“And there you are,” abruptly.  “Here we have a Napoleon, indeed with all the patience of his great forebear.  If Germany had left him alone he would to-day have been a good citizen, who would never have permitted futile dreams to enter his head, and who would have contemplated his greatness with the smile of a philosopher.  And who can say where this will end?  It is pitiful.”

“Pitiful?” repeated Breitmann.  “Why that?” calmly.

M. Ferraud repressed the admiration in his eyes.  It was a singular duel.  “When we see a madman rushing blindly over a precipice it is a human instinct to reach out a hand to save him.”

“But how do you know he is rushing blindly?” Breitmann smiled this question.

Hildegarde sent him a terrified glance.  But for the stiff back of her chair she must have fallen.

M. Ferraud demolished an olive before he answered the question.  “He has allied himself with some of the noblest houses in France; that is to say, with the most heartless spendthrifts in Europe.  Napoleon IV?  They are laughing behind his back this very minute.  They are making a cat’s-paw of his really magnificent fight for their own ignoble ends, the Orleanist party.  To wreak petty vengeance on France, for which none of them has any love; to embroil the government and the army that they may tell of it in the boudoirs.  This is the aim they have in view.  What is it to them that they break a strong man’s heart?  What is it to them if he be given over to perpetual imprisonment?  Did a Bourbon ever love France as a country?  Has not France always represented to them a purse into which they might thrust their dishonest hands to pay for their base pleasures?  Oh, beware of the conspirator whose sole portion in life is that of pleasure!  I wish that I could see this young man and tell him all I know.  If I could only warn him.”

Breitmann brushed his sleeve.  “I am really disappointed in your climax, Mr. Ferraud.”

“I said nothing about a climax,” returned M. Ferraud.  “That has yet to be enacted.”

“Ah!”

“A descendant of Napoleon, direct!  Poor devil!” The admiral was thunderstruck.  “Why, the very spirit of Napoleon is dead.  Nothing could ever revive it.  It would not live even a hundred days.”

“Less than that many hours,” said M. Ferraud.  “He will be arrested the moment he touches a French port.”

“Father,” cried Laura, with a burst of generosity which not only warmed her heart but her cheeks, “why not find this poor, deluded young man and give him the treasure?”

“What, and ruin him morally as well as politically?  No, Laura; with money he might become a menace.”

“On the contrary,” put in M. Ferraud; “with money he might be made to put away his mad dream.  But I’m afraid that my story has made you all gloomy.”

“It has made me sad,” Laura admitted.  “Think of the struggle, the self-denial, and never a soul to tell him he is mad.”