Chapter THE TENTH: Wherein Twenty Thousand Dollars Appears upon the Scene (1)

“Why, my dear fellow, your contention is perfectly absurd! I am very much afraid, Grymes, that your ideas of jurisprudence and mine can never coincide. Why, take the speech of Sir Vickary Gibbs, the Royal Attorney General in the Court of the King’s Bench, delivered on November the twentieth, 1809, if I mistake not....”

“The devil take your exactness, Livingston! You’re always quoting some authority or another. But it’s useless to argue with you—you’ve always got an apt retort,” with a comical grimace.

Edward Livingston smiled. He was a tall, spare, silver-haired man, with bushy, grizzled eyebrows, a habitual contraction of the forehead, and the clearly cut features and haughty carriage of the born aristocrat. Known to be the most distinguished member of the Louisiana bar, together with the accrued prestige of his New York legal reputation, he was perhaps one of the best-informed men of his day. These were the days when every gentleman, apparently, was a lawyer or a politician.

“Grymes, the trouble with you is that you don’t read enough. You’re an excellent advocate, but a poor scholar. You would do well, I think, to read some of the letters to the Right Honorable Sir Joseph Banks, K.B., P.R.S. They are extremely interesting.” He paused. “Have you ever read Thomas Andrew Knight’s letter on The Comparative Influence of Male and Female Parents on Their Offspring’? It is exceedingly—”

“—Dry, Livingston, no doubt of it!” responded Grymes, good-humoredly. “Personally, for entertainment, I prefer good old Boccaccio, or Rabelais....”

“No doubt!” dryly.

“Or an enjoyable hour with Margaret of Valois’s _Heptameron_. To my mind, the _Decameron_ and _Heptameron_ are two of the most interesting books ever written!” He chuckled. “And, speaking of literary matters, when reading of the birth of Gargantua, have you _ever_ read—”

Livingston frowned, displeased.

“I am surprised at your taste, Grymes. And you with a young daughter, at that.”

Grymes laughed.

“Oh, Livingston, Livingston! You old-fashioned old fogey! Do you think that I could amuse myself, for a moment, by reading an old law tome or something equally thrilling? Not John Grymes—no, sir!”

Livingston was obviously piqued.

“Not necessarily. But why don’t you read something more suitable for a man of your age? I’ll send you over George Pryme’s _Conquest of Canaan_. It was a Seatonian prize poem. I’ve just received it in response to my order on Cadell and Davies, of London. There is one passage in particular, Grymes, referring to the command of universal extirpation—”

Grymes held up his hand in humorous protest.

“My dear Livingston, you are incorrigible. But listen here—”

At this moment old Rappahannock, the Grymes butler, entered the book-lined, oak-paneled library.

“Massa Grymes! Massa Lafitte is in de droring-room.”

Grymes turned in surprise.

“Which Mr. Lafitte, Rappahannock?”

“Massa Jean, suh.”

Livingston and Grymes exchanged glances.

“He asted if Massa Livingston was heah, suh.”

“Show him in here, Rappahannock.” The old negro shuffled out.

Grymes turned to Livingston.

“Jean Lafitte in New Orleans!” he exclaimed. “What is he doing here?”

Before his companion could answer, however, Lafitte himself entered and the two attorneys politely rose to their feet.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Lafitte. “No, don’t go, Mr. Livingston, I wish to see both of you gentlemen.”

Without another word Grymes rang for Rappahannock, who answered the call a moment later.

“Rappahannock,” said Grymes, “close the door and see that we are not disturbed. I am not at home to anyone.”

Bowing, Rappahannock left the room, closing the double doors behind him.

“Gentlemen,” said Lafitte, abruptly, after he had seated himself, “I have no doubt that you are aware of the fact that the Governor has seen fit to indict my associates and myself on a charge of piracy?”

Livingston merely nodded, his features impassive.

“Yes, I have heard it, Mr. Lafitte,” said Grymes, “and I think His Excellency has acted very unwisely. He does not appreciate the delicate viewpoint which we Louisianians hold toward—er—”

“Privateering,” supplemented Jean, smiling.

“Precisely,” finished the district attorney, also smiling.

“However,” said Lafitte, “it may be possible that you gentlemen do not know that my brother has been placed under arrest.”

Both of his auditors started and exchanged quick glances.

“No, we do not,” answered Livingston. “On what charge has he been arrested?”

“On the charge of being an accessory to piracy. But that is not all, however. He has been refused bail.”

He paused, but received no answer. The two attorneys merely looked thoughtful.

“Therefore, gentlemen, I have come to you,” said Lafitte.

“Exactly what do you wish us to do?” asked Grymes, beginning to understand.

Jean Lafitte leaned back in his chair and smiled again.

“Just this, gentlemen. I will speak plainly; but first I’d better outline the situation. Governor Claiborne is not an antagonist to be despised. Glance over his record and you can readily see that.

“His Excellency has seen fit to institute legal proceedings, and has gone so far as to arrest my brother on a charge of complicity in piracy, without even extending him the courtesy—nay, the right, of giving bail! We, the privateers of Barataria, doing business in our own way as it is being done all over the world to-day, have done naught thus far to interfere with the Governor. From now it is war to the knife, however. We shall fight this to a finish. We shall have justice!”

“Justice?” murmured Grymes to himself. He could not help thinking that justice was exactly what the Governor of Louisiana had in mind to mete out to the Baratarians, but in a very different sense than that, no doubt, meant by Lafitte.... However, notwithstanding his own sentiments in the matter, the chief of the “privateers” had come to him, professionally, it appeared, and therefore was protected by professional ethics. He was the district attorney, the representative of the commonwealth, the people. Should he listen further? It looked very much as if Lafitte was about to attempt to enlist his aid. Yet there was Livingston—

“And to get justice,” went on Lafitte, “we must fight him with his own weapons. Legally. Therefore, gentlemen, knowing that you are the two ablest ornaments of the Louisiana bar, the Baratarians, whom I represent, wish you to do us the honor of accepting our case—to be our legal counsel in the coming trial.”

