Chapter THE SEVENTH

_Wherein Our Pirate Meets a Lady, and One Virginia Grymes Hears a Strange Tale_

I

“Speak of Angels,” remarked Pierre, brightly, “and you hear the flutter of their wings!” He straightened up from his bow to the occupants of a passing carriage.

“Meaning—?” asked Jean, inquiringly.

“The two ladies who have just passed.”

“The fair Amélie and her cousin Angélique?”

“Precisely. It is something unusual to see them together. I wonder what’s up?”

“Ze frien’sheep of two women ees nozzing bud a plot against a zird,” contributed De Moulin, sententiously.

The little group of friends, the Lafittes, De Moulin, and two Creole acquaintances, all laughed together at this conceit. It was a bright sunny day and the Rue Royale was alive with promenaders. As the little group strolled down the street headed toward the waterfront, stopping every now and then to salute a passing acquaintance, bow to a lady or ladies in some picturesque balcony or passing carriage, they presented a gallant sight. At this period of history, fashions in men’s clothing were undergoing a marked change. The Lafittes, like most of their Creole friends, still clung to the colorful knee-breeches and silk stockings of the Revolutionary period, or highly polished boots. They carried sword-canes. The Americans of the new order of things, however—men like Livingston, Grymes, Governor Claiborne, and others of their official contemporaries—wore the long breeches which were buttoned at the ankles, that were just at that time becoming the vogue, with long stocks for neck-wear, high beaver hats, and double-breasted, full-skirted coats.

“I have heard,” said Pierre, “that Amélie is contemplating entering the Convent of the Ursulines. Is it true?”

De Moulin laughed wickedly.

“If you notice,” he remarked, “ze ladiz turn to God when ze dev’l won’ hay’ nozzin’ moah to do wiz dem—dat is, speak’n’ gen’rallee ...” he amended, hastily.

Jean laughed.

“Don’t defame the fair sex so, François,” said he, “for if men loved God as much as they love women—as Pascal says—men would be saints!”

“Without love,” said Pierre, sagely, “it would be sad to be a man....”

“From which I am to infer,” responded his brother, “that you are in that tortured state? Who is it this time?”

Pierre sighed heavily.

“You may jest about it, little brother, but wait—just wait—until the germ bites _you_! I should like to see that day....”

“The holy saints forfend!” exclaimed Jean, with mock piety.

“Of co’se Pierre eez in love!” cried De Moulin. “An’ so am I—an’ oweh fr’en’s heah, too.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jean.

“There gan be bud won,” went on the Creole.

“Who?” with perplexity.

“_La belle Américaine!_”

“A nymph—a fairy!” cried Pierre. “I had forgotten that you but just came to town, Jean. Forgive me. She is a stranger—an American—and she is ravishing—divine!”

“Heh nem is Virginia Grymes,” contributed one of the others.

“Grymes?” asked Jean. “Could it be—”

“_Mais oui, mon frère!_ It is the only daughter of our good friend Grymes, the district attorney. It is said that she left a trail of broken hearts in Philadelphia and Richmond. _Sacré diable!_ One can well believe it! She was the belle of the Assembly Ball in the Quaker City when she made her _début_ there.”

“Ah, Pierre,” said Jean, “I see you’ve been up to your old tricks. Has she refused you, yet?”

“Only twice,” returned his brother, coolly, “but there is yet time. Women like brave men, but audacious ones still more. I shall keep on trying. However, I advise you to watch yourself well, _mon frère_, for if she ever directs the battery of her eyes at you your poor heart will capitulate at once. She is not the usual type of girl one meets, Jean. Somehow she is different, fresher, a typical American, a Virginia rose!”

Jean looked amused. No woman had ever interested him like that. And he told himself that no woman ever would. He had much to learn!

“Whatever she is,” he remarked, dryly, “I see that she has no lack of supporters. But you need have no cause for anxiety.... What’s that, gentlemen?”

With one accord the group turned their eyes in the direction of his glance. There, a few hundred yards up the street, was tearing a large open carriage, of the type known as barouche, drawn by two magnificent black horses. Their eyes flamed, their teeth were bared between slavering jaws, and their clattering hoofs struck sparks from the old cobblestones.

As the careening equipage bore down on them the crowd scattered left and right, upsetting one another in their eagerness to escape from the path of the oncoming steeds, to whose fright they added materially by their excited cries and calls.

On second glance one saw that the box was empty. Almost two blocks behind the carriage ran a coachman in livery, his black face almost livid with fear, shouting to the horses and brandishing his useless whip.

The woman, or rather, girl, who was in the carriage, made no outcry, but gripped the arm of her seat, her face white and tense, lips parted, eyes wide.

