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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.
"Ah, bass!" murmured Cathewe from behind his journal. "By the way, Hewitt," said Fitzgerald, "have you ever heard of a chap called Karl Breitmann?" "Yes," answered Hewitt. "Never met him personally, though." "I have," joined in Cathewe quietly. He laid down the Times. "What do you know about him?" "Met him in Paris last year. Met him once before in Macedonia. Dined with me in Paris.
"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!
And here were three of them to meet daily, to study and to ponder over. And types as far apart as the three points of a triangle; the man at her side, young, witty, agreeable; Cathewe, grave, kindly, and sometimes rather saturnine; Breitmann, proud and reserved; and each of them having rung true in some great crisis.
To be alone with him somewhere, and to fight it out with their bare hands. She had been schooled in the art of acting, but not in the art of dissimulation; she had been of the world without having been worldly; and sometimes she was as frank and simple as a child. And worldliness makes a buffer in times like these. Cathewe thanked God for his own shell, toughened as it had been in the war of life.
"I did not hear." M. Ferraud nibbled his crisp celery. "I asked, what will you do?" repeated Cathewe for her ear only. "What do you mean?" "Did you know that he was here?" "I should not have been seated at this table had I known." "Some day you are going to tell me all about it," he asserted; "and you are going to smile when you answer me." "Thank you. I forgot.
Cathewe pulled the drooping ends of his mustache. "If he should write a novel, I'm afraid for your sake that it will be a good one. Keep him busy. Novel writing keeps a man indoors. But don't send him on any damn goose chase for the Pole." "Why not?" "Well, he might discover it. But, honestly, it's so God-forsaken and cold and useless. I have hunted musk-ox, and I know something about the place.
He walked silently to the door and opened it, standing aside for the other to pass. "She is perfectly free. Marry her. She is all and more than you wish her to be. Will you go now?" Cathewe bowed and turned on his heel. Breitmann had really got the better of him. A peculiar interview, and only two strong men could have handled it in so few words.
Isn't that the itinerary, Fitzgerald?" "Yes." "And be sure to take an empty carriage to carry canned food and bottled water," supplemented Cathewe. "The native food is frightful. The first time I took the journey I was ignorant. Happily it was in the autumn, when the chestnuts were ripe. Otherwise I should have starved." "And you spent a winter or spring here, Hildegarde?" said Mrs. Coldfield.
Cathewe was quiet but deep; and he, Breitmann, had knocked about among that sort and knew that they were to be respected. In all, he had made only one serious blunder. He should never have permitted the vision of a face to deter him. He should have taken the things from the safe and vanished. It had not been, a matter of compunction.
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