A Splendid Hazard | Page 3

moderately fond of
Paris as a city; the cafes and restaurants and theaters amused him, to be
sure; but he was always hunting for romance here and never finding it.
The Paris of his Dumas and Leloir no longer existed. In one way or
another, the Louvre did not carry him back to the beloved days; he
could not rouse his fancy to such height that he could see D'Artagnan
ruffling it on the staircase, or Porthos sporting a gold baldric, which
was only leather, under his cloak. So then, the tomb of Napoleon and
the articles of clothing and warfare which had belonged to him and the
toys of the poor little king of Rome were far more to him than all the
rest of Paris put together. These things of the first great empire were
tangible, visible, close to the touch of his hand. Therefore, never he
came to Paris that he failed to visit the tomb and the two museums.
To-day his sight-seeing ended in the hall of Turenne, before the
souvenirs of the Duc de Reichstadt, so-called the king of Rome. Poor,
little lead soldiers, tarnished and broken; what a pathetic history!
Abused, ignored, his childish aspirations trampled on, the name and
glory of his father made sport of; worried as cruel children worry a
puppy; tantalized; hoping against hope that this night or the next his
father would dash in at the head of the Old Guard and take him back to
Paris. A plaything for Metternich! Who can gaze upon these little toys
without a thrill of pity?
"Poor little codger!" Fitzgerald murmured aloud.
"Yes, yes!" agreed a voice in good English, over his shoulder; "who
will ever realize the misery of that boy?"
Fitzgerald at once recognized his justing opponent of the previous hour.
Further, this second appearance refreshed his memory. He knew now
where he had met the man; he even recalled his name.

"Are you not Karl Breitmann?" he asked with directness.
"Yes. And you are--let me think. Yes; I have it. You are the American
correspondent, Fitzgerald."
"And we met in Macedonia during the Greek war."
"Right. And you and I, with a handful of other scribblers, slept that
night under the same tent."
"By George!"
"I did not recall you when we bumped a while ago; but once I had gone
by you, your face became singularly familiar."
"Funny, isn't it?" And Fitzgerald took hold of the extended hand. "The
sight of these toys always gets into my heart."
"Into mine also. Who can say what might have been had they not
crushed out the great spirit lying dormant in his little soul? I saw
Bernhardt and Coquelin recently in _L'Aiglon_. Ah, but they play it! It
drove me here to-day. But this three-cornered hat holds me longest,"
with a quick gesture toward the opposite wall. "Can't you see the lean
face under it, the dark eyes, the dark hair falling upon his collar? What
thoughts have run riot under this piece of felt? The brain, the brain! A
lieutenant at this time; a short, wiry, cold-blooded youngster, but
dreaming the greatest dream in the world!"
Fitzgerald smiled. "You are an enthusiast like myself."
"Who wouldn't be who has, visited every battlefield, who has spent
days wandering about Corsica, Elba, St. Helena? But you?"
"My word, I have done the same things."
They exchanged smiles.
"What written tale can compare with this living one?" continued
Breitmann, his eyes brilliant, his voice eager and the tone rich. "Ah!

How many times have I berated the day I was born! To have lived in
that day, to have been a part of that bewildering war panorama; from
Toulon to Waterloo! Pardon; perhaps I bore you?"
"By George, no! I'm as bad, if not worse. I shall never forgive one of
my forebears for serving under Wellington."
"Nor I one of mine for serving under Blücher!"
They laughed aloud this time. It is always pleasant to meet a person
who waxes enthusiastic over the same things as oneself. And Fitzgerald
was drawn toward this comparative stranger, who was not ashamed to
speak from his heart. They drifted into a long conversation, and fought
a dozen battles, compared this general and that, and built idle fancies
upon what the outcome would have been had Napoleon won at
Waterloo. This might have gone on indefinitely had not the patient
attendant finally dandled his keys and yawned over his watch. It was
four o'clock, and they had been talking for a full hour. They exchanged
cards, and Fitzgerald, with his usual disregard of convention, invited
Breitmann to dine with him that evening at the Meurice.
He selected a table by the window, dining at seven-thirty. Breitmann
was prompt. In evening clothes there was something distinctive about
the