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"Is Carl Freudenberg an enemy of my country?" Kendricks leaned back in his seat and laughed scornfully. "Julien," he exclaimed, "there are times when you are very simple! Do you indeed mean that you would try to deceive even me? You would pretend that I, David Kendricks, of the Post, don't know that Herr Freudenberg and the Prince von Falkenberg, ruler of Germany, are one and the same person?
Herr Freudenberg deliberately, and of his own free choice, was accustomed to take huge risks. When they came he accepted them, but when they were not inevitable he as sedulously avoided them. The wrecking of Julien's apartments in the Rue de Montpelier was by far the most hazardous enterprise which had been attempted since the days of the toymaker's first secret visits to Paris.
"Are you going to warn me once more against Herr Freudenberg?" he asked. She shook her head. "If you do not know your danger," she continued, "you would be too great a fool to be worth warning. Remember that Freudenberg came from Berlin as fast as express trains and his racing-car could bring him, the moment he read the first."
That is why I wish to rescue you from the ignominy of which you yourself have spoken. I repeat my offer. Be my man. You shall taste life and taste it in such gulps as you wish." Julien shook his head slowly. "My friend," he said, "it is the cruel part of our profession that one man's life can be given to one country alone." "Wrong!" Herr Freudenberg declared briskly.
He is the proprietor of an important journal, through whose columns he shall help to guide the policy of your nation." Monsieur Jesen sat down. His fingers were clutching one another. Mademoiselle stared at Herr Freudenberg. Her color was coming and going. "Monsieur, I do not understand!" she cried. "Are you a prince in disguise? Why do you do this?"
His name was Jean Charles and he had never known failure. Estermen looked at him through the blind and his pale face was ugly with fear. The moment arrived. The long, gray traveling car, covered with dust, swung around the corner and stopped below. Herr Freudenberg was travel-stained and almost unrecognizable in his motor clothes as he stepped out and passed into the block of apartments.
What can one do we poor others who have to drive the wheels of life?" He sighed, shrugged his high shoulders, and passed out. Very soon after mid-day on the same morning, Herr Carl Freudenberg was the host at a small luncheon party given in a private room of the most famous restaurant in the Bois. His morning attire was a model of correctness, his eyes were clear, his manner blithe, almost joyous.
I have had impulses of curiosity." "Herr Freudenberg is my husband," Madame Christophor declared. Julien looked at her in amazement. For the moment he was speechless. "I say what is perhaps literally but not actually true," she went on. "He was my husband. We are separated. We are not divorced because we were married as Roman Catholics. We are separated.
Herr Freudenberg was thoughtful for several moments. Then with a wave of his hand he dismissed Estermen. "You, too, can go, Fritz," he said to his secretary. "You have had a long night's work." "You yourself, Excellency, should sleep for a while," his secretary advised. Herr Freudenberg shook his head. "Sleep," he declared, "is a waste of time. I need no sleep.
"Herr Carl Freudenberg of Leipzig but who is he?" "He is a great manufacturer of toys, monsieur." "A German!" one muttered. "It is they who are spoiling Paris," another grumbled. "They have at least the money!" One woman alone shook her head. "It is not money only," she murmured, "which buys these things here from Henri."...
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