AN OLD SCANDAL
"Corsica to-morrow," said the admiral.
"Napoleon," said Laura.
"Romance," said Cathewe.
"Treasures," said M. Ferraud.
Hildegarde felt uneasy. Breitmann toyed with the bread crumbs. He was
inattentive besides.
"Napoleon. There is an old scandal," mused M. Ferraud. "I don't think
that any of you have heard it."
"That will interest me," Fitzgerald cried. "Tell it."
M. Ferraud cleared his throat with a sharp ahem and proceeded to
burnish his crystals. Specks and motes were ever adhering to them. He
held them up to the light and pretended to look through them: he saw
nothing but the secretary's abstraction.
"We were talking about treasures the other night," began the Frenchman,
"and I came near telling it then. It is a story of Napoleon."
"Never a better moment to tell it," said the admiral, rubbing his hands
in pleasurable anticipation.
"I say to you at once that the tale is known to few, and has never had
any publicity, and must never have any. Remember that, if you please,
Mr. Fitzgerald, and you also, Mr. Breitmann."
"I beg your pardon," said Breitmann. "I was not listening."
M. Ferraud repeated his request clearly.
"I am no longer a newspaper writer," Breitmann affirmed, clearing the
fog out of his head. "A story about Napoleon; will it be true?"
"Every word of it." M. Ferraud folded his arms and sat back.
During the pause Hildegarde shivered. Something made her desire madly
to thrust a hand out and cover M. Ferraud's mouth.
"We have all read much about Napoleon. I can not recall how many lives
range shoulder to shoulder on the booksellers' shelves. There have
been letters and memoirs, anecdotes by celebrated men and women who
were his contemporaries. But there is one thing upon which we shall
all agree, and that is that the emperor was in private life something
of a beast. As a soldier he was the peer of all the Caesars; as a
husband he was vastly inferior to any of them. This story does not
concern him as emperor. If in my narrative there occurs anything
offensive, correct me instantly. I speak English fluently, but there
are still some idioms I trip on."
"I'll trust you to steer straight enough," said the admiral.
"Thank you. Well, then, once upon a time Napoleon was in Bavaria. The
country was at that time his ablest ally. There was a pretty peasant
girl."
A knife clattered to the floor. "Pardon!" whispered Hildegarde to
Cathewe. "I am clumsy." She was as white as the linen.
Breitmann went on with his crumbs.
"I believe," continued M. Ferraud, "that it was in the year 1813 that
the emperor received a peculiar letter. It begged that a title be
conferred upon a pretty little peasant boy. The emperor was a grim
humorist, I may say in passing; and for this infant he created a
baronetcy, threw in a parcel of land, and a purse. That was the end of
it, as far as it related to the emperor. Waterloo came and with it
vanished the empire; and it would be a long time before a baron of the
empire returned to any degree of popularity. For years the matter was
forgotten. The documents in the case, the letters of patent, the deeds
and titles to the land, and a single Napoleonic scrawl, these gathered
dust in the loft. When I heard this tale the thing which appealed to
me most keenly was the thought that over in Bavaria there exists the
only real direct strain of Napoleonic blood: a Teuton, one of those who
had brought about the downfall of the empire."
"You say exists?" interjected Cathewe.
"Exists," laconically.
"You have proofs?" demanded Fitzgerald.
"The very best in the world. I have not only seen those patents, but I
have seen the man."
"Very interesting," agreed Breitmann, brushing the crumbs into his hand
and dropping them on his plate. "But, go on."
"What a man!" breathed Fitzgerald, who began to see the drift of things.
"I proceed, then. Two generations passed. I doubt if the third
generation of this family has ever heard of the affair. One day the
last of his race, in clearing up the salable things in his house--for
he had decided to lease it--stumbled on the scant history of his
forebears. He was at school then; a promising youngster, brave,
cheerful, full of adventure and curiosity. Contrary to the natural
sequence of events, he chose the navy, where he did very well. But in
some way Germany found out what France already knew. Here was a fine
chance for a stroke of politics. France had always watched; without
fear, however, but with half-formed wonder. Germany considered the
case: why not turn this young fellow loose on France, to worry and to
harry her? So, quietly Germany bore on the youth in that cold-blooded,
Teutonic way she has, and forced him out of the navy.
