PREPARATIONS AND COGITATIONS
The story itself was brief enough, but there was plenty of husk to the
grain. The old expatriate was querulous, long-winded, not niggard with
his ink when he cursed the English and damned the Prussians; and he
obtained much gratification in jabbing his quill-bodkin into what he
termed the sniveling nobility of the old regime. Dog of dogs! was he
not himself noble? Had not his parents and his brothers gone to the
guillotine with the rest of them? But he, thank God, had no wooden
mind; he could look progress and change in the face and follow their
bent. And now, all the crimes and heroisms of the Revolution, all the
glorious pageantry of the empire, had come to nothing. A Bourbon,
thick-skulled, sordid, worn-out, again sat upon the throne, while the
Great Man languished on a rock in the Atlantic. Fools that they had
been, not to have hidden the little king of Rome as against this very
dog! It was pitiful. He never saw a shower in June that he did not
hail curses upon it. To have lost Waterloo for a bucketful of water!
Thousand thunders! could he ever forget that terrible race back to
Paris? Could he ever forget the shame of it? Grouchy for a fool and
Blücher for a blundering ass. _Eh bien_; they would soon tumble the
Bourbons into oblivion again.
A rambling desultory tale. And there were reminiscences of such and
such a great lady's _salon_; the flight from Moscow; the day of the
Bastille; the poor fool of a Louis who donned a red-bonnet and wore the
tricolor; some new opera dances; the flight of his cowardly cousins to
Austria; Austerlitz and Jena; the mad dream in Egypt; the very day when
the Great Man pulled a crown out of his saddle-bag and made himself an
emperor. Just a little corporal from Corsica; think of it! And so on;
all jumbled but keyed with tremendous interest to the listeners and to
Laura herself. It was the golden age of opportunity, of reward, of
sudden generals and princes and dukes. All gone, nothing left but a
few battle-flags; England no longer shaking in her boots, and the rest
of them dividing the spoils! No! There were some left, and in their
hands lay the splendid enterprise.
Quietly they had pieced together this sum and that, till there was now
stored away two-million francs. Two or three frigates and a corvette
or two; then the work would go forward. Only a little while to wait,
and then they would bring their beloved chief back to France and to his
own again. Had he not written: "Come for me, _mon brave_. They say
they have orders to shoot me. Come; better carry my corpse away than
that I should rot here for years to come." They would come. But this
year went by and another; one by one the Old Guard died off, smaller
and smaller had drawn the circle. The vile rock called St. Helena
still remained impregnable. On a certain day they came to tell him
that the emperor was no more. Soon he was all alone but one; these
brave soldiers who had planned with him were no more. An alien, an
outcast, he too longed for night. And what should he do with it, this
vast treasure, every franc of which meant sacrifice and unselfishness,
bravery and loyalty? Let the gold rot. He would bury all knowledge of
it in yonder chimney, confident that no one would ever find the
treasure, since he alone possessed the key to it, having buried it
himself. So passed the greatest Caesar of them all, the most brilliant
empire, the bravest army. Ah! had the king of Rome lived! Had there
been some direct Napoleonic blood to take up the work! Vain dreams!
The Great Man's brothers had been knaves and fools.
"And so to-night," the narrator ended, "I bury the casket in the
chimney; within it, my hopes and few trinkets of the past of which I am
an integral part. Good-by, little glove; good-by, brave old medal! I
am sending a drawing of the chimney to the good Abbe le Fanu. He will
outlive me. He lives on forty-centime the day; treasures mean nothing
to him; his cry, his eternal cry, is always of the People. He will
probably tear it up. The brig will never come again. So best. Death
will come soon. And I shall die unknown, unloved, forgotten. _Bonne
nuit_!"
Mr. Donovan alone remained in normal state of mind. 'Twas all
faradiddle, this talk of finding treasures. The old Frenchman had been
only half-baked. He dumped his tools into his bag, and, with the
wisdom of his kind, departed. There would be another job to-morrow,
putting the bricks back.
