CATHEWE ASKS QUESTIONS
The hunter of butterflies rubbed his released wrists and ankles, tried
his collar, coughed, and dropped his legs to the floor.
"I am getting old," he cried in self-communion; "near-sighted and old.
I've worn spectacles so long in jest that now I must wear them in
earnest."
"How long have you been here?" asked Fitzgerald.
"I should say about two hours. It was very simple. He came to the
door. I opened it. He came in. _Zut_! He is as powerful as a lion."
"Why didn't you call?"
"I was too busy, and suddenly it became too late. Gone?"
"Yes." And Fitzgerald swore as he rubbed the side of his head.
Briefly he related what had befallen him.
"You have never hunted butterflies?"
"No," sharply. "Shall we start for him while his heels are hot?"
"It is very exciting. It is the one thing I really care for. There is
often danger, but it is the kind that does not steal round your back.
Hereafter I shall devote my time to butterflies. You can make
believe--is that what you call it?--each butterfly is a great rascal.
The more difficult the netting, the more cunning the rascal . . . What
did you say?"
"Look here, Ferraud," cried Fitzgerald angrily; "do you want to catch
him or not? He's gone, and that means he has got the odd trick."
"But not the rubber, my son. Listen. When you set a trap for a rat or
a lion, do you scare the animal into it, or do you lure him with a
tempting bait? I have laid the trap; he and his friend will walk into
it. I am not a police officer. I make no arrests. My business is to
avert political calamities, without any one knowing that these
calamities exist. That is the real business of a secret agent. Let
him dig up his fortune. Who has a better right? _Peste_! The pope
will not crown him in the gardens of the Tuileries. What!" with a ring
in his voice Fitzgerald had never heard before; "am I one to be
overcome without a struggle, without a call for help? The trap is set,
and in forty-eight hours it will be sprung. Be calm, my son. Tonight
we should not find a horse or carriage in the whole town of Ajaccio."
"But what are you going to do?"
"Go to Aïtone, to find a hole in the ground."
"But the admiral!"
"Let him gaze into the hole, and then tell him what you will. I owe
him that much. Come on!"
"Where?"
"To the admiral, to tell him his secretary is a fine rogue and that he
has stolen the march on us. A good chase will soften his final
disappointment."
"You're a strange man."
"No; only what you English and Americans call a game sport. To start
on even terms with a man, to give him the odds, if necessary. What!
have beaters for my rabbits, shoot pigeons from traps? _Fi donc_!"
"Hang it!" growled the young man, undecided.
"My son, give me my way. Some day you will be glad. I will tell you
this: I am playing against desperate men; and the liberty, perhaps
honor, of one you love is menaced."
"My God!"
"Sh! Ask me nothing; leave it all to me. There! They are coming.
Not a word."
The admiral's fury was boundless, and his utterances were touched here
and there by strong sailor expressions. The scoundrel! The black-leg!
And he had trusted him without reservation. He wanted to start at
once. Laura finally succeeded in calming him, and the cold reason of
M. Ferraud convinced him of the folly of haste. There was a comic side
to the picture, too, but they were all too serious to note it; the
varied tints of the dressing-gowns, the bath-slippers and bare feet,
the uncovered throats, the tousled hair, the eyes still heavy with
sleep. Every one of the party was in Ferraud's room, and their voices
hummed and murmured and their arms waved. Only one of them did Ferraud
watch keenly; Hildegarde. How would she act now?
Fitzgerald's head still rang, and now his mind was being tortured.
Laura in danger from this madman? No, over his body first, over his
dead body. How often had he smiled at that phrase; but there was no
melodrama in it now. Her liberty and perhaps her honor! His strong
fingers worked convulsively; to put them round the blackguard's throat!
And to do nothing himself, to wait upon this Frenchman's own good time,
was maddening.
"Your head is all right now?" as she turned to follow the others from
the room.
"It was nothing." He forced a smile to his lips. "I'm as fit as a
fiddle now; only, I'll never forgive myself for letting him go. Will
you tell me one thing? Did he ever offend you in any way?"
