CHAPTER XVII

THE HAND FERRY

At a lively gait down the road toward the river galloped the horse

bearing Saint-Prosper and Constance. The thoroughfare was deserted and

the dwelling houses as well as the principal buildings of the town

were absolutely dark. At one place a dog ran out to the front gate,

disturbed by the unusual noise on the road, and barked furiously, but

they moved rapidly on. Now the steeple of the old church loomed

weirdly against the dark background of the sky and then vanished.

On; on, they went, past the churchyard, with its marble slabs

indistinctly outlined in the darkness, like a phantom graveyard, as

immaterial and ghostlike itself as the spirits of the earliest

settlers at rest there beneath the sod. This was the last indication

of the presence of the town, the final impression to carry away into

the wide country, where the road ran through field and forest. As they

sped along, they plunged into a chasm of blackness, caused by the

trees on both sides of the road which appeared to be constantly

closing upon them. In the darkness of that stygian tunnel, dashing

blindly through threatening obscurity, she yet felt no terrors, for a

band of steel seemed to hold her above some pit of "visible night."

Out of the tunnel into the comparatively open space, the wind

boomed with all its force, and like an enraged monster, drove the

storm-clouds, now rainless, across the sky. Occasionally the moon

appeared through some aperture, serene, peace-inspiring, momentarily

gilding the dark vapor, and again was swallowed up by another mass of

clouds. A brood of shadows leaped around them, like things of life,

now dancing in the road or pursuing through the tufts of grass, then

vanishing over the meadows or disappearing in murky nooks. But a

moment were they gone and then, marshaled in new numbers, menacing

before and behind, under the very feet of the horse, bidding

defiance to the clattering hoofs. With mane tossed in the angry

wind, and nostrils dilated, the animal neighed with affright, suddenly

leaping aside, as a little nest of unknown dangers lurked and

rustled in the ambush of a drift of animated brush.

At that abrupt start, the rider swayed; his grasp tightened about the

actress' waist; her arms involuntarily held him closer. Loosened by

the wind and the mad motion, her hair brushed his cheek and fell over

his shoulder, whipped sharply in the breeze. A fiercer gust, sweeping

upon them uproariously, sent all the tresses free, and scudded by with

an exultant shriek. For a time they rode in this wise, her face cold

in the rush of wind; his gaze fixed ahead, striving to pierce the

gloom, and then he drew rein, holding the horse with some difficulty

at a standstill in the center of the thoroughfare.

With senses numbed by the stirring flight, the young girl had been

oblivious to the firmness of the soldier's sustaining grasp, but now

as they paused in the silent, deserted spot, she became suddenly

conscious of it. The pain--so fast he held her!--made her wince. She

turned her face to his. A glint of light fell on his brow and any

lines that had appeared there were erased in the magical glimmer;

eagerness, youth, passion alone shone upon his features.

His arm clasped her even yet more closely, as if in the wildness of

the moment he would fiercely draw her to him regardless of all. Did

she understand--that with her face so near his, her hair surrounding

him, her figure pressed in that close embrace--he must needs speak to

her; had, indeed, spoken to her. She was conscious her hand on his

shoulder trembled. Her cheek was no longer cold; abruptly the warm

glow mantled it. Was it but that a momentary calm fell around them;

the temporary hush of the boisterous wind? And yet, when again the

squall swept by with renewed turmoil, her face remained unchilled. She

seemed but a child in his arms. How light her own hand-touch compared

to that compelling grasp with which he held her! She remembered he had

but spoken to her standing in the window, and she had obeyed without a

question--without thought of fear. She longed to spring to the ground

now, to draw herself from him.

"You can hear the chariot down the road, Miss Carew."

Quickly her glance returned to his face; his gaze was bent down the

thoroughfare. He spoke so quietly she wondered at her momentary fears;

his voice reassured her.

A gleam of light shot through a rift in the clouds.

"Hello-a!" came a welcome voice from the distance.

"Hello-a!" answered the soldier.

"You'd better ride on!" shouted the manager. "They're after us!"

For answer the soldier touched his horse, and now began a race for the

river and the ferry, which were in plain sight, Luna fortunately at

this critical moment sailing from between the vapors and shining from

a clear lake in the sky. The chaste light, out of the angry

convulsions of the heavens, showed the fugitives the road and the

river, winding like a broad band of silver across the darkness of the

earth, its surface rippled into waves by the northern wind. Behind

them the soldier and Constance could hear the coach creaking and

groaning. It seemed to careen on its beams' end, but some special

providence was watching over the players and no catastrophe occurred.

Nearer came the men on horseback down the hill; now the foremost

shouted. Closer was the river; Saint-Prosper reached its bank; the

gang-plank was in position and he dashed aboard. With a mighty

tossing and rolling, the chariot approached, rattled safely across the

gangway, followed by the property wagon, and eager hands grasped the

rope, extending from shore to shore above the large, flat craft. These

hand ferries, found in various sections of the country, were strongly,

although crudely, constructed, their sole means of locomotion in the

stationary rope, by means of which the passengers, providing their own

power for transportation, drew themselves to the opposite shore.

The energy now applied to the hempen strand sent the ferry many feet

from the shore out into the river, where the current was much swifter

than usual, owing to the heavy rainfalls. The horses on the great

cumbersome craft were snorting with terror.

Crack! pish! One of the men on the shore used his revolver.

"An illogical and foolish way to collect debts, that!" grumbled the

manager, tugging at the rope. "If they kill us, how can we requite

them for our obligations?"

The river was unusually high and the current set the boat, heavily

loaded, tugging at the rope. However, it resisted the strain and soon

the craft grated on the sand and the party disembarked, safe from

constable and bailiff in the brave, blue grass country. Only one

mishap occurred, and that to Adonis, who, in his haste, fell into the

shallow water. He was as disconsolate as the young hero Minerva threw

into the sea to wrest him from the love of Eucharis. But in this

case, Eucharis (Kate) laughed immoderately at his discomfiture.

As Barnes was not sure of the road, the strollers camped upon the

bank. The river murmured a seductive cradle-song to the rushes, and,

on the shore, from the dark and ominous background, came the deeper

voice of the pines.

Constance, who had been unusually quiet and thoughtful, gradually

recovered her spirits.

"Here, Mrs. Adams, is your tippet," she said with a merry smile,

taking a bit of lace from her dress.

"Thank you, my dear; I wouldn't have lost it for anything!" said the

old lady, effusively, while Barnes muttered something beneath his

breath.

The soldier, who had dismissed the manager's thanks somewhat abruptly,

occupied himself arranging the cushions from the chariot on the grass.