It was as if a bombshell had fallen into the midst of the room, such a disturbing effect did it have on the distinguished “ornaments of the Louisiana bar.” To say that they were surprised would be putting it mildly.

To Grymes, this offer was not wholly a surprise, but Livingston, strange to say, had not foreseen this as a result of Lafitte’s opening remarks and was rather at a loss for words. Though not prejudiced or biased in the matter, he leaned toward the Baratarians’ cause, yet rather felt as if he needed time to consider the proposal. Friendly though he was toward Lafitte, he was still a cautious man, and never made a decision until he had weighed the matter carefully in his mind and had resolved as to whether or not his decision would be either beneficial or detrimental to himself, one way or the other.

In this brief moment, before Lafitte had finished speaking, all this and more had swiftly passed through his brain. True to his nature, Edward Livingston was mentally debating this question: would it benefit him most to espouse the cause of Lafitte, popular as he was in New Orleans, or that of the Governor of Louisiana, who, after all, represented the law of the state?

Before he had time to make a decision, however, or even to further debate it within himself, he was arrested by Lafitte’s next words.

“Gentlemen, I am not asking you to look at this offer from a biased viewpoint, one way or the other. This is purely a business matter and should be treated as such. If I am so fortunate as to possess your friendship, don’t let that influence you. But, gentlemen, I hereby make this offer:

“If you will accept this case, which means to attempt to acquit my brother, my associates, and myself, from these infamous, unjust charges, I will—pay—you—each—the sum of—twenty—thousand—dollars, win or lose!”

If his earlier offer had had the effect of a bombshell, this last had that effect multiplied a hundredfold, a thousandfold. For a moment the two eminent lawyers gazed at him dumbly, as if unable to believe their ears.

“Twenty thousand dollars?” cried the district attorney, gripping the arm of his chair.

“Twenty thousand dollars, win or lose!” gasped Edward Livingston, for once startled out of his invariable pose of impassivity.

Jean smiled and sipped the Burgundy in his glass.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” he repeated. “And you can rely on the word of Jean Lafitte when he says that it will be paid promptly. I have a little habit of paying my debts,” he added, whimsically.

“But that is a fortune!” cried Grymes, voicing Livingston’s own thought. “It sounds impossible. Twenty thousand dollars!”

“_Parbleu! C’est vrai_,” said Lafitte, relapsing for the moment into French, “but nevertheless a fact. We Baratarians, you see, are willing to pay heavily to have our honor vindicated. What do you say, gentlemen? Do you accept? What is your decision? I do not like to hurry you, but time presses.”

Edward Livingston looked at the floor for a moment, his face impassive, his brain hard at work. Then he looked up, glanced fleetingly at Grymes, and then looked Lafitte full in the face.

“I accept!” he said, quietly.

“_Bon!_” cried Jean, “I thank you! And you, Mr. Grymes?”

The district attorney was staring into his wine glass, his fingers beating a restless tattoo on the polished top.

In his mind’s eye was that magic, “Twenty thousand dollars.” To John Grymes, high-living and pleasure-loving as he was, and by no means well-off, twenty thousand dollars was simply—twenty thousand dollars. Still....

“I am the district attorney,” he stated, looking questioningly at Lafitte. “How can I—”

Oh, the wonderful promise held forth by that twenty thousand dollars!

Lafitte laughed.

“That’s easily enough dealt with,” said he. “Simply resign!”

“Resign?” echoed Grymes. Why had he not thought of that? It was the simplest matter, after all, that. To resign. He could then accept the case—and the twenty thousand dollars. What couldn’t he do with all that money, a bagatelle, apparently, to Lafitte, but in his present circumstances, unknown as they were to the rest of the world, a fortune to himself?

And then Livingston, the conservative, the former celebrity of the New York bar and at present equally well-known lawyer of the Louisiana bar, had accepted. If he, the respected Livingston—whom, truth to tell, Grymes held in some awe—had accepted, then why not he?

And Virginia, what of her? What mightn’t he give her with that money?

“I accept,” said Grymes, firmly, “and shall resign immediately.”

Jean Lafitte smiled and shook him heartily by the hand.

“The present is the best time,” he remarked. “Do so by all means.”

For the next half hour the three men talked business, going over the coming legal campaign as if they were a council of generals planning a battle. At the end of that period they arose, their compact was sealed in a toast, and then the group broke up. Lafitte and Livingston to go their respective ways, and Grymes to return to the large, oak-paneled library.

Sitting down to his large carved mahogany desk, he spent the next fifteen minutes in composing a letter. Sanding it, he waved it lightly back and forth in the air to assist the drying process and laid down his quill pen.

As he was thus occupied, he heard a step and looked up.

Entering the door was Virginia, charming in a simple but costly evening gown; a blood-red rose in her dark coiffure and her exquisite shoulders agleam in the light of the many candles in the wall sconces, with their twinkling pendant prisms. She was apparently returning from a dance, or a dinner perhaps. The social season of “Little Paris” was at its hectic height.

As she stopped to kiss her father, Virginia noticed the letter he had written and, woman-like, was at once curious to know what it contained, not really expecting to be told. For once, however, she was agreeably disappointed. Smiling, Grymes handed it to her, and she, proceeding to put on a charmingly business-like air, began to read it through. Before she had finished, however, the laughter left her face.

“What does this mean, father?” she asked, her voice troubled.

Grymes assumed a casualness he did not at all feel.

“Just what it says, Jinny. It is my resignation. I am giving up my post as district attorney.”

She looked vaguely uneasy.

“But why, father? You tried so hard to get this office. Why do you resign?”

“Listen, Jinny. Mr. Livingston and I are to be the legal counsel of Mr. Lafitte.”

“Mr. Lafitte?”

“Yes. Pierre Lafitte has been arrested.”

“Pierre? What for?”

