He has a fighting chance."

"The wine last night; my hand wasn't steady enough. Some day the fool
will curse me as a poor shot. The devil take the business! Not a sou
for my pocket, out of all the trouble I have had. But for the want of
a clear head I should be a rich man to-day. Who thought he would come
back?"

"I did," answered M. Ferraud.

"You?"

"With pleasure! I brought him back; thank me for your empty pockets,
Monsieur. If I were you I should not land at Marseilles. Try Livarno,
by all means, Livarno."

"For this?" asked Picard, with a jerk of his head toward Breitmann, who
was being carefully lifted on to the carriage seat.

"No, for certain letters you have _not_ sent to the _Quai d'Orsay_.
You comprehend?"

"What do you mean?" truculently; for Picard was not in a kindly mood
this morning.

But the little Bayard of the _Quai_ laughed. "Shall I explain here,
Monsieur? Be wise. Go to Italy, all of you. This time you
overreached, _Monsieur le Duc_. Your ballet-dancers must wait!" And
with rare insolence, M. Ferraud showed his back to his audience,
climbed to the seat by the driver, and bade him return slowly to the
Grand Hotel.

Hildegarde refused to see any one but M. Ferraud. Hour after hour she
sat by the bed of the injured man. Knowing that in all probability he
would live, she was happy for the first time in years. He needed her;
alone, broken, wrecked among his dreams, he needed her. He had
recovered consciousness almost at once, and his first words were a
curse on the man who had aimed so badly. He could talk but little, but
he declared that he would rip the bandages if they did not prop his
pillows so he could see the bay. The second time he woke he saw
Hildegarde. She smiled brokenly, but he turned his head aside.

"Has the yacht gone yet?"

"No."

"When will it sail?"

"To-morrow." Her heart swelled with bitter pain. The woman he loved
would be on that yacht. But toward Laura she held nothing but kindness
tinged with a wondering envy. Was not she, Hildegarde, as beautiful?
Had Laura more talents than she, more accomplishments? Alas, yes; one!
She had had the unconscious power of making this man love her.

To and fro she waved the fan. For a while, at any rate, he would be
hers. And when M. Ferraud said that the others wished to say farewell,
she declined. She could look none of them in the face again, nor did
she care. She was sorry for Cathewe. His li