THE PINES OF AITONE
Before sun-up they were on the way again. They circled through
magnificent gorges now, of deep red and salmon tinted granite,
storm-worn, strangely hollowed out, as if some Titan's hand had been at
work; and always the sudden disappearance and reappearance of the blue
Mediterranean.
The two young women rode in the same carriage. Occasionally the men
got down out of theirs and walked on either side of them. Whenever an
abrupt turn showed forward, Fitzgerald put his hand in his pocket.
From whichever way it came, he, at least, was not going to be found
unprepared. Sometimes, when he heard M. Ferraud's laughter drift back
from the admiral's carriage, he longed to throttle the aggravating
little man. Yet, his admiration of him was genuine. What a chap to
have wandered round with, in the old days! He began to realize what
Frenchmen must have been a hundred years gone. And the strongest point
in his armor was his humanity; he wished no one ill. Gradually the
weight on Fitzgerald's shoulders lightened. If M. Ferraud could laugh,
why not he?
"Isn't that view lovely!" exclaimed Laura, as the _Capo di Rosso_
glowed in the sun with all the beauty of a fabulous ruby. "Are you
afraid at all, Hildegarde?"
"No, Laura; I am only sad. I wish we were safely on the yacht. Yes,
yes; I _am_ afraid, of something I know not what."
"I never dreamed that he could be dishonest. He was a gentleman,
somewhere in his past. I do not quite understand it all. The money
does not interest my father so much as the mere sport of finding it.
You know it was agreed to divide, his share among the officers and
seamen, and the balance to our guests. It would have been such fun."
And the woman who knew everything must perforce remain silent. With
what eloquence she could have defended him!
"Do you think we shall find it?" wistfully.
"No, Laura."
"How can he find his way back without passing us?"
"For a desperate man who has thrown his all on this one chance, he will
find a hundred ways of returning."
A carriage came round one of the pinnacled _calenches_. It was empty.
M. Ferraud casually noted the number. He was not surprised. He had
been waiting for this same vehicle. It was Breitmann's, but the man
driving it was not the man who had driven it out of Ajaccio. He was an
Evisan. A small butterfly fluttered alongside. M. Ferraud jumped out
and swooped with his hat. He decided not to impart his discovery to
the others. He was assured that the man from Evisa knew absolutely
nothing, and that to question him would be a waste of time. At this
very moment it was not unlikely that Breitmann and his confederate were
crossing the mountains; perhaps with three or four sturdy donkeys,
their panniers packed with precious metal. And the dupe would go
straight to his fellow-conspirators and share his millions. Curious
old world!
They saw Evisa at sunset, one of the seven glories of the earth. The
little village rests on the side of a mountain, nearly three-thousand
feet above the sea, the sea itself lying miles away to the west,
V-shaped between two enormous shafts of burning granite. Even the
admiral forgot his smoldering wrath.
The hotel was neat and cool, and all the cook had to do was to furnish
dishes and hot water for tea. There was very little jesting, and what
there was of it fell to the lot of Coldfield and the Frenchman. The
spirit in them all was tense. Given his way, the admiral would have
gone out that very night with lanterns.
"Folly! To find a given point in an unknown forest at night;
impossible! Am I not right, Mr. Cathewe? Of course. Breitmann's man
knew Aïtone from his youth. Suppose," continued M. Ferraud, "that we
spend two days here?"
"What? Give him all the leeway?" The admiral was amazed that M.
Ferraud could suggest such a stupidity. "No. In the morning we make
the search. If there's nothing there we'll return at once."
M. Ferraud spoke to the young woman who waited on the table. "Please
find Carlo, the driver, and bring him here."
Ten minutes later Carlo came in, hat in hand, curious.
"Carlo," began the Frenchman, leaning on his elbows, his sharp eyes
boring into the mild brown ones of the Corsican, "we shall not return
to Carghese to-morrow but the day after."
"Not return to-morrow?" cried Carlo dismayed.
"Ah, but the _signore_ does not understand. We are engaged day after
to-morrow to carry a party to Bonifacio. We have promised. We must
return to-morrow."