“Don’t ask so many questions, puss, and I’ll tell you. As you know, the Lafittes have been indicted for piracy. The Governor had Pierre arrested. Well, his brother was here and asked that Livingston and I take the case. We accepted.”

“But why?”

“What do you mean, Jinny? He merely offered us the case, and after due consideration we accepted.”

“But you cannot; you are the district attorney!”

“That’s why I am resigning, dear,” indulgently.

“But, father, why have you taken this case? Why have you resigned? What influenced you? There must have been something to make you defend this murd—I mean, this Mr. Lafitte.”

“Isn’t Pierre Lafitte a friend of yours? Wouldn’t you like me to get him out of jail?” asked the masculinely subtle Grymes, understanding her aversion toward Jean.

“Why, of course! But still, it wasn’t necessary for you to resign, to help him, was it? And besides, he has his brother. They are rich enough to protect themselves. And you—you must depend on your salary. You know you wouldn’t take a cent of the money mother left me, although I’ve begged you to. Don’t you think that charity begins at home?” she ended, pleadingly.

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“That’s why I am resigning, Jinny. Charity does begin at home. And that’s why Livingston took the case, too. I know. Rich as he is, twenty thousand dollars isn’t to be despised!”

“Twenty thousand dollars? What do you mean?” she asked, in surprise.

“Just what I say. Lafitte offered us each twenty thousand dollars, if we would take the case. And we accepted. After all, twenty thousand dollars is a fortune.”

“Oh, father, how _could_ you?” she asked, her cheeks glowing.

He looked at her in astonishment, and with well-masked trepidation, it may be admitted.

“What do you mean, Jinny?” sharply.

“How could you take that pirate’s blood money? The money he made out of human flesh, out of the bodies and souls of poor negro slaves!” she cried, flaming. “This terrible slave trade should be abolished—destroyed! And instead of that—what do men do? They smuggle them, like silks and tea and wine, and mistreat and beat them! And this pirate ... he is worse! And yet you will defend him?”

“And what about your precious Pierre Lafitte?” demanded Grymes. “He is no better than his brother, if you regard it in that light. He is just as much of a pirate, as you call them. Yet _you_ are defending him! Just because Jean, however, had the misfortune to kill two men, both of whom attempted to take his life, as I’ve been told by reliable persons, you call him a murderer! And after he saved your life! That’s not like you at all! I told you, Virginia, not to pay any attention to what Margaret Claiborne tells you. Her father is the man who sent Pierre to jail without bail and is their deadly enemy! How can you expect him to speak well of the Lafittes?”

Virginia listened to her father’s angry peroration in silence. He, however, could not know of what she was thinking—of the story of the slave girl—for whose possession Jean had supposedly killed Grambo, the quadroon.

“I don’t care!” she cried, passionately, “I hate him ... despise him ... loathe him! And both you and that supercilious Mr. Livingston ought to be ashamed to have any dealings with him! The ... the....” She broke off abruptly. “I warn you, father, that no good will come of this. Don’t resign—don’t!” Her eyes glistened, tearful, pleading.

He did not answer her this time, however.

Folding the resignation, he placed it in an envelope, addressed it, sealed it, and rang for the butler.

A moment later old Rappahannock entered.

“Rappahannock,” said Grymes, without looking at Virginia, “see that this letter is delivered to Judge Linwood the first thing in the morning. That is all.” The old butler, with a glance at the silent Virginia, took the letter and, bowing, shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him.

No sooner had he left, however, than Virginia followed him to the door.

“Good night, father,” she said, listlessly, and was gone.

John Grymes stared at the closed door, the muscles of his face tense. For the first time in her life Virginia had not kissed him good-night and suddenly, inexplicably, without being able to understand it himself, he found himself thinking of her long-dead mother. After all these years....

Dropping into his armchair, he filled his glass from the decanter of Burgundy on the table, and drank it down. Staring into the dying fire in the huge fireplace, he drank another, and another and another.

The candles began to gutter out. Weird shadows furtively stalked the circumambient gloom.

Plans, projects—gold. Exaltation....

A few words from youthful lips—lips framing the hymnus of youth, the gladness of life. Words vibrant with the honesty, the unhypocriticalness of youth. Stinging, damning words.

Walking to the window, John Grymes stared out into the velvet chalice of the night, drenched in magic and moonlight.

Twenty thousand dollars?

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH:

_How a District Attorney Receives an Insult and Monsieur de Moulin Tweaks the Nose of an American_

I

The court-room was crowded, for it was the first day of the trial of Pierre Lafitte.

Though the air was soft and balmy, the large chamber itself was hot, and the discomfort was not lessened by the heterogeneous crowd that filled the benches, rear aisles, and balcony.

Grymes and Livingston sat together at one end of the long oak table reserved for counsel. At the foot of the table sat the new district attorney, Grymes’s successor, one Herbert Hemingway; a short, squat, overdressed man, clean-shaven, and painfully concise in his speech. Hemingway was a Pennsylvanian, of some merit as a lawyer, with a large amount of ambition and a larger meed of vanity. He had been Grymes’s rival when that gentleman first ran for the office of district attorney, but was defeated. However, being a henchman of Governor Claiborne and thus influential to a certain degree, he had become assistant district attorney, after certain devious maneuverings for which the worthy chief executive was noted.

Jealous and morose by nature, Hemingway had bided his time. Now, due to the resignation of Grymes, he had succeeded him in office. Great was his joy when he discovered that Grymes, himself, was to be his first opponent in the exercise of his new office, and his cup of happiness was fairly brimming when he learned the identity of the client of the former district attorney, despite the fact that with Grymes was allied the redoubtable Edward Livingston.

Hemingway smiled maliciously as he looked across the table at his former chief, and the look in his eye boded no good for the Virginian. Of all this, however, Grymes was happily unconscious. Conversing in low tones with Livingston, running through his portfolio and occasionally answering the nod of an acquaintance in the audience with a cordial smile, he seemed oblivious of the existence of his former assistant.

