Part 39 (1/2)
”To steal a chest full of money is one thing; to shoot a man is another. Besides, the admiral will go if he has to go alone; and I can't desert him.”
”Very well. You will have to take me to Baden for nervous prostration.”
”Humph! Baden; that'll mean about two-thousand in fresh gowns from Vienna or Paris. All right; I'm game. But, no nerves, no Baden.”
”Go, if you will; but _do_ take care of yourself; and let the admiral go _first_, when there's any sign of danger.”
Coldfield chuckled. ”I'll get behind him every time I think of it.”
”Kiss me. They are waiting for you. And be careful.”
It was only a little brave comedy. She knew this husband and partner of hers, hard-headed at times, but full of loyalty and courage; and she was confident that if danger arose the chances were he would be getting in front instead of behind the admiral. A pang touched her heart as she saw him spring into the carriage.
The admiral had argued himself hoa.r.s.e about Laura's going; but he had to give in when she threatened to hire a carriage on her own account and follow. Thus, Coldfield went because he was loyal to his friends; Laura, because she would not leave her father; Hildegarde, because to remain without knowing what was happening would have driven her mad; M.
Ferraud, because it was a trick in the game; and Cathewe and Fitzgerald, because they loved hazard, because they were going with the women they loved. The admiral alone went for the motive apparent to all: to lay hands on the scoundrel who had betrayed his confidence.
So the journey into the mountains began. In none of the admiral's doc.u.ments was it explained why the old Frenchman had hidden the treasure so far inland, when at any moment a call might have been made on it. Ferraud put forward the supposition that they had been watched.
As for hiding it in Corsica at all, every one understood that it was a matter of sentiment.
Fitzgerald keenly inspected the drivers, but found them of the ordinary breed, in velveteens, red-sashes, and soft felt hats. As they made the noon stop, one thing struck him as peculiar. The driver of the provision carriage had little or nothing to do with his companions.
”That is because _he_ is mine,” explained M. Ferraud in a whisper.
They were all capable hors.e.m.e.n, and on this journey spared their horses only when absolutely necessary. The great American _signori_ were in a hurry. They arrived at Carghese at five in the afternoon. The admiral was for pus.h.i.+ng on, driving all night. He stormed, but the drivers were obdurate. At Carghese they would remain till sunrise; that was final. Besides, it was not safe at night, without moons.h.i.+ne, for many a mile of the road lipping tremendous precipices was without curb or parapet. Not a foot till dawn.
In the little _auberge_, dignified but not improved by the name of Hotel de France, there was room only for the two women and the older men. Fitzgerald and Cathewe had to bunk the best they could in a tenement at the upper end of the town; two cots in a single room, carpetless and ovenlike for the heat.
Cathewe opened his rug-bag and spread out a rug in front of his cot, for he wasn't fond at any time of dirty, bare boards under his feet.
He began to undress, silently, puffing his pipe as one unconscious of the deed. Cathewe looked old. Fitzgerald hadn't noticed the change before; but it certainly was a fact that his face was thinner than when they put out to sea. Cathewe, his pipe still between his teeth, absently drew his s.h.i.+rt over his head. The pipe fell to the rug and he stamped out the coals, grumbling.
”You'll set yourself afire one of these fine days,” laughed Fitzgerald from his side of the room.
”I'm safe enough, Jack, you can't set fire to ashes, and that's about all I amount to.” Cathewe got into his pajamas and sat upon the bed.
”Jack, I thought I knew something about this fellow Breitmann; but it seems I've something to learn.”
The younger man said nothing.
”Was that yarn of Ferraud's fact or tommy-rot?”
”Fact.”
”The great-grandson of Napoleon! Here! Nothing will ever surprise me again. But why didn't he lay the matter before Killigrew, like a man?”
Fitzgerald patted and poked the wool-filled pillow, but without success. It remained as hard and as uninviting as ever. ”I've thought it over, Arthur. I'd have done the same as Breitmann,” as if reluctant to give his due to the missing man.
”But why didn't this b.u.t.terfly man tell the admiral all?”
”He had excellent reasons. He's a secret agent, and has the idea that Breitmann wants to go into France and make an emperor of himself.”
”Do men dream of such things to-day, let alone try to enact them?”