The others, however, were for the time but children, and like children
they all talked at once; and there was laughter and thumping of fists
and clapping of hands. The admiral had a new plan every five minutes.
He would do this, or he would do that; and Fitzgerald would shake his
head, or Breitmann would point out the feasibility of the plan. Above
all, he urged, there must be no publicity (with a flash toward
Fitzgerald); the world must know nothing till the treasure was in their
hands. Otherwise, there would surely be piracy on the high-seas. Two
million francs was a prize, even in these days. There were plenty of
men and plenty of tramp ships. Even when they found the gold, secrecy
would be best. There might be some difficulty with France. Close
lips, then, till they returned to America; after that Mr. Fitzgerald
would become famous as the teller of the exploit.
"I confess that, for all my excitement," said Fitzgerald, "I am
somewhat skeptical. Still, your suggestion, Mr. Breitmann, is good."
"Do you mean to say you doubt the existence of the treasure?" cried the
admiral, something impatient.
"Oh, no doubt it once existed. But seventy-five or eighty years!
There were others besides this refugee Frenchman. Who knows into what
hands similar documents may have fallen?"
"And the unknown man who worked in the chimney?" put in the girl
quietly.
"That simply proves what I say. He knows that this treasure once
existed, but not where. Now, it is perfectly logical that some other
man, years ago, might have discovered the same key as we have. He may
have got away with it. The man might have plausibly declared that he
had made the money somewhere. The sum is not so large as to create any
wide comment."
"Ah, my boy, your father had more enthusiasm than that." The admiral
looked reproachful.
"My dear admiral," and Fitzgerald laughed in that light-hearted way of
his, "I would go into the heart of China on a treasure hunt, for the
mere fun of it. Enthusiasm? Nothing would gratify me more than to
strike a shovel into the spot where this treasure, this pot of gold, is
supposed to lie. It will be great sport; nothing like it. I was
merely supposing. I have never heard of, or come into contact with, a
man who has found a hidden treasure. I am putting up these doubts
because we are never sure of anything. Why, Mr. Breitmann knows; isn't
it more fun to find a dollar in an old suit of clothes than to know you
have ten in the suit you are wearing? It's not how much, it's the
finding that gives the pleasure."
"That is true," echoed Breitmann generously. He fingered the papers
with a touch that was almost a caress. "A pity that you will go to the
Arctic instead."
"I am not quite sure that I shall go," replied Fitzgerald. That this
man had deliberately lied to him rendered him indecisive. For the
present he could not do or say anything, but he had a great desire to
be on hand to watch.
"You are not your father's son if you refuse to go with us;" and the
Admiral sent home this charge with fist against palm.
"'Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!'" parroted the girl drolly. "You
will go, Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Do you really want me to?" cleverly putting the decision with her.
"Yes." There was no coquetry in voice or eye.
"When do you expect to go?" Fitzgerald put this question to the
admiral.
"As soon as we can coal up and provision. Laura, I've just got to
smoke. Will you gentlemen join me?" The two young men declined. "We
can go straight to Funchal in the Madieras and re-coal. With the
club-ensign up nobody will be asking questions. We can telegraph the
_Herald_ whenever we touch a port. Just a pleasure-cruise." The
admiral fingered the Legion of Honor. "And here was Alladin's Lamp
hanging up in my chimney!" He broke in laughter. "By cracky! that man
Donovan knows his business. He's gone without putting back the bricks.
He has mulcted me for two days' work."
"But crossing in the yacht," hesitated Fitzgerald. He wished to sound
this man Breitmann. If he suggested obstacles and difficulties it
would be a confirmation of the telegram and his own singular doubts.
"It is likely to be a rough passage," said Breitmann experimentally.
"He doesn't want me to go." Fitzgerald stroked his chin slyly.
"We have crossed the Atlantic twice in the yacht," Laura affirmed with
a bit of pride; "once in March too, and a heavy sea half the way."
"Enter me as cabin-boy or supercargo," said Fitzgerald. "If you don't
you'll find a stowaway before two days out."