Suddenly the buzz of conversation subsided, for the judge had entered, and the crowd made obeisance, all rising and standing until the court was formally opened and then resuming their seats in an attitude of curious expectancy.

The trial of the People of the State of Louisiana _versus_ Pierre Lafitte had begun. Then followed the tedious process of impaneling the jury, but finally Herbert Hemingway, the new prosecuting attorney, rose to his feet and, ostentatiously clearing his throat, began the opening address.

And thus the first day.

II

The third day of the trial had come, and with it a crisis.

During the first two days nothing of any note had taken place. The general consensus of opinion was in favor of Pierre Lafitte. But the State, in the person of Hemingway, was by no means discouraged.

The general public well knew that the issue was not merely a question of Pierre Lafitte being an accessory to piracy. A far greater principle was at stake. The outcome of this trial would decide one thing, above all others. It would determine the further status of the Baratarians—whether they were to bear the appellation of “pirates” and thus bring upon themselves, legally, official condemnation, together with punishment to the full extent of the law—the death penalty; or whether the Baratarians, which included, most naturally, one Monsieur Jean Lafitte, would be honorably cleared and thus enabled to continue their careers as respectable “privateers.”

Public opinion in New Orleans was most decidedly in on channel. The majority of the inhabitants—merchants, bankers, professionals and prominent citizens—Creoles and natives for the most part—were strong adherents to the cause of the Baratarians. And a large majority of the State Legislature were also in this class.

Nor was this state of affairs unnatural. A large number were connected in some way with the smugglers, and many, together with the whole of the lower portion of the state, were greatly benefited by their presence and activities. Then again, the Creoles cordially disliked the new régime and all its works, notwithstanding the fact that many of them served in the State Legislature. Therefore, they had all the more reason to be friendly toward the Lafittes and their followers.

On the other hand, the newcomers, the Americans, were for the most part disliked and sided instinctively with the Governor and his followers. This may be due to the inherent loyalty to government that was instinctive—a feeling that, not long after, was planted and nourished in the hearts of the Creoles. The latter transformation, however, did not take place until those stirring days of the British attack on New Orleans.

Therefore, the friends and enemies of the Lafittes were ranged on two sides and the supporters of the Baratarians were undoubtedly the most numerous.

By the third day of the trial, the battle between the lawyers, Livingston and Grymes, on one side, and Hemingway and his battery of assistants, on the other, had become heated. It was not long before personalities were indulged in, as witness after witness was called, examined, cross-examined and questioned again.

Hemingway was speaking on a question of law.

“And so, if we are at variance,” he cried, turning now and again to the jury, but addressing the main body of his remarks full at his rival—“if we are at variance, I say, it is because the question under discussion is not fully understood.” He paused, breathing heavily, and stared balefully at the debonair Grymes. “Nor should I expect it to be understood, nor appreciated,” he went on, “for it would take a gentleman, who has the understanding and sensibilities of gentlemen, to comprehend it.”

There was a well-defined stir in the jury box. A rustle of whisperings swept over the crowded body of the large chamber, while His Honor noticeably gave a start.

This was nothing less than a direct fling at his opponents, a gratuitous insult.

Livingston was thoroughly angry, but wise enough to repress his emotions. Before he could make any movement toward reprimanding the prosecution, his colleague was on his feet, an ugly glitter in his usually kind eyes.

“Am I to understand,” asked Grymes, quietly, though boiling inwardly, “that you intimate that counsel for the defense are not gentlemen?”

The judge made a motion toward Hemingway, but he, apparently, was ignorant of it. Livingston began to rise. A sudden hush came over the great room—a frozen silence, fraught with unimaginable possibilities.

Hemingway leered.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, venomously, “although I had but one person in mind. The other I hold in the highest respect.” He half bowed to Livingston. The latter spoke before the enraged Grymes could answer, his voice icy.

“Kindly explain yourself, sir!” said he sternly. The judge nodded, but no one noticed him.

Hemingway drew a long breath and then took the plunge. He had stepped into the Rubicon. He must cross it now or drown.

“Just what I said,” he ejaculated, half frightened at his own temerity in thus bearding the two distinguished attorneys. “And I will not retract a word! Mr. Grymes,” he said, sternly, looking at that individual, “I hereby repeat my belief that you are not a gentleman!”

For a moment Grymes merely stared at him, too astonished at this sudden, unwarrantable charge, to answer it, if that were possible. Hemingway rushed on, with a pseudo-fury.

“No, Mr. Grymes, you are not a gentleman ... for you are without honor! You, who have bartered it, sold it to the highest bidder, for twenty thousand pieces of silver. Mr. Grymes, as God is my witness, I am ashamed to think of ever having been associated with you, who have stepped from the path of honor, bribed by pirate gold!”

It was out!

Within his soul John Grymes, laughed, ironically, bitterly. The fee for which he had resigned his honored office was indeed twenty thousand silver pieces. And now it was denounced as a bribe! Thoughts passed like lightning through his brain as he stared, unseeing, almost uncomprehending, at the sneering figure of his accuser. And then a truly royal rage filled the soul of the hot-headed Virginian. For a moment a murderous glint sparkled in his eye. To be thus accused, thus branded, in the presence of all New Orleans—all the world! He, John Grymes, a Virginian of the old Cavalier stock, to be thus insulted, thus held up to the scorn of a relentless world, the cynosure of cynical eyes. He rocked in the throes of an internal tempest that threatened to uproot the very moorings of his soul.

There was but one thing to be done and he did it.

Half suffocating with rage, his eyes flashing, and an unconquerable sob welling up in his throat, he threw the gauntlet into the enemy’s teeth. There was only one way out.

“Mr. Hemingway,” he exclaimed, acutely conscious of the fact that all eyes were focused upon him, “gentleman or not, you must give me satisfaction for this or I will horsewhip you to death on the Place d’Armes!”

The prosecuting attorney bowed, ostensibly ironical, but in reality sick at heart. Strange as it was, he had not counted on this. Duels were but survivals of a barbarous age, he had always maintained ... the practice which merely enabled obscure nonentities to challenge, and perhaps kill, prominent men—really great men. But he could not withdraw with honor. If he did, he would be forever disgraced.

