Chapter THE FIRST

_Wherein Lizette Fondac Makes a Great Sacrifice and One Jean Lafitte Makes a Momentous Decision_

I

“But, Jean, _mon frère_, this is not your quarrel! ’Tis folly to fight this man—madness! _Mon Dieu!_ I’m sure this Brouillard meant no offense. No doubt he was well in his cups.”

His companion turned on him with sudden fury.

“Enough, Pierre, enough! I am no longer a child to be told what to do! I love Lizette, and this is my affair—mine alone. You should be the last to interfere—you!”

Pierre Dominique Lafitte smiled deprecatingly at his younger brother; this fair-skinned, handsome youth with the coal-black eyes of their long-dead mother, and the uncertain personality of an uncountable line of temperamental ancestors, that was as surely his heritage.

“Jean,” said Pierre, patiently, “you are but a hot-headed youth, with all the foibles and fancies of youth. I tell you that Brouillard but jested....”

“Jested? _Sacré nom de Dieu!_ When he named her ‘_fille de joie_’?... When he dared—_dared_—call my Lizette a courtesan? A sorry jest ’twill be for him—a bitter jest! By all the devils of Satan he shall—”

Pierre Lafitte shook his head sadly, angrily. He had all along mistrusted this affair. On the very first day of their visit to this sunny island of Mauritius, when Jean had encountered Lizette Fondac, the fisherman’s daughter, and as promptly fell in love with her, he had had disquieting fears. Hitherto, he knew, his impetuous yet well-poised brother had rather shied away from the fateful sex. Being experienced, he would have intervened in this affair, but had refrained, fearful of precipitating matters.

Of course Lizette was beautiful. Too beautiful, he thought, musing on her delicate patrician features and shapely hands and feet. Without doubt she possessed good blood—Brouillard had hinted at that—and it was reasonable to believe that morose old Fondac was not even her father. Even he, Pierre, the _bon vivant_, to whom beautiful women were no novelty, had been momentarily intrigued by her unusual beauty and unsophisticated charm, but he was too sensible—so he told himself—to lose his head over a mere chit of a girl, a fisherman’s wench. That Jean had done so was to be deplored; yet he was young, inexperienced—and obstinate.

Pierre sighed a _blasé_, sophisticated sigh.

“This Brouillard, Jean—do you know that he is an excellent shot? And, since you are the challenger, it is most likely that he will choose pistols rather than steel—more’s the pity! I tell you frankly, _garçon_, I have no great liking for this business. There are too many pretty women in the world, as it is, to risk losing your temper, and mayhap your life. Think, first. You are neither the legal guardian, nor yet the betrothed, of this girl. It is not your quarrel.”

Jean shrugged his shoulders impatiently ... nervously.

“It matters not, Pierre. I will fight him—and kill him.”

“Don’t be over-confident,” dryly. “It is more probable that he will kill—_you_! Don’t be a fool!”

“The outcome is on the knees of the gods. If he kills me, I shall die content, knowing I died for _her_!”

“Heroics are quite unnecessary,” observed Pierre, resignedly. “If you’re determined to be a target for Brouillard, it’s no use—”

“My mind is quite made up,” returned Jean, flushing. “But since our ideas do not coincide, please do not interfere. I’m sure that Bonville, or De Queux, will be glad to second me.”

“I surrender,” said Pierre. “If you are determined on being slaughtered, of course I’ll second you. It is my right. And if you must be a fool, I had just as well enjoy your folly as the next one. I’ll hunt up our fine captain’s friend. _Au revoi’!_”

With an expressive shrug, the elder Lafitte stalked out of the tavern and disappeared into the diamond-studded night. Jean, staring after him curiously, stood stockstill, a picture of indecision, and then, turning, sat down near the table, and began to shoot, with careful precision, at the three candles on the trestle near the window.

When Pierre returned, later, having made arrangements for the coming meeting, he found the air smoke-laden and his brother haggard.

There were still three candles burning on the trestle.

II

Dawn broke in a symphony of gorgeous rosy tints, heralding the awakening of the ardent monarch of the world of light. The waves, their deep green color variegated with shifting opaline lusters and gleams of phosphorescent hues, lazily chased one another over the restless sea, to dash into clouds of joyous spray upon the shining beach.

Signs of life were already apparent in the line of fishing boats on and near the shore, and shreds of wraith-like smoke were appearing in the picturesque fishermen’s colony on the inlet. A new day—and a memorable one—had begun for Mauritius.

In the grove behind the quaint little stone chapel, the principals of the little drama had already assembled. The Lafittes—Jean, eager, yet not without a touch of nervousness, and Pierre Dominique, looking rather too perturbed for a man of the world. Across the little clearing was Brouillard, tall, heavily built, with pugnaciously twisted mustachios. A French naval officer—his second—and the resident doctor completed the little party.

