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Page 46
Very carefully the captain put away the cigar and journeyed back to the
village. He regretted Corsica. He hated Dagos, and Corsica was Dago;
thieves and cut-throats, all of them.
This long time Breitmann had despatched his letters and gone to his
room, where he remained till dinner. He was a servant in the house.
He must not forget that. He had been worse things than this, and still
he had not forgotten. He had felt the blush of shame, yet he had
remembered, and white anger had embossed the dull scars; it was
impossible that he should forget.
He had grown accustomed, even in this short time, to the window
overlooking the sea, and he leaned that late afternoon with his arms
resting on the part where the two frames joined and locked. The sea
was blue and gentle breasted. Flocks of gulls circled the little
harbor and land-birds ventured daringly forth.
With what infinite care and patience had he gained this place! What
struggles had ensued! Like one of yonder birds he had been blown
about, but even with his eyes hunting for this resting. He had found
it and about lost it. A day or so later! He had come to rob, to lie,
to pillage, any method to gain his end; and fate had led him over this
threshold without dishonor, ironically. Even for that, thank God!
Dimly he heard Fitzgerald whistling in his room across. The sound
entered his ear, but not his trend of thought. God in Heaven what a
small place this earth was! In his hand, tightly clutched, was a ball
of paper, damp from the sweat of his palm. He had gnawed it, he had
pressed it in despair. Cathewe was a man, and he was not afraid of any
man living. Besides, men rarely became tellers of tales. But the
woman: Hildegarde von Mitter! How to meet her, how to look into her
great eyes, how to hear the sound of her voice!
He flung the ball of paper into the corner. She could break him as one
breaks a dry and brittle reed.
CHAPTER XII
M. FERRAUD INTRODUCES HIMSELF.
"Yessir, Mr. Donovan," said Captain Flanagan, his peg-leg crossed and
one hand abstractedly polishing the brass ferrule; "Yessir, the
question is, what did y' hear?"
Mr. Donovan caressed his beer-glass and reflected. The two were seated
in the office of Swan's Hotel. "Well, I took them bricks out an' it
seems that loony ol' Frenchman our grandpas use to blow about had hid a
box in th' chimbley."
"A box in the chimbley. An' what was in the box?"
Mr. Donovan considered again. "I'll tell you the truth, Cap'n. It wus
a lot of rigermarole about a treasure. I wanted t' laugh. Your
commodore's a hoodoo on pirates an' treasures, an' he ain't found
either yet."
"No jokin'; keep a clear course."
"No harm. Th' admiral's all right, and don't you forget it. As I wus
sayin', they finds this 'ere box. The dockeyments wus in French, but
th' daughter read 'em off sumpin wonderful. You've heard of Napoleon?"
"Yes; I recollects the name," replied the captain, with quiet ridicule.
"Well, this business pertained t' him. Seems some o' his friends got
money t'gether t' rescue him from some island or other."
"St. Helena."
"That wus it. They left the cash in a box in Corsiker, 'nother island;
I-talyan, I take it. But I'll bet a dollar you never find anythin'
there."
"That is as may be." The captain liberated a full sigh and dug a hand
into a trousers pocket. He looked cautiously about. The two of them
were without witnesses. The landlord was always willing to serve beer
to those in quest of it; but immediately on providing it, he resumed
his interrupted perusal of the sporting column. At this moment his
soul was flying around the track at Bennington. When the captain
pulled out his hand it seemed full of bright autumn leaves. Donovan's
glass was suspended midway between the table and his lips. Slowly the
glass retraced the half-circle and resumed its perpendicular position
upon the oak.
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