“I am entirely at your service, sir,” he said, determined to make the best of it. “Your most obedient!” He bowed again, but his lips were gray.

“My friend will call on you—on anyone you designate,” returned Grymes, as courteously as possible, though striving mightily to control his temper. Then, because he could trust himself no longer, he faced the judge, muttered something unintelligible, and, turning around, walked slowly up the main aisle of the court-room, head high and chin thrust outward. John R. Grymes was undoubtedly a thoroughbred.

A redbird, perched on the branch of a magnolia, just outside the courthouse, chirped loudly, calling to its mate.

Herbert Hemingway stared for a moment at the retreating figure of the man to whom he had just offered a deadly insult, and then slumped into his chair, his gaze on the floor. He was learning that a gesture was very satisfying for the moment but very dangerous in its after effects.

Edward Livingston, with a contemptuous look at the prosecuting attorney, pointedly gathered up his papers, arose from the table, and walked across the inclosure to a side table. The insinuation was obvious.

The judge took this opportunity to announce an adjournment. But when the great room had emptied, he still sat there, under the great stained-glass window, the bars of colored sunlight slanting across his robes in billets and lozenges of vert and gule and azure.

His Honor was sore perplexed. But so was New Orleans.

III

“Meestaire Nash,” said De Moulin, “I understand zat you are ze gent’man who ees ze secon’ of Monsieur—pardon, sair, I meant ‘Meestaire’ Hemingway, ees eet not true?”

Cyrus Nash, a broad-shouldered, blue-eyed Yankee giant, nodded and glanced across the room at his principal.

Herbert Hemingway, standing at a long French window which gave egress to a balcony overlooking the Rue Royale, wheeled, but was silent.

“I am the representative of Mr. Hemingway,” said Nash, loftily, “and I presume you are the representative of Mr. Grymes?”

“Correc’, sair, _c’est vrai_. I ’ave ze honnaire of being a secon’ of my frien,’ Monsieur Grymes. I ’ave come to arrange ze mitting of owêh preencipals on ze fiel’ _d’honneur_!” He glanced across at Hemingway, who, rigid, his hand gripping the back of an armchair, stared at him strangely.

“Quite so,” replied the Yankee. “We ... I—have been expecting you. But, Mister dee Moolan, can we not reach an understanding in some other way?” He glanced at Hemingway, who almost imperceptibly nodded.

The young indigo-planter drew himself up.

“Pardon, monsieur, I do not understan’. If Monsieur weel ’ave ze kin’nez to exbhlain.”

“I mean, mister, can’t we settle this some other way? My principal would prefer not to fight—”

“Ees you’ preencipal a coward?” demanded the Creole, astonished.

The other hastily made a sign of deprecating negation.

“Of course not!” he cried. “Only Mr. Hemingway would dislike the—er—publicity that would unavoidably become connected with this affair. He would prefer—”

Hemingway leaned forward, his voice somewhat strained.

“What my good friend means, sir,” he said, “is that I am very strongly opposed to dueling, to personal chastisement—er—encounters, of such a murderous nature. In my opinion, sir, it is a barbarity, the relic of a depraved and uncivilized age! It would be against my principles, my ideals—”

“Ees eet zat monsieur wish’ to refuse Monsieur Grymes _l’amende honorable_?” the Creole cried, aghast. His chivalric soul could not understand such idealistic scruples, such a Puritanical conscience.

For a moment Hemingway was at a loss. The Yankee sought to remedy the situation.

“Look here, mister; Mister Hemingway is not afraid to fight, not by a damn sight—”

“Ah, zen monsieur wish’ to ’pologize? Pardon, messieurs, _Que je suis bête_!... ’Ow stupid h’I am! Eef Meestaire Hemingway weel ’pologize, retrac’, mek ze _amende honorable_, zat ees altogether anozzer ’ting. I ’ave no doubt zat Meestaire Grymes weel consent to conseeder eet! Monsieur Livin’ston, he sayce to me—”

The district attorney held up his hand, and his face wore an air of dignity.

“I—I have no intention of apologizing,” he said, calmly, although his heart was beating furiously. And he murmured to himself, “The Lord knows I cannot!”

The Creole looked frankly bewildered. He looked from one to the other.

“Zen what in ze name of ze thousand devils do you mean to do?” he queried, in exasperation.

Hemingway was thinking rapidly. There was nothing to be done, after all, he thought, but give in with the best grace possible. For all his faults, Herbert Hemingway was somewhat of a sportsman ... a gambler, with all the varying moods of men who are born to be eternally doomed to indecision. His lips whitened.

“You are right, Mr. de Moulin, you are right! I cannot but give your principal the satisfaction that he demands ... though it cost me my life. God knows that it is only a farce, this dueling—this official murder—but I shall not back out; I shall fight ... if need be, die!

“But I still maintain,” he continued, grasping this opportunity for a sly thrust, “that your principal is no gentleman and should not even be given this opportunity to—er—fight, as gentlemen do, since he has forfeited the right to put himself in that class through his dishonorable dealings with those pirates, of which I—er—fearlessly,” he mouthed the word, “accused him! Do you still think I am afraid to fight, sir?” he cried, waving his hand in an assumption of dignity, “when I have the moral courage to accuse this fire-eating, swashbuckling Virginian to his face, before his fellow-citizens and fellow-dupes?”

“I would hardly cayeh to say,” rejoined the Creole, dryly, his eyes showing his utter contempt.

“Mister Hemingway is right,” suddenly interjected the last-named gentleman’s self-styled second, “neither he nor anyone else is afraid of this shyster, this Judas. I believe in calling a spade a spade. Mr. Grymes is not only working for these pirates, for blood money, but it’s my belief that he’s a smuggler, himself!

