Chapter THE TENTH: Wherein Twenty Thousand Dollars Appears upon the Scene (2)

“By the way, Mr. Lafitte—Pierre—I have never really met your brother, have I? What sort of a man is he?” Casually. Too casually, perhaps.

“Jean? He’s a prince. Why, he—”

“Why doesn’t he mingle with people more than he does? I very seldom see him.”

He considered this for a moment.

“Society? Why he does, when he’s in town. But of late he’s been away so often, and for such long periods, that, no doubt, since you are but a recent arrival, you haven’t seen him about much. Jean is very popular around town, however. Much more, I am forced to admit, than my humble self. And very naturally,” he added, loyally.

She ignored this, however.

“I suppose your brother is as much of a heartbreaker as yourself, then,” she remarked with an assumed lightness.

For a moment he was strangely silent.

“I have never known Jean to look at a woman twice,” he replied, soberly.

“And why, pray?”

“Because his thoughts are of but one.”

Her body became rigid, tense.

“And who is the fortunate lady, if I may ask?”

“She is dead!” he replied, nettled at her apparent lightsomeness.

She was immediately contrite, sensing the resentment in his tone. But a great curiosity filled her.

“Please forgive my flippancy!” she exclaimed. “Do tell me about it. I know there is a story attached to it.”

Mollified by her contrition and apparent interest, he told her. Perhaps another purpose actuated him. Who knows?

Slowly, seriously, almost oblivious of his auditor, he told her the tale of Jean and Lizette ... the duel ... the tragedy ... Jean’s vengeance. The Frenchman, his voice low and impassioned, now swelling, his eyes sparkling, now melting, might have been a troubadour of old Normandy reciting the age-old story of love and death. In the magic of the moonlight, he was a glamorous figure.

Entranced, engrossed in his absorbing tale, Virginia felt her emotions sway her—the hot tears fill her eyes. As she listened she felt a great envy of this girl who had died for Jean Lafitte—and a great yearning....

Pierre ended his tale, making little mention of Jean’s career in the Caribbean. His own eyes were wet, for Pierre was a sentimentalist, a lover of women as a sex; of the beautiful.

For a while there was silence.

Virginia was torn with conflicting emotions.

On one side was this new viewpoint of the Creole smuggler—“the fashion plate,” as she mentally labeled him; a gallant gentleman, and a constant lover. All the world loves a lover, but Virginia felt more than an impersonally worldly affection for this lover in particular, if the truth be told.

On the other hand, there was that damning story of her chum, Margaret Claiborne, which pictured him as a cruel pirate, a murderer, and a lustful villain.

Suddenly an inspiration came.

“Pierre,” she said, haltingly, “is it true that your brother killed a man—a quadroon—at Grande Terre?”

He answered without hesitation, matter-of-factly!

“Yes, it is. That was a very unfortunate occurrence, however. Jean was forced to do it. If he hadn’t—”

“Didn’t he—wasn’t it over a girl, a slave girl?” she demanded, strangely wrought up.

“Why, yes, that was the cause of it, I believe,” he admitted, absently, unknowing of the havoc his words were creating. It _had_ been over a slave girl, but each of these two very naturally were putting different constructions to this simply-worded fact.

Of such incidents are lives molded, empires destroyed, history made, mayhap.

She sobbed, then fiercely smothered it.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, in surprise.

She sniffed.

“Nothing,” calmly. “I merely coughed. I have a headache, Pierre. Won’t you bring me a drink of water?”

He left her hurriedly, all solicitude.

When he returned with the drink for which she had asked, however, he stared around the arbor, in surprise, and swept the black ocean of shrubbery with his eyes.

She had disappeared.

Utterly. Inexplicably.

Pierre Dominique, musing bitterly on the peculiarities of the sex, turned misogynist.

The sheen of the river, near by, was like celestial silk. The moonlight still coquetted with the shadows, and the night-breeze, odorous with jasmine, was sodden with music. But to little avail; the girl was gone.

Pierre Dominique Lafitte, a gallant figure in cambric frills and claret-colored damask, raised his head to the opaque gloom of the nocturnal sky and said words—unrepeatable words.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH:

_Wherein Mr. Livingston Receives an Invitation and Mr. Grymes Pays a Social Call on a Pirate_

I

“Monsieur Livingston?”

