“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?”

“To-morrow.”  Her heart swelled with bitter pain.  The woman he loved would be on that yacht.  But toward Laura she held nothing but kindness tinged with a wondering envy.  Was not she, Hildegarde, as beautiful?  Had Laura more talents than she, more accomplishments?  Alas, yes; one!  She had had the unconscious power of making this man love her.

To and fro she waved the fan.  For a while, at any rate, he would be hers.  And when M. Ferraud said that the others wished to say farewell, she declined.  She could look none of them in the face again, nor did she care.  She was sorry for Cathewe.  His life would be as broken as hers; but a man has the world under his feet, scenes of action, changes to soothe his hurt:  a woman has little else but her needle.

All through the day and all through the night she remained on guard, surrendering her vigil only to M. Ferraud.  With cold cloths she kept down the fever, wiping the hot face and hands.  He would pull through, the surgeon said, but he would have his nurse to thank.  There was something about the man the doctor did not understand:  he acted as if he did not care to live.