Part 33 (1/2)
”You have proofs?” demanded Fitzgerald.
”The very best in the world. I have not only seen those patents, but I have seen the man.”
”Very interesting,” agreed Breitmann, brus.h.i.+ng the crumbs into his hand and dropping them on his plate. ”But, go on.”
”What a man!” breathed Fitzgerald, who began to see the drift of things.
”I proceed, then. Two generations pa.s.sed. I doubt if the third generation of this family has ever heard of the affair. One day the last of his race, in clearing up the salable things in his house--for he had decided to lease it--stumbled on the scant history of his forebears. He was at school then; a promising youngster, brave, cheerful, full of adventure and curiosity. Contrary to the natural sequence of events, he chose the navy, where he did very well. But in some way Germany found out what France already knew. Here was a fine chance for a stroke of politics. France had always watched; without fear, however, but with half-formed wonder. Germany considered the case: why not turn this young fellow loose on France, to worry and to harry her? So, quietly Germany bore on the youth in that cold-blooded, Teutonic way she has, and forced him out of the navy.
”He was poor, and poverty among German officers, in either branch, is a bad thing. Our young friend did not penetrate the cause of this at first; for he had no intention of utilizing his papers, save to dream over them. The blood of his great forebear refused to let him bow under this unjust stroke. He sought a craft, an interesting one. The net again closed in on him. He began to grow desperate, and desperation was what Germany desired. Desperation would make a tool of the young fellow. But our young Napoleon was not without wit. He plotted, but so cleverly and secretly that never a hand could reach out to stay him. Germany finally offered him an immense bribe. He threw it back, for now he hated Germany more than he hated France. You wonder why he hated France? If France had not discarded her empire--I do not refer to the second empire--he would have been a great personage to-day. At least this must be one of his ideas.
”And there you are,” abruptly. ”Here we have a Napoleon, indeed with all the patience of his great forebear. If Germany had left him alone he would to-day have been a good citizen, who would never have permitted futile dreams to enter his head, and who would have contemplated his greatness with the smile of a philosopher. And who can say where this will end? It is pitiful.”
”Pitiful?” repeated Breitmann. ”Why that?” calmly.
M. Ferraud repressed the admiration in his eyes. It was a singular duel. ”When we see a madman rus.h.i.+ng blindly over a precipice it is a human instinct to reach out a hand to save him.”
”But how do you know he is rus.h.i.+ng blindly?” Breitmann smiled this question.
Hildegarde sent him a terrified glance. But for the stiff back of her chair she must have fallen.
M. Ferraud demolished an olive before he answered the question. ”He has allied himself with some of the n.o.blest houses in France; that is to say, with the most heartless spendthrifts in Europe. Napoleon IV?
They are laughing behind his back this very minute. They are making a cat's-paw of his really magnificent fight for their own ign.o.ble ends, the Orleanist party. To wreak petty vengeance on France, for which none of them has any love; to embroil the government and the army that they may tell of it in the boudoirs. This is the aim they have in view. What is it to them that they break a strong man's heart? What is it to them if he be given over to perpetual imprisonment? Did a Bourbon ever love France as a country? Has not France always represented to them a purse into which they might thrust their dishonest hands to pay for their base pleasures? Oh, beware of the conspirator whose sole portion in life is that of pleasure! I wish that I could see this young man and tell him all I know. If I could only warn him.”
Breitmann brushed his sleeve. ”I am really disappointed in your climax, Mr. Ferraud.”
”I said nothing about a climax,” returned M. Ferraud. ”That has yet to be enacted.”
”Ah!”
”A descendant of Napoleon, direct! Poor devil!” The admiral was thunderstruck. ”Why, the very spirit of Napoleon is dead. Nothing could ever revive it. It would not live even a hundred days.”
”Less than that many hours,” said M. Ferraud. ”He will be arrested the moment he touches a French port.”
”Father,” cried Laura, with a burst of generosity which not only warmed her heart but her cheeks, ”why not find this poor, deluded young man and give him the treasure?”
”What, and ruin him morally as well as politically? No, Laura; with money he might become a menace.”
”On the contrary,” put in M. Ferraud; ”with money he might be made to put away his mad dream. But I'm afraid that my story has made you all gloomy.”
”It has made me sad,” Laura admitted. ”Think of the struggle, the self-denial, and never a soul to tell him he is mad.”
The scars faded a little, but Breitmann's eyes never wavered.
”The man hasn't a ghost of a chance.” To Fitzgerald it was now no puzzle why Breitmann's resemblance to some one else had haunted him.
He was rather bewildered, for he had not expected so large an order upon M. Ferraud's promise. ”Fifty years ago. . .”
”Ah! Fifty years ago,” interrupted M. Ferraud eagerly, ”I should have thrown my little to the cause. Men and times were different then; the world was less sordid and more romantic.”
”Well, I shall always hold that we have no right to that treasure.”
”Fiddlesticks, Laura! This is no time for sentiment. The questions buzzing in my head are: Does this man know of the treasure's existence?