Fitzgerald saw the drift and bent forward. The admiral fumed because
his Italian was an indifferent article.
"But," pursued M. Ferraud, "we will pay you twenty francs the day, just
the same."
"We are promised." Carlo shrugged and spread his hands, but the glitter
in his questioner's eyes disquieted him.
"What's this about?" growled the admiral.
"The man says he must take us back to-morrow, or leave us, as he has
promised to return to Ajaccio to carry a party to Bonifacio," M.
Ferraud explained.
"Then, if we don't go to-morrow it means a week in this forsaken hole?"
"It is possible." M. Ferraud turned to Carlo once more. "We will make
it fifty francs per day."
"Impossible, _signore_!"
"Then you will return to-morrow without us."
Carlo's face hardened. "But--"
"Come outside with me," said M. Ferraud in a tone which brooked no
further argument.
The two stepped out into the hall, and when the Frenchman came back his
face was animated.
"Mr. Ferraud," said the admiral icily, "my daughter has informed me
what passed between you. I must say that you have taken a deal upon
yourself."
"Mr. Ferraud is right," put in Fitzgerald.
"You, too?"
"Yes. I think the time has come, for Mr. Ferraud to offer full
explanations."
The butterfly-hunter resumed his chair. "They will remain or carry us
on to Corte. From there we can take the train back to Ajaccio, saving
a day and a half. Admiral, I have a confession to make. It will
surprise you, and I offer you my apologies at once." He paused. He
loved moments like this, when he could resort to the dramatic in
perfect security. "_I_ was the man in the chimney."
The admiral gasped. Laura dropped her hands to the table. Cathewe sat
back stiffly. Coldfield stared. Hildegarde shaded her face with the
newspaper through which she had been idly glancing.
"Patience!" as the admiral made as though to press back his chair.
"Mr. Fitzgerald knew from the beginning. Is that not true?"
"It is, Mr. Ferraud. Go on."
"Breitmann is the great-grandson of Napoleon. By this time he is
traveling over some mountain pass, with his inheritance snug under his
hand. You will ask, why all these subterfuges, this dodging in and
out? Thus. Could I have found the secret of the chimney--I worked
from memory--none of us would be here, and one of the great
conspiracies of the time would have been nipped in the bud. What do
you think? Breitmann proposes to go into France with the torch of
anarchy in his hand; and if he does, he will be shot. He proposes to
divide this money among his companions, who, with their pockets full of
gold, will desert him the day he touches France. Do you recollect the
scar on his temple? It was not made by a saber; it is the mark of a
bullet. He received it while a correspondent in the Balkans. Well, it
left a mark on his brain also. That is to say, he is conscious of what
he does but not why he does it. He is a sane man with an obsession.
This wound, together with the result of Germany's brutal policy toward
him and France's indifference, has made him a kind of monomaniac. You
will ask why I, an accredited agent in the employ of France, have not
stepped in and arrested him. My evidence might bring him to trial, but
it would never convict him. Once liberated, he would begin all over
again, meaning that I also would have to start in at a new beginning.
So I have let him proceed to the end, and in doing so I shall save him
in spite of himself. You see, I have a bit of sentiment."
Hildegarde could have reached over and kissed his hand.
"Why didn't he tell this to me?" cried the admiral. "Why didn't he
tell me? I would have helped him."
"To his death, perhaps," grimly. "For the money was only a means, not
an end. The great-grandson of Napoleon: well, he will never rise from
his obscurity. And sometime, when the clouds lift from his brain, he
will remember me. I have seen in your American cottages the motto
hanging on the walls--_God Bless Our Home_. Mr. Breitmann will place
my photograph beside it and smoke his cigarette in peace."
And this whimsical turn caused even the admiral to struggle with a
smile. He was a square, generous old sailor. He stretched his hand
across the table. M. Ferraud took it, but with a shade of doubt.
"You are a good man, Mr. Ferraud. I'm terribly disappointed. All my
life I have been goose-chasing for treasures, and this one I had set my
heart on. You've gone about it the best you could. If you had told me
from the start there wouldn't have been any fun."
