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Page 92
"What's this about?" growled the admiral.
"The man says he must take us back to-morrow, or leave us, as he has
promised to return to Ajaccio to carry a party to Bonifacio," M.
Ferraud explained.
"Then, if we don't go to-morrow it means a week in this forsaken hole?"
"It is possible." M. Ferraud turned to Carlo once more. "We will make
it fifty francs per day."
"Impossible, _signore_!"
"Then you will return to-morrow without us."
Carlo's face hardened. "But--"
"Come outside with me," said M. Ferraud in a tone which brooked no
further argument.
The two stepped out into the hall, and when the Frenchman came back his
face was animated.
"Mr. Ferraud," said the admiral icily, "my daughter has informed me
what passed between you. I must say that you have taken a deal upon
yourself."
"Mr. Ferraud is right," put in Fitzgerald.
"You, too?"
"Yes. I think the time has come, for Mr. Ferraud to offer full
explanations."
The butterfly-hunter resumed his chair. "They will remain or carry us
on to Corte. From there we can take the train back to Ajaccio, saving
a day and a half. Admiral, I have a confession to make. It will
surprise you, and I offer you my apologies at once." He paused. He
loved moments like this, when he could resort to the dramatic in
perfect security. "_I_ was the man in the chimney."
The admiral gasped. Laura dropped her hands to the table. Cathewe sat
back stiffly. Coldfield stared. Hildegarde shaded her face with the
newspaper through which she had been idly glancing.
"Patience!" as the admiral made as though to press back his chair.
"Mr. Fitzgerald knew from the beginning. Is that not true?"
"It is, Mr. Ferraud. Go on."
"Breitmann is the great-grandson of Napoleon. By this time he is
traveling over some mountain pass, with his inheritance snug under his
hand. You will ask, why all these subterfuges, this dodging in and
out? Thus. Could I have found the secret of the chimney--I worked
from memory--none of us would be here, and one of the great
conspiracies of the time would have been nipped in the bud. What do
you think? Breitmann proposes to go into France with the torch of
anarchy in his hand; and if he does, he will be shot. He proposes to
divide this money among his companions, who, with their pockets full of
gold, will desert him the day he touches France. Do you recollect the
scar on his temple? It was not made by a saber; it is the mark of a
bullet. He received it while a correspondent in the Balkans. Well, it
left a mark on his brain also. That is to say, he is conscious of what
he does but not why he does it. He is a sane man with an obsession.
This wound, together with the result of Germany's brutal policy toward
him and France's indifference, has made him a kind of monomaniac. You
will ask why I, an accredited agent in the employ of France, have not
stepped in and arrested him. My evidence might bring him to trial, but
it would never convict him. Once liberated, he would begin all over
again, meaning that I also would have to start in at a new beginning.
So I have let him proceed to the end, and in doing so I shall save him
in spite of himself. You see, I have a bit of sentiment."
Hildegarde could have reached over and kissed his hand.
"Why didn't he tell this to me?" cried the admiral. "Why didn't he
tell me? I would have helped him."
"To his death, perhaps," grimly. "For the money was only a means, not
an end. The great-grandson of Napoleon: well, he will never rise from
his obscurity. And sometime, when the clouds lift from his brain, he
will remember me. I have seen in your American cottages the motto
hanging on the walls--_God Bless Our Home_. Mr. Breitmann will place
my photograph beside it and smoke his cigarette in peace."
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