Suddenly Mrs. Adams noticed a crimson stain on his shoulder.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, in the voice of the heroine of "Oriana," "you

are wounded!"

"It is nothing, Madam!" he replied.

Stripping off his coat, Barnes found the wound was, indeed, but

slight, the flesh having just been pierced.

"How romantic!" gushed Susan. "He stood in front of Constance when the

firing began. Now, no one thought of poor me. On the contrary, if I am

not mistaken, Mr. Hawkes discreetly stood behind me."

"Jokes reflecting upon one's honor are in bad taste," gravely retorted

the melancholy actor.

"Indeed, I thought it no jest at the time!" replied the other.

"Mistress Susan, your tongue is dangerous!"

"Mr. Hawkes, your courage will never lead you into danger!"

"Nay," he began, angrily, "this is a serious offense--"

"On the contrary," she said, laughing, "it is a question of defense."

"There is no arguing with a woman," he grumbled. "She always takes

refuge in her tongue."

"While you, Mr. Hawkes, take refuge--"

But the other arose indignantly and strode into the gloom. Meanwhile

Barnes, while dressing the injury, discovered near the cut an old scar

thoroughly healed, but so large and jagged it attracted his

attention.

"That hurt was another matter," said he, touching it.

Was it the manager's fingers or his words caused Saint-Prosper to

wince? "Yes, it was another matter," he replied, hurriedly. "An Arab

spear--or something of the kind!"

"Tell us about it," prattled Susan. "You have never told us anything

about Africa. It seems a forbidden subject."

"Perhaps he has a wife in Tangiers, or Cairo," laughed Kate.

"He was wed in Amsterdam,

Again in far Siam,

And after this

Sought triple bliss

And married in Hindustan,"

sang Susan.

The soldier made some evasive response to this raillery and then

became silent. Soon quiet prevailed in the encampment; only out of the

recesses of the forest came the menacing howl of a vagabond wolf.

"Such," says Barnes in his notebook, "is the true history of an

adventure which created some talk at the time. A perilous, regrettable

business at best, but we acted according to our light and were enabled

thereafter to requite our obligations, which could not have been done

had they seized the properties, poor garments of players' pomp; tools

whereby we earned our meager livelihood. If, after this explanation,

anyone still has aught of criticism, I must needs be silent, not

controverting his censure.

"With some amusement I learned that our notable belligerent, Mr.

Gough, was well-nigh reduced to the same predicament as that in which

we found ourselves. He could not complain of his audiences, and the

Band of Hope gained many recruits by his coming, but, through some

misapprehension, the customary collections were overlooked. The last

night of the lecture, the chairman of the evening, at the conclusion

of the address, arose and said: 'I move we thank Mr. Gough for his

eloquent effort and then adjourn.'

"The motion prevailed, and the gathering was about to disperse when

the platform bludgeon-man held them with a gesture. 'Will you kindly

put your thanks in writing, that I may offer it for my hotel bill,'

said he.

"But for this quick wit and the gathering's response to the appeal he

would have been in the same boat with us, or rather, on the same

boat--the old hand ferry! Subsequently, he became a speaker of foreign

and national repute, but at that time he might have traveled from

Scarboro' to Land's End without attracting a passing glance."

BOOK II

DESTINY AND THE MARIONETTES

CHAPTER I

THE FASTIDIOUS MARQUIS

Through the land of the strapping, thick-ribbed pioneers of Kentucky

the strollers bent their course--a country where towns and hamlets

were rapidly springing up in the smiling valleys or on the fertile

hillsides; where new families dropping in, and old ones obeying the

injunction to be "fruitful and multiply" had so swelled the population

that the region, but a short time before sparsely settled, now teemed

with a sturdy people. To Barnes' satisfaction, many of the roads were

all that could have been wished for, the turnpike system of the center

of the state reflecting unbounded credit upon its builders.

If a people may be judged by its highways, Kentucky, thus early, with

its macadamized roads deserved a prominent place in the sisterhood

of states. Moreover, while mindful always of her own internal

advancement, she persistently maintained an ever-watchful eye and

closest scrutiny on the parental government and the acts of congress.

"Give a Kentuckian a plug of tobacco and a political antagonist and

he will spend a comfortable day where'er he may be," has been happily

said. It was this hardy, horse-raising, tobacco-growing community

which had given the peerless Clay to the administrative councils of

the country; it was this rugged cattle-breeding, whisky-distilling

people which had offered the fearless Zach Taylor to spread the

country's renown on the martial field.

What sunny memories were woven in that pilgrimage for the strollers!

Remembrance of the corn-husking festivities, and the lads who, having

found the red ears, kissed the lasses of their choice; of the dancing

that followed--double-shuffle, Kentucky heel-tap, pigeon wing or

Arkansas hoe-down! And mingling with the remembrance of such pleasing

diversions were the yet more satisfying recollections of large

audiences, generous-minded people and substantial rewards, well-won;

rewards which enabled them shortly afterward to pay by post the

landlord from whom they had fled.

Down the Father of Waters a month or so after their flight into the

blue grass country steamed the packet bearing the company of players,

leaving behind them the Chariot of the Muses.

At the time of their voyage down the Mississippi "the science of

piloting was not a thing of the dead and pathetic past," and wonderful

accounts were written of the autocrats of the wheel and the

characteristics of the ever-changing, ever-capricious river.

"Accidents!" says an early steamboat captain. "Oh, sometimes we run

foul of a snag or sawyer, occasionally collapse a boiler and blow up

sky-high. We get used to these little matters and don't mind them."

None of these trifling incidents was experienced by the players,

however, who thereby lost, according to the Munchausens of the period,

half of the pleasure and excitement of the trip. In fact, nothing more

stirring than taking on wood from a flatboat alongside, or throwing a

plank ashore for a passenger, varied the monotony of the hour, and,

approaching their destination, the last day on the "floating palace"

dawned serenely, uneventfully.

The gray of early morn became suffused with red, like the flush of

life on a pallid cheek. Arrows of light shot out above the trees; an

expectant hush pervaded the forest. Inside the cabin a sleepy negro

began the formidable task of sweeping. This duty completed, he shook a

bell, which feature of his daily occupation the darky entered into

with diabolical energy, and soon the ear-rending discord brought the

passengers on deck. But hot cornbread, steaks and steaming coffee

speedily restored that equanimity of temper disturbed by the morning's

clangorous summons.