At a word from the knight of the lancets, who was evidently also the referee, the duelists took their places, back to back, and marched away ten paces. Pistol in hand, still back to back, they awaited the physician’s signal. The Mauritian raised his arm for dramatic effect, and began to count, very solemnly.

“One—

“Two—”

A young girl, hair as yet uncombed, lids still sleep-laden, and panting heavily, appeared at the head of the path, and ran toward them with horror-filled eyes. They were too absorbed to see her.

“Three—!”

She was almost upon them, now. So excited were the five men in the tense scene they were enacting that they failed to notice her footsteps, which audibly reached them. Simultaneously with the doctor’s next word she burst among them, exhausted with running, but not before he had cried—

“Fire!”

At the word both turned and fired. Brouillard’s shot was a second later than Jean’s. Lafitte’s had gone wild, so nervous was he, and he immediately realized that his doom was imminent. He was at the mercy of his enemy. But that interim of less than a single second, almost the briefest timable space, was enough to complete the tragedy. In that moment Lizette Fondac sprang between them, her body acting as a shield for Jean, just in time to intercept the bullet meant for him. A moment later she sank on the turf at Jean’s feet, clutching convulsively at her bleeding bosom.

With a cry of utter horror, Jean dropped to his knees, holding her close to him, calling to her, with such an unspeakable anguish in his voice that Pierre himself, momentarily stunned by the shock, could not hold the tears back.

Confusion reigned. Villagers, attracted by the sound of the shots, were now appearing at the head of the path, led by the old curé of the chapel. Brouillard, with one backward, horrified glance, disappeared into the forest.

As for Jean, he was as if crazed, pressing Lizette’s still form close to himself, and babbling mad, incoherent terms of endearment. She had been almost instantaneously killed. With difficulty he was separated from her motionless body and led away by his brother.

III

“Why do you follow me about, Pierre? Can I not have a moment’s peace?” There was a nervous petulance in his voice.

Pierre Dominique smiled, albeit with commiseration, as he looked at his brother. Jean Lafitte had indeed changed in the past week, changed for the worse. There were hollow circles under his lustrous coal-black eyes, which afforded a startling contrast to his unusual fairness of skin. But it was the aspect of the eyes themselves which gave Pierre cause for concern, now dull, now sparkling, but ever brooding—two silent pools of apathy.

Pierre Dominique answered shortly, his own lips drawn together.

“Because I cannot trust you alone.”

Jean did not answer, but stared at the sea, its waters gleaming in the sunlight. He well knew why Pierre did not trust him to himself, for he had attempted suicide in the first ecstasy of his grief. But a week had passed since then, and, if his brother had known, he no longer contemplated self-extermination. The law of youth and nature forbade it—and the young Frenchman was but human. But he disliked Pierre Dominique’s watchfulness. He wished to be alone, to sit and brood; to commune with the invisible; to give vent to his aching grief, his loneliness; to let his emotional nature run the gamut of his varied sensations.

Jean Lafitte’s was a most unusual character, which was understood by no one, himself least of all. Temperamental, imaginative, impulsive, together with other strange mixtures of characteristics, he might perhaps be called a genius in the embryo. But time alone could tell what form that genius would take. At the present he was but a crucible, containing an assortment of ingredients that would sooner or later take tangible form. And now this crucible of emotions had been prematurely stirred.

But Pierre Dominique could not know this, nor understand it if he did. In Jean he saw a masculine counterpart of their long-dead mother, and lavished all the affection that his nature was capable of on his younger brother.

“Jean,” said he, breaking the silence, “I wish to leave this accursed island. Come, rouse yourself out of this lethargy. Pining and brooding will not bring back the dead.”

“Perhaps not, my brother.”

“Come then, Jean, let’s sail for Bordeaux. You will soon forget this. We will go into trade, as our father wishes us to do, and meanwhile you can read and study to your heart’s content.”

Jean stared across the sea, his gaze wandering across the spacious blue purity of the Indian Ocean.

“I cannot go back—Pierre. It is impossible.”

“But you cannot mean to stay, boy. It will not profit you and you surely cannot forget, here.”

“I do not wish to forget!”

“I know, I know, _mon pauvre garçon_, but you must leave; this is no place for you.”

“Well, _mon frère_, if it will add to your happiness, I will tell you; I do intend to leave Mauritius.”

“_Bon!_ That’s the way to talk, Jean. We will—”

“_Mais non_, you are wrong. I am not going back to Bordeaux.”

“Why not?” puzzled.

