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?”