THE DUPE
The next morning Fitzgerald found Cathewe's note under his plate. He
opened it with a sense of disaster.
"MY DEAR OLD JACK:
I'm off. Found a pony and shall jog to Ajaccio by the route we came.
Please take my luggage back to the Grand Hotel, and I'll pick it up.
And have my trunk sent ashore, too. I shan't go back to America with
the admiral, bless his kindly old heart! I'm off to Mombassa. Always
keep a shooting-kit there for emergencies. I suppose you'll
understand. Be kind to her, and help her in any way you can. I hope I
shan't run into Breitmann. I should kill him out of hand. Happiness
to you, my boy. And maybe I'll ship you a trophy for the wedding.
Explain my departure in any way you please.
"CATHEWE."
The reader folded the note and stowed it away. Somehow, the bloom was
gone from things. He was very fond of Cathewe, kindly, gentle, brave,
and chivalrous. What was the matter with the woman, anyhow? How to
explain? The simplest way would be to state that Cathewe had gone back
to Ajaccio. The why and wherefore should be left to the imagination.
But, oddly enough, no one asked a second question. They accepted
Cathewe's defection without verbal comment. What they thought was of
no immediate consequence. Fitzgerald was gloomy till that moment when
Laura joined him. To her, of course, he explained the situation.
Neither she nor Hildegarde cared to go up to the forest. They would
find nothing but a hole. And indeed, when the men returned from the
pines, weary, dusty, and dissatisfied, they declared that they had
gone, not with the expectation of finding anything, but to certify a
fact.
M. Ferraud was now in a great hurry. Forty miles to Corte; night or
not, they _must_ make the town. There was no dissention; the spell of
the little man was upon them all.
Hildegarde rode alone, in the middle carriage. Such had been her
desire. She did not touch her supper. And when, late at night, they
entered the gates of Corte and stepped down before the hotel lights,
Laura observed that Hildegarde's face was streaked by the passage of
many burning tears. She longed to comfort her, but the older woman
held aloof.
Men rarely note these things, and when they do it has to be forced upon
them. Fitzgerald, genuine in his regret for Cathewe, was otherwise at
peace with the world. He alone of them all had found a treasure, the
incomparable treasure of a woman's love.
Racing his horses all through the night, scouring for fresh ones at
dawn and finding them, and away again, climbing, turning, climbing
round this pass, over that bridge, through this cut, thus flew
Breitmann, the passion of haste upon him. By this tremendous pace he
succeeded in arriving at Evisa before the admiral had covered half the
distance to Carghese.
How clear and keen his mind was as on he rolled! A thousand places
wove themselves to the parent-stem. He even laughed aloud, sending a
shiver up the spine of the driver, who was certain his old _padrone_
was mad. The face of Laura drifted past him as in a dream, and then
again, that of the other woman. No, no; he regretted nothing,
absolutely nothing. But he had been a fool there; he had wasted time
and lent himself to a despicable intrigue. For all that he outcried
it, there was a touch of shame on his cheeks when he remembered that,
had he asked, she would have given him that scrap of paper the first
hour of their meeting. Somewhere in Hildegarde von Mitter lay dormant
the spirit of heroes. He had made a mistake.
Two millions of shining money, gold, silver, and English notes! And he
laughed again as he recalled M. Ferraud, caught in a trap. He was
clever, but not clever enough. What a stroke! To make prisoners of
the party on their return, to carry the girl away into the mountains!
Would any of them think of treasures, of conspiracies, with her as a
hostage? He thought not. In the hue and cry for her, these elements
in the game would fall to a minor place. Well he knew M. Ferraud: he
would call to heaven for the safety of Laura. Love her? Yes! She was
the one woman. But men did not make captives of women and obtain their
love. He knew the futility of such coercion. He had committed two or
three scoundrelly acts, but never would he or could he sink to such a
level. No. He meant no harm at all. Frighten her, perhaps, and
terrorize the others; and mayhap take a kiss as he left her to the
coming of her friends. Nothing more serious than that.
Two millions in gold and silver and English notes! He would have his
revenge, for all these years of struggle and failure; for the cold and
callous policies of state which had driven him to this piece of
roguery, on their heads be it. Two thousand in Marseilles, ready at
his beck and call, a thousand more in Avignon, in Lyons, in Dijon, and
so on up to Paris, the Paris he had cursed one night from under his
mansard. In a week he would have them shaking in their boots. The
unemployed, the idlers, thieves, his to a man. If he saw his own death
at the end, little he cared. He would have one great moment, pay off
the score, France as well as Germany. He would at least live to see
them harrying each other's throats. To declare to France that he was
only Germany's tool, put forward for the sole purpose of destroying
peace in the midst of a great military crisis. He had other papers,
and the prying little Frenchman had never seen those; clever forgeries,
bearing the signature of certain great German personages. These should
they find at the selected moment. Let them rip one another's throats,
the dogs! Two million of francs, enough to purchase a hundred thousand
men.
