M. FERRAUD INTRODUCES HIMSELF.
"Yessir, Mr. Donovan," said Captain Flanagan, his peg-leg crossed and
one hand abstractedly polishing the brass ferrule; "Yessir, the
question is, what did y' hear?"
Mr. Donovan caressed his beer-glass and reflected. The two were seated
in the office of Swan's Hotel. "Well, I took them bricks out an' it
seems that loony ol' Frenchman our grandpas use to blow about had hid a
box in th' chimbley."
"A box in the chimbley. An' what was in the box?"
Mr. Donovan considered again. "I'll tell you the truth, Cap'n. It wus
a lot of rigermarole about a treasure. I wanted t' laugh. Your
commodore's a hoodoo on pirates an' treasures, an' he ain't found
either yet."
"No jokin'; keep a clear course."
"No harm. Th' admiral's all right, and don't you forget it. As I wus
sayin', they finds this 'ere box. The dockeyments wus in French, but
th' daughter read 'em off sumpin wonderful. You've heard of Napoleon?"
"Yes; I recollects the name," replied the captain, with quiet ridicule.
"Well, this business pertained t' him. Seems some o' his friends got
money t'gether t' rescue him from some island or other."
"St. Helena."
"That wus it. They left the cash in a box in Corsiker, 'nother island;
I-talyan, I take it. But I'll bet a dollar you never find anythin'
there."
"That is as may be." The captain liberated a full sigh and dug a hand
into a trousers pocket. He looked cautiously about. The two of them
were without witnesses. The landlord was always willing to serve beer
to those in quest of it; but immediately on providing it, he resumed
his interrupted perusal of the sporting column. At this moment his
soul was flying around the track at Bennington. When the captain
pulled out his hand it seemed full of bright autumn leaves. Donovan's
glass was suspended midway between the table and his lips. Slowly the
glass retraced the half-circle and resumed its perpendicular position
upon the oak.
"Beauties; huh?" said the captain.
"Twenty-dollar bills!"
"Yessir; every one of 'em as good as gold; payable to bearer on demand,
says your Uncle Sam."
"An' why are you makin' me envious this way?" said Donovan crossly.
"Donovan, you and me's been friends off an' on these ten years, ever
since th' commodore bought th' _Laura_. Well, says he t' me 'Capt'n,
we forgot that Mr. Donovan was in th' room at th' time o' th'
discovery. Will you be so kind as to impress him with the fact that
this expedition is on the Q.T.? Not that I think he will say anythin',
but you might add these few bits o' paper to his promise not t' speak.'
Says I, 'I'll trust Mr. Donovan.' An' I do. You never broke no
promise yet."
"It pays in the long run," replied Mr. Donovan, vainly endeavoring to
count the bills.
"Well, this 'ere little fortune is yours if you promise to abide by th'
conditions."
"That I keeps my mouth shut."
"An' _not_ open it even to th' Mrs."
Mr. Donovan permitted a doubt to wrinkle his brow. "That'll be a tough
proposition."
"Put th' money in th' bank and say nothin' till you hear from me,"
advised the captain.
"That's a go."
"Then I give you these five nice ones with th' regards o' th'
commodore." The captain stripped each bill and slowly laid it down on
the table for the fear that by some curious circumstance there might be
six.
"One hundred? Capt'n, I'm a--" Mr. Donovan emptied his glass with a
few swift gulps and banged the table. "Two more."
The landlord lowered his paper wearily (would they never let him
alone?) and stepped behind the bar. At the same time Mr. Donovan
folded the bills and stowed them away.
"Not even t' th' Mrs.," he swore. "Here's luck, Capt'n."
"Same t' you; an' don't get drunk this side o' Jersey City."
And with this admonition the captain drank his beer and thumped off for
the water front, satisfied that the village would hear nothing from Mr.
Donovan. Nevertheless, it was shameful to let a hundred go that easy;
twenty would have served. He was about to hail the skiff when he was
accosted by the quiet little man he had recently observed sitting alone
in the corner of Swan's office.
"Pardon, but you are Captain Flanagan of the yacht _Laura_?"
"Yessir," patiently. "But the owner never lets anybody aboard he don't
know, sir."