Breakfast over, some of the gentlemen repaired to the boiler deck for

the enjoyment of cigars, the ladies surrounded the piano in the cabin,

while a gambler busied himself in getting into the good graces of a

young fellow who was seeing the world. Less lonely became the shores,

as the boat, panting as if from long exertion, steamed on. Carrolton

and Lafayette were left behind. Now along the banks stretched the

showy houses and slave plantations of the sugar planters; and soon,

from the deck of the boat, the dome of the St. Charles and the

cathedral towers loomed against the sky.

Beyond a mile or so of muddy water and a formidable fleet of old

hulks, disreputable barges and "small fry broad-horns," lay

Algiers, graceless itself as the uninviting foreground; looking out

contemplatively from its squalor at the inspiring view of Nouvelle

Orleans, with the freighters, granaries and steamboats, three

stories high, floating past; comparing its own inertia--if a city

can be presumed capable of such edifying consciousness!--with the

aspect of the busy levee, where cotton bales, sugar hogsheads,

molasses casks, tobacco, hemp and other staple articles of the South,

formed, as it were, a bulwark, or fortification of peace, for the

habitations behind it. Such was the external appearance--suggestive

of commerce--of that little center whose social and bohemian life was

yet more interesting than its mercantile features.

At that period the city boasted of its Addison of letters--since

forgotten; its Feu-de-joie, the peerless dancer, whose beauty had

fired the Duke Gambade to that extravagant conduct which made the

recipient of those marked attentions the talk of the town; its Roscius

of the drama; its irresistible _ingenue_, the lovely, little

Fantoccini; and its theatrical carpet-knight, M. Grimacier, whose

intrigue with the stately and, heretofore, saintly Madame Etalage had,

it was said later, much to do with the unhappy taking-off of that

ostentatious and haughty lady. It had Mlle. Affettuoso, songstress,

with, it is true, an occasional break in her trill; and, last, but not

least, that general friend of mankind, more puissant, powerful and

necessary than all the nightingales, butterflies, or men of

letters--who, nevertheless, are well enough in their places!--Tortier,

the only Tortier, who carried the _art de cuisine_ to ravishing

perfection, whose ragouts were sonnets in sauce and whose fricassees

nothing less than idyls!

Following the strollers' experiences with short engagements and

improvised theaters, there was solace in the appearance of the city of

cream and honey, and the players, assembled on the boiler deck,

regarded the thriving port with mingled feelings as they drew nearer.

Susan began forthwith to dream of conquests--a swarthy Mexican, the

owner of an opal mine; a prince from Brazil; a hidalgo, exile, or any

other notable among the cosmopolitan people. Adonis bethought himself

of dusky beauties, waiting in their carriages at the stage entrance;

sighing for him, languishing for him; whirling him away to a supper

room--and Paradise! Regretfully the wiry old lady reverted to the time

when she and her first husband had visited this Paris of the South,

and, with a deep sigh, paid brief tribute to the memory of conjugal

felicity.

Constance's eyes were grave as they rested upon the city where she

would either triumph or fail, and the seriousness of her task came

over her, leaning with clasped hands against the railing of the boat.

Among that busy host what place would be made for her? How easy it

seemed to be lost in the legion of workers; to be crushed in the

swaying crowd! It was as though she were entering a room filled with

strangers, and stood hesitating on the threshold. But youth's

assurance soon set aside this gloomy picture; the shadow of a smile

lighted her face and her glance grew bright. At twenty the world is

rosy and in the perspective are many castles.

Near by the soldier also leaned against the rail, looking not,

however, at New Orleans but at her, while all unconscious of his

regard she continued to gaze cityward. His face, too, was thoughtful.

The haphazard journey was approaching its end, and with it, in all

likelihood, the bond of union, the alliance of close comradeship

associated with the wilderness. She was keenly alive to honor, fame,

renown. What meaning had those words to him--save for her? He smiled

bitterly, as a sudden revulsion of dark thoughts crowded upon him. He

had had his bout; the sands of the arena that once had shone golden

now were dust.

Drawing up to the levee, they became a part of the general bustle and

confusion; hurriedly disembarked, rushed about for their luggage,

because every one else was rushing; hastily entered carriages of which

there was a limited supply, and were whisked off over the rough

cobblestones which constituted the principal pavements of the city;

catching momentary glimpses, between oscillations, of oyster saloons,

fruit and old clothes' shops, and coffee stands, where the people ate

in the open air. In every block were _cafes_ or restaurants, and the

sign "Furnished Rooms" appearing at frequent intervals along the

thoroughfare through which they drove at headlong pace, bore evidence

to the fact that the city harbored many strangers.

The hotel was finally reached--and what a unique hostelry it was! "Set

the St. Charles down in St. Petersburg," commented a chronicler in

1846, "and you would think it a palace; in Boston, and ten to one, you

would christen it a college; in London, and it would remind you of an

exchange." It represented at that day the evolution of the American

tavern, the primitive inn, instituted for passengers and wayfaring

men; the development of the pot-house to the metropolitan hotel, of

the rural ale-room to the palatial saloon.

"What a change from country hostelries!" soliloquized the manager,

after the company were installed in commodious rooms. "No more inns

where soap and towels are common property, and a comb, without its

full complement of teeth, does service for all comers!" he continued,

gazing around the apartment in which he found himself. "Think of real

gas in your room, Barnes, and great chairs, easy as the arms of

Morpheus! Are you comfortable, my dear?" he called out.

Constance's voice in an adjoining room replied affirmatively, and he

added: "I'm going down stairs to look around a bit."

Beneath the porch and reception hall extended the large bar-room,

where several score of men were enjoying their liquors and lunches,

and the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses and the noise

made by the skilful mixer of drinks were as sweet music to the

manager, when shortly after he strode to the bar. Wearing neither coat

nor vest, the bartender's ruffled shirt displayed a glistening stone;

the sleeves were ornamented with gold buttons and the lace collar had

a Byronic roll.

"What will you have, sir?" he said in a well-modulated voice to a big

Virginian, who had preceded Barnes into the room.

"A julep," was the reply, "and, while you are making it, a little

whisky straight."

A bottle of bourbon was set before him, and he wasted no valuable time

while the bartender manipulated the more complicated drink.

Experiencing the felicity of a man who has entered a higher

civilization, the manager ordered a bottle of iced ale, drank it with

gusto, and, seating himself, was soon partaking of a palatable dish.

By this time the Virginian, joined by a friend, had ordered another

julep for the near future and a little "straight" for the immediate

present.

"Happy days!" said the former.

"And yours happier!" replied the newcomer.

"Why, it's Utopia," thought Barnes. "Every one is happy!"

