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A Splendid Hazard 
 
The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Splendid Hazard, by Harold 
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Title: A Splendid Hazard 
Author: Harold MacGrath 
Release Date: April 20, 2005 [EBook #15671] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A 
SPLENDID HAZARD *** 
 
Produced by Al Haines 
 
SPLENDID HAZARD 
By
HAROLD MACGRATH 
 
AUTHOR OF 
THE GOOSE GIRL, THE LURE OF THE MASK, THE MAN ON 
THE BOX, ETC. 
 
With Illustrations by 
HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY 
[Transcriber's note: All illustrations were missing from book.] 
 
NEW YORK 
GROSSET & DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 
 
COPYRIGHT 1910 
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
CONTENTS 
CHAPTER 
I 
A MEMORABLE DATE II THE BUTTERFLY MAN III A 
PLASTER STATUETTE IV PIRATES AND SECRETARIES V NO 
FALSE PRETENSES VI SOME EXPLANATIONS VII A BIT OF
ROMANTIC HISTORY VIII SOME BIRDS IN A CHIMNEY IX 
THEY DRESS FOR DINNER X THE GHOST OF AN OLD REGIME 
XI PREPARATIONS AND COGITATIONS XII M. FERRAUD 
INTRODUCES HIMSELF XIII THE WOMAN WHO KNEW XIV 
THE DRAMA BEGINS XV THEY GO A-SAILING XVI 
CROSS-PURPOSES XVII A QUESTION PROM KEATS XVIII 
CATHEWE ADVISES AND THE ADMIRAL DISCLOSES XIX 
BREITMANN MAKES HIS FIRST BLUNDER XX AN OLD 
SCANDAL XXI CAPTAIN FLANAGAN MEETS A DUKE XXII 
THE ADMIRAL BEGINS TO DOUBT XXIII CATHEWE ASKS 
QUESTIONS XXIV THE PINES OF AITONE XXV THE DUPE 
XXVI THE END OF THE DREAM 
 
A SPLENDID HAZARD 
CHAPTER I 
A MEMORABLE DATE 
A blurring rain fell upon Paris that day; a rain so fine and cold that it 
penetrated the soles of men's shoes and their hearts alike, a dispiriting 
drizzle through which the pale, acrid smoke of innumerable wood fires 
faltered upward from the clustering chimney-pots, only to be rent into 
fragments and beaten down upon the glistening tiles of the mansard 
roofs. The wide asphalts reflected the horses and carriages and trains 
and pedestrians in forms grotesque, zigzagging, flitting, amusing, like a 
shadow-play upon a wrinkled, wind-blown curtain. The sixteenth of 
June. To Fitzgerald there was something electric in the date, a tingle of 
that ecstasy which frequently comes into the blood of a man to whom 
the romance of a great battle is more than its history or its effect upon 
the destinies of human beings. Many years before, this date had marked 
the end to a certain hundred days, the eclipse of a sun more dazzling 
than Rome, in the heyday of her august Caesars, had ever known: 
Waterloo. A little corporal of artillery; from a cocked hat to a crown, 
from Corsica to St. Helena: Napoleon.
Fitzgerald, as he pressed his way along the Boulevard des Invalides, his 
umbrella swaying and snapping in the wind much like the sail of a 
derelict, could see in fancy that celebrated field whereon this eclipse 
had been supernally prearranged. He could hear the boom of cannon, 
the thunder of cavalry, the patter of musketry, now thick, now scattered, 
and again not unlike the subdued rattle of rain on the bulging silk 
careening before him. He held the handle of the umbrella under his arm, 
for the wind had a temper mawling and destructive, and veered into the 
Place Vauban. Another man, coming with equal haste from the 
opposite direction, from the entrance of the tomb itself, was also two 
parts hidden behind an umbrella. The two came together with a jolt as 
sounding as that of two old crusaders in a friendly just. Instantly they 
retreated, lowering their shields. 
"I beg your pardon," said Fitzgerald in French. 
"It is of no consequence," replied the stranger, laughing. "This is 
always a devil of a corner on a windy day." His French had a slight 
German twist to it. 
Briefly they inspected each other, as strangers will, carelessly, with 
annoyance and amusement interplaying in their eyes and on their lips, 
all in a trifling moment. Then each raised his hat and proceeded, as 
tranquilly and unconcernedly as though destiny had no ulterior motive 
in bringing them thus really together. And yet, when they had passed 
and disappeared from each other's view, both were struck with the fact 
that somewhere they had met before. 
Fitzgerald went into the tomb, his head bared. The marble underfoot 
bore the imprint of many shoes and rubbers and hobnails, of all sizes 
and--mayhap--of all nations. He recollected, with a burn on his cheeks, 
a sacrilege of his raw and eager youth, some twelve years since; he had 
forgotten to take off his hat. Never would he    
    
		
	
	
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