“Personally, Mister dee Moolan, I wouldn’t lower myself to fight with Mr. Grymes, myself. He’s no gentleman, as Hemingway—”

The Creole turned on him in a flash, his fine sensibilities infuriated at the liberties being taken with him in his character of ambassador.

“But I’m zhure you’ll have no objection to mitting me!” he snapped, enraged. “François de Moulin ees at you’ sairvice h’at any time ... an’ at any man’s! But wait—I meestake—I mean at ze sairvice of any gentleman. But for such _canaille_ as you, monsieur, I only use my cane!”

Before his surprised auditors could recover from the effect of his only too justifiable wrath, the zealous young Creole had leaned over and tweaked the prominent nose of the Yankee!

Cursing obscenely, the infuriated Nash sprang at him, but he was stopped by Hemingway.

“Here, gentlemen, here!” the latter cried. “This is no time for quarreling. Let us finish this unpleasant business! Nash, be quiet!” There was a ring of command in his voice. The Yankee subsided, strangely enough, and glowered at the young Creole, who, regaining his composure, was superbly oblivious of him.

“As the challenged party,” said the district attorney, “of course I have choice of weapons?”

“_Oui_, monsieur, zat ees ze propaire etiquette,” said De Moulin, soberly, “ze choice ees yours!”

For once Hemingway dropped his habitual indecision. An observer would have thought that he was the second in this case, rather than the principal, so cool and matter-of-fact was his demeanor.

“Well, then, I choose pistols. And the usual place, I suppose. I believe that is Slaughterhouse Point, is it not?”

The young planter nodded mutely.

“And, if it will not inconvenience your principal,” went on Hemingway, “I would like the meeting to take place at dawn. Let us have it over with as quickly as possible.”

De Moulin bowed.

“Zat ees pairfectly sateesfactory,” he answered. “Meestaire Grymes, he sayce, ‘_Mon ami_, mek all arrangements. I leave zem to you.’ At dawn, zen, shall it be.”

The district attorney bowed in turn.

“Thank you for calling, Mr. de Moulin. We shall meet in the morning, I trust.”

“_Très bien_,” returned the Creole. “In ze morning zen.” He turned to leave the room.

At this point, however, Nash interrupted.

“Wait, Mr. dee Moolan,” he cried, pointing to his nose. “What about this? What about this, sir?” he choked with rage.

François de Moulin laughed.

“_Le nez, mon ami?_” he asked, mockingly, “w’at about eet? _Eh, bien_, my opinion, monsieur, eet ees razzer objec’sh’n’able to zee eye. Take my advice, Meestaire Nash, and remove eet!” He laughed debonairly.

A moment later and he was gone.

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH:

_In Which Is Related an Account of the Duel at Slaughterhouse Point, and How Virginia Flirts with Profit_

I

Morning was nearing its dreary dawn, cold and dark, and New Orleans slumbered.

At last the red rim of the rising sun, heralded by the misty flush of sunrise behind the forests lining the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, appeared above the level disk and cast its first sleepy rays on the world—the long, refuse-littered levees of the queenly Mississippi; the red tile roofs of the Franco-Spanish houses of stuccoed brick; the wide, deserted avenues, lined with balconies, through whose long French windows could be had glimpses of lace curtains and brocade upholstery; and the high white spire of St. Louis Cathedral, which benignantly looked down on the awakening city from its lofty, kindly height.

On a long point of land to the northwest of the city, surrounded on three sides by the muddy, swirling waters of the Queen of Rivers and thickly wooded with dark palmettos and white-blossomed magnolias that stood out in clear-cut picturesque silhouette against the sky, was a spacious glade, alive with bright-colored flowers, warmly green climbing vines, mossy natural lawns of cocoa grass, and ablush with flowering trees.

This bit of paradise on earth, however, was somewhat euphoniously known to the natives as “Slaughterhouse Point,” and not without reason, for this fair spot was in truth a slaughterhouse, a human abattoir, as some had bitterly called it.

Many a strong man, pulsing one moment with life, love, and passion, had watered the greensward with his blood the next; and many a loving wife or sweetheart, mother or sister, had suffered in consequence.

And with good reason, for Slaughterhouse Point was _the_ dueling ground of the gay capital of the Louisianians, of the Little Paris of the New World. Here the Spanish grandees had settled their quarrels with the clash of steel and skill of wrist, to be followed by the debonair French chevaliers’ light rapiers, and the more modern pistol bullets of the punctilious Creole.

What countless tales might those age-old trees tell if they could but speak! Of the grievous—and fancied—wrongs wiped out in blood ... of the strange outcomes, of the counter-duels ... of the hesitant confession of the dying, and the blessed administration of the father confessors, brokenly bestowing absolution....

These and much more might these old trees have told, but they could only tell their tales by the rustlings of their limbs and the sighing of their leaves, which language is only too unfortunately beyond the human capacity for understanding.

By now, however, the principals of this dramatic little incident in American history had assembled and were all too impatiently awaiting the further rising of the huge celestial orb that was to aid with her light the purpose of two of their number, each determined to slay the other, one to avenge his honor, the other to protect himself from that well-merited vengeance.

Of all this, and much more, doubtless, both the former and present district attorneys were thinking. Men think strange thoughts at times like these, but it is stranger still that no one is conscious of it—least of all, themselves.

They were all there.

Herbert Hemingway, clad in ultra-fashionable clothes; beaver, lace ruffles, et cetera, as if just about to set out for a quadroon ball at the St. Philippe Street Theater; and his second, Mr. Cyrus Nash, Esquire, lately of Kennesettock Point, New Hampshire, also loudly dressed, with much more ostentation but equally much less taste than his principal, have just arrived on the scene, and are leaving the carriage of the former, on the road just outside the historic glade.

John Grymes, together with Monsieur François de Moulin, are already on the scene and are standing a little to the right of a giant magnolia, conversing in low tones.

This does not complete the party, however. Two men, obviously physicians, are standing in and aside, also busying themselves in the mysterious depths of two little valises. Mr. Grymes, while talking to his second, watches these two gentlemen of the lancet, and cannot help feeling a certain fascination in doing so, although this is not the Virginian’s first duel.

