“I believe,” continued M. Ferraud, “that it was in the year 1813 that the emperor received a peculiar letter.  It begged that a title be conferred upon a pretty little peasant boy.  The emperor was a grim humorist, I may say in passing; and for this infant he created a baronetcy, threw in a parcel of land, and a purse.  That was the end of it, as far as it related to the emperor.  Waterloo came and with it vanished the empire; and it would be a long time before a baron of the empire returned to any degree of popularity.  For years the matter was forgotten.  The documents in the case, the letters of patent, the deeds and titles to the land, and a single Napoleonic scrawl, these gathered dust in the loft.  When I heard this tale the thing which appealed to me most keenly was the thought that over in Bavaria there exists the only real direct strain of Napoleonic blood:  a Teuton, one of those who had brought about the downfall of the empire.”

“You say exists?” interjected Cathewe.

“Exists,” laconically.

“You have proofs?” demanded Fitzgerald.

“The very best in the world.  I have not only seen those patents, but I have seen the man.”

“Very interesting,” agreed Breitmann, brushing the crumbs into his hand and dropping them on his plate.  “But, go on.”

“What a man!” breathed Fitzgerald, who began to see the drift of things.

“I proceed, then.  Two generations passed.  I doubt if the third generation of this family has ever heard of the affair.  One day the last of his race, in clearing up the salable things in his house—­for he had decided to lease it—­stumbled on the scant history of his forebears.  He was at school then; a promising youngster, brave, cheerful, full of adventure and curiosity.  Contrary to the natural sequence of events, he chose the navy, where he did very well.  But in some way Germany found out what France already knew.  Here was a fine chance for a stroke of politics.  France had always watched; without fear, however, but with half-formed wonder.  Germany considered the case:  why not turn this young fellow loose on France, to worry and to harry her?  So, quietly Germany bore on the youth in that cold-blooded, Teutonic way she has, and forced him out of the navy.

“He was poor, and poverty among German officers, in either branch, is a bad thing.  Our young friend did not penetrate the cause of this at first; for he had no intention of utilizing his papers, save to dream over them.  The blood of his great forebear refused to let him bow under this unjust stroke.  He sought a craft, an interesting one.  The net again closed in on him.  He began to grow desperate, and desperation was what Germany desired.  Desperation would make a tool of the young fellow.  But our young Napoleon was not without wit.  He plotted, but so cleverly and secretly that never a hand could reach out to stay him.  Germany finally offered him an immense bribe.  He threw it back, for now he hated Germany more than he hated France.  You wonder why he hated France?  If France had not discarded her empire—­I do not refer to the second empire—­he would have been a great personage to-day.  At least this must be one of his ideas.