"I do not desire to come aboard, my Captain. What I wish to know is if
his excellency the admiral is at home."
"His excellency" rather confounded the captain for a moment; but he
came about without "takin' more'n a bucketful," as he afterward
expressed it to Halloran the engineer. "I knew right then he wus a
furriner; I know 'em. They ain't no excellencies in th' navy. But I
tells him that the commodore was snug in his berth up yonder, and with
that he looks to me like I wus a lady. I've seen him in Swan's at
night readin'; allus chasin' butterflies when he sees 'em in the
street." And the captain rounded out this period by touching his
forehead as a subtle hint that in his opinion the foreigner carried no
ballast.
In the intervening time the subject of this light suggestion was
climbing the hill with that tireless resiliant step of one born to
mountains. No task appeared visibly to weary this man. Small as he
was, his bones were as strong and his muscles as stringy as a wolf's.
If the butterfly was worth while he would follow till it fell to his
net or daylight withdrew its support. Never he lost patience, never
his smile faltered, never his mild spectacled eyes wavered. He was a
savant by nature; he was a secret agent by choice. Who knows anything
about rare butterflies appreciates the peril of the pursuit; one never
picks the going and often stumbles. He was a hunter of butterflies by
nature; but he possessed a something more than a mere smattering of
other odd crafts. He was familiar with precious gems, marbles he knew
and cameos; he could point out the weakness in a drawing, the false
effort in a symphony; he was something of mutual interest to every man
and woman he met.
So it fell out very well that Admiral Killigrew was fond of
butterflies. Still, he should have been equally glad to know that the
sailor's hobby inclined toward the exploits of pirates. M. Ferraud was
a modest man. That his exquisite brochure on lepidopterous insects was
in nearly all the public libraries of the world only gratified, but
added nothing to his vanity.
As it oftentimes happens to a man whose mind is occupied with other
things, the admiral, who received M. Ferraud in the library, saw
nothing in the name to kindle his recollection. He bade the savant to
be seated while he read the letter of introduction which had been
written by the secretary of the navy.
"MY DEAR KILLIGREW:
"This will introduce to you Monsieur Ferraud, of the butterfly fame.
He has learned of the success of your efforts in the West Indies and
South America and is eager to see your collection. Do what you can for
him. I know you will, for you certainly must have his book. I myself
do not know a butterfly from a June-bug, but it will be a pleasure to
bring you two together."
Breitmann arranged his papers neatly and waited to be dismissed. He
had seen M. Ferraud at Swan's, but had formed no opinion regarding him;
in fact, the growth of his interest had stopped at indifference. On
his part, the new arrival never so much as gave the secretary a second
glance--the first was sufficient. And while the admiral read on, M.
Ferraud examined the broken skin on his palms.
"Mr. Ferraud! Well, well; this is a great honor, I'm sure. It was
very kind of them to send you here. Where is your luggage?"
"I am stopping at Swan's Hotel."
"We shall have your things up this very night."
"Oh!" said Ferraud, in protest; though this was the very thing he
desired.
"Not a word!" The admiral summoned the butler, who was the general
factotem at The Pines, and gave a dozen orders.
"Ah, you Americans!" laughed M. Ferraud, pyramiding his fingers. "You
leave us breathless."
"Your book has delighted me. But I'm afraid my collection will not pay
you for your trouble."
"That is for me to decide. My South American specimens are all
seconds. On the other hand, you have netted yours yourself."
And straightway a bond of friendship was riveted between these two men
which still remains bright and untarnished by either absence or
forgetfulness. They bent over the cases, agreed and disagreed, the one
with the sharp gestures, the other with the rise and fall of the voice.
For them nothing else existed; they were truly engrossed.
Breitmann, hiding a smile that was partly a yawn, stole quietly away.
Butterflies did not excite his concern in the least.