The former district attorney had passed a sleepless night, sitting up in the library, eying a wine decanter that he dared not touch, yet whose contents he craved with all his soul. He had been wise enough, however, to withstand the temptation, and had spent his time at solitaire, which could not keep him from thinking of a woman who slept in a Virginian churchyard—of bygone days. John Grymes spent much time with his thoughts of late; thoughts dug out of secret mental archives.

Therefore he is fit, this morning, and his eye and nerve are steady. It speaks well for the hard-living Virginian that he did not remove the tempting decanter all through the night, but left it, with its mute appeal, to stare him in the face until the gray hours of dawn, to be finally interrupted by the advent of faithful Scipio, coming to reawaken the slumbering embers in the huge old fireplace.

That gentleman of color, already introduced to the reader in the episode of the runaways, is now unobtrusively hidden behind the generous bole of a magnolia, waiting, round-eyed, to see the outcome of the master’s fight.

He is not the only observer, however.

Slaughterhouse Point, as is known, was already famed for its duels, and often held large crowds, especially when the duelists were prominent persons.

This case was no exception to the rule.

Insulted as he had been before a crowded court, an assemblage of well-known citizens, it was inevitable that all New Orleans would anticipate a duel, and half of its male population attend, if possible. It was equally easy for anyone to guess the location of the coming encounter. Such personal meetings were very seldom held in any other place but Slaughterhouse Point.

Therefore, quite a large gathering has assembled. This heterogeneous crowd is largely made up of the Creole gentry, prominent bankers, merchants, and others of that class; but there are also a sprinkling of Americans, friends of both combatants. There is no likelihood of interference on the part of the local authorities. No Creole would dream of interfering in an affair of honor, while an American official, if he did hold personal views about the wisdom of dueling, discreetly shut his official eyes, especially if present.

At last the preliminaries have been settled.

The sun has risen in its glorious entirety and flooded the grove with its golden light. Out on the sparkling, muddy Mississippi a river barge has come to anchor. One sees that it holds a goodly crowd of gentlemen, all of whom, apparently, have an excellent view of the proceedings.

Gone indeed are the days when affairs of honor were purely personal encounters between the two principals, to be conducted as privately as possible. In these times one cannot even fight privately, cry the Creoles, without making a large public spectacle. It is all the cursed ideas of this new hare-brained government, they declare in unison. In the olden days; ah, then gentlemen were _gentlemen_....

Yet these same aristocratic ranters cannot keep away from a duel, if they are remotely interested in it. So it goes....

The principals are in their places, pistols in hand, with their coats and beavers lying on the sward ... their sleeves rolled up ... ruffles loosened.

Old Sieur de la Follette, veteran of a hundred duels, is to give the word.

He raises his elegantly shaped hand, still ungnarled by the hand of Time. Apparently the last-named old gentleman has passed him by out of pure respect for his many praiseworthy qualities (so say the Creoles, at least)—for his love of sport, his gameness, his keen sense of honor, his scrupulous sense of fairness ... all these go toward the making up of old Etienne de la Follette, prince of duelists, with twenty duels and fourteen love affairs to his credit.

It is said, secretly, of course, that he was once the lover of a _duchesse_. No wonder he is held with such respect in the dreamy land of the Creoles! It is such as he that remind us of duels in the moonlight; serenades under trellised balconies; black-eyed demoiselles and peruked gallants; balls, fêtes, levées; grand bediamonded dames; scented, bejeweled fops.

The Sieur de la Follette is a human milestone in history.

But we digress!

The Sieur raises his hand.

A dead silence falls on the crowd.

The duelists, back to back, walk ten paces from each other, and halt, pistol in hand.

Hemingway is white-faced; his eyes glittering, a hectic flush in his pale cheek. Grymes is cool, collected, and his face is as stern as that of the great Roman father who ordered the death of his own son. The honor of a Virginian, a Grymes, is no small thing. Beware who shalt presume to besmirch it! It is the Grymes way to wipe out an insult in blood. An exaltation—a lust to kill—fills him; thrills him.

The white-haired nobleman with the gray imperial speaks:

“_Un—Deux—Trois!_”

As a man they wheel about, pistols extended.

Two shots are heard as one. Hemingway has fired first, Grymes an instant later....

The crowd peers through the haze.

The smoke clears quickly. One of the duelists, dropping his smoking weapon, clutches at his side, makes a half turn, and crumples up on the green turf, to lie there inert. The other stands for a moment—straight, stern, with the mien of an avenging god—for a moment only. Then, throwing aside his still smoking instrument of death, he quickly reaches the side of his former opponent.

For one moment the heart of John Grymes is like a frozen stone.... Has he killed his man? After all, flashes through his mind, the district attorney but stood up for the courage of his convictions. The Virginian cannot help but admire that sort of man. And now that he has apparently killed his adversary, it is the nature of the high-strung Grymes to glorify his enemy. His mood of exaltation has dropped from him like a cloak—his lust for revenge vanished into thin air.

But Hemingway is not dead.

The doctors have quickly taken charge and are making an examination. The senior physician, a tall, baldish man, looks up to meet the mute question in Grymes’s eyes.

“He will live, sir,” says he, “but the ball has gone through his hip. Mr. Hemingway will be crippled for life!” He turns back to his patient.

John Grymes stares down at the body of his enemy for a moment, his face impassive. Then, without a word, he turns, slowly puts on his coat and hat, and, followed by De Moulin, enters his carriage. The proud Scipio, fairly radiating joy, cracks his whip over the heads of the blacks. The carriage quickly disappears down the road, headed south, for New Orleans.

There is now a general exodus.

The motionless figure of the unconscious district attorney is carried to the carriage and is rapidly driven away toward town, followed, at intervals, by a string of horseback riders and carriages.

The barge on the river hauls up its anchor and soon disappears downstream, vanishing behind a bend of cottonwoods.

