewing in a rotting chest somewhere back of Ajaccio! It was unbelievable, fantastic as one of those cinematograph pictures, running backward.

”But what are you going to do with it when you find it?”

”Findings is keepings,” quoted the admiral. ”Perhaps divide it, perhaps turn it over to France, providing France agrees to use it for charitable purposes.”

”A fine plan, is it not, Mr. Breitmann?” said M. Ferraud.

”Findings is keepings,” repeated Breitmann, with a pale smile.

The eyes of Hildegarde von Mitter burned and burned. Could she but read what lay behind that impa.s.sive face! And he took it all with a smile! What would he do? what would he do now? kept recurring in her mind. She knew the man, or at least she thought she did; and she was aware that there existed in his soul dark caverns which she had never dared to explore. Yes, what would he do now? How would he put his hand upon this gold? She trembled with apprehension.

And later, when she found the courage to put the question boldly, he answered with a laugh, so low and yet so wild with fury that she drew away from him in dumb terror.