ou 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!

But fortune favors the persistent no less than the brave. The
profligates were still at the table, and there were fresh bottles of
wine. They were laughing and talking. In all, not more than fifteen
minutes had elapsed since Breitmann's departure. M. Ferraud stationed
him by the window and kept a hand lightly upon his arm, as one might
place a finger on a pulse.

Of what were they talking? Ostend. The ballet-dancers. The races in
May. The shooting at Monte Carlo. Gaming-tables, empty purses. And
again ballet-dancers.

"To divide two millions!" cried one. "That will clear my debts, with a
little for Dieppe."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand francs! Princely!"

And then the voice of the master-spirit, pitiless, ironical; Picard's.
"Was there ever such a dupe? And not to laugh in his face is penance
for my sins. A Dutchman, a bullet-headed clod from Bavaria, the land
of sausag