Slaughterhouse Point is again deserted; steeped in the flaming radiance of the newly-risen sun.

The sighing magnolias have a new tale to add to their repertory.

II

“Not guilty!”

A gasp was heard, followed by roll after roll of applause as the frantic crowd rose to its feet.

Never before, perhaps, in its whole history, had that old court-room seen such a demonstration as was taking place now ... a demonstration that, rising to the roof, seemed to be literally flying over the town.

And well might the audience cheer, for Pierre Lafitte is acquitted.

But it is not the mere fact that the brother of the _bosse_ of Barataria has been acquitted of a grave charge that causes such a commotion in the good city of New Orleans. Something of more moment than that had hung on the decision of those twelve tried men and true: the further legitimate existence of the colony of Grande Terre.

And the primary causes of all this excitement, Messrs. Edward Livingston and John Grymes, are receiving their share and more of the congratulations that are pouring on the heads of the victors of this legal battle. For have not these two eminent lawyers cleared their poor, innocent, persecuted clients of the utterly unfounded and absolutely preposterous charges brought against them? And (whisper it, _mon ami_) have not these paragons of the bar, these advocates _par excellence_, discreetly taught them certain legal tricks whereby they can still continue to do business at the same spot, and yet make a _pied-de-nez_ ... a thumb to the nose ... and say, “Pouf! That for you!” to the Government?

Yes, they have done this, and much more beside, and now they stand, each flanking the triumphant victim of the malignity of a despotic government, and modestly receive the plaudits of their friends. How fortunate has Pierre Lafitte been to have such powerful defenders ... men with tongues of silvery eloquence! And how wise was the great Jean Lafitte when he secured their aid! With what magnificent oratory did the grandiloquent Livingston assail the ears of His-Honor-on-the-Bench! With what marvelous shrewdness did Grymes argue for long hours with that round dozen of blockheads in the jury-box! Ah, it was a treat to listen to them, _mes amis_, a precious boon! Monsieur Grymes? _Il fut une merveille!_ Monsieur Livingston? _Il fut magnifique! Oh, là là!_ What a rolling of Creole eyes!... What ecstasies of admiration!...

What gallant badinage—sallies—laborious repartee!

What a glorious victory for our friends! What humiliation for this upstart government!

And (between you and me, _mon ami_), what a blow to the pride—the haughty self-sufficiency—of his most respected Excellency, _Monsieur le gouverneur_!

“_C’est pour rire!_”

It is to laugh, indeed....

“Not guilty!”

III

“Ah, Mr. Lafitte, you are a flatterer!”

“‘Pierre’!”

“Well, Pierre, then ... since you are so insistent. But I warn you, sir, I do not believe a word you say!”

“But I swear I am in earnest, _ma belle_!”

She tapped him chidingly on the shoulder with her fan. From their seat in the trellised, jasmine-covered arbor could be seen the moving figures of the dancers in the candle-lighted ballroom, multiplied a thousandfold by the flashing mirrors on the walls ... an orgy of color, a pandemonium of merriment.

The strains of a dreamy waltz floated out to them, haunting—ethereal—unreal. The soaring moon, a glorious disk of silver in a sky of royal purple—a cupola of basalt—the twinkling stars, friendly celestial chinks of light, therein ... the balmy, scent-laden air ... all contributed to make of this Southern desmesne a fairyland—a night for love—and love—and naught but love. The moonlight lay like snow on the silver-misted foliage....

Virginia Grymes, clad in an eye-arresting gown of shimmering, filmy, gauze-like material, the make-up of which no mere man knows, laughed. Her companion, Pierre Dominique Lafitte, a gallant figure in cambric frills and claret-colored damask, bent toward her, intoxicated by the glamour of the night—the challenge of her eyes—the appeal of her feminine charm....

“Oh, Virginia, you are cruel ... heartless! You cannot doubt me! I insincere? Pierre Lafitte? What—”

She looked at him, her eyes roguish.

“Pierre, do you love me?”

“_Do_ I love you? _Do_ I love you? Why you are my dream—my star—my—”

“Really?” amusedly.

“Ah, mademoiselle, you jest. But I am not like your cold-blooded Americans. We Frenchmen hold _la grande passion_ above everything! After all, _ma belle_ Virginia, love is the greatest of all things. We were born to love. And love really comes but once to us ... and it comes to stay.... Virginia, that great love has come into my life. And you are the cause of it—its _raison d’être_!”

“Platitudes, sir, mere platitudes!”

“But it is the truth!”

“Enough of these fine words, Monsieur Lafitte. I believe in deeds, not words.”

The protecting darkness concealed her flush as her mind reverted back to a certain day not long past when a man with coal-black eyes stood in the path of an oncoming carriage, pistol in hand.

“Mademoiselle pleases to jest,” sulkily.

“Jest? No, I do not. But, there, sir, you are but a sulky cavalier. Are you that way with all of your friends? With Gabrielle—and Céleste—and Angélique?...” She laughed lightly.

The Frenchman started in surprise.

“Gabrielle—Angélique!” he stammered. “What do you know of Angélique?”

Suddenly light came to him.

“What has François de Moulin been telling you?” he demanded.

“There, there,” she teased, “don’t fly into such a rage. ’Twill spoil your handsome brow.”

He all but gnashed his teeth in exasperation. If thoughts could kill, a certain young indigo-planter would have died a horrible death at that moment. Fortunately for the latter, however, this is both a physical and psychological impossibility. And it is better so perhaps, for if such thought-murder were possible, it is doubtful if the world would be as populous as it is.

Virginia shook her finger at him reprovingly.

“I dare you to mention a word of it to poor François,” she said. “You yourself have often said ‘all’s fair in love and war.’”

He stared at the frivolous stars, disdaining to answer. If he could but lay his hands on his friend, it would be a “war” indeed; perhaps premeditated murder.

To his relief, she turned the subject. This was not altogether an act of mercy, had he known it, but a seizure of just this opportunity to discuss the man whom she professed to dislike above all men.