A Splendid Hazard by Harold MacGrath

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The secret agent followed him till he reached the _Place des Palmiers_.
He put a hand on Breitmann's arm. The latter, highly keyed, swung
quickly. And seeing who it was (the man he believed to be at that
moment a prisoner in the middle country!), he made a sinister move
toward his hip. M. Ferraud was in peril, and he realized it.

"Wait a moment, Monsieur; there is no need of that. I repeat, I wish
you well, and this night I will prove it. What? do you not know that I
could have put my hand on you at any moment? Attend. Return with me
to the little house in Rue St. Charles."

Breitmann's hand again stole toward his hip.

"You were listening?"

"Yes. Be careful. My death would not change anything. I wish to
disillusion you; I wish to prove to you how deeply you are the dupe of
those men. All your plans have been remarkable, but not one of them
has remained unknown to me. You clasp the hand of this duke who plays
the sailor under the name of Picard, who hails you as a future emperor,
and stabs you behind your back? How? Double-face that he is, have I
not proof that he has written detail after detail of this conspiracy to
the _Quai d'Orsay_, and that he has clung to you only to gain his share
of what is yours? _Zut_! Come back with me and let your own ears
testify. The fact that I am not in the mountains should convince you
how strong I am."

Breitmann hesitated, wondering whether he had best shoot this meddler
then and there and cut for it, or follow him.

"I will go with you. But I give you this warning: if what I hear is
not what you expect me to hear, I promise to put a bullet into your
meddling head."

"I agree to that," replied the other. He did not underestimate his
danger; neither did he undervalue his intimate knowledge of human
nature.

With what emotions Breitmann returned to the scene of his triumph, his
self-appointed companion could only surmise. He had determined to save
this young fool in spite of his madness, and never had he failed to
bring his enterprises to their fore-arranged end. And there was
sentiment between all this, sentiment he would not have been ashamed to
avow. Upon chance, then, fickle inconstant chance, depended the
success of the seven years' labor. If by this time the wine had not
loosened their tongues, or if they had disappeared!

But fortune favors the persistent no less than the brave. The
profligates were still at the table, and there were fresh bottles of
wine. They were laughing and talking. In all, not more than fifteen
minutes had elapsed since Breitmann's departure. M. Ferraud stationed
him by the window and kept a hand lightly upon his arm, as one might
place a finger on a pulse.

Of what were they talking? Ostend. The ballet-dancers. The races in
May. The shooting at Monte Carlo. Gaming-tables, empty purses. And
again ballet-dancers.

"To divide two millions!" cried one. "That will clear my debts, with a
little for Dieppe."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand francs! Princely!"

And then the voice of the master-spirit, pitiless, ironical; Picard's.
"Was there ever such a dupe? And not to laugh in his face is penance
for my sins. A Dutchman, a bullet-headed clod from Bavaria, the land
of sausage, beer, and daschunds; and this shall be written Napoleon IV!
Ye gods, what farce, comedy, vaudeville! But, there was always that
hope: if he found the money he would divide it. So, kowtow, kowtow!
Opera bouffe!"

Breitmann shuddered. M. Ferraud, feeling that shudder under his hand,
relaxed his shoulders. He had won!

"An empire! Will you believe it?"

"I suggest the eagle rampant on a sausage!"

"No, no; the lily on the beer-pot!"

The scene went on. The butt of it heard jest and ridicule. They were
pillorying him with the light and matchless cruelty of wits. And he,
poor fool, had believed them to be _his_ dupes, whereas he was
_theirs_! Gently he disengaged himself from M. Ferraud's grasp.

"What are you going to do?" whispered the hunter of butterflies.

"Watch and see."

Breitmann walked noiselessly round to the entrance, and M. Ferraud lost
sight of him for a few moments. Picard was on his feet, mimicking his
dupe by assuming a Napoleonic pose. The door opened and Breitmann
stood quietly on the threshold. A hush fell on the revelers. There
was something kingly in the contempt with which Breitmann swept the
startled faces. He stepped up to the table, took up a full glass of
wine and threw it into Picard's face.

"Only one of us shall leave Corsica," said the dupe.

"Certainly it will not be your majesty," replied Picard, wiping his
face with a serviette. "His majesty will waive his rights to meet me.
To-morrow morning I shall have the pleasure of writing finis to this
Napoleonic phase. You fool, you shall die for that!"

"That," returned Breitmann, still unruffled as he went to the door,
"remains to be seen. Gentlemen, I regret to say that your monetary
difficulties must continue unchanged."