But even as he thus ruminated, his glance fell upon an old man at the

next table whom the waiters treated with such deference the manager

concluded he must be some one of no slight importance. This gentleman

was thin, wrinkled and worn, with a face Voltairian in type, his hair

scanty, his dress elegant, and his satirical smile like the "flash of

a dagger in the sunlight." He was inspecting his bouillon with

manifest distrust, adjusting his eye-glass and thrusting his head

close to the plate. The look of suspicion deepened and finally a

grimace of triumph illumined his countenance, as he rapped excitedly

on the table.

"Waiter, waiter, do you see that soup?" he almost shouted.

"Yes, Monsieur le Marquis," was the humble response.

"Look at it well!" thundered the old gentleman. "Do you find nothing

extraordinary about it?"

Again the bouillon was examined, to the amusement of the manager.

"I am sorry, Monsieur le Marquis; I can detect nothing unusual,"

politely responded the waiter, when he had concluded a pains-taking

scrutiny with all the gravity and seriousness attending so momentous

an investigation.

"You are blind!" exclaimed the old man. "See there; a spot of grease

floating in the bouillon, and there, another and another! In fact,

here is an 'Archipelago of Greece!'" This witticism was relieved by an

ironical smile. "Take it away!"

The waiter hurried off with the offending dish and the old man looked

immensely satisfied over the disturbance he had created.

"Well has it been said," thought the manager, "that the destiny of a

nation depends upon the digestion of its first minister! I wonder what

he'll do next?"

Course after course that followed was rejected, the guest keeping up a

running comment:

"This sauce is not properly prepared. This salad is not well mixed.

I shall starve in this place. These truffles; spoiled in the

importation!"

"Oh, Monsieur le Marquis,"--clasping his hands in despair--"they were

preserved in melted paraffin."

"What do I care about your paraffin? Never mind anything more, waiter.

I could not eat a mouthful. What is the bill? Very well; and there is

something for yourself, blockhead."

"Thank you, Monsieur le Marquis." Deferentially.

"The worst meal I've ever had! And I've been in Europe, Asia and

Africa. Abominable--abominable--idiot of a waiter--miserable place,

miserable--and this dyspepsia--"

Thus running on, with snatches of caustic criticism, the old gentleman

shambled out, the waiter holding the door open for him and bowing

obsequiously.

"An amiable individual!" observed Barnes to the waiter. "Is he

stopping at the hotel?"

"No, Monsieur. He has an elegant house near by. The last time he was

here he complimented the cook and praised the sauces. He is a

little--what you call it?--whimsical!"

"Yes; slightly inclined that way. But is he here alone?"

"He is, Monsieur. He loses great sums in the gambling rooms. He keeps

a box at the theater for the season. He is a prince--a great lord--?"

"Even if he calls you 'liar' and 'blockhead'?"

"Oh, Monsieur,"--displaying a silver dollar with an expressive shrug

of the shoulders--"this is the--what you call it?--balm."

"And very good balm, too," said Barnes, heartily.

Still grumbling to himself, the marquis reached the main corridor,

where the scene was almost as animated as in the bar and where the

principal topic of conversation seemed to be horses and races that had

been or were about to be run. "I'd put Uncle Rastus' mule against that

hoss!" "That four-year-old's quick as a runaway nigger!" "Five

hundred, the gelding beats the runaway nigger!" "Any takers on Jolly

Rogers?" were among the snatches of talk which lent life and zest to

the various groups.

Sitting moodily in a corner, with legs crossed and hat upon his knee,

was a young man whose careless glance wandered from time to time from

his cigar to the passing figures. As the marquis slowly hobbled along,

with an effort to appear alert, the young man arose quickly and came

forward with a conventional smile, intercepting the old nobleman near

the door.

"My dear Monsieur le Marquis," he exclaimed, effusively, "it is with

pleasure I see you recovered from your recent indisposition."

"Recovered!" almost shrieked the marquis. "I'm far from recovered; I'm

worse than ever. I detest congratulations, Monsieur! It's what a lying

world always does when you are on the verge of dissolution."

"You are as discerning as ever," murmured the land baron--for it was

Edward Mauville.

"I'm not fit to be around; I only came out"--with a sardonic

chuckle--"because the doctors said it would be fatal."

"Surely you do not desire--"

"To show them they are impostors? Yes."

"And does New Orleans continue to please you?" asked the other, with

some of that pride Southerners entertained in those days for their

queen city.

"How does the exile like the forced land of his adoption?" returned

the nobleman, irritably. "My king is in exile. Why should I not be

also? Should I stay there, herd with the cattle, call every shipjack

'Citizen' and every clod 'Brother'; treat every scrub as though she

were a duchess?"

"There is, indeed, a regrettable tendency to deify common clay

nowadays," assented the patroon, soothingly.

"Why, your 'Citizen' regards it as condescension to notice a man of

condition!" said the marquis, violently. "When my king was driven away

by the rabble the ocean was not too broad to separate me from a

swinish civilization. I will never go back; I will live there no

more!"

"That is good news for us," returned the land baron.

"Your politeness almost reconciles me to staying," said the old man,

more affably. "But I am on my way to the club. What do you say to a

rubber?"

The patroon readily assented. In front of the hotel waited the

marquis' carriage, on the door of which was his coat-of-arms--argent,

three mounts vert, on each a sable bird. Entering this conveyance,

they were soon being driven over the stones at a pace which jarred

every bone in the marquis' body and threatened to shake the breath of

life from his trembling and attenuated figure. He jumped about like a

parched pea, and when finally they drew up with a jerk and a jolt, the

marquis was fairly gasping. After an interval to recover himself, he

took his companion's arm, and, with his assistance, mounted the broad

steps leading to the handsome and commodious club house.

"At least," said the nobleman, dryly, as he paused on the stairs, "our

pavements are so well-kept in Paris that a drive there in a tumbril to

the scaffold is preferable to a coach in New Orleans!"

CHAPTER II

"ONLY AN INCIDENT"

To the scattering of the anti-renters by the rescue party that

memorable night at the manor the land baron undoubtedly owed his

safety. Beyond reach of personal violence in a neighboring town,

without his own domains, from which he was practically exiled, he had

sought redress in the courts, only to find his hands tied, with no

convincing clue to the perpetrators of these outrages. On the patroon

lay the burden of proof, and he found it more difficult than he had

anticipated to establish satisfactorily any kind of a case, for alibis

blocked his progress at every turn.

At war with his neighbors, and with little taste for the monotony of a

northern winter, he bethought him of his native city, determined to

leave the locality and at a distance wait for the turmoil to subside.