"He was poor, and poverty among German officers, in either branch, is a
bad thing. Our young friend did not penetrate the cause of this at
first; for he had no intention of utilizing his papers, save to dream
over them. The blood of his great forebear refused to let him bow
under this unjust stroke. He sought a craft, an interesting one. The
net again closed in on him. He began to grow desperate, and
desperation was what Germany desired. Desperation would make a tool of
the young fellow. But our young Napoleon was not without wit. He
plotted, but so cleverly and secretly that never a hand could reach out
to stay him. Germany finally offered him an immense bribe. He threw
it back, for now he hated Germany more than he hated France. You
wonder why he hated France? If France had not discarded her empire--I
do not refer to the second empire--he would have been a great personage
to-day. At least this must be one of his ideas.
"And there you are," abruptly. "Here we have a Napoleon, indeed with
all the patience of his great forebear. If Germany had left him alone
he would to-day have been a good citizen, who would never have
permitted futile dreams to enter his head, and who would have
contemplated his greatness with the smile of a philosopher. And who
can say where this will end? It is pitiful."
"Pitiful?" repeated Breitmann. "Why that?" calmly.
M. Ferraud repressed the admiration in his eyes. It was a singular
duel. "When we see a madman rushing blindly over a precipice it is a
human instinct to reach out a hand to save him."
"But how do you know he is rushing blindly?" Breitmann smiled this
question.
Hildegarde sent him a terrified glance. But for the stiff back of her
chair she must have fallen.
M. Ferraud demolished an olive before he answered the question. "He
has allied himself with some of the noblest houses in France; that is
to say, with the most heartless spendthrifts in Europe. Napoleon IV?
They are laughing behind his back this very minute. They are making a
cat's-paw of his really magnificent fight for their own ignoble ends,
the Orleanist party. To wreak petty vengeance on France, for which
none of them has any love; to embroil the government and the army that
they may tell of it in the boudoirs. This is the aim they have in
view. What is it to them that they break a strong man's heart? What
is it to them if he be given over to perpetual imprisonment? Did a
Bourbon ever love France as a country? Has not France always
represented to them a purse into which they might thrust their
dishonest hands to pay for their base pleasures? Oh, beware of the
conspirator whose sole portion in life is that of pleasure! I wish
that I could see this young man and tell him all I know. If I could
only warn him."
Breitmann brushed his sleeve. "I am really disappointed in your
climax, Mr. Ferraud."
"I said nothing about a climax," returned M. Ferraud. "That has yet to
be enacted."
"Ah!"
"A descendant of Napoleon, direct! Poor devil!" The admiral was
thunderstruck. "Why, the very spirit of Napoleon is dead. Nothing
could ever revive it. It would not live even a hundred days."
"Less than that many hours," said M. Ferraud. "He will be arrested the
moment he touches a French port."
"Father," cried Laura, with a burst of generosity which not only warmed
her heart but her cheeks, "why not find this poor, deluded young man
and give him the treasure?"
"What, and ruin him morally as well as politically? No, Laura; with
money he might become a menace."
"On the contrary," put in M. Ferraud; "with money he might be made to
put away his mad dream. But I'm afraid that my story has made you all
gloomy."
"It has made me sad," Laura admitted. "Think of the struggle, the
self-denial, and never a soul to tell him he is mad."
The scars faded a little, but Breitmann's eyes never wavered.
"The man hasn't a ghost of a chance." To Fitzgerald it was now no
puzzle why Breitmann's resemblance to some one else had haunted him.
He was rather bewildered, for he had not expected so large an order
upon M. Ferraud's promise. "Fifty years ago. . ."
"Ah! Fifty years ago," interrupted M. Ferraud eagerly, "I should have
thrown my little to the cause. Men and times were different then; the
world was less sordid and more romantic."
"Well, I shall always hold that we have no right to that treasure."
"Fiddlesticks, Laura! This is no time for sentiment. The questions
buzzing in my head are: Does this man know of the treasure's existence?
Might he not already have put his hand upon it?"
"Your own papers discredit that supposition," replied Cathewe. "A
stunning yarn, and rather hard to believe in these skeptical times.
