A Splendid Hazard | Page 5

took place behind that beautiful but indifferent mask no one
else ever learned; but simultaneously in the minds of these two
adventurers--and surely, to call a man an adventurer does not
necessarily imply that he is a _chevalier d'industrie_--a thought, tinged
with regret and loneliness, was born; to have and to hold a maid like
that. Love at first sight is the false metal sometimes offered by poets as
gold, in quatrains, distiches, verses, and stanzas, tolerated because of
the license which allows them to give passing interest the name of love.
If these two men thought of love it was only as bystanders, witnessing
the pomp and panoply--favored phrase!--of Venus and her court from a
curbstone, might have thought of it. Doubtless they had had an affair
here and there, over the broad face of the world, but there had never
been any barbs on the arrows, thus easily plucked out.
"Sometimes, knowing that I shall never be rich, I have desired a title,"
remarked Fitzgerald humorously.
"And what would you do with it?" curiously.
"Oh, I'd use it against porters, and waiters, and officials. There's
nothing like it. I have observed a good deal. It has a magic sound, like
Orpheus' lyre; the stiffest back becomes supine at the first twinkle of
it."
"I should like to travel with you, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Breitmann
musingly. "You would be good company. Some day, perhaps, I'll try
your prescription; but I'm only a poor devil of a homeless, landless
baron."
Fitzgerald sat up. "You surprise me."
"Yes. However, neither my father nor my grandfather used it, and as
the pitiful few acres which went with it is a sterile Bavarian hillside, I
have never used it, either. Besides, neither the Peerage nor the

Almanac de Gotha make mention of it; but still the patent of nobility
was legal, and I could use it despite the negligence of those two
authorities."
"You could use it in America. There are not many 'Burke's' there."
"It amuses me to think that I should confide this secret to you. The
wine is good, and perhaps--perhaps I was hungry. Accept what I have
told you as a jest."
They both became untalkative as the coffee came. Fitzgerald was
musing over the impulse which had seized him in asking Breitmann to
share his dinner. He was genuinely pleased that he had done so,
however; but it forced itself upon him that sometime or other these
impulses would land him in difficulties. On his part the recipient of this
particular impulse was also meditating; Napoleon had been utterly
forgotten, verbally at least. Well, perhaps they had threshed out that
interesting topic during the afternoon. Finally he laid down the end of
his cigarette.
"I have to thank you very much for a pleasant evening, Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Glad I ran into you. It has done me no end of good. I leave for the East
to-morrow. Is there any possibility of seeing you in the Balkans this
fall?"
"No. I am going to try my luck in America again."
"My club address you will find on my card. You must go? It's only the
shank of the evening."
"I have a little work to do. Some day I hope I may be able to set as
good a dinner before you."
"Better have a cigar."
"No, thank you."
And Fitzgerald liked him none the less for his firmness. So he went as

far as the entrance with him.
"Don't bother about calling a cab," said Breitmann. "It has stopped
raining, and the walk will tone me up. Good night and good luck."
And they parted, neither ever expecting to see the other again, and
equally careless whether they did or not.
Breitmann walked rapidly toward the river, crossed, and at length
entered a gloomy old pension over a restaurant frequented by bargemen,
students, and human driftwood. As he climbed the badly lighted stairs,
a little, gray-haired man, wearing spectacles, passed him, coming down.
A "pardon" was mumbled, and the little man proceeded into the
restaurant, picked a Figaro from the table littered with newspapers,
ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and ordered coffee. No one
gave him more than a cursory glance. The quarter was indigent, but
ordinarily respectable; and it was only when some noisy Americans
invaded the place that the habitues took any unusual interest in the
coming and going of strangers.
Up under the mansard roof there was neither gas nor electricity.
Breitmann lighted his two candles, divested himself of his collar, tie,
and coat, and flung them on the bed.
"Threadbare, almost! Ah, but I was hungry to-night. Did he know it?
Why the devil should I care? To work! Up to this night I have tried to
live more or less honestly. I have tried