His brief dream of the rehabilitation of the commonwealth brought only

memories stirring him to restlessness. He made inquiries about the

strollers, but to no purpose. The theatrical band had come and gone

like gipsies.

Saying nothing to any one, except Scroggs, to whom he entrusted a load

of litigation, he at length quietly departed in the regular stage,

until he reached a point where two strap rails proclaimed the new

method of conveyance. Wedged in the small compartment of a little car

directly behind a smoking monster, with an enormous chimney, fed with

cord-wood, he was borne over the land, and another puffing marvel of

different construction carried him over the water. Reaching the

Crescent City some time before the strollers--his progress expedited

by a locomotive that ran full twenty miles an hour!--the land baron

found among the latest floating population, comprised of all sorts and

conditions, the Marquis de Ligne. The blood of the patroons flowed

sluggishly through the land baron's veins, but his French extraction

danced in every fiber of his being. After learning the more important

and not altogether discreditable circumstances about the land baron's

ancestors--for if every gentleman were whipped for godlessness, how

many striped backs would there be!--the marquis, who declined intimacy

with Tom, Dick and Harry, and their honest butchers, bakers and

candlestick-makers of forefathers, permitted an acquaintance that

accorded with his views governing social intercourse.

"This is a genuine pleasure, Monsieur le Marquis," observed the land

baron suavely, when the two found themselves seated in a card room

with brandy and soda before them. "To meet a nobleman of the old

school is indeed welcome in these days when New Orleans harbors the

refugees of the world, for, strive as we will, outsiders are creeping

in and corrupting our best circles."

"Soon we shall all be corrupt," croaked the old man. "France--but what

can you expect of a nation that exiles kings!"

"Ah, Louis Philippe! My father once entertained him here in New

Orleans," said Mauville.

"Indeed?" remarked the marquis with interest.

"It was when he visited the city in 1798 with his brothers, the Duke

of Montpensier and the Count of Beaujolais. New Orleans then did not

belong to America. France was not so eager to sell her fair

possessions in those days. I remember my father often speaking of the

royal visit. The king even borrowed money, which"--laughing--"he

forgot to pay!"

The marquis' face was a study, as he returned stiffly: "Sir, it is a

king's privilege to borrow."

"It is his immortal prerogative," answered Mauville easily. "I only

mentioned it to show how highly he honored my father."

The nobleman lifted his eyebrows, steadily regarding his companion.

"It was a great honor," he said softly. "One does not lend to a king.

When Louis Philippe borrowed from your father he lent luster to your

ancestry."

"Yes; I doubt not my father regarded himself as the debtor. Again, we

had another distinguished compatriot of yours at our house--General

Lafayette."

"Lafayette!" repeated the marquis. "Ah, that's another matter! A man,

born to rank and condition, voluntarily sinking to the level of the

commonalty! A person of breeding choosing the cause of the rout and

rabble! How was he received?"

"Like a king!" laughed Mauville. "A vast concourse of people assembled

before the river when he embarked on the 'Natchez' for St. Louis."

Muttering something about "_bourgeoisie!--epicier!_" the nobleman

partook of the liquid consolation before him, which seemed to brighten

his spirits.

"If my doctors could see me now! Dolts! Quacks!"

"It's a good joke on them," said Mauville, ironically.

"Isn't it? They forbid me touching stimulants. Said they would be

fatal! Impostors! Frauds! They haven't killed me yet, have they?"

"If so, you are a most agreeable and amiable ghost," returned

Mauville.

"An amiable ghost!" cackled the old man. "Ha! Ha! you must have your

joke! But don't let me have such a ghastly one again. I don't

like"--in a lower tone--"jests about the spirits of the other world."

"What! A well-seasoned materialist like you!"

"An idle prejudice!" answered the marquis. "Only when you compared me

to a ghost"--in a half whisper--"it seemed as though I were one, a

ghost of myself looking back through years of pleasure--years of

pleasure!"

"A pleasant perspective such memories make, I am sure," observed the

land baron.

"Memories," repeated the marquis, wagging his head. "Existence is

first a memory and then a blank. But you have been absent from New

Orleans, Monsieur?"

"I have been north to look after certain properties left me by a

distant relative--peace to his ashes!"

"Only on business?" leered the marquis. "No affair of the heart? You

know the saying: 'Love makes time pass--'"

"'And time makes love pass,'" laughed Mauville, somewhat unnaturally,

his cynicism fraught with a twinge. "Nothing of the kind, I assure

you! But you, Marquis, are not the only exile."

The nobleman raised his brows interrogatively.

"You fled from France; I fled from the ancestral manor. The tenants

claimed the farms were theirs. I attempted to turn them out and--they

turned me out! I might as well have inherited a hornet's nest. It was

a legacy-of hate! The old patroon must have chuckled in his grave! One

night they called with the intention of hanging me."

"My dear sir, I congratulate you!" exclaimed the nobleman

enthusiastically.

"Thanks!" Dryly.

"It is the test of gentility. They only hang or cut off the heads of

people of distinction nowadays."

"Gad! then I came near joining the ranks of the well-born angels. But

for an accident I should now be a cherub of quality."

"And how, Monsieur, did you escape such a felicitous fate?"

The land baron's face clouded. "Through a stranger--a Frenchman--a

silent, taciturn fellow--more or less an adventurer, I take it. He

called himself Saint-Prosper--"

"Saint-Prosper!"

The marquis gazed at Mauville with amazement and incredulity. He might

even have flushed or turned pale, but such a possible exhibition of

emotion was lost beneath an artificial bloom, painted by his valet.

His eyes, however, gleamed like candles in a death's head.

"This Saint-Prosper you met was a soldier?" he asked, and his voice

trembled. "Ernest Saint-Prosper?"

"Yes; he was a soldier; served in Africa, I believe. You knew him?"

Turning to the marquis in surprise.

"Knew him! He was my ward, the rascal!" cried the other violently. "He

was, but now--ingrate!--traitor!--better if he were dead!"

"You speak bitterly, Monsieur le Marquis?" said the patroon

curiously.

"Bitterly!--after his conduct!--he is no longer anything to me! He is

dead to me--dead!"

"How did he deviate from the line of duty?" asked Mauville, with

increasing interest, and an eagerness his light manner did not

disguise. "A sin of omission or commission?"

"Eh? What?" mumbled the old nobleman, staring at his questioner, and,

on a sudden, becoming taciturn. "A family affair!" he added finally,

with dignity. "Not worth repeating! But what was he doing there?"

"He had joined a strolling band of players," said the other,

concealing his disappointment as best he might at his companion's

evasive reply.