“At your service, sir.”

The Creole bowed, his white teeth flashing in a deferential smile.

“I ’ave _l’honneur_ to be ze bearer _d’une lettre_—of a letter—wheech h’ I am to geeve to you een pairson, monsieur.” He bowed again.

Edward Livingston looked puzzled. The contraction of his brows became more accentuated.

“A letter, for me?” he murmured. “Who can be sending me a letter by messenger?”

The Creole rightly interpreted his perplexity.

“I come from ze Exchange een ze _Rue St. Louis_, sair, but ze lettaire, she come from Grande Terre!”

“Grand Terre!”

“_Oui_, monsieur. I am a fr’en’ of Monsieur Lafitte, an’ I was at ze Exchange when anozzer fr’en’ of our he approach me an’ geev me two lettaires. I am sooprise a verry gred deal. Zen zis man sayce to me, he sayce: ‘Ze _bosse_ want you to geeve zeze lettaires to Monsieur Grymes an’ Monsieur Livingston ... _rapidement_ ... an’_moi_, you weel fin’ me een ze Café de Chat Noir. H’I weel ‘wait an ansair.’ An’ zen zis fr’en’ goes off. So h’I take zese lettaires, one to Monsieur Grymes, and _l’autre est ici_ ... ’ere ees ze ozzer.”

And the attorney’s caller handed Livingston a large letter addressed to himself in the bold, graceful handwriting of Jean Lafitte, and sealed with a great splotch of purple wax.

With a word or two of thanks, Livingston motioned the Creole to a seat and rang for wine. Then he opened the letter and eagerly read the message.

As he read on, a look of surprise passed over his face, to be succeeded by disappointment, astonishment, vexation, and finally thoughtfulness.

When he finished his perusal, he read it over again carefully, and then stared thoughtfully into space.

At just this moment his negro butler entered the door.

“Mistuh Grymes, suh,” the darkey announced, “am in de hall. He sez hits impawtant, suh.”

“Bring him right in, Joseph. But wait.” He reflected for a moment. “I’ll see him in a moment. Take him to the drawing-room.”

Joseph bowed again, and was gone, noiselessly.

“Pardon me for a moment, sir. I’ll be right with you in a few minutes. I believe that Mr. Grymes wishes to consult me on a matter connected with the letters you so kindly brought. There may be an answer.”

“_Certainement_, monsieur.”

A moment later Livingston entered the drawing-room, there to find his colleague pacing up and down, manifestly excited. In his hand was an opened envelope sealed with a huge purple seal.

“Did you get a letter from Lafitte?” asked Grymes, abruptly. “Ah, there it is in your hand. Well, what do you think of it?”

Livingston looked at him narrowly.

“What do _you_ think of it?” he asked. “I presume our letters are practically the same.”

Grymes nodded.

“He invites me to that island—Grande Terre—to pay him and his friends a visit and to come and get my fee!”

“Exactly. Mine is another invitation to the same effect.”

“Well, Livingston, what do you think of it?” The repetition seemed to please him.

The other smiled wryly.

“Think of it? Personally, I think it is a rather unusual request. In effect, Lafitte invites us to collect our fee—ostensibly.”

“What do you mean?” puzzled.

“Just this. Our piratical client invites us to come and get our money—collect in person. In other words, to put ourselves right into the hands of a horde of smugglers, pirates, slavers, and other riff-raff—where our lives won’t be worth a minute’s purchase!”

Grymes stared at him for a moment.

“Do you mean to imply that Lafitte will go back on his word? That he will let harm come to us, or perhaps cheat us out of our money?” he cried, in astonishment.

The other pursed his lips.

“I imply nothing,” he said, “but only state this: If it had been the honest intention of our client to pay us, he would have somehow sent the money here, or had it transferred to us through one of the bankers on Toulouse Street. In other words, I mistrust his offer.”

The Virginian looked at him blankly, and then burst into a roar of laughter, as if bitten by the tarantula of mirth.

“May I inquire as to the cause of your levity?” asked Livingston, exasperated, and secretly a little ashamed of his suspicions.