M. Ferraud was charmed. He was voluble. Never had he entered a more
homelike place, large enough to be called a chateau, yet as cheerful as
a winter's fire. And the daughter! Her French was the elegant speech
of Tours, her German Hanoverian. Incomparable! And she was not
married? _Helas_! How many luckless fellows walked the world
desolate? And this was M. Fitzgerald the journalist? And M. Breitmann
had also been one? How delighted he was to be here! All this flowed
on with perfect naturalness; there wasn't a false note anywhere. At
dinner he diffused a warmth and geniality which were infectious. Laura
was pleased and amused; and she adored her father for these impulses
which brought to the board, unexpectedly, such men as M. Ferraud.
M. Ferraud did not smoke, but he dissipated to the extent of drinking
three small cups of coffee after dinner.
"You are right," he acknowledged--there had been a slight dispute
relative to the methods of roasting the berry--"Europe does not roast
its coffee, it burns it. The aroma, the bouquet! I am beaten."
"So am I," Fitzgerald reflected sadly, snatching a vision of the girl's
animated face.
Three days he had ridden into the country with her, or played tennis,
or driven down to the village and inspected the yacht. He had been
lonely so long and this beautiful girl was such a good comrade. One
moment he blessed the prospective treasure hunt, another he execrated
it. To be with this girl was to love her; and whither this pleasurable
idleness would lead him he was neither blind nor self-deceiving. But
with the semi-humorous recklessness which was the leaven of his
success, he thrust prudence behind him and stuck to the primrose path.
He had played with fire before, but never had the coals burned so
brightly. He did not say that she was above him; mentally and by birth
they were equals; simply, he was compelled to admit of the truth that
she was beyond him. Money. That was the obstacle. For what man will
live on his wife's bounty? Suppose they found the treasure (and with
his old journalistic suspicion he was still skeptical), and divided it;
why, the interest on his share would not pay for her dresses. To the
ordinary male eye her gowns looked inexpensive, but to him who had
picked up odd bits of information not usually in the pathway of man, to
him there was no secret about it. That bodice and those sleeves of old
Venetian point would have eaten up the gains of any three of his most
prosperous months.
And Breitmann, dropping occasionally the ash of his cigarette on the
tray, he, too, was pondering. But his German strain did not make it so
easy for him as for Fitzgerald to give concrete form to his thought.
The star, as he saw it, had a nebulous appearance.
M. Ferraud chatted gaily. Usually a man who holds his audience is of
single purpose. The little Frenchman had two aims: one, to keep the
conversation on subjects of his own selection, and the other, to study
without being observed. Among one of his own tales (butterflies) he
told of a chase he once had made in the mountains of the Moors, in
Abyssinia. To illustrate it he took up one of the nets standing in the
corner. In his excitable way he was a very good actor. And when he
swooped down the net to demonstrate the end of the story, it caught on
a button on Breitmann's coat.
"Pardon!" said M. Ferraud, with a blithe laugh. "The butterfly I was
describing was not so big."
Breitmann freed himself amid general laughter. And with Laura's rising
the little after-dinner party became disorganized.
It was yet early; but perhaps she had some thought she wished to be
alone with. This consideration was the veriest bud in growth; still,
it was such that she desired the seclusion of her room. She swung
across her shoulders the sleepy Angora and wished the men good night.
The wire bell in the hall clock vibrated twice; two o'clock of the
morning. A streak of moon-shine fell aslant the floor and broke off
abruptly. Before the safe in the library stood Breitmann, a small tape
in his hand. For several minutes he contemplated somberly the nickel
combination wheel. He could open it for he knew the combination. To
open it would be the work of a moment. Why, then, did he hesitate?
Why not pluck it forth and disappear on the morrow? The admiral had
not made a copy, and without the key he might dig up Corsica till the
crack of doom. The flame on the taper crept down. The man gave a
quick movement to his shoulders; it was the shrug, not of impatience
but of resignation. He saw the lock through the haze of a conjured
face. He shut his eyes, but the vision remained. Slowly he drew his
fingers over the flame.
Yet, before the flame died wholly it touched two points of light in the
doorway, the round crystals of a pair of spectacles.
"Two souls with but a single thought!" the secret agent murmured.
"Poor devil! why does he hesitate? Why does he not take it and be
gone? Is he still honest? _Peste_! I must be growing old. I shall
not ruin him, I shall save him. It is not goot politics, but it is
good Christianity. _Schlafen Sie wohl, Hochwohl geboren_!"