"Yes. However, neither my father nor my grandfather used it, and as the pitiful few acres which went with it is a sterile Bavarian hillside, I have never used it, either. Besides, neither the _Peerage_ nor the _Almanac de Gotha_ make mention of it; but still the patent of nobility was legal, and I could use it despite the negligence of those two authorities." "You could use it in America. There are not many 'Burke's' there." "It amuses me to think that I should confide this secret to you. The wine is good, and perhaps--perhaps I was hungry. Accept what I have told you as a jest." They both became untalkative as the coffee came. Fitzgerald was musing over the impulse which had seized him in asking Breitmann to share his dinner. He was genuinely pleased that he had done so, however; but it forced itself upon him that sometime or other these impulses would land him in difficulties. On his part the recipient of this particular impulse was also meditating; Napoleon had been utterly forgotten, verbally at least. Well, perhaps they had threshed out that interesting topic during the afternoon. Finally he laid down the end of his cigarette. "I have to thank you very much for a pleasant evening, Mr. Fitzgerald." "Glad I ran into you. It has done me no end of good. I leave for the East to-morrow. Is there any possibility of seeing you in the Balkans this fall?" "No. I am going to try my luck in America again." "My club address you will find on my card. You must go? It's only the shank of the evening." "I have a little work to do. Some day I hope I may be able to set as good a dinner before you." "Better have a cigar." "No, thank you." And Fitzgerald liked him none the less for his firmness. So he went as far as the entrance with him. "Don't bother about calling a cab," said Breitmann. "It has stopped raining, and the walk will tone me up. Good night and good luck." And they parted, neither ever expecting to see the other again, and equally careless whether they did or not. Breitmann walked rapidly toward the river, crossed, and at length entered a gloomy old _pension_ over a restaurant frequented by bargemen, students, and human driftwood. As he climbed the badly lighted stairs, a little, gray-haired man, wearing spectacles, passed him, coming down. A "pardon" was mumbled, and the little man proceeded into the restaurant, picked a _Figaro_ from the table littered with newspapers, ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and ordered coffee. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The quarter was indigent, but ordinarily respectable; and it was only when some noisy Americans invaded the place that the habitues took any unusual interest in the coming and going of strangers. Up under the mansard roof there was neither gas nor electricity. Breitmann lighted his two candles, divested himself of his collar, tie, and coat, and flung them on the bed.