A Splendid Hazard | Page 4

man. Fitzgerald, who was himself a wide traveler and a man of the
world, instantly saw and was agreeably surprised that he had asked a
gentleman to dine. Fitzgerald was no cad; he would have been just as
much interested in Breitmann had he arrived in a cutaway sack. But
chance acquaintances, as a rule, are rudimental experiments.
They sat down. Breitmann was full of surprises; and as the evening
wore on, Fitzgerald remembered having seen Breitmann's name at the
foot of big newspaper stories. The man had traveled everywhere, spoke
five languages, had been a war correspondent, a sailor in the South
Seas, and Heaven knew what else. He had ridden camels and polo
ponies in the Soudan; he had been shot in the Greece-Turkish war,
shortly after his having met Fitzgerald; he had played a part in the
recent Spanish-American, and had fought against the English in the
Transvaal.

"And now I am resting," he concluded, turning his chambertin round
and round, giving the effect of a cluster of rubies on the table linen.
"And all my adventures have been as profitable as these," indebted for
the moment to the phantom rubies. "But it's all a great stage, whether
you play behind the wings or before the lights. I am thirty-eight; into
twenty of those years I have crowded a century."
"You don't look it."
"Ah, one does not need to dissipate to live quickly. The life I have led
has kept me in health and vigor. But you? You are not a man who
travels without gaining material."
"I have had a few adventures, something like yours, only not so widely
diversified. I wrote some successful short stories about China once. I
have had some good sport, too, here and there."
"You live well for a newspaper correspondent," suggested Breitmann,
nodding at the bottle of twenty-eight-year-old Burgundy.
"Oh, it's a habit we Americans have," amiably. "We rough it for a few
months on bacon and liver, and then turn our attention to truffles and
old wines and Cabanas at two-francs-fifty. We are collectively, a good
sort of vagabond. I have a little besides my work; not much, but enough
to loaf on when no newspaper or magazine cares to pay my expenses in
Europe. Anyhow, I prefer this work to staying home to be hampered by
intellectual boundaries. My vest will never reach the true proportions
which would make me successful in politics."
"You are luckier than I am," Breitmann replied. He sipped his wine
slowly and with relish. How long was it since he had tasted a good
chambertin?
Perhaps Fitzgerald had noticed it when Breitmann came in. The latter's
velvet collar was worn; there was a suspicious gloss at the elbows; the
cuff buttons were of cheap metal; his fingers were without rings. But
the American readily understood. There are lean years and fat years in
journalism, and he himself had known them. For the present this man

was a little down on his luck; that was all.
A party came in and took the near table. There were four; two elderly
men, an elderly woman, and a girl. Fitzgerald, as he side-glanced, was
afforded a shiver of pleasure. He recognized the girl. It was she who
had given the flowers to the veteran.
"That is a remarkably fine young woman," said Breitmann, echoing
Fitzgerald's thought.
The waiter opened the champagne.
"Yes. I saw her give some violets this afternoon to an old soldier in the
tomb. It was a pretty scene."
"Well," said Breitmann, raising his glass, "a pretty woman and a
bottle!"
It was the first jarring note, and Fitzgerald frowned.
"Pardon me," added Breitmann, observing the impression he had made,
smiling, and when he smiled the student slashes in his cheeks weren't
so noticeable. "What I should have said is, a good woman and a good
bottle. For what greater delight than to sip a rare vintage with a woman
of beauty and intellect opposite? One glass is enough to loose her
laughter, her wit, her charm. Bah! A man who knows how to drink his
wine, a woman who knows when to laugh, a story-teller who stops
when his point is told; these trifles add a little color as we pass. Will
you drink to my success?"
"In what?" with Yankee caution.
"In whatever the future sees fit to place under my hand."
"With pleasure! And by the same token you will wish me the same?"
"Gladly!"
Their glasses touched lightly; and then their glances, drawn by some

occult force, half-circled till they paused on the face of the girl, who,
perhaps compelled by the same invisible power, had leveled her eyes in
their direction. With well-bred calm her interest returned to her
companions, and the incident was, to all outward sign, closed.
Whatever