“Oh, Livingston, what a curse it is to lack a sense of humor!” cried Grymes, cryptically. “Here you’ve just finished extolling the virtues of Jean Lafitte to a jury, and yet you’re too cautious to trust him! And after solemnly informing those twelve respectable men of his courage, high sense of honor, ideals, square dealing, charitableness, and so forth, making a saint out of that jolly smuggler, and perjuring yourself like a gentleman, you have the consummate audacity to stand here and tell me that you distrust your client—or words to that effect. Really, my dear fellow, you are rather inconsistent, don’t you think?” He looked at the discomfited attorney quizzically.

“Then I am to understand that you intend to—er—pay a social call on Mr. Lafitte—you will accept?” asked Livingston, impassively.

“Will I accept? Will I?” cried the Virginian, joyfully. “I should _say so_! I wouldn’t refuse it for anything!”

Livingston seemed somewhat taken aback at this.

“You mean—”

“I mean that I am going—at once, too! Lafitte says in my letter that he has a boat here—the _Saucy Susan_, I believe—all ready to sail. When she does you can rest assured I’ll be on board. I’ve already given orders to pack a few clothes. I’m only sorry that I can’t see Jinny, but she’s visiting Margaret Claiborne at their country place, so I’ll just leave her a note....”

“But you are really going?”

“Of course! It’s the chance of a lifetime, man! I’ve always wanted to see Grande Terre, I’ve heard so much of it, heretofore my official position made it impossible for me to even entertain such a thought. But now ... I should say I am going!” He chuckled and smacked his lips.

“And I mean to investigate that famous cellar of Lafitte’s, too. Of course I wouldn’t like to lose the fee, but I trust Lafitte, anyway. He’s a real gentleman, if there ever was one!”

Livingston paced up and down, his brows drawn together in thought. At last he looked up.

“If you are set on going, Grymes,” he said, “I won’t try to dissuade you. But I shall decline Lafitte’s offer with thanks. However, I’ll make you a proposition. If you will collect my share of the fee—the twenty thousand dollars—I will give you ten per cent commission! How does that strike you?”

The Virginian briefly considered this.

“Fine! I’ll do it, though not necessarily for the commission. But you’d better come along, Livingston; you’ll enjoy the trip.”

“No, thank you! I have made up my mind. Go alone, and earn your commission if you can.”

The Virginian looked him in the eye and laughed.

“Thanks,” he said, dryly. “I’ll do my best!”

Two hours later the _Saucy Susan_, all sails set, was merrily flying before the breeze, down the Mississippi, her dainty nose headed south. John Grymes, briskly walking the poop-deck, stared across the muddy waters, now and then chuckling, as if inwardly amused. He was.

It had been often said of the high-living Virginian that he feared nothing on two feet or four. Indeed, he rather prided himself on that reputation. Certainly he could take care of himself. In any event, he anticipated an interesting stay at Grande Terre. He was not to be disappointed.

II

The carriage, rolling majestically down the Rue de Burgundy, that quaint street of heavily grated archways, high lattices, and iron-railed balconies, came to a smooth halt before the red-brick-front, balconied mansion of the Livingstons, with its dark, covered carriageway and green batten shutters. A passer-by, at sight of its occupant, suddenly stopped and stared at her, unnoticed.

Alighting from the carriage, a woman ascended the steps of the imposing dwelling, was admitted, ushered into the high-ceilinged, paneled chamber, and was left there to face the master of the house.

Hardly waiting to go through with the usual polite banalities, Virginia Grymes plunged directly into conversation.

“Could you tell me, Mr. Livingston, where father has gone? I’ve just returned from the Claibornes’, to find a note at home telling me that he has had to go out of town on business and would be gone about a week. That is quite unusual for father. He always tells me where he goes—Rappahannock told me, however, that he was here just before leaving, so I thought perhaps that you might know. I’m rather worried ... and I _must_ see him!”

Livingston smiled paternally.

“There is no need to worry, my dear, for I do happen to know where he has gone. But I should prefer not to tell you ... at least, I don’t believe that he would like me to tell you, since he hasn’t so informed you in his note. It is a business matter, you see.” He smiled again quite paternally.

She looked puzzled, her expressive dark eyes clouding.

“But why all the secrecy, Mr. Livingston?”

“Well, I—”

“But I simply must see him. It is very important for me to do so.”