"A Saint-Prosper become an actor!" shouted the marquis, his anger

again breaking forth. "Has he not already dragged an honored name in

the dust? A stroller! A player!" The marquis fairly gasped at the

enormity of the offense; for a moment he was speechless, and then

asked feebly: "What caused him to take such a humiliating step?"

"He is playing the hero of a romance," said the land baron, moodily.

"I confess he has excellent taste, though! The figure of a Juno--eyes

like stars on an August night--features proud as Diana--the voice of a

siren--in a word, picture to yourself your fairest conquest, Monsieur

le Marquis, and you will have a worthy counterpart of this rose of the

wilderness!"

"My fairest conquest!" piped the listener. With lack-luster eyes he

remained motionless like a traveler in the desert who gazes upon a

mirage. "You have described her well. The features of Diana! It was

at a revival of Vanbrugh's 'Relapse' I first met her, dressed after

the fashion of the Countess of Ossory. Who would not worship before

the figures of Lely?"

He half closed his eyes, as though gazing in fancy upon the glossy

draperies and rosy flesh of those voluptuous court beauties.

"The wooing, begun in the wings, ended in an ivy-covered villa--a

retired nook--solitary walks by day--nightingales and moonshine by

night. It was a pleasing romance while it lasted, but joy palls on

one. Nature abhors sameness. The heart is like Mother Earth--ever

varying. I wearied of this surfeit of Paradise and--left her!"

"A mere incident in an eventful life," said his companion, thoughtfully.

"Yes; only an incident!" repeated the marquis. "Only an incident! I

had almost forgotten it, but your conversation about players and your

description of the actress brought it to mind. It had quite passed

away; it had quite passed away! But the cards, Monsieur Mauville; the

cards!"

CHAPTER III

AT THE RACES

For several days, after rehearsals were over, the strollers were

free to amuse themselves as they pleased. Their engagement at the

theater did not begin for about a week, and meanwhile they managed

to combine recreation with labor in nearly equal proportions.

Assiduously they devoted themselves to a round of drives and

rambles: through pastures and wood-land to Carrolton; along the shell

road to Lake Pontchartrain; to Biloxi, the first settlement of the

French; and to the battle grounds, once known as the plains of

Chalmette, where volunteer soldiers were now encamped, awaiting

orders to go to the front in the Mexican campaign. For those who

craved greater excitement, the three race-courses--the Louisiana,

the Metairie and the Carrolton offered stimulating diversion.

Within sight of the Metairie were the old dueling grounds, under

the oaks, where, it is related, on one Sunday in '39 ten duels

occurred; where the contestants frequently fought on horseback with

sabers; and, where the cowherds, says a chronicler, became so

accustomed to seeing honor satisfied in this manner that they paid

little attention to these meetings, pursuing their own humble

duties, indifferent to the follies of fashionable society. The

fencing schools flourished--what memories cluster around that odd,

strange master of the blade, Spedella, a melancholy enigma of a

man, whose art embodied much of the finest shading and phrasing

peculiar to himself; from whom even many of Bonaparte's discarded

veterans were not above acquiring new technique and temperament!

Men in those days were most punctilious about reputation, but

permitted a sufficiently wide latitude in its interpretation not to

hamper themselves or seriously interfere with their desires or

pleasures. Thus, virtue did not become a burden, nor honor a

millstone. Both, like epaulets or tassels, were worn lightly and

befittingly.

Shortly after the players' arrival began the celebrated Leduc matches,

attracting noted men and women from all over the South. The hotels

were crowded, the lodging-houses filled, while many of the large homes

hospitably opened their doors to visiting friends. The afternoons

found the city almost deserted; the bartenders discontentedly smoked

in solitude; the legion of waiters in the hotels and resorts became

reduced to a thinly scattered array; while even the street venders had

"folded their tents" and silently stolen to the races. On one such

memorable occasion most of the members of Barnes' company repaired to

the Metairie.

Below the grand stand, brilliant with color, strutted the dandies

attending to their bets; above they played a winning or losing game

with the fair sex. Intrigue and love-making were the order of the

hour, and these daughters of the South beguiled time--and mortals!--in

a heyday of pleasure. In that mixed gathering burly cotton planters

from the country rubbed elbows with aristocratic creoles, whose attire

was distinguishable by enormous ruffles and light boots of cloth. The

professional follower of these events, the importunate tout, also

mingled with the crowd, plainly in evidence by the pronounced

character of his dress, the size of his diamond studs or cravat pin,

and the massive dimensions of his finger rings. No paltry, scrubby

track cadger was this resplendent gentleman, but a picturesque rogue,

with impudence as pronounced as his jewels!

Surrounded by a bevy of admirers, Susan, sprightly and sparkling,

was an example of that "frippery one of her sex is made up with, a

pasticcio of gauzes, pins and ribbons that go to compound that

multifarious thing, a well-dressed woman." Ever ready with a

quick retort, she bestowed her favors generously, to the evident

discomfiture of a young officer in her retinue whom she had met

several days before, and who, ever since, had coveted a full

harvest of smiles, liking not a little the first sample he had

gathered. However, it was not Susan's way to entrust herself fully

to any one; it was all very interesting to play one against

another; to intercept angry gleams; to hold in check clashing

suitors--this was exciting and diverting--but she exercised care

not to transgress those bounds where she ceased to be mistress of

the situation. Perhaps her limits in coquetry were further set

than most women would have ventured to place them, but without

this temerity and daring, the pastime would have lost its charm for

her. She might play with edged tools, but she also knew how to

use them.

Near her was seated Kate, indolent as of yore, now watching her sister

with an indulgent, enigmatic expression, anon permitting a scornful

glance to stray toward Adonis, who, for his part, had eyes only for

his companion, a distinct change from country hoidens, tavern

demoiselles and dainty wenches, with their rough hands and rosy

cheeks. This lady's hands were like milk; her cheeks, ivory, and

Adonis in bestowing his attentions upon her, had a two-fold purpose:

to return tit for tat for Kate's flaunting ways, and to gratify his

own ever-fleeting fancy.

In a box, half the length of the grand stand removed, some distance

back and to the left of Susan's gay party, Constance, Mrs. Adams and

the soldier were also observers of this scene of animation.

Since the manager's successful flight from the landlord and the

constables, the relations of the young girl and Saint-Prosper had

undergone little change. At first, it is true, with the memory of

the wild ride to the river fresh in her mind, and the more or less

disturbing recollections of that strange, dark night, a certain

reticence had marked her manner toward the soldier; but, as time

went by, this touch of reserve wore off, and was succeeded by her

usual frankness or gaiety. In her eyes appeared, at times, a new

thoughtfulness, but for no longer period than the quick passing of

a summer cloud over a sunny meadow. This half-light of brief

conjecture or vague retrospection only mellowed the depths of her

gaze, and Barnes alone noted and wondered.