"Ah, my great-grandsire, if spirits have eyes, yours will see something
presently. And that poor little devil of a secret agent thinks I want
a crown on my head! There was a time . . . Curse these infernal
headaches!"
On, on; hurry, hurry. The driver was faithful, a sometime brigand and
later a harbor boatman; and of all his confederates this one was the
only man he dared trust on an errand of this kind.
Evisa. They did not pause. They ate their supper on the way. With
three Sardinian donkeys, strong and patient little brutes, with
lanterns and shovels and sacks, the two fared into the pines. Aïtone
was all familiar ground to the Corsican who, in younger days, had taken
his illegal tithe from these hills. They found the range soon enough,
but made a dozen mistakes in measurements; and it was long toward
midnight, when the oil of the lanterns ran low, that their shovels bore
down into the precious pocket. The earth flew. They worked like
madmen, with nervous energy and power of will; and when the chest
finally came into sight, rotten with age and the soak of earth, they
fell back against a tree, on the verge of collapse. The hair was damp
on their foreheads, their breath came harshly, almost in sobs.
Suddenly Breitmann fell upon his knees and laughed hysterically,
plunged his blistered hands into the shining heap. It played through
his fingers in little musical cascades. He rose.
"Pietro, you have been faithful to me. Put your two hands in there."
"I, _padrone_?" stupefied.
"Go on! Go on! As much as your two hands can hold is yours. Dig them
in deep, man, dig them in deep!"
With a cry Pietro dropped and burrowed into the gold and silver. A
dozen times he started to withdraw his hands, but they trembled so that
some of the coins would slip and fall. At last, with one desperate
plunge, the money running down toward his elbows, he turned aside and
let fall his burden on the new earth outside the shallow pit. He
rolled beside it, done for, in a fainting state. Breitmann laughed
wildly.
"Come, come; we have no time. Put it into your pockets."
"But, _padrone_, I have not counted it!" naively.
"To-morrow, when we make camp for breakfast. Let us hurry."
Quickly Pietro stuffed his pockets. Jabbering in his patois, swearing
so many candles to the Virgin for this night's work. Then began the
loading of the sacks, and these were finally dumped into the
donkey-panniers.
"Now, Pietro, the shortest cut to Ajaccio. First, your hand on your
amulet, and oath never to reveal what has happened."
Pietro swore solemnly. "I am ready now, _padrone_!"
"Lead on, then," replied Breitmann. Impulsively he raised his hands
high above his head. "Mine, all mine!"
He wiped his face and hands, pulled his cap down firmly, lighted a
cigarette, struck the rear donkey, and the hazardous journey began.
Seven men, more or less young, with a genial air of dissipation about
their eyes and a varied degree of recklessness lurking at the corners of
their mouths; seven men sat round a table in a house in the Rue St.
Charles. They had been eating and drinking rather luxuriously for
Ajaccio. The Rue St. Charles is neither spacious nor elegant as a
thoroughfare, but at that point where it turns into the _Place Letitia_
it is quiet and unfrequented at night. A film of tobacco smoke wavered
in and out among the guttering candles and streamed round the empty and
part empty champagne bottles. At the head of the table sat Breitmann,
still pale and weary from his Herculean labors. His face was immobile,
but his eyes were lively.
"To-morrow," said Breitmann, "we leave for France. On board the moneys
will be equally divided. Then, for the work." His voice was cold,
authoritative.
"Two millions!" mused Picard, from behind a fresh cloud of smoke. He
picked up a bottle and gravely filled his glass, beckoning to the
others to follow his example. At another sign all rose to their feet,
Breitmann alone remaining seated, "To the Day!"
Breitmann's lips grew thinner; that was the only sign.
Outside, glancing obliquely through the grilled window, stood M.
Ferraud. He had not seen these worthies together before. He knew all
of them. There was not a shoulder among them that he could not lay a
hand upon and voice with surety the order of the law. Courage of a
kind they all had, names once written gloriously in history but now
merely passports into dubious traffics. Heroes of boulevard exploits,
duelists, card-players; could it be possible that any sane man should
be their dupe? After the strange toast he heard many things, some he
had known, some he had guessed at, and some which surprised him. Only
loyalty was lacking to make them feared indeed. Presently he saw
Breitmann rise. He was tired; he needed sleep. On the morrow, then;
and in a week the first blow of the new terror. They all bowed
respectfully as he passed out.