Less than a block away, at the foot of the street, was the levee, beyond which sparkled the waters of the Mississippi. It was straight for this that the maddened runaways were thundering, straight to destruction.

The street was in an uproar. In the whole crowd of sailors, soldiers, merchants, laborers, loafers, and negroes, not one man had the presence of mind to do something to stop their spectacular flight—except one.

Suddenly, as if he had sprung up from the very earth, there appeared a man standing in the middle of the street ... standing in the path of the oncoming runaways bearing down upon him with the speed of a veritable Juggernaut. The crowd for an instant ceased its cries, awaiting the further action of this rash man.

The runaways were about fifteen yards from him when the man, pistol in hand, aimed at the nearest horse.

That brief moment before he fired seemed an age to the onlookers. Just as the horses were upon him he nimbly jumped aside. With a scream that sounded almost human, the off horse fell dead in its tracks, a bullet in his head. The other came to an abrupt halt.

In the meantime the man had not been idle. As the horses lurched past him, he sprang to the carriage just in time to grasp its occupant in his arms as she fell forward from the jar of the sudden halt. So nicely was this maneuver timed that she hardly felt the shock and was lightly swung into the street.

The crowd, cheering, surged tumultuously about them, leaving them inclosed in a little space by the carriage steps.

Jean Lafitte stared at the girl he had rescued, and, unconsciously dropped his jaw in amazement. For the first time in his life he felt disconcerted, bewildered, unsure of himself. His mind was in a tumult. Never before, he thought, had he seen such a beautiful girl.

Nut-brown hair, dark, curly and now a mass of riotous disorder, hung about her shoulders, framing a piquant, highbred face of a delightful olive complexion, which was heightened by a soft rosy glow. Her eyes, veiled by long silky lashes, topped with exquisitely arched eyebrows, were of an indescribable greenish-gray-brown color, the emerald note predominating, perhaps. At the moment, in his subconscious mind, Jean was trying to solve that all-important question, but their color was so changeable that he felt himself baffled. Before he had time to complete his mental inventory of her charms, however, he was brought back to the prosaic realities of life by the sound of her voice.

Low, mellow, well modulated, it enchanted him as much as had her finely cut face and slim, graceful, perfectly proportioned figure. As she spoke he forced himself to listen.

“I cannot fully express, sir, my gratitude to you for your brave act. It was wonderful!” Her eyes glowed, and her girlish bosom could be seen to rise and fall from the excitement engendered by that wild ride.

“Scipio, the coachman, left the box for a few minutes, and our poor horses took fright at something. In a moment they had bolted on that terrible, thrilling ride! It was glorious!”

Jean mentally reared back on his heels. Here was a bit of femininity altogether different from the languishing, insipid ladies of his acquaintance.

“Glorious!” he gasped.

“Of course! It was wonderful!” she cried, not noticing the look on his face. “Only, I’m sorry my poor horses caused you any inconvenience.”

“Wonderful!” “Inconvenience!” Jean stared.

“Do you realize, mademoiselle,” he said, stiffly, “that you might have been seriously injured—killed—or perhaps drowned?”

“Drowned?” she repeated, with a bewildered look. An old sailor, one of the bystanders, now chimed in.

“_Mon Dieu!_ De black devils were headed straight for dat wharf, down dere. If it hadn’t been for _monsieur le capitaine_....” His voice trailed off vaguely into nothingness, as if the words he left unsaid were too terrible for contemplation, much less speech.

Her terrified eyes followed his finger. She shuddered. Then, as suddenly as before, she resumed her former attitude. Her voice was abjectly apologetic.

“How ungrateful I have acted! Pray forgive me, sir ... er ... Captain?” she begged, archly contrite.

The bow that _monsieur le capitaine_ made was worthy of a Brummel. It set her to thinking. Indeed, he presented a figure that any maiden would not disdain to admire, and this one was not false to her sex.

For the first time she critically took note of his firm mouth, square chin, domineering arched nose, broad brow, fine eyes and graceful figure, and was at once favorably impressed. She also suddenly noticed the obvious respect accorded him by the bystanders, a fact worthy of investigation in itself. She at once burned to know his identity.

“I realize now, sir,” she went on, “what a debt I owe you, and shall never forget it. If you would do me the honor of calling, sir, my father would take pleasure in adding his thanks to mine. Perhaps you know him. I—I am Virginia Grymes,” she ended.

So this was the new beauty—the rage of Creole society! He might have known it, he thought, vexed.

“And I—I am Jean Lafitte,” he answered, with a studied carelessness. Though he scarcely knew why, he waited for her next words eagerly. There was a momentary pause as the significance of that well-known name sank into her consciousness.

“Not—not—_the_ Jean Lafitte,” she faltered, and then could have bitten off her tongue.