"Oh, for fifty years ago!" murmured the little scene-shifter from the
dark of his shelter.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE END OF THE DREAM

It took place on the road which runs from Ajaccio to the _Cap de la
Parata_, not far from _Iles Sanguinaires_; not a main-traveled road.
The sun had not yet crossed the mountains, but a crisp gray light lay
over land and sea. They fired at the same time. The duke lowered his
pistol, and through the smoke he saw Breitmann pitch headforemost into
the thick white dust. Presently, nay almost instantly, the dust at the
left side of the stricken man became a creeping blackness. The surgeon
sprang forward.

"Dead?" asked Picard.

"No! through the shoulder. He has a fighting chance."

"The wine last night; my hand wasn't steady enough. Some day the fool
will curse me as a poor shot. The devil take the business! Not a sou
for my pocket, out of all the trouble I have had. But for the want of
a clear head I should be a rich man to-day. Who thought he would come
back?"

"I did," answered M. Ferraud.

"You?"

"With pleasure! I brought him back; thank me for your empty pockets,
Monsieur. If I were you I should not land at Marseilles. Try Livarno,
by all means, Livarno."

"For this?" asked Picard, with a jerk of his head toward Breitmann, who
was being carefully lifted on to the carriage seat.

"No, for certain letters you have _not_ sent to the _Quai d'Orsay_.
You comprehend?"

"What do you mean?" truculently; for Picard was not in a kindly mood
this morning.

But the little Bayard of the _Quai_ laughed. "Shall I explain here,
Monsieur? Be wise. Go to Italy, all of you. This time you
overreached, _Monsieur le Duc_. Your ballet-dancers must wait!" And
with rare insolence, M. Ferraud showed his back to his audience,
climbed to the seat by the driver, and bade him return slowly to the
Grand Hotel.

Hildegarde refused to see any one but M. Ferraud. Hour after hour she
sat by the bed of the injured man. Knowing that in all probability he
would live, she was happy for the first time in years. He needed her;
alone, broken, wrecked among his dreams, he needed her. He had
recovered consciousness almost at once, and his first words were a
curse on the man who had aimed so badly. He could talk but little, but
he declared that he would rip the bandages if they did not prop his
pillows so he could see the bay. The second time he woke he saw
Hildegarde. She smiled brokenly, but he turned his head aside.

"Has the yacht gone yet?"

"No."

"When will it sail?"

"To-morrow." Her heart swelled with bitter pain. The woman he loved
would be on that yacht. But toward Laura she held nothing but kindness
tinged with a wondering envy. Was not she, Hildegarde, as beautiful?
Had Laura more talents than she, more accomplishments? Alas, yes; one!
She had had the unconscious power of making this man love her.

To and fro she waved the fan. For a while, at any rate, he would be
hers. And when M. Ferraud said that the others wished to say farewell,
she declined. She could look none of them in the face again, nor did
she care. She was sorry for Cathewe. His life would be as broken as
hers; but a man has the world under his feet, scenes of action, changes
to soothe his hurt: a woman has little else but her needle.

All through the day and all through the night she remained on guard,
surrendering her vigil only to M. Ferraud. With cold cloths she kept
down the fever, wiping the hot face and hands. He would pull through,
the surgeon said, but he would have his nurse to thank. There was
something about the man the doctor did not understand: he acted as if
he did not care to live.

The morning found her still at her post. Breitmann awoke early, and
appeared to take little interest in his surroundings.

"Why do you waste your time?" his voice was colorless.

"I am not wasting my time, Karl."

His head rolled slowly over on the pillow till he could see outside.
Only two or three fishing-boats were visible.

"When will the yacht sail?"

Always that question! "Go to sleep. I will wake you when I see it."

"I've been a scoundrel, Hildegarde;" and he closed his eyes.

Where would she go when he left this room? For the future was always
rising up with this question. What would she do, how would she live?
She too shut her eyes.

The door opened. The visitor was M. Ferraud. He touched his lips with
a finger and stole toward the bed.

"Better?"

She nodded.

"Are you not dead for sleep?"

"It does not matter."

Breitmann's eyes opened, for his brain was wide awake. "Ferraud?"

"Yes. They wished me to say good-by for them."

"To me?" incredulously.

"They have none but good wishes."

"She will never know?"

"Not unless Mr. Fitzgerald tells her."