"That is it," eagerly assented M. Ferraud. "Why should I spoil your
innocent pleasure? For a month you have lived in a fine adventure, and
no harm has befallen. And when you return to America, you will have an
unrivaled story to tell; but, I do not think you will ever tell all of
it. He will have paid in wretchedness and humiliation for his
inheritance. And who has a better right to it? Every coin may
represent a sacrifice, a deprivation, and those who gave it freely,
gave it to the blood. Is it sometimes that you laugh at French
sentiment?"
"Not in Frenchmen like you," said the admiral gravely.
"Good! To men of heart what matters the tongue?"
"Poor young man!" sighed Laura. "I am glad he has found it. Didn't I
wish him to have it?"
"And you knew all this?" said Cathewe into the ear of the woman he
loved.
Thinly the word came through her lips: "Yes."
Cathewe's chin sank into his collar and he stared at the crumbs on the
cloth.
"But what meant this argument with the drivers?" asked Coldfield.
"Yes! I had forgotten that," supplemented the sailor.
"On the way back to Carghese, we should have been stopped. We were to
be quietly but effectively suppressed till our Napoleon set sail for
Marseilles." M. Ferraud bowed. He had no more to add.
The admiral shook his head. He had come to Corsica as one might go to
a picnic; and here he had almost toppled over into a gulf!
The significance of the swift glance which was exchanged between M.
Ferraud and Fitzgerald was not translatable to Laura, who alone caught
it in its transit. An idea took possession of her, but this idea had
nothing to do with the glance, which she forgot almost instantly.
Woman has a way with a man; she leads him whither she desires, and
never is he any the wiser. She will throw obstacles in his way, or she
will tear down walls that rise up before him; she will make a mile out
of a rod, or turn a mountain into a mole-hill: and none but the Cumaean
Sibyl could tell why. And as Laura was of the disposition to walk down
by the cemetery, to take a final view of the sea before it melted into
the sky, what was more natural than that Fitzgerald should follow her?
They walked on in the peace of twilight, unmindful of the curiosity of
the villagers or of the play of children about their feet. The two
were strangely silent; but to him it seemed that she must presently
hear the thunder of his insurgent heart. At length she paused, gazing
toward the sea upon which the purples of night were rapidly deepening.
"And if I had not made that wager!" he said, following aloud his train
of thought.
"And if I had not bought that statuette!" picking up the thread. If
she had laughed, nothing might have happened. But her voice was low
and sweet and ruminating.
The dam of his reserve broke, and the great current of life rushed over
his lips, to happiness or to misery, whichever it was to be.
"I love you, and I can no more help telling you than I can help
breathing. I have tried not to speak, I have so little to offer. I
have been lonely so long. I did not mean to tell you here; but I've
done it." He ceased, terrified. His voice had diminished down to a
mere whisper, and finally refused to work at all.
Still she stared out to sea.
He found his voice again. "So there isn't any hope? There is some one
else?" He was very miserable.
"Had there been, I should have stopped you at once."
"But . . . !"
"Do you wish a more definite answer . . . John?" And only then did she
turn her head.
"Yes!" his courage coming back full and strong. "I want you to tell me
you love me, and while my arms are round you like this! May I kiss
you?"
"No other man save my father shall."
"Ah, I haven't done anything to deserve this!"
"No?"
"I'm not even a third-rate hero."
"No?" with gentle raillery.
"Say you love me!"
"_Amo, ama, amiamo_ . . ."
"In English; I have never heard it in English."
"So," pushing back from him, "you have heard it in Italian?"
"Laura, I didn't mean that! There was never any one else. Say it!"
So she said it softly; she repeated it, as though the utterance was as
sweet to her lips as it was to his ears. And then, for the first time,
she became supine in his arms. With his cheek touching the hair on her
brow, they together watched but did not see the final conquest of the
day.
"And I have had the courage to ask you to be my wife?" It was
wonderful.