“I’m very sorry, but it is impossible.”

“Why?” sharply.

The attorney decided to tell her.

“Because you cannot reach him at present. He has gone to Barataria.”

She clutched at her bosom, her hand rigid.

“To Barataria?” she murmured.

Livingston looked surprised, and vaguely annoyed at her emotion.

“Yes, to Grande Terre.”

“But why—why?” she cried.

“What do you mean?” he asked, coldly.

“Why did he go there, of all places?”

“If you must know,” he answered, his displeasure manifest in his voice, “he went to see Mr. Lafitte, on business.”

“Mr. Lafitte!” thunder-struck. “But why did he go? You must tell me—I insist!”

Livingston gazed at her disapprovingly.

“I am afraid I cannot,” he said, calmly. It could easily be seen, he thought, that the daughter of John Grymes was spoiled. Virginia, however, forgetting all convention, grasped his coat lapels.

“You must tell me why,” she commanded, her eyes defiant, her chin haughty; “you must, you _must_!”

Livingston stared at her, thoroughly astonished and somewhat alarmed.

“My dear Miss Grymes, calm yourself! I am very much surprised at your behavior, I must admit. Indeed, I would like an explanation.”

Virginia looked at him for a moment, gravely.

“Mr. Livingston ... it is highly essential that I know. You must tell me!” She released his lapels.

“But—”

“I saw Pierre Lafitte last Tuesday. He mentioned nothing of any such trip.”

“He did not know anything about it, Miss Grymes. But, since you are so insistent, I will tell you. Your father went to Grande Terre to collect our fees, at the invitation of Jean Lafitte.”

She stared at him, puzzled.

“But why didn’t Mr. Lafitte send it to you? Why didn’t you go with father to Barataria?”

Livingston looked rather uncomfortable, although he fought against showing it. Why should he, Edward Livingston, experience embarrassment on being questioned by a mere slip of a girl? But then, why shouldn’t he tell her the reason of his reluctance to accept the pirate’s invitation? He fairly ached to discuss it with some one ... and she was John Grymes’s daughter. Why not with her?

“I’ll tell you, Miss Grymes. Personally, I mistrusted Mr. Lafitte’s invitation to come to Barataria to get our money. As you say, why shouldn’t he have sent it to us here, as is proper? Therefore, I refused, and—”

“Let father go!” finished Virginia. “Mr. Livingston, I am surprised at you! How dared you let him go, alone, to that nest of—pirates? I just know he’ll never get back alive! And it will be your fault, sir, and Mr. Lafitte’s, too! I warned father not to take that case—that no good would come of it. And I was right! What _has_ come of it? First, father resigned his official position to accept it. That was bad enough. Then he was insulted in open court—accused—of—of—dishonor, and was forced to fight a duel in consequence ... and almost killed Mr. Hemingway ... crippled him for life!” She was almost in tears now, but her anger was growing upon her. Livingston stared at her, fascinated, unable to put in a word in his own or Grymes’ defense, so petrified with surprise was he. As for his militant companion, she swept on.

“And now you’ve let him go to Grande Terre—to those pirates, and didn’t stop him! Why? Because you wanted that money, Mr. Livingston, but valued your own skin too much to try to get it! So you let father go! How did you _dare_ to, sir, how _did_ you dare to, when you knew that he was going into danger?”

For a moment the eminent lawyer was speechless—with rage, and something else, something he couldn’t quite define. But she gave him no time for further thought—further argument. She walked to the door, cheeks blazing and eyes flashing, without another word ... as if unable to trust herself to say more. Livingston followed her to the hall; indeed, almost jeopardized his dignity by hurrying. What might not this Amazonian creature do? Where might she not make another scene, doing infinite harm to both her father and himself? Suppose Claiborne should get hold of the story ... at just this most inopportune time? Or suppose any one of those Creole gentlemen scandalmongers should get it into their heads that he, Edward Livingston, scion of one of America’s most elegant families, was afraid to risk his skin in the stronghold of the man who was his client, whom he had just extolled so highly before all the world! What gossip would ensue! At the clubs—on the _banquettes_!

She must be stopped at all costs!

“Miss Grymes, where are you going—what do you purpose doing?” asked Livingston, nervously, as he reached her at the door, which she had already opened. At the curb her carriage was waiting, with the impassive Scipio on the box.

