BREITMANN MAKES HIS FIRST BLUNDER
The secretary nerved himself and waited; and yet he knew what her reply
would be, even before she framed it, knew it with that indescribable
certainty which prescience occasionally grants in the space of a
moment. Before he had spoken there had been hope to stand upon, for
she had always been gentle and kindly toward him, not a whit less than
she had been to the others.
"Mr. Breitmann, I am sorry. I never dreamed of this;" nor had she.
She had forgotten Europeans seldom understand the American girl as she
is or believe that the natural buoyancy of spirit is as free from
purpose or intent as the play of a child. But in this moment she
remembered her little and perfectly inconsequent attentions toward this
man, and seeing them from his viewpoint she readily forgave him.
Abroad, she was always on guard; but here, among her own compatriots
who accepted her as she was, she had excusably forgotten. "I am sorry
if you have misunderstood me in any way."
"I could no more help loving you than that those stars should cease to
shine to-night," his voice heavy with emotion.
"I am sorry," she could only repeat. Men had spoken to her like this
before, and always had the speech been new to her and always had a
great and tender pity charged her heart. And perhaps her pity for this
one was greater than any she had previously known; he seemed so lonely.
"Sorry, sorry! Does that mean there is no hope?"
"None, Mr. Breitmann, none."
"Is there another?" his throat swelling. But before she could answer:
"Pardon me; I did not mean that. I have no right to ask such a
question."
"And I should not have answered it to any but my father, Mr.
Breitmann." She extended her hand. "Let us forget that you have
spoken. I should like you for a friend."
Without a word he took the hand and kissed it. He made no effort to
hold it, and it slipped from his clasp easily.
"Goodnight."
"Good night." And he never lost sight of her till she entered the
salon-cabin. He saw a star fall out of nothing into nothing. She was
sorry! The moment brewed a thousand wild suggestions. To abduct her,
to carry her away into the mountains, to cast his dream to the four
winds, to take her in spite of herself. He laid his hand on the teak
railing, wondering at the sudden wracking pain, a pain which unlinked
coherent thought and left his mind stagnant and inert. For the first
time he realized that his pain was a recurrence of former ones similar.
Why? He did not know. He only remembered that he had had the pain at
the back of his head and that it was generally followed by a burning
fury, a rage to rend and destroy things. What was the matter?
The damp rail was cool and refreshing, and after a spell the pain
diminished. He shook himself free and stood straight, his jaws hard
and his eyes, absorbing what light there was from the stars, chatoyant.
Sorry! So be it. To have humbled himself before this American girl
and to be snubbed for his pains! But, patience! Two million francs
and his friends awaiting the word from him. She was sorry! He
laughed, and the laughter was not unlike that which a few nights gone
had startled the ears of the other woman to whom he had once appealed
in passionate tones and not without success.
"Karl!"
The sight of Hildegarde at this moment neither angered nor pleased him.
He permitted her hand to lay upon his arm.
"My head aches," he said, as if replying to the unspoken question in
her eyes.
"Karl, why not give it up?" she pleaded.
"Give it up? What! when I have come this far, when I have gone through
what I have? Oh, no! Do not think so little of me as that."
"But it is a dream!"
He shook off her hand angrily. "If there is to be any reckoning I
shall pay, never fear. But it will not, _shall_ not fail!"
She would have liked to weep for him. "I would gladly give you my
eyes, Karl, if you might see it all as I see it. Ruin, ruin! Can you
touch this money without violence? Ah, my God, what has blinded you to
the real issues?"
"I have not asked you to share the difficulties."
"No. You have not been that kind to me."
To-night there were no places in his armor for any sentiment but his
own. "I want nothing but revenge."
"I think I can read," her own bitterness getting the better of her
tongue. "Miss Killigrew has declined."
"You have been listening?" with a snarl.
"It has not been necessary to listen; I needed only to watch."
"Well, what is it to you?"
"Take care, Karl! You can not talk to me like that."
"Don't drive me, then. Oh," with a sudden turn of mind, "I am sorry
that you can not understand."
"If I hadn't I should never have given you my promise not to speak.
There was a time when you had right on your side, but that time ceased
to be when you lied to me. How little you understood me! Had you
spoken frankly and generously at the start, God knows I shouldn't have
refused you. But you set out to walk over my heart to get that
miserable slip of paper. Ah! had I but known! I say to you, you will
fail utterly and miserably. You are either blind or mad!"
Without a word in reply to this prophecy he turned and left her; and as
soon as he had vanished she kissed the spot on the rail where his hand
had rested and laid her own there. When at last she raised it, the
rail was no longer merely damp, it was wet.
"Now there," began Fitzgerald, taking M. Ferraud firmly by the sleeve,
"I have come to the end of my patience. What has Breitmann to do with
all this business?"
"Will you permit me to polish my spectacles?" mildly asked M. Ferraud.
"It's the deuce of a job to get you into a corner," Fitzgerald
declared. "But I have your promise, and you should recollect that I
know things which might interest Mr. Breitmann."
"_Croyez-vous qu'il pleuve? Il fait bien du vent_," adjusting his
spectacles and viewing the clear sky and the serene bosom of the
Mediterranean. Then M. Ferraud turned round with: "Ah, Mr. Fitzgerald,
this man Breitmann is what you call 'poor devil,' is it not? At dinner
to-night I shall tell a story, at once marvelous past belief and
pathetic. I shall tell this story against my best convictions because
I wish him no harm, because I should like to save him from black ruin.
But, attend me; my efforts shall be as wind blowing upon stone; and I
shall not save him. An alienist would tell you better than I can.
Listen. You have watched him, have you not? To you he seems like any
other man? Yes? Keen-witted, gifted, a bit of a musician, a good deal
of a scholar? Well, had I found that paper first, there would have
been no treasure hunt. I should have torn it into one thousand pieces;
I should have saved him in spite of himself and have done my duty also.
He is mad, mad as a whirlwind, as a tempest, as a fire, as a sandstorm."
"About what?"
"To-night, to-night!"
And the wiry little man released himself and bustled away to his chair
where he became buried in rugs and magazines.