"That's the spirit." The admiral drew strongly on his cigar. He had
really never been so excited since his first sea-engagement. "And it
comes in so pat, Laura. We were going away in a month anyway. Now we
can notify the guests that we've cut down the time two weeks. I tell
you what it is, this will be the greatest cruise I ever laid a course
to."
"Guests?" murmured Fitzgerald, unconsciously poaching on Breitmann's
thought.
"Yes. But they shall know nothing till we land in Corsica. And in a
day or two this fellow would have laid hands on these things and we'd
never been any the wiser."
"And may we not expect more of him?" said Breitmann.
"Small good it will do him."
"Corsica," repeated the girl dreamily.
"Ay, Napoleon. The Corsican Brothers' daggers and vendetta, the
restless island! It is full of interest. I have been there."
Breitmann smiled pleasantly at the girl, but his thought was unsmiling.
Versed as he was in reading at a glance expression, whether it lay in
the eyes, in the lips, or the hands, he realized with chagrin that he
had made a misstep somewhere. For some reason he would have given much
to know, Fitzgerald was covertly watching him.
"You have been there, too, have you not, Mr. Fitzgerald?" asked Laura.
"Oh, yes; but never north of Ajaccio."
"Laura, what a finishing touch this will give to my book." For the
admiral was compiling a volume of treasures found, lost and still being
hunted. "All I can say is, that I am really sorry that the money
wasn't used for the purpose intended."
"I do not agree there," said Fitzgerald.
"And why not?" asked Breitmann.
"France is better off as she is. She has had all the empires and
monarchies she cares for. Wonderful country! See how she has lived in
spite of them all. There will never be another kingdom in France, at
least not in our generation. There's a Napoleon in Belgium and a
Bourbon in England; the one drills mediocre soldiers and the other
shoots grouse. They will never go any further."
The secretary spread his fingers and shrugged. "If there was only a
direct descendant of Napoleon!"
"Well, there isn't," retorted Fitzgerald, dismissing the subject into
limbo. "And much good it would do if there was."
"This treasure would rightly be his," insisted Breitmann.
"It was put together to bring Napoleon back. There is no Napoleon to
bring back."
"In other words, the money belongs to the finder?"
"Exactly."
"Findings is keepings," the admiral determined. "That's Captain
Flanagan's rule."
The girl could bring together no reasons for the mind inclining to the
thought that between the two young men there had risen an antagonism of
some sort, nothing serious but still armed with spikes of light in the
eyes and a semi-truculent angle to the chin. Fitzgerald was also aware
of this apparency, and it annoyed him. Still, sometimes instinct
guides more surely than logic. After all, he and Breitmann were only
casual acquaintances. There had never been any real basis for
friendship; and the possibility of this had been rendered nil by the
telegram. One can not make a friend of a man who has lied gratuitously.
"Now, Mr. Breitmann," interposed the admiral pacifically, for he was
too keen a sailor not to have noted the chill in the air, "suppose we
send off those letters? Here, I'll write the names and addresses, and
you can finish them up by yourself. Please call up Captain Flanagan at
Swan's Hotel and tell him to report this afternoon." The admiral
scribbled out the names of his guests, gathered up the precious
documents, and put them into his pocket. "Come along now, my children;
we'll take the air in the garden and picture the Frenchman's brig
rocking in the harbor."
"It is all very good of you," said Fitzgerald, as the trio eyed the
yacht from the terrace.
"Nonsense! The thing remains that all these years you ignored us."
"I have been, and still am, confoundedly poor. There is a little; I
suppose I could get along in a hut in some country village; but the
wandering life has spoiled me for that."
"Fake pride," rebuked the girl.
"I suppose it is."
"Your father had none. Long after the smash he'd hunt me up for a
week's fishing. Isn't she a beauty?" pointing to the yacht.
"She is," the young man agreed, with his admiration leveled at the
lovely profile of the girl.
"Let me see," began the admiral; "there will be Mr. and Mrs. Coldfield,
first-class sailors, both of them. What's the name of that singer who
is with them?"