Napoleon, his hunted great-grandson, the treasure, all these had ceased
to exist.
"John, when you lay in the corridor the other night, and I thought you
were dying, I kissed you." Her arm tightened as did his. "Will you
promise never to tell if I confess a secret?"
"I promise."
"You never would have had the courage to propose if I hadn't
deliberately brought you here for that purpose. It was I who proposed
to you."
"I'm afraid I don't quite get that," doubtfully.
"Then we'll let the subject rest where it is. You might bring it up in
after years." Her laughter was happy.
He raised his eyes reverently toward heaven. She would never know that
she had stood in danger.
"But your father!" with a note of sudden alarm. And all the worldly
sides to the dream burst upon him.
"Father is only the 'company,' John."
And so the admiral himself admitted when, an hour later, Fitzgerald put
the affair before him, briefly and frankly.
"It is all her concern, my son, and only part of mine. My part is to
see that you keep in order. I don't know; I rather expected it. Of
course," said the admiral, shifting his cigar, "there's a business end
to it. I'm a rich man, but Laura isn't worth a cent, in money. Young
men generally get the wrong idea, that daughters of wealthy parents
must also be wealthy." He was glad to hear the young man laugh. It
was a good sign.
"My earnings and my income amount to about seven-thousand a year; and
with an object in view I can earn more. She says that will be plenty."
"She's a sensible girl; that ought to do to start on. But let there be
no nonsense about money. Laura's happiness; that's the only thing
worth considering. I used to be afraid that she might bring a duke
home." It was too dark for Fitzgerald to see the twinkle in the eyes
of his future father-in-law. "If worst comes to worst, why, you can be
my private secretary. The job is open at present," dryly. "I've been
watching you; and I'm not afraid of your father's son. Where's it to
be?"
"We haven't talked that over yet."
The admiral drew him down to the space beside him on the parapet and
offered the second greatest gift in his possession: one of his selected
perfectos.
The course of true love does not always run so smoothly. A short
distance up the road Cathewe was grimly fighting for his happiness.
"Hildegarde, forget him. Must he spoil both our lives? Come with me,
be my wife. I will make any and all sacrifices toward your
contentment."
"Have we not threshed this all out before, my friend?" sadly. "Do not
ask me to forget him rather let me ask you to forget me."
"He will never be loyal to any one but himself. He is selfish to the
core. Has he not proved it?" Where were the words he needed for this
last defense? Where his arguments to convince her? He was losing; in
his soul he knew it. If his love for her was strong, hers for this
outcast was no less. "I have never wished the death of any man, but if
he should die . . . !"
She interrupted him, her hands extended as in pleading. Never had he
seen a woman's face so sad, "Arthur, I have more faith in you than in
any other man, and I prize your friendship above all other things. But
who can say _must_ to the heart? Not you, not I! Have I not fought
it? Have I not striven to forget, to trample out this fire? Have you
yourself not tried to banish me from your heart? Have you succeeded?
Do you remember that night in Munich? My voice broke, miserably, and
my public career was ruined. What caused it? A note from him, saying
that he had tired of the role and was leaving. It was not my love he
wanted after all; a slip of paper, which at any time would have been
his for the asking. Arthur, my friend, when you go from me presently
it will be with loathing. That night you went to his room . . . he
lied to you."
"About what?"
"I mean, if I can not be his wife, I can not in honor be any man's.
God pity me, but must I make it plainer?"
Here, he believed, was his last throw. "Have I not told you that
nothing mattered, nothing at all save that I love you?"
"I can not argue more," wearily.
"He will tire of you again," desperately.
"I know it. But in my heart something speaks that he will need me; and
when he does I shall go to him."
"God in heaven! to be loved like that!"
Scarcely realizing the violence of his action, he crushed her to his
heart, roughly, and kissed her face, her eyes, her hair. She did not
struggle. It was all over in a moment. Then he released her and
turned away toward the dusty road. She was not angry. She understood.
It was the farewell of the one man who had loved her in honor.
Presently he seemed to dissolve into the shadows, and she knew that out
of her life he had gone for ever.