“I go elsewhere.”

“Very well; we will go elsewhere if that is your desire. There are—”

“But you do not understand, Pierre. Our ways must part, from now on.”

“_Ventre-saint-gris!_ The boy is mad!”

“Perhaps. But I have a duty to perform ... and you have not!”

“What do you mean?” The older Lafitte looked vaguely uneasy.

“Why, pretend, _mon frère_? You know that I must find—and punish—the murderer of Lizette!”

“Oh, that?” But his seeming indifference did not fool Jean. He could see that Pierre was troubled in reality, now.

“Just that! If I have to spend the rest of my life hunting him, I shall find Brouillard; the coward, the base scoundrel!”

Here Jean paused and cursed the absent Brouillard, thoroughly, bitterly. For a few moments Pierre listened quietly, making no comment, but he was thinking hard. At last the younger man subsided, his store of invective exhausted, but still seething with rage. For the moment his grief was forgotten, and it was not long before he regained control of himself.

Jean glanced shamefacedly at his brother, expecting some remark of surprise ... displeasure. But none came. He wondered. It was one of the very rare moments of his life that he had given way to his passion, and he was ashamed, for, unconsciously, perhaps, he was very proud of his self-control. He glanced at his brother and looked away again.

Pierre Dominique spoke, quietly, authoritatively:

“Very well, then, Jean. We shall first find Brouillard and then give him up to justice.”

“No, no, Pierre; you are too noble. I will not draw you into my quarrel; you must not come!”

“We will go together, _garçon_.”

“We will not! Don’t forget you owe some one else a duty, Pierre. Do you forget your Margot?”

Pierre Dominique turned away his face.

“No, I do not forget Margot, brother mine. But we will forget her.”

“We will not!”

“Margot will not miss one gallant; she has enough and to spare!”

“Is that the Lafitte spirit?” demanded Jean, rather irrelevantly, but glad to be able to take the offensive.

Pierre looked chagrined.

“Perhaps not, but there are many fair women in this world, and but one brother. And besides, Jean, I am not the marrying kind. But enough of this foolish talk. We—”

“You are right, _mon frère_. Enough of this foolish talk! As for you, Pierre Dominique, you will return home—to Bordeaux. Go into trade, and marry your Margot.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“What will I do? I shall be my own master, with my own ship. I have thought it over, Pierre. No doubt Brouillard will go far away—to the West Indies, or the Caribbean. Therefore I shall go there. Sooner or later I shall meet him!”

“And then you must turn him over to the authorities, for trial. You should want no more revenge than that, Jean. In reality, Lizette’s death was an accident.” Apparently Pierre had assented to Jean’s determination to hunt out Brouillard.

“Perhaps,” said Jean, enigmatically.

“I see you are determined, Jean. But I tell you, I do not approve of your intention. Brouillard will be caught, sooner or later, never fear. Leave it to justice.”

Jean stared down at the sand, watching the swift flight of a sand-fiddler. In a single moment it seemed he had become a man—with mature thoughts and mature determination. The youth had disappeared forever.

“You do not understand, Pierre! I loved—” In his glistening eyes was an immeasurable anguish—the fires of an ecstatic mental torture.

“No, Jean, you did not. You are but a boy. You do not know what real love is.”

“Nonsense! _Nom de Dieu!_ It is Brouillard himself that I want—to meet again! To punish him—to make him pay.”

“But he was really not to blame,” Pierre pleaded, half frightened at the vindictiveness of his young brother.

“Not to blame—not to blame?” cried Jean Lafitte, furious, unreasoning. “_Dieu!_ Not to blame, you say? Can’t you understand, _mon frère_? Can’t you realize?” There was a strained note in his voice. “No, he will not be punished for killing Lizette—for that alone he might be pardoned! But do you forget that he dared to insult her? That he called her a ‘wanton’? ‘Wanton’! Hear me, Pierre, I shall send him to hell with my own hand, if I hang for it! By Our Lady I swear it!”

Pierre Lafitte crossed himself, almost unconsciously.

The younger Lafitte, his face pale, his eyes flashing in the way that later became characteristic, made a striking picture.

And his brother realized that this was not mere boyish heroics, that this was a little more than a dramatic pose. Jean was fiercely in earnest, even if his earnestness was theatrical. He was dedicating his life to a purpose which, whether laudable or open to criticism, was yet a definite purpose. He was a man, now, to think and act for himself.

Pierre Dominique stared at his brother for a long time, his own face impassive and impersonal. But in his eyes was a searching, probing gaze. What he saw apparently satisfied him.

“I think I understand, Jean,” he said, quietly, and dropped his gaze.

Together they stared at the sea, silently, broodingly.