But to-day no partial shadows lay under the black, shading lashes; the

exhilarating scene, the rapidly succeeding events, the turbulence and

flutter around her, were calculated to dispel the most pronounced

abstraction. Beneath a protecting parasol--for the sunlight shot below

the roof at the back and touched that part of the grand stand--a faint

glow warmed her cheeks, while her eyes shone with the gladness of the

moment. Many of the dandies, regarding her with marked persistency,

asked who she was, and none knew, until finally Editor-Rhymster Straws

was appealed to. Straws, informed on all matters, was able to satisfy

his questioners.

"She is an actress," said Straws. "So we are told. We shall find out

next week. She is a beauty. We can tell that now."

"You're right, Straws!" exclaimed a pitch-and-toss youngster. "If she

shows as well at the wire--"

"You'd take a long chance on her winning?" laughed the philosopher.

"I'll play you odds on it!" cried the juvenile. "Four to one, damme!

I'll risk that on her eyes."

"Four to one on a lady's eyes, child! Say forty to one, and take the

hazard of the die."

Standing near the rhymster, story-writer and journalist, was a tall

young man, dressed in creole fashion. He followed the glances of

Straws' questioners and a pallor overspread his dark complexion as he

looked at the object of their attention.

"The stroller!" he exclaimed half audibly. "Her counterpart doesn't

exist."

He stepped back where he could see her more plainly. In that sea of

faces, her features alone shone before him, clearly, insistently.

"Do you know her, Mr. Mauville?" asked the rhymster, observing that

steadfast glance.

"Know her?" repeated the land baron, starting. "Oh, I've seen her

act."

"Tip me off her points and I'll tip my readers."

"She is going to play here then?" said the patroon.

"Yes. What is she like? Does tragedy or comedy favor her most?

You see," he added apologetically, "when people begin to talk

about anybody, we Grubstreet hacks thrive on the gossip. It is

deplorable"--with regret--"but small talk and tattle bring more

than a choice lyric or sonnet. And, heaven help us!"--shaking his

head--"what a vendible article a fine scandal is! It sells fast,

like goods at a Dutch auction. Penny a line? More nearly six

pence! If I could only bring myself to deal in such merchandise!

If I were only a good rag picker, instead of a bad poet!" And Straws

walked away, forgetting the questions he had asked in his own

more interesting cogitations.

Without definite purpose, the patroon, who had listened with scant

attention to the poet, began to move slowly toward the actress, and at

that moment, the eyes of the soldier, turning to the saddling paddock,

where the horses were being led out, fell upon the figure drawing

near, recognizing in him the heir to the manor, Edward Mauville.

Construing in his approach a deliberate intention, a flush of quick

anger overspread Saint-Prosper's face and he glanced at the girl by

his side. But her manner assured him she had not observed the land

baron, for at that moment she was looking in the opposite direction,

endeavoring to discover Barnes or the others of the company in the

immense throng.

Murmuring some excuse to his unconscious companion and cutting short

the wiry old lady's reminiscences of the first public trotting race in

1818, the soldier left the box, and, moving with some difficulty

through the crowd, met Mauville in the aisle near the stairway. The

latter's face expressed surprise, not altogether of an agreeable

nature, at the encounter, but he immediately regained his composure.

"Ah, Monsieur Saint-Prosper," he observed easily, "I little thought to

see you here."

"Nor I you!" said the other bluntly.

The patroon gazed in seeming carelessness from the soldier to the

young girl. Saint-Prosper's presence in New Orleans could be accounted

for; he had followed her from the Shadengo Valley across the

continent; the drive begun at the country inn--he looking down from

the dormer window to witness the start--had been a long one; very

different from his own brief flight, with its wretched end. These

thoughts coursed rapidly through the land baron's brain; her

appearance rekindled the ashes of the past; the fire in his breast

flamed from his eyes, but otherwise he made no display of feeling. He

glanced out upon the many faces below them, bowing to one woman and

smiling at another.

"Oh, I couldn't stand a winter in the North," resumed the patroon,

turning once more to the soldier. "Although the barn-burners promised

to make it warm for me!"

Offering no reply to this sally, Saint-Prosper's gaze continued to

rest coldly and expectantly upon the other. Goaded by that arbitrary

regard, an implied barrier between him and the young girl, the land

baron sought to press forward; his glittering eyes met the other's;

the glances they exchanged were like the thrust and parry of swords.

Without wishing to address the actress--and thereby risk a public

rebuff--it was, nevertheless, impossible for the hot-blooded

Southerner to submit to peremptory restraint. Who had made the soldier

his taskmaster? He read Saint-Prosper's purpose and was not slow to

retaliate.

"If I am not mistaken, yonder is our divinity of the lane," said the

patroon softly. "Permit me." And he strove to pass.

The soldier did not move.

"You are blocking my way, Monsieur," continued the other, sharply.

"Not if it lies the other way."

"This way, or that way, how does it concern you?" retorted the land

baron.

"If you seek further to annoy a lady whom you have already sufficiently

wronged, it is any man's concern."

"Especially if he has followed her across the country," sneered

Mauville. "Besides, since when have actresses become so chary of their

favors?" In his anger the land baron threw out intimations he would

have challenged from other lips. "Has the stage then become a holy

convent?"

"You stamped yourself a scoundrel some time ago," said the soldier

slowly, as though weighing each word, "and now show yourself a coward

when you malign a young girl, without father, brother--"

"Or lover!" interrupted the land baron. "Perhaps, however, you were

only traveling to see the country! A grand tour, enlivened with

studies of human nature, as well as glimpses of scenery!"

"Have you anything further with me?" interjected Saint-Prosper,

curtly.

The patroon's blood coursed, burning, through his veins; the other's

contemptuous manner stung him more fiercely than language.

"Yes," he said, meaningly, his eyes challenging Saint-Prosper's. "Have

you been at Spedella's fencing rooms? Are you in practice?"

Saint-Prosper hesitated a moment and the land baron's face fell. Was

it possible the other would refuse to meet him? But he would not let

him off easily; there were ways to force--and suddenly the words of

the marquis recurring to him, he surveyed the soldier, disdainfully.

"Gad! you must come of a family of cowards and traitors! But you shall

fight or--the public becomes arbiter!" And he half raised his arm

threateningly.

The soldier's tanned cheek was now as pale as a moment before it had

been flushed; his mouth set resolutely, as though fighting back some

weakness. With lowering brows and darkening glance he regarded the

land baron.