She turned and looked at him, her manner breathing contempt.

“Do, sir? Why, I’m going to father, of course!”

He was astounded at this intelligence. Was the girl demented?

“You’re going to Barataria?” he cried, hoarsely. “Good God, girl, you don’t know what you are saying! It—it’s impossible!”

Her chin came up defiantly.

“Why is it impossible? I’m my own mistress, Mr. Livingston.”

“But, Miss Grymes ... it _is_ impossible! Think of it ... you, a young—lady ... a gentlewoman, to go alone to that pirates’ resort ... to voluntarily place yourself in the power of those outlaws, low sailors! It is preposterous! Unthinkable!”

“I hardly think that Mr. Lafitte, if he _is_ a ruffian, would let me come to harm, sir. He would not dare!”

The choleric Livingston almost choked with exasperation.

“But, Miss Grymes, you do not understand! It is impossible because you simply cannot. It would be the worst breach of convention one could make.... Come, Miss Grymes, you must admit that it will arouse a great deal of unpleasant talk—scandal! It may be bad taste for me to mention this, but you force me to.... Come, come—give up this foolish project! You have your name, your reputation, to think of ... and that of your father, besides. I know you love him too well to cast a stain on his name!”

For a moment she regarded him intently, as if trying to fathom his very soul.

“That is just why I am going, Mr. Livingston,” she said, proudly, “because I love him and wish to shield him from harm. In the event that he is in danger, as you, yourself, believe him to be—don’t deny it, sir!—I may be the means of averting it. They would not dare harm me! As for scandal, let them talk! This is no time to consider petty conventions! My father is in danger and I am going to him ... and besides, sir, who can be a better chaperon for me than my own father?”

“Yes, but people will think—will say—er—they will put different constructions—”

“Who need know, Mr. Livingston? I will go on our own little sloop, which will be manned by our own people.... And I’m sure you will not advertise the fact of my departure.”

“No, no, it is not to be thought of!”

“I am of the same opinion, Mr. Livingston. It is not to be _thought of_ ... it is to be done! And the sooner the better! Therefore, I wish you a very good day, Mr. Livingston!”

She swept him a curtsy and descended the steps, walking toward the carriage. Scipio gathered up the reins and the mettlesome blacks champed at their bits, eager to be off. Unnoticed, the same passer-by, a Spaniard, was still loitering near by, his insolent gaze fixed on Virginia.

Livingston followed her to the carriage step, not primarily for the purpose of helping her into the vehicle, as was the custom, but to further remonstrate. Virginia would not hear him, however. The coachman was about to start.

Livingston, goaded to desperation in the knowledge of her intentions, which, if discovered, would make that estimable personage the laughing-stock of New Orleans, threw all discretion to the winds. He had tried everything—cajolery, veiled threats, argument. But she had been obdurate. He was desperate.

“Miss Grymes,” he cried, as the carriage was about to roll off, “in your father’s name, in the name of decency, I _forbid_ you to go to Grande Terre!”

For a moment she stared at him in unbelief, and then burst into silvery laughter. At his distinctly audible words the loiterer started in surprise and moved a little nearer. Neither the girl nor the man noticed him, so absorbed were they.

“I’ faith,” she cried, “_you_ should be the last to forbid anyone, Mr. Livingston!” Her scorn deepened. “Though one shouldn’t be surprised in your forbidding a mere girl to go where a great strong man like yourself would not trust himself! But Virginia Grymes is the daughter of her father, sir! Good day, Mr. Livingston!”

The carriage rolled away over the cobblestones and turned the next corner, to disappear.

But Edward Livingston stood on the curbstone—dumb—infuriated.

For the first time in his life, Edward Livingston, leader of the Louisiana bar, a Livingston—of _the_ Livingstons—had been insulted, shamed to his face, and by a mere slip of femininity.

He shook with the violence of his emotions.

“Impertinent baggage!”

But Manuel Encarnacion Espinosa paid him no further attention, for he was staring down the street after the departing carriage, a joyous gleam in his eyes, his faith in the holy saints now trebly strengthened by this stroke of luck.

A moment later, he, too, walked hurriedly away, and again the sun-splashed Rue de Burgundy was deserted.