"A woman would not call it an offense," a glint of humor in her eyes.
"Real offense, no."
"He proposed to you?"
The suppressed rage in his tone would have amused if it hadn't thrilled
her strangely. "It would have been a proposal if I had not stopped it.
Good night."
He could not see her eyes very well; there was only one candle burning.
Impulsively he snatched at her hand and kissed it. With his life, if
need be; ay, and gladly. And even as she disappeared into the corridor
the thought intruded: Where was the past, the days of wandering, the
active and passive adventures, he had contemplated treasuring up for a
club career in his old age? Why, they had vanished from his mind as
thin ice vanishes in the spring sunshine. To love is to be borne again.
And Laura? She possessed a secret that terrified her one moment and
enraptured her the next. And she marveled that there was no shame in
her heart. Never in all her life before had she done such a thing;
she, who had gone so calmly through her young years, wondering what it
was that had made men turn away from her with agony written on their
faces! She would never be the same again, and the hand she held softly
against her cheek would never be the same hand. Where was the
tranquillity of that morning?
Fitzgerald found himself alone with Ferraud again. There was going to
be no dissembling; he was going to speak frankly.
"You have evidently discovered it. Yes, I love Miss Killigrew, well
enough to die for her."
"_Zut_! She will be as safe as in her own house. Had Breitmann not
gone to-night, had any of us stopped him, I could not say. Unless you
tell her, she will never know that she stood in danger. Don't you
understand? If I marred one move these men intend to make, if I showed
a single card, they would defeat me for the time; for they would make
new plans of which I should not have the least idea. You comprehend?"
Fitzgerald nodded.
"It all lies in the hollow of my hand. Breitmann made one mistake; he
should have pushed me off the boat, into the dark. _He_ knows that I
know. And there he confuses me. But, I repeat, he is not vicious,
only mad."
"Where will it be?"
"It will _not_ be;" and M. Ferraud smiled as he livened up the burnt
wick of his candle.
"Treachery on the part of the drivers? Oh, don't you see that you can
trust me wholly?"
"Well, it will be like this;" and reluctantly the secret agent outlined
his plan. "Now, go to bed and sleep, for you and I shall need some to
draw upon during the next three or four days. Hunting for buried
treasures was never a junketing. The admiral will tell you that. At
dawn!" Then he added whimsically: "I trust we haven't disturbed the
royal family below."
"Hang the royal family!"
"Their own parliament, or Reichstag, will arrange for that!" and the
little man laughed.
Dawn came soon enough, yellow and airless.
"My dear," said Mrs. Coldfield, "I really wish you wouldn't go."
"But Laura and Miss von Mitter insist on going. I can't back out now,"
protested Coldfield. "What are you worried about? Brigands,
gun-shots, and all that?"
"He will be a desperate man."
"To steal a chest full of money is one thing; to shoot a man is
another. Besides, the admiral will go if he has to go alone; and I
can't desert him."
"Very well. You will have to take me to Baden for nervous prostration."
"Humph! Baden; that'll mean about two-thousand in fresh gowns from
Vienna or Paris. All right; I'm game. But, no nerves, no Baden."
"Go, if you will; but _do_ take care of yourself; and let the admiral
go _first_, when there's any sign of danger."
Coldfield chuckled. "I'll get behind him every time I think of it."
"Kiss me. They are waiting for you. And be careful."
It was only a little brave comedy. She knew this husband and partner
of hers, hard-headed at times, but full of loyalty and courage; and she
was confident that if danger arose the chances were he would be getting
in front instead of behind the admiral. A pang touched her heart as
she saw him spring into the carriage.
The admiral had argued himself hoarse about Laura's going; but he had
to give in when she threatened to hire a carriage on her own account
and follow. Thus, Coldfield went because he was loyal to his friends;
Laura, because she would not leave her father; Hildegarde, because to
remain without knowing what was happening would have driven her mad; M.