The secret agent followed him till he reached the _Place des Palmiers_.
He put a hand on Breitmann's arm. The latter, highly keyed, swung
quickly. And seeing who it was (the man he believed to be at that
moment a prisoner in the middle country!), he made a sinister move
toward his hip. M. Ferraud was in peril, and he realized it.
"Wait a moment, Monsieur; there is no need of that. I repeat, I wish
you well, and this night I will prove it. What? do you not know that I
could have put my hand on you at any moment? Attend. Return with me
to the little house in Rue St. Charles."
Breitmann's hand again stole toward his hip.
"You were listening?"
"Yes. Be careful. My death would not change anything. I wish to
disillusion you; I wish to prove to you how deeply you are the dupe of
those men. All your plans have been remarkable, but not one of them
has remained unknown to me. You clasp the hand of this duke who plays
the sailor under the name of Picard, who hails you as a future emperor,
and stabs you behind your back? How? Double-face that he is, have I
not proof that he has written detail after detail of this conspiracy to
the _Quai d'Orsay_, and that he has clung to you only to gain his share
of what is yours? _Zut_! Come back with me and let your own ears
testify. The fact that I am not in the mountains should convince you
how strong I am."
Breitmann hesitated, wondering whether he had best shoot this meddler
then and there and cut for it, or follow him.
"I will go with you. But I give you this warning: if what I hear is
not what you expect me to hear, I promise to put a bullet into your
meddling head."
"I agree to that," replied the other. He did not underestimate his
danger; neither did he undervalue his intimate knowledge of human
nature.
With what emotions Breitmann returned to the scene of his triumph, his
self-appointed companion could only surmise. He had determined to save
this young fool in spite of his madness, and never had he failed to
bring his enterprises to their fore-arranged end. And there was
sentiment between all this, sentiment he would not have been ashamed to
avow. Upon chance, then, fickle inconstant chance, depended the
success of the seven years' labor. If by this time the wine had not
loosened their tongues, or if they had disappeared!
But fortune favors the persistent no less than the brave. The
profligates were still at the table, and there were fresh bottles of
wine. They were laughing and talking. In all, not more than fifteen
minutes had elapsed since Breitmann's departure. M. Ferraud stationed
him by the window and kept a hand lightly upon his arm, as one might
place a finger on a pulse.
Of what were they talking? Ostend. The ballet-dancers. The races in
May. The shooting at Monte Carlo. Gaming-tables, empty purses. And
again ballet-dancers.
"To divide two millions!" cried one. "That will clear my debts, with a
little for Dieppe."
"Two hundred and fifty thousand francs! Princely!"
And then the voice of the master-spirit, pitiless, ironical; Picard's.
"Was there ever such a dupe? And not to laugh in his face is penance
for my sins. A Dutchman, a bullet-headed clod from Bavaria, the land
of sausage, beer, and daschunds; and this shall be written Napoleon IV!
Ye gods, what farce, comedy, vaudeville! But, there was always that
hope: if he found the money he would divide it. So, kowtow, kowtow!
Opera bouffe!"
Breitmann shuddered. M. Ferraud, feeling that shudder under his hand,
relaxed his shoulders. He had won!
"An empire! Will you believe it?"
"I suggest the eagle rampant on a sausage!"
"No, no; the lily on the beer-pot!"
The scene went on. The butt of it heard jest and ridicule. They were
pillorying him with the light and matchless cruelty of wits. And he,
poor fool, had believed them to be _his_ dupes, whereas he was
_theirs_! Gently he disengaged himself from M. Ferraud's grasp.
"What are you going to do?" whispered the hunter of butterflies.
"Watch and see."
Breitmann walked noiselessly round to the entrance, and M. Ferraud lost
sight of him for a few moments. Picard was on his feet, mimicking his
dupe by assuming a Napoleonic pose. The door opened and Breitmann
stood quietly on the threshold. A hush fell on the revelers. There
was something kingly in the contempt with which Breitmann swept the
startled faces. He stepped up to the table, took up a full glass of
wine and threw it into Picard's face.
"Only one of us shall leave Corsica," said the dupe.
"Certainly it will not be your majesty," replied Picard, wiping his
face with a serviette. "His majesty will waive his rights to meet me.
To-morrow morning I shall have the pleasure of writing finis to this
Napoleonic phase. You fool, you shall die for that!"
"That," returned Breitmann, still unruffled as he went to the door,
"remains to be seen. Gentlemen, I regret to say that your monetary
difficulties must continue unchanged."
"Oh, for fifty years ago!" murmured the little scene-shifter from the
dark of his shelter.