"Hildegarde von Mitter."
"Of the Royal Opera in Munich?" asked Fitzgerald.
"Yes. Have you met her? Isn't she lovely?"
"I have only heard of her."
"And Arthur Cathewe," concluded the admiral.
"Cathewe? That will be fine," Fitzgerald agreed aloud. But in his
heart he swore he would never forgive Arthur for this trick. And he
knew all the time! "He's the best friend I have. A great hunter, with
a reputation which reaches from the Carpathians to the Himalayas, from
Abyssinia to the Congo."
"He is charming and amusing. Only, he is very shy."
At four that afternoon Captain Flanagan presented his respects. The
admiral was fond of the old fellow, a friendship formed in the blur of
battle-smoke. He had often been criticized for officering his yacht
with such a gruff, rather illiterate man, when gentlemen were to be had
for the asking. But Flanagan was a splendid seaman, and the admiral
would not have exchanged him for the smartest English naval-reserve
afloat. There was never a bend in Flanagan's back; royalty and
commonalty were all the same to him. And those who came to criticize
generally remained to admire; for Flanagan was the kind of sailor fast
disappearing from the waters, a man who had learned his seamanship
before the mast.
"Captain, how long will it take us to reach Funchal in the Madieras?"
"Well, Commodore, give us a decent sea an' we can make 'er in fourteen
days. But I thought we wus goin' t' th' Banks, sir?"
"Changed my plans. We'll put out in twelve days. Everything
shipshape?"
"Up to the buntin', sir, and down to her keel. I sh'd say about
six-hundred tons; an' mebbe twelve days instead of fourteen. An'
what'll be our course after Madeery, sir?"
"Ajaccio, Corsica."
"Yessir."
If the admiral had said the Antarctic, Flanagan would never have batted
an eye.
"You have spoken the crew?"
"Yessir; deep-sea men, too, sir. Halloran 'll have th' injins as us'l,
sir. Shall I run 'er up t' N' York fer provisions? I got your list."
"Triple the order. I'll take care of the wine and tobacco."
"All right, sir."
"That will be all. Have a cigar."
"Thank you, sir. What's the trouble?" extending a pudgy hand toward
the chimney.
"I'll tell you all about that later. Send up that man Donovan again."
It occurred to the admiral that it would not be a bad plan to cover Mr.
Donovan's palm. They had forgotten all about him. He had overheard.
Very carefully the captain put away the cigar and journeyed back to the
village. He regretted Corsica. He hated Dagos, and Corsica was Dago;
thieves and cut-throats, all of them.
This long time Breitmann had despatched his letters and gone to his
room, where he remained till dinner. He was a servant in the house.
He must not forget that. He had been worse things than this, and still
he had not forgotten. He had felt the blush of shame, yet he had
remembered, and white anger had embossed the dull scars; it was
impossible that he should forget.
He had grown accustomed, even in this short time, to the window
overlooking the sea, and he leaned that late afternoon with his arms
resting on the part where the two frames joined and locked. The sea
was blue and gentle breasted. Flocks of gulls circled the little
harbor and land-birds ventured daringly forth.
With what infinite care and patience had he gained this place! What
struggles had ensued! Like one of yonder birds he had been blown
about, but even with his eyes hunting for this resting. He had found
it and about lost it. A day or so later! He had come to rob, to lie,
to pillage, any method to gain his end; and fate had led him over this
threshold without dishonor, ironically. Even for that, thank God!
Dimly he heard Fitzgerald whistling in his room across. The sound
entered his ear, but not his trend of thought. God in Heaven what a
small place this earth was! In his hand, tightly clutched, was a ball
of paper, damp from the sweat of his palm. He had gnawed it, he had
pressed it in despair. Cathewe was a man, and he was not afraid of any
man living. Besides, men rarely became tellers of tales. But the
woman: Hildegarde von Mitter! How to meet her, how to look into her
great eyes, how to hear the sound of her voice!
He flung the ball of paper into the corner. She could break him as one
breaks a dry and brittle reed.