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Page 98
Seven men, more or less young, with a genial air of dissipation about
their eyes and a varied degree of recklessness lurking at the comers of
their mouths; seven men sat round a table in a house in the Rue St.
Charles. They had been eating and drinking rather luxuriously for
Ajaccio. The Rue St. Charles is neither spacious nor elegant as a
thoroughfare, but at that point where it turns into the _Place Letitia_
it is quiet and unfrequented at night. A film of tobacco smoke wavered
in and out among the guttering candles and streamed round the empty and
part empty champagne bottles. At the head of the table sat Breitmann,
still pale and weary from his Herculean labors. His face was immobile,
but his eyes were lively.
"To-morrow," said Breitmann, "we leave for France. On board the moneys
will be equally divided. Then, for the work." His voice was cold,
authoritative.
"Two millions!" mused Picard, from behind a fresh cloud of smoke. He
picked up a bottle and gravely filled his glass, beckoning to the
others to follow his example. At another sign all rose to their feet,
Breitmann alone remaining seated, "To the Day!"
Breitmann's lips grew thinner; that was the only sign.
Outside, glancing obliquely through the grilled window, stood M.
Ferraud. He had not seen these worthies together before. He knew all
of them. There was not a shoulder among them that he could not lay a
hand upon and voice with surety the order of the law. Courage of a
kind they all had, names once written gloriously in history but now
merely passports into dubious traffics. Heroes of boulevard exploits,
duelists, card-players; could it be possible that any sane man should
be their dupe? After the strange toast he heard many things, some he
had known, some he had guessed at, and some which surprised him. Only
loyalty was lacking to make them feared indeed. Presently he saw
Breitmann rise. He was tired; he needed sleep. On the morrow, then;
and in a week the first blow of the new terror. They all bowed
respectfully as he passed out.
The secret agent followed him till he reached the _Place des Palmiers_.
He put a hand on Breitmann's arm. The latter, highly keyed, swung
quickly. And seeing who it was (the man he believed to be at that
moment a prisoner in the middle country!), he made a sinister move
toward his hip. M. Ferraud was in peril, and he realized it.
"Wait a moment, Monsieur; there is no need of that. I repeat, I wish
you well, and this night I will prove it. What? do you not know that I
could have put my hand on you at any moment? Attend. Return with me
to the little house in Rue St. Charles."
Breitmann's hand again stole toward his hip.
"You were listening?"
"Yes. Be careful. My death would not change anything. I wish to
disillusion you; I wish to prove to you how deeply you are the dupe of
those men. All your plans have been remarkable, but not one of them
has remained unknown to me. You clasp the hand of this duke who plays
the sailor under the name of Picard, who hails you as a future emperor,
and stabs you behind your back? How? Double-face that he is, have I
not proof that he has written detail after detail of this conspiracy to
the _Quai d'Orsay_, and that he has clung to you only to gain his share
of what is yours? _Zut_! Come back with me and let your own ears
testify. The fact that I am not in the mountains should convince you
how strong I am."
Breitmann hesitated, wondering whether he had best shoot this meddler
then and there and cut for it, or follow him.
"I will go with you. But I give you this warning: if what I hear is
not what you expect me to hear, I promise to put a bullet into your
meddling head."
"I agree to that," replied the other. He did not underestimate his
danger; neither did he undervalue his intimate knowledge of human
nature.
With what emotions Breitmann returned to the scene of his triumph, his
self-appointed companion could only surmise. He had determined to save
this young fool in spite of his madness, and never had he failed to
bring his enterprises to their fore-arranged end. And there was
sentiment between all this, sentiment he would not have been ashamed to
avow. Upon chance, then, fickle inconstant chance, depended the
success of the seven years' labor. If by this time the wine had not
loosened their tongues, or if they had disappeared!
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