"Romance," said Cathewe.
"Treasures," said M. Ferraud.
Hildegarde felt uneasy. Breitmann toyed with the bread crumbs. He was inattentive besides.
"Napoleon. There is an old scandal," mused M. Ferraud. "I don't think that any of you have heard it."
"That will interest me," Fitzgerald cried. "Tell it."
M. Ferraud cleared his throat with a sharp ahem and proceeded to burnish his crystals. Specks and motes were ever adhering to them. He held them up to the light and pretended to look through them: he saw nothing but the secretary's abstraction.
"We were talking about treasures the other night," began the Frenchman, "and I came near telling it then. It is a story of Napoleon."
"Never a better moment to tell it," said the admiral, rubbing his hands in pleasurable anticipation.
"I say to you at once that the tale is known to few, and has never had any publicity, and must never have any. Remember that, if you please, Mr. Fitzgerald, and you also, Mr. Breitmann."
"I beg your pardon," said Breitmann. "I was not listening."