He stiffened, and a curious dignity was apparent in his reply.

“I believe I have that honor,” he said, dryly, as he mentally wondered at the repugnance manifest in her tone, which he could not understand.

She hesitated for the briefest timable space, and in her answer Jean recognized her as the thoroughbred and gentlewoman that she was, notwithstanding the fact that she obviously had cause to dislike his name.

“Both my father and I would be delighted to have you call at your earliest convenience,” she said, graciously, if somewhat stiltedly.

At this moment Pierre Lafitte, accompanied by his friends, reached them, having fought his way with difficulty through the dense crowd.

“My dear Mademoiselle Grymes,” he cried, bowing, “how strange that this should have happened! And that it should have been my brother who had the pleasure of serving you! The lucky dog!”

“Your brother!” she exclaimed, strangely moved.

“But certainly! _Que je suis bête!_ I have forgotten that you do not know him. How awkward of me! Allow me to introduce, mademoiselle,” said Pierre, turning, “my only brother, M’sieu Jean Lafitte.” He stopped suddenly, embarrassed and surprised.

Jean Lafitte had disappeared.

And not ten feet away, in the thick of the throng, Manuel Espinosa studied the little tableau with his insolent eyes. He had seen Lafitte unobtrusively slip away, but his intent glance had not followed him. It was fixed on Virginia Grymes, and it was not pleasant to see. At that moment his eyes were those of a primitive beast....

II

Margaret Claiborne frowned.

“Yes, I’ll admit that he’s brave, Jinny, and all of that, but I wouldn’t cultivate him.”

“But he seemed very nice. And really, honey, I almost insulted him. When he told me his name, I exclaimed, like a perfect little fool—‘not _the_ Jean Lafitte!’—and it sounded _terrible_, my dear! But I didn’t know that he was really a gentleman ... and such a handsome one ... before to-day. You see, in your letters to me you mentioned him occasionally, and called him a pirate. And then, his name is also known back home, too. They call him the Buccaneer of Barataria—that is, the newspapers do, and lots of other horrid names; so—so I naturally came to think of him as being a picturesque old pirate, with black whiskers—with a red handkerchief on his head, and pistols, and everything, and I was astonished, you may be sure, when that handsomely dressed gentleman coolly said his name was Jean Lafitte. What does it mean, Margie?”

“Simply this. This Lafitte person, although a pirate, is a rather prominent society man in New Orleans.”

“No!” Miss Grymes was shocked or surprised. Perhaps both—perhaps neither.

“Yes, it’s a fact. Strange as it may seem, the very best people here—the Creoles—who are, you know, Virgie, descended from some of the oldest and proudest families in France—welcome him and his brother in society as if he were one of themselves.”

“That reminds me! I just learned that that fascinating Mr. Lafitte I met at the Lavalayé dinner last night is his brother. He saw his brother, the pirate—rescue me—that is, stop the horses, to-day, and wanted to introduce me formally to him, but he had disappeared.”

“Yes, Pierre is rather nice. But his brother is impossible.”

“But why, Margie? They are both in the same trade, aren’t they? And I really think Jean—Mr. Lafitte—is much better-looking than his brother. He has such fine eyes!”

Margaret Claiborne flushed suspiciously, but Virginia forgot it at her next words:

“_I_ thought so once, too, Virgie, but let me tell you _why_ I say he is impossible. If it were only his occupation, I wouldn’t mind it so much, for everyone in New Orleans is his friend—everyone worth knowing. But—he is a murderer!”

Virginia Grymes gasped, her delicately chiseled lips parting in surprise and disclosing a row of pearls, apparently.

“A—a—murderer!”

“Yes. It is said that he killed a man—another pirate—shot him in cold blood!”

“Here in New Orleans?”

“No; at their rendezvous at a little island in Barataria Bay, about fifty miles from here.”

“That handsome—er—nice-looking young man, shot—_killed_ a man?” asked Virginia incredulously.

“Yes,” reiterated her friend.

“But why?”

Margaret Claiborne unconsciously lowered her voice.

Virginia leaned forward.

“Over—a woman! A negro slave girl!”

Virginia gasped, and suddenly felt faint. A feeling of intense disgust—of loathing, pervaded her.

“How do you know?” she questioned, breathlessly. After all, she should not condemn him unheard. He had saved her life. And he did have such fine eyes!

Margaret leaned back in her chair.

“My father told me,” she replied, simply, as if stating an incontrovertible fact. “He ought to know, oughtn’t he?”

Virginia nodded dumbly, her eyes on the floor, her mind awhirl.

Yes, Margaret’s father ought to know. Who should, if not William C. C. Claiborne?

He was the Governor of Louisiana.