I am no longer a newspaper writer," Breitmann affirmed, clearing the
fog out of his head. "A story about Napoleon; will it be true?"

"Every word of it." M. Ferraud folded his arms and sat back.

During the pause Hildegarde shivered. Something made her desire madly
to thrust a hand out and cover M. Ferraud's mouth.

"We have all read much about Napoleon. I can not recall how many lives
range shoulder to shoulder on the booksellers' shelves. There have
been letters and memoirs, anecdotes by celebrated men and women who
were his contemporaries. But there is one thing upon which we shall
all agree, and that is that the emperor was in private life something
of a beast. As a soldier he was the peer of all the Caesars; as a
husband he was vastly inferior to any of them. This story does not
concern him as emperor. If in my narrative there occurs anything
offensive, correct me instantly. I speak English fluently, but there
are still some idioms I trip on."

"I'll trust you to steer straight enough," said the admiral.

"Thank you. Well, then, once upon a time Napoleon was in Bavaria. The
country was at that time his ablest ally. There was a pretty peasant
girl."

A knife clattered to the floor. "Pardon!" whispered Hildegarde to
Cathewe. "I am clumsy." She was as white as the linen.

Breitmann went on with his crumbs.

"I believe," continued M. Ferraud, "that it was in the year 1813 that
the emperor received a peculiar letter. It begged that a title be
conferred upon a pretty little peasant boy. The emperor was a grim
humorist, I may say in passing; and for this infant he created a
baronetcy, threw in a parcel of land, and a purse. That was the end of
it, as far as it related to the emperor. Waterloo came and with it
vanished the empire; and it would be a long time before a baron of the
empire returned to any degree of popularity. For years the matter was
forgotten. The documents in the case, the letters of patent, the deeds
and titles to the land, and a single Napoleonic scrawl, these gathered
dust in the loft. When I heard this tale the thing which appealed to
me most keenly was the thought that over in Bavaria there exists the
only real direct strain of Napoleonic blood: a Teuton, one of those who
had brought about the downfall of the empire."

"You say exists?" interjected Cathewe.

"Exists," laconically.

"You have proofs?" demanded Fitzgerald.

"The very best in the world. I have not on