Chapter I: The Kidnapping

One evening, in the winter of 1865, a grand ball was given at No. 17 East Twenty-third Street. It was at the house of Miss Ada Ricard, the new star in the great American city, but a star whose brilliancy the profane knew only by reflection, for her life was enveloped in mystery, and she was never seen in any public place.

All that was known of her past was that she had been married to a wealthy merchant in Buffalo, James Gobson, a brutal individual, whose matrimonial yoke she had succeeded in throwing off, but who had left her certain ineffaceable souvenirs of his affection.

Gobson, in fact, who adored his wife, and was very jealous of her, had one day so abused her that after the violent scene she was left with one ear torn and one tooth the less. It is true she concealed the cut on her pretty ear behind a huge diamond, but she had always refused to replace the pearl lacking in the jewel casket of her rosy lips.

“By this,” she said, “I shall never be likely to forget what a husband costs, and if any mad ambition or foolish love is about to make me forget it, it will be sufficient to smile at myself in the glass to recall the past.”

Thus armed against her own weakness, she boldly launched herself into a life of flirtations. Being worth from ten to twelve thousand dollars through her husband, she made her _debut_ by expending them even to the cents in order to establish herself in luxurious surroundings, knowing that men, in their pride, attach as much value to the splendor of the temple as to the charms of the idol.

Having done this, and having her beauty as her only capital, she was careful not to waste it on the first comer; she waited patiently, seldom showing herself abroad, absolutely refusing all homage until a certain Thomas Cornhill, the proprietor of inexhaustible oil wells, seemed worthy of her heart.

Unfortunately, three months after, Thomas Cornhill suddenly died, and Miss Ada, though bereft, was left with one hundred thousand dollars in ready money, and an equal sum in jewels.

Ada mourned him for a few weeks; then, having an essentially practical mind, she changed her retinue of servants before the advent of Willie Saunders, an immensely rich cracker-merchant, who soon succeeded poor Cornhill.

When Willie Saunders found his homage accepted, he was greatly flattered. He was a stout man of about fifty, sensitive, simple and vain. He truly adored Ada, and believed himself tenderly beloved by her. Therefore, ready to listen to all her caprices, he made only a few remarks for form’s sake when she told him about the masquerade ball she wished to give, but he was very jealous. He knew Ada was sought by many adorers, among whom was a certain Edward Forster, a colonel in the Union Army, and one of the most fascinating gentlemen in New York high life.

However convinced the worthy cracker-merchant might be of Ada’s love, he naturally supposed that her adorers, Forster first of all, would profit by this evening to pay her more attention than agreeable to himself, and it troubled him. But the pretty, wicked little creature managed so artfully that Saunders did not long resist.

Besides, she was a wonderful creature, and the upstart-millionaire had high stakes to play for. A blonde, with large, steel-blue eyes and a tall, admirable figure, with the feet and hands of a child; with a laughing mouth, bold-faced, and fearing nothing, Ada Ricard had every attraction to lure the man of the world. The memory of her former husband sometimes disturbed the young woman in her new life. Having retained the recollection of his brutal love and jealousy, she also remembered with terror that he swore to avenge himself for her leaving him. But, since arranging the money settlements, she had not heard of him, and even his friends in Buffalo did not know what had become of him. One fine morning he made a fortune, and went West. He was last heard from at San Francisco, where Saunders told her he was living a fast life, evidently trying to drown recollection.

Ada’s mind was now at rest, and never had she been so gay as at the masked ball. Many women in good society had ventured to attend in order to get a near view of the mysterious and powerful beauty.

Toward eleven o’clock the parlors of the ex-Mrs. Gobson presented a truly picturesque appearance. Every period, every class of society, and every legend were represented, from the companions of Christopher Columbus to the trappers of the far West, and from Mephistopheles to the Venetian harlequin. Among the women there was a dazzling display of precious stones and dominos of every color. Ada Ricard herself wore the splendid costume of an Indian woman of the time of the Spanish conquest. In her ears she had diamonds worth ten thousand dollars, around her throat a triple necklace of pearls of at least equal value, and on her arms and wrists very heavy bracelets of massive gold.

All the men who knew her only by sight, and the women who had heard so much of her, literally devoured her with admiring eyes. Saunders, who was to give five or six thousand dollars toward this ball, did not take his eyes off of her.

Looking very grotesque in the dress of a Highlander, he tried every moment to draw near her, but Ada reminded him by a word, look or gesture that she wished to devote herself wholly to her guests, and he docilely moved away, uttering a sigh which was charitably answered by bursts of laughter by those of his friends who were acquainted with his weakness.

The ball, which had been rather quiet for two or three hours, had become very lively, even noisy.

Soon the buffets were pillaged, the champagne flowed in streams; a few masks fell off, and Miss Ada Ricard, readily refraining from reminding her guests of what was good form--for all this noise could only do the greatest honor to her reputation--thought only of getting away as far as possible from the hubbub.

She had just taken the arm of one of her adorers instead of that which the unfortunate Saunders had offered, and was proceeding toward a little boudoir where some quiet people had taken refuge, when a formidable hurrah caused every head to turn toward the door.

It was the entrance of three Sioux Indians that had excited the enthusiasm of the company.

They indeed deserved this reception, for they were really superb in their horribly truthful costumes, in which nothing was lacking, neither the head-dress of feathers, the tomahawk, nor scalping-knife, nor even in the belt, half a dozen scalps, sinister trophies of late raids.

Ada Ricard turned and added her applause to that of the company; then, like them, she tried to recognize those who had chosen this curious disguise; but she did not succeed.

No doubt, not caring particularly to tattoo their faces, the three mysterious personages wore masks which wholly concealed their features, and to every question they answered only with guttural cries and exclamations which completely changed their voices. After opening a passage through the crowd, they reached the mistress of the house, and, drawing her away from the friend who was accompanying her, they began to perform around her in a circle a fantastic dance which gradually brought her to the main hall.

Supposing, like every one else, that the Sioux Indians were three admirers, Ada gayly watched their contortions and dance, and was the first to burst into laughter, when the tallest of the three masks seized her in his arms and, lifting her as if a child, bore her to the threshold of the door.

Standing before her captor, his two companions chanted a war-song and swung their tomahawks as if to protect his flight.

One would have thought him a great chief carrying away his squaw according to the customs of the Indians of the plains.

This joke was so thoroughly American that the crowd accepted it with ringing bravos.

Suddenly the warrior who bore the young woman faced about and, leaping with one bound, sprang out upon the steps of the house, whose doors were wide open, and then into a splendid landau which was standing before the door.

The two Indians who had followed him had quickly climbed the box, and the carriage, the coachman no doubt having received his orders, immediately set off at a double-quick gallop.

This kidnapping had been so quickly performed, that no one would have had time to prevent it if they had attempted it.

Of Ada Ricard’s guests, moreover, not one had thought seriously of it excepting the unhappy Saunders, whose jealousy, always on the watch, made him think the conduct of the three masks very queer.

He attempted to approach Ada Ricard, but his friends restrained him in spite of his grotesque supplications; and, when she disappeared in the arms of the Indian, he hastened to the balcony of the house, where the enthusiasm reached delirium on the departure of the carriage.

A tremendous hurrah covered the silvery laugh of Miss Ada when she found herself being enveloped in the fur pelisse which one of the Sioux had flung over her shoulders, and the unfortunate cracker-merchant, who was dragged away from the balcony, had immediately become the pivot of a comical dance in the middle of the drawing-room.

What no one heard, was the cry of amazement or fright uttered by Miss Ada Ricard the moment the carriage rattled along the pavement of East Twenty-Third Street.