The Washington herald., 1911-02-06


and the medal OF the Legion Of Honor
fell over the sleeve. AS the girl and her
elderly escort, presumably her father.
turned about to leave, she unpinned the
flowers and offered them impulsively to
the aged hero.
Take these. mon brave" she said.
lightly; you have fought for France"
The old man was confused and his
faded eyes filled. For me. mademoi-
selle?'
Thanks. mademoiselle. thanks, saw
him when they brought him back from
st. Helena. and the Old Guard waded out
into the Seine. Those We're days. Thanks.
mademoiselle: an old soldier salutes YOU"
And the time-bent, withered form grew
tall.
Fitzgerald cleared his throat. for just
then something hard had formed there.
Why. God bless her! She was the kind
Of a girl who became the mother of
soldiers.
With her departure his present interest
here began to wane. He wondered who
she might be and what part Of his ma
tive land she adorned when not gracing
European capitals. Well. this was no
time for incoming. He had arrived from
London the day preceding. and was
leaving for Corfu on the morrow. and
into this short grace of time. He was
| only moderately fond Of Paris as
city: the cafes and restaurants and thea
ters amused him. to be sure: but he was
always hunting for romance here and
never finding it. The Paris of his Dumas
and Leloir no longer existed. In one way
or another. the Louvre did not carry him
back to the beloved days: he could not
rouse his fancy to such height that he
could See D'Artagnan ruffiing it on the
stair case. 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. There
fore, never he came to Paris that he
failed to visit the tomb and the two
museums.
To-day his sightseeing ended in the
hall of Turenne. before the souvenirs of
the Due de Reichstadt, so called the
King of Rome. Poor. little lead soldiers.
tarnished and broken: what pathetic
history. Abused. ignored, his childish as
pirations trampled on. the name and
glory of his father made sport Of; wor-
ried as cruel children worry 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. plaything for
little toys without a thrill OF pity
Poor little codser!" Fitzgerald mur-
INJURED 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 joust-
ing opponent Of the previous hour. Fur
ther. this second appearance refreshed his
memory. He knew now where he had
met the man: ne even recalled his name.
Are you not Karl Breitmann?" he
asked. with directness.
Yes. And you are-let me think.
YES: have 1t. You are the American
correspondent Fitzgerald
And we met in Macedonia during the
Greek war;?
Right And you and I. with a hand
full OF other scribblers, slept that night
under the same tent"
by George"
Il did not recall you when we bumped
while ago; but once I had gone BY you,
your face became singularly familiar
Funny. isn't it, And Fitzgerald took
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 lit
tie soul? 1 saw Bernhardt and Coqueiin
recently in L'Aiglon-' All. but they
play it, 1t drove me here to-day. But
this three-cornered hat holds me longest"
with quick gesture toward the opposite
wall. Cant you see the lean face un-
der il, the dark eyes, the dark hair fall
ing upon his collar! What thoughts have
run riot under this piece of felt? The
brain, the brain! A lieutenant at this
time: short. wiry, cold-blooded young
ster. but dreaming the greatest dream in
the world,'
Fitzgerald smiled. You are an en-
thusiast like myself
who wouldn't be who has visited
every battlefield. who has spent days
wandering about Corsica, Elba, St.
Helena? But your
MY word, have done the same
things
They exchanged smiles.
What written tale can compare with
this living one?'' continued Breitmann.
his eyes brilliant. his voice eager and
the tone rich. "Ah! How many times
have I berated the day / was born! To
have lived in that day. to have been a
part of that bewilderins war panorama
from Toulon to Waterloo! Pardon: per-
haps l bore you?"
by no. m as OdO. NOT
worse I shall never forgive one Of my
forbears for serving under Wellington"
Nor I one of mine for serving under
B,ucher!"
They laughed aloud this time. 1t is
always pleasant to meet person who
wakes enthusiastic over the same things
as ones self. And Fitzgerald was drawn
toward this comparative stranger. who
was not ashamed to speak from his
heart They drifted into a long con-
versatton, and fought a dozen battles.
compared this general and that, and built
fancies upon what the outcome would
have been had Napoleon won at Water
loo. This might have gone on indefinite
!y had not the patient attendant finally
handled his keys and yawned over his
watch. 1t was o'clock. and they had
been talking for a full hour. They ex-
changed cards. and Fitzgerald. with his
Usual disregard Of convention. invited
Breitmann to dine with him that even
ing at the Meurice.
He selected table by the window.
dining at 7:3o O'Clock. Breitmann was
prompt. In evening clothes there was
something distinctive about the man.
FITZGERALD. who was himself a wide
traveller and a man Of the world. in
stantIy saw and was agreeabiy surprised
that he had asked a gentleman to dine.
FITZGERALD was no cad: he would have
heen Just as much interested in Brett
mann had he arrived in cutaway sack
But chance acquaintances, al rule. are
rudimental experiments.
Tba., eo< 6ovu Ereffu,ann va& full Of