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Page 6
"Yes. However, neither my father nor my grandfather used it, and as
the pitiful few acres which went with it is a sterile Bavarian
hillside, I have never used it, either. Besides, neither the _Peerage_
nor the _Almanac de Gotha_ make mention of it; but still the patent of
nobility was legal, and I could use it despite the negligence of those
two authorities."
"You could use it in America. There are not many 'Burke's' there."
"It amuses me to think that I should confide this secret to you. The
wine is good, and perhaps--perhaps I was hungry. Accept what I have
told you as a jest."
They both became untalkative as the coffee came. Fitzgerald was musing
over the impulse which had seized him in asking Breitmann to share his
dinner. He was genuinely pleased that he had done so, however; but it
forced itself upon him that sometime or other these impulses would land
him in difficulties. On his part the recipient of this particular
impulse was also meditating; Napoleon had been utterly forgotten,
verbally at least. Well, perhaps they had threshed out that
interesting topic during the afternoon. Finally he laid down the end
of his cigarette.
"I have to thank you very much for a pleasant evening, Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Glad I ran into you. It has done me no end of good. I leave for the
East to-morrow. Is there any possibility of seeing you in the Balkans
this fall?"
"No. I am going to try my luck in America again."
"My club address you will find on my card. You must go? It's only the
shank of the evening."
"I have a little work to do. Some day I hope I may be able to set as
good a dinner before you."
"Better have a cigar."
"No, thank you."
And Fitzgerald liked him none the less for his firmness. So he went as
far as the entrance with him.
"Don't bother about calling a cab," said Breitmann. "It has stopped
raining, and the walk will tone me up. Good night and good luck."
And they parted, neither ever expecting to see the other again, and
equally careless whether they did or not.
Breitmann walked rapidly toward the river, crossed, and at length
entered a gloomy old _pension_ over a restaurant frequented by
bargemen, students, and human driftwood. As he climbed the badly
lighted stairs, a little, gray-haired man, wearing spectacles, passed
him, coming down. A "pardon" was mumbled, and the little man proceeded
into the restaurant, picked a _Figaro_ from the table littered with
newspapers, ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and ordered
coffee. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The quarter was
indigent, but ordinarily respectable; and it was only when some noisy
Americans invaded the place that the habitues took any unusual interest
in the coming and going of strangers.
Up under the mansard roof there was neither gas nor electricity.
Breitmann lighted his two candles, divested himself of his collar, tie,
and coat, and flung them on the bed.
"Threadbare, almost! Ah, but I was hungry to-night. Did he know it?
Why the devil should I care? To work! Up to this night I have tried
to live more or less honestly. I have tried to take the good that is
in me and to make the most of it. And," ironically, "this is the
result. I have failed. Now we'll see what I can accomplish in the way
of being a great rascal."
He knelt before a small steamer trunk, battered and plentifully
labeled, and unscrewed the lock. From a cleverly concealed pocket he
brought forth a packet of papers. These he placed on the table and
unfolded with almost reverent care. Sometimes he shrugged, as one does
who is confronted by huge obstacles, sometimes he laughed harshly,
sometimes his jaws hardened and his fingers writhed. When he had
done--and many and many a time he had repeated this performance,
studied the faded ink, the great seal, the watermarks--he hid them away
in the trunk again.
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