"Hildegarde, I had planned her abduction. Don't misunderstand. I have
sunk low indeed, but not so low as that. I wanted to harry them. They
would have left me free. She was to be a pawn. I shouldn't have hurt
her."

"You do not care to return to Germany?"

"Nor to France, M. Ferraud."

"There's a wide world outside. You will find room enough," diffidently.

"An outlaw?"

"Of a kind."

"Be easy. I haven't even the wish to be buried there. There is more
to the story, more than you know. My name is Herman Stueler . . . if I
live. There is not a drop of French blood in my veins. Breitmann died
on the field in the Soudan, and I took his papers." His eyes burned
into Ferraud's.

"Perhaps that would be the best way," replied M. Ferraud pensively.

"What shall I do with the money? It is under the bed."

"Keep it. No one will contest your right to it, Herman Stueler; and
besides, your French, fluent as it is, still possesses the Teutonic
burr. Yes, Herman Stueler; very good, indeed."

Hildegarde eyed them in wonder. Were they both mad?

"Will you be sure always to remember?" said M. Ferraud to the
bewildered woman. "Herman Stueler; Karl Breitmann, who was the great
grandson of Napoleon, died of a gunshot in Africa. If you will always
remember that, why even Paris will be possible some day."

Hildegarde was beginning to understand. She was coming to bless this
little man.

"I do not believe that the money under the bed is safe there. I shall,
if you wish, make arrangements with the local agents of the Credit
Legonnais to take over the sum, _without question_, and to issue you
two drafts, one on London and the other on New York, or in two letters
of credit. Two millions; it is a big sum to let repose under one's
bed, anywhere, let alone Corsica, where the amount might purchase half
the island."

"I am, then, a rich man; no more crusades, no more stale bread and
cheap tobacco, no more turning my cuffs and collars and clipping the
frayed edges of my trousers. I am fortunate. There is a joke, too.
Picard and his friends advanced me five thousand francs for the
enterprise."

"I marvel where they got it!"

"I am sorry that I was rough with you."

"I bear you not the slightest ill-will. I never have. Herman Stueler;
I must remember to have them make out the drafts in that name."

Breitmann appeared to be sleeping again. After waiting a moment or
two, his guardian-angel tiptoed out.

An hour went by.

"Hildegarde, have you any money?"

"Enough for my needs."

"Will you take half of it?"

"Karl!"

"Will you?"

"No!"

He accepted this as final. And immediately his gaze became fixed on
the bay. A sleek white ship was putting out to sea.

"They are leaving, Karl," she said, and the courage in her eyes beat
down the pain in her heart.

"In my coat, inside; bring them to me." As he could move only his
right arm and that but painfully, he bade her open each paper and hold
it so that he could read plainly. The scrawl of the Great Captain; a
deed and title; some dust dropping from the worn folds: how he strained
his eyes upon them. He could not help the swift intake of air, and the
stab which pierced his shoulder made him faint. She began to refold
them. "No," he whispered. "Tear them up, tear them up!"

"Why, Karl."

"Tear them up, now, at once. I shall never look at them again. Do it.
What does it matter? I am only Herman Stueler. Now!"

With shaking fingers she tipped the tattered sheets, and the tears ran
over and down her cheeks. It would not have hurt her more had she torn
the man's heart in twain. He watched her with fevered eyes till the
last scrap floated into her lap.

"Now, toss them into the grate and light a match."

And when he saw the reflected glare on the opposite wall, he sank
deeper into the pillow. The woman was openly sobbing. She came back
to his side, knelt, and laid her lips upon his hand. There was now
only a dim white speck on the horizon, and with that strange sea-magic
the hull suddenly dipped down, and naught but a trail of smoke
remained. Then this too vanished. Breitmann withdrew his hand, but he
laid it upon her head.

"I am a broken man, Hildegarde; and in my madness I have been something
of a rascal. But for all that, I had big dreams, but thus they go, the
one in flames and the other out to sea." He stroked her hair. "Will
you take what is left? Will you share with me the outlaw, be the wife
of a disappointed outcast? Will you?"

"Would I not follow you to any land? Would I not share with you any
miseries? Have you ever doubted the strength of my love?"

"Knowing that there was another?"

"Knowing even that."

"It is I who am little and you who are great. Hildegarde, we'll have
our friend Ferraud seek a priest this afternoon and square accounts."

Her head dropped to the coverlet.

After that there was no sound except the crisp metallic rattle of the
palms in the freshening breeze.

THE END

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