What is it?" he asked softly, noting the dead white on Hildegarde's
cheeks.
"Perhaps it is the smoke," she answered with a brave attempt at a smile.
The admiral in his excitement had lighted a heavy cigar and was
consuming it with jerky puffs, a bit of thoughtlessness rather
pardonable under the stress of the moment. For he was beginning to
entertain doubts. It was not impossible for this Napoleonic chap to
have a chart, to know of the treasure's existence. He wished he had
heard this story before. He would have left the women at home.
Corsica was not wholly civilized, and who could tell what might happen
there? Yes, the admiral had his doubts.
"I should like to know the end of the story," said Breitmann musingly.
"There is time," replied M. Ferraud; and of them all, only Fitzgerald
caught the sinister undercurrent.
"So, Miss Killigrew, you believe that this treasure should be handed
over to its legal owner?" Breitmann looked into her eyes for the first
time that evening.
"I have some doubt about the legal ownership, but the sentimental and
moral ownership is his. A romance should always have a pleasant
ending."
"You are thinking of books," was Cathewe's comment. "In life there is
more adventure than romance, and there is seldom anything more
incomplete in every-day life than romance."
"That would be my own exposition, Mr. Cathewe," said Breitmann.
The two fenced briefly. They understood each other tolerably well;
only, Cathewe as yet did not know the manner of the man with whom he
was matched.
The dinner came to an end, or, rather, the diners rose, the dinner
having this hour or more been cleared from the table; and each went to
his or her state-room mastered by various degrees of astonishment.
Fitzgerald moved in a kind of waking sleep. Napoleon IV! That there
was a bar sinister did not matter. The dazzle radiated from a single
point: a dream of empire! M. Ferraud had not jested; Breitmann was
mad, obsessed, a monomaniac. It was grotesque; it troubled the senses
as a Harlequin's dance troubles the eyes. A great-grandson of
Napoleon, and plotting to enter France! And, good Lord! with what?
Two million francs and half a dozen spendthrifts. Never had there been
a wilder, more hopeless dreamer than this! Whatever antagonism or
anger he had harbored against Breitmann evaporated. Poor devil, indeed!
He understood M. Ferraud now. Breitmann was mad; but till he made a
decisive stroke no man could stay him. So many things were clear now.
He was after the treasure, and he meant to lay his hands upon it,
peacefully if he could, violently if no other way opened. That day in
the Invalides, the old days in the field, his unaccountable appearance
on the Jersey coast; each of these things squared themselves in what
had been a puzzle. But, like the admiral, he wished that there were no
women on board. There would be a contest of some order, going forward,
where only men would be needed. Pirates! He rolled into his bunk with
a dry laugh.
Meantime M. Ferraud walked the deck alone, and finally when Breitmann
approached him, it was no more than he had been expecting.
"Among other things," began the secretary, with ominous calm, "I should
like to see the impression of your thumb."
"That lock was an ingenious contrivance. It was only by the merest
accident I discovered it."
"It must be a vile business."
"Serving one's country? I do not agree with you. Wait a moment, Mr.
Breitmann; let us not misunderstand each other. I do not know what
fear is; but I do know that I am one of the few living who put above
all other things in the world, France: France with her wide and
beautiful valleys, her splendid mountains, her present peace and
prosperity. And my life is nothing if in giving it I may confer a
benefit."
"Why did you not tell the whole story? A Frenchman, and to deny
oneself a climax like this?"
M. Ferraud remained silent.
"If you had not meddled! Well, you have, and these others must bear
the brunt with you, should anything serious happen."
"Without my permission you will not remain in Ajaccio a single hour.
But that would not satisfy me. I wish to prove to you your blindness.
I will make you a proposition. Tear up those papers, erase the memory
from your mind, and I will place in your hands every franc of those two
millions."
Breitmann laughed harshly. "You have said that I am mad; very well, I
am. But I know what I know, and I shall go on to the end. You are
clever. I do not know who you are nor why you are here with your
warnings; but this will I say to you: to-morrow we land, and every hour
you are there, death shall lurk at your elbow. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly. So well, that I shall let you go freely."
"A warning for each, then; only mine has death in it."
"And mine, nothing but good-will and peace."