"Certainly it will not be your majesty," replied Picard, wiping his face with a serviette. "His majesty will waive his rights to meet me. To-morrow morning I shall have the pleasure of writing finis to this Napoleonic phase. You fool, you shall die for that!" "That," returned Breitmann, still unruffled as he went to the door, "remains to be seen. Gentlemen, I regret to say that your monetary difficulties must continue unchanged." "Oh, for fifty years ago!" murmured the little scene-shifter from the dark of his shelter. CHAPTER XXVI THE END OF THE DREAM It took place on the road which runs from Ajaccio to the _Cap de la Parata_, not far from _Iles Sanguinaires_; not a main-traveled road. The sun had not yet crossed the mountains, but a crisp gray light lay over land and sea. They fired at the same time. The duke lowered his pistol, and through the smoke he saw Breitmann pitch headforemost into the thick white dust. Presently, nay almost instantly, the dust at the left side of the stricken man became a creeping blackness. The surgeon sprang forward. "Dead?" asked Picard. "No! through the shoulder. He has a fighting chance." "The wine last night; my hand wasn't steady enough. Some day the fool will curse me as a poor shot. The devil take the business! Not a sou for my pocket, out of all the trouble I have had. But for the want of a clear head I should be a rich man to-day. Who thought he would come back?" "I did," answered M. Ferraud. "You?" "With pleasure! I brought him back; thank me for your empty pockets, Monsieur. If I were you I should not land at Marseilles. Try Livarno, by all means, Livarno." "For this?" asked Picard, with a jerk of his head toward Breitmann, who was being carefully lifted on to the carriage seat. "No, for certain letters you have _not_ sent to the _Quai d'Orsay_. You comprehend?" "What do you mean?" truculently; for Picard was not in a kindly mood this morning. But the little Bayard of the _Quai_ laughed. "Shall I explain here, Monsieur? Be wise. Go to Italy, all of you. This time you overreached, _Monsieur le Duc_. Your ballet-dancers must wait!" And with rare insolence, M. Ferraud showed his back to his audience, climbed to the seat by the driver, and bade him return slowly to the Grand Hotel. Hildegarde refused to see any one but M. Ferraud. Hour after hour she sat by the bed of the injured man. Knowing that in all probability he would live, she was happy for the first time in years. He needed her; alone, broken, wrecked among his dreams, he needed her. He had recovered consciousness almost at once, and his first words were a curse on the man who had aimed so badly. He could talk but little, but he declared that he would rip the bandages if they did not prop his pillows so he could see the bay. The second time he woke he saw Hildegarde. She smiled brokenly, but he turned his head aside. "Has the yacht gone yet?" "No." "When will it sail?"