Ferraud, because it was a trick in the game; and Cathewe and
Fitzgerald, because they loved hazard, because they were going with the
women they loved. The admiral alone went for the motive apparent to
all: to lay hands on the scoundrel who had betrayed his confidence.
So the journey into the mountains began. In none of the admiral's
documents was it explained why the old Frenchman had hidden the
treasure so far inland, when at any moment a call might have been made
on it. Ferraud put forward the supposition that they had been watched.
As for hiding it in Corsica at all, every one understood that it was a
matter of sentiment.
Fitzgerald keenly inspected the drivers, but found them of the ordinary
breed, in velveteens, red-sashes, and soft felt hats. As they made the
noon stop, one thing struck him as peculiar. The driver of the
provision carriage had little or nothing to do with his companions.
"That is because _he_ is mine," explained M. Ferraud in a whisper.
They were all capable horsemen, and on this journey spared their horses
only when absolutely necessary. The great American _signori_ were in a
hurry. They arrived at Carghese at five in the afternoon. The admiral
was for pushing on, driving all night. He stormed, but the drivers
were obdurate. At Carghese they would remain till sunrise; that was
final. Besides, it was not safe at night, without moonshine, for many
a mile of the road lipping tremendous precipices was without curb or
parapet. Not a foot till dawn.
In the little _auberge_, dignified but not improved by the name of
Hôtel de France, there was room only for the two women and the older
men. Fitzgerald and Cathewe had to bunk the best they could in a
tenement at the upper end of the town; two cots in a single room,
carpetless and ovenlike for the heat.
Cathewe opened his rug-bag and spread out a rug in front of his cot,
for he wasn't fond at any time of dirty, bare boards under his feet.
He began to undress, silently, puffing his pipe as one unconscious of
the deed. Cathewe looked old. Fitzgerald hadn't noticed the change
before; but it certainly was a fact that his face was thinner than when
they put out to sea. Cathewe, his pipe still between his teeth,
absently drew his shirt over his head. The pipe fell to the rug and he
stamped out the coals, grumbling.
"You'll set yourself afire one of these fine days," laughed Fitzgerald
from his side of the room.
"I'm safe enough, Jack, you can't set fire to ashes, and that's about
all I amount to." Cathewe got into his pajamas and sat upon the bed.
"Jack, I thought I knew something about this fellow Breitmann; but it
seems I've something to learn."
The younger man said nothing.
"Was that yarn of Ferraud's fact or tommy-rot?"
"Fact."
"The great-grandson of Napoleon! Here! Nothing will ever surprise me
again. But why didn't he lay the matter before Killigrew, like a man?"
Fitzgerald patted and poked the wool-filled pillow, but without
success. It remained as hard and as uninviting as ever. "I've thought
it over, Arthur. I'd have done the same as Breitmann," as if reluctant
to give his due to the missing man.
"But why didn't this butterfly man tell the admiral all?"
"He had excellent reasons. He's a secret agent, and has the idea that
Breitmann wants to go into France and make an emperor of himself."
"Do men dream of such things to-day, let alone try to enact them?"
incredulously.
"Breitmann's an example."
"Are you taking his part?"
"No, damn him! May I ask you a pertinent question?"
"Yes."
"Did he know Miss von Mitter very well in Munich?"
"He did."
"Was he quite square?"
"I am beginning to believe that he was something between a cad and a
scoundrel."
"Did you know that among her forebears on her mother's side was the
Abbe Fanu, who left among other things the diagram of the chimney?"
"So that was it?" Cathewe's jaws hardened.
Fitzgerald understood. Poor old Cathewe!
"Most women are fools!" said Cathewe, as if reading his friend's
thought. "Pick out all the brutes in history; they were always better
loved than decent men. Why? God knows! Well, good night;" and
Cathewe blew out his candle.
So did Fitzgerald; but it was long before he fell asleep. He was
straining his ears for the sound of a carriage coming down from Evisa.
But none came.