"I was thinking," he said at length, with an effort, "that if I killed

you, people would want to know the reason."

The patroon laughed. "How solicitous you are for her welfare--and

mine! Do you then measure skill only by inches? If so, I confess you

would stand a fair chance of despatching me. But your address? The St.

Charles, I presume." The soldier nodded curtly, and, having

accomplished his purpose, Mauville had turned to leave, when loud

voices, in a front box near the right aisle, attracted general

attention from those occupying that part of the grand stand. The young

officer who had accompanied Susan to the races was angrily confronting

a thick-set man, the latest recruit to her corps of willing captives.

The lad had assumed the arduous task of guarding the object of his

fancy from all comers, simply because she had been kind. And why

should she not have been?--he was only a boy--she was old enough to

be--well, an adviser! When, after a brief but pointed altercation, he

flung himself away with a last reproachful look in the direction of

his enslaver, Susan looked hurt. That was her reward for being nice to

a child!

"A fractious young cub!" said the thick-set man, complacently.

"Well, I like cubs better than bears!" retorted Susan, pointedly.

Not long, however, could the interest of the spectators be diverted

from the amusement of the day and soon all eyes were drawn once more

to the track where the horses' hoofs resounded with exciting patter,

as they struggled toward the wire, urged by the stimulating voices of

the jockeys.

But even when Leduc won the race, beating the best heat on record;

when the ladies in the grand stand arose in a body, like a thousand

butterflies, disturbed by a sudden footfall in a sunlit field; when

the jockey became the hero of the hour; when the small boys outside

nearly fell from the trees in their exuberance of ecstasy, and the men

threw their hats in the air and shouted themselves hoarse--even these

exhilarating circumstances failed to reawaken the land baron's concern

in the scene around him. His efforts at indifference were chafing his

inmost being; the cloak of _insouciance_ was stifling him; the

primeval man was struggling for expression, that brute-like rage whose

only limits are its own fury and violence.

A quavering voice, near at hand, recalled him to himself, and turning,

he beheld the marquis approaching with mincing manner, the paint and

pigments cracked by the artificial smiles wreathing his wrinkled face.

In that vast assemblage, amid all the energy, youth and surfeit of

vitality, he seemed like a dried and crackling leaf, tossed

helplessly, which any foot might crush to dust. The roar of the

multitude subsided, a storm dying in the distance; the ladies sank in

their seats--butterflies settling once more in the fields--and Leduc,

with drooping head, was led to the paddock, followed by a few fair

adorers.

"I placed the winner, Monsieur Mauville," piped the marquis. "Though

the doctors told me the excitement would kill me! What folly! Every

new sensation adds a day to life."

"In your case, certainly, Marquis, for I never saw you looking

younger," answered the land baron, with an effort.

"You are too amiable, my dear friend! The ladies would not think so,"

he added, mournfully wagging his head with anile melancholy.

"Nonsense!" protested the other. "With your spirit, animation--"

"If I thought you were right," interrupted the delighted marquis,

taking his young friend's arm, "I would ask you to present me to the

lady over there--the one you just bowed to."

"The deuce!" said Mauville to himself. "The marquis is becoming a

bore."

"You rascal! I saw the smile she gave you," continued the other

playfully. "And you ran away from her. What are the young men made of

nowadays? In the old days they were tinder; women sparks. But who is

she?"

"You mean Susan Duran, the actress?"

"An actress!" exclaimed the nobleman. "A charming creature at any

rate!"

"All froth; a bubble!" added Mauville impatiently.

"How entertaining! Any lovers?" leered the nobleman.

"A dozen; a baker's dozen, for all I know!"

"What is her history?" said the marquis eagerly.

"I never inquired."

"Sometimes it's just as well," murmured the other vaguely. "How old is

she?"

"How can you tell?" answered Mauville.

"In Paris I kept a little book wherein was entered the _passe-parole_

of every pretty woman; age; lovers platonic! When a woman became a

grandmother, I put a black mark against her name, for I have always

held," continued the nobleman, wagging his head, "that a woman who is

a grandmother has no business to deceive a younger generation of men.

But present me to Miss Susan at once, my dear friend. I am all

impatience to meet her."

His eagerness permitted no refusal; besides, Mauville was not in the

mood to enjoy the nobleman's society, and was but too pleased to turn

him over to the tender care of Susan.

"How do you do, Miss Duran," he said, having made his way to her box.

"Where did you drop from?" she asked, in surprise, giving him her

hand.

"The skies," he returned, with forced lightness.

"A fallen angel!" commented Susan.

"Good! Charming!" cried the marquis, clapping his withered hands.

"Miss Duran, the Marquis de Ligne has requested the pleasure of

meeting you."

She flashed a smile at him. He bent over her hand; held it a moment in

his icy grasp.

"The pleasure," said Susan, prettily, not shirking the ordeal, "is

mine."

"In which case," added Mauville, half ironically, "I will leave you

together to enjoy your happiness."

Eagerly availing himself of the place offered at her side, soon the

marquis was cackling after the manner of a senile beau of the old

school; relating spicy anecdotes of dames who had long departed this

realm of scandal; and mingling witticism and wickedness in one

continual flow, until like a panorama another age was revived in his

words--an age when bedizened women wore patches and their perfumed

gallants wrote verses on the demise of their lap-dogs; when "their

virtue resembled a statesman's religion, the Quaker's word, the

gamester's oath and the great man's honor--but to cheat those that

trusted them!"

The day's events, however, were soon over; the city of pleasure

finally capitulated; its people began rapidly to depart. That sudden

movement resembled the migration of a swarm of bees to form a new

colony, when, if the day be bright, the expedition issues forth with

wondrous rapidity. So this human hive commenced to empty itself of

queens, drones and workers. It was an outgoing wave of such life and

animation as is apparent in the flight of a swarm of cell-dwellers,

giving out a loud and sharp-toned hum from the action of their wings

as they soar over the blooming heather and the "bright consummate

flowers." And these human bees had their passions, too! their

massacres; their tragedies; their "Rival Queens"; their combats; their

sentinels; their dreams of that Utopian form of government realized in

the communistic society of insects.

"How did you enjoy it, my dear?" asked Barnes, suddenly reappearing at

Constance's box. "A grand heat, that! Though I did bet on the wrong

horse! But don't wait for us, Saint-Prosper. Mrs. Adams and I will

take our time getting through the crowd. I will see you at the hotel,

my dear!" he added, as the soldier and Constance moved away.

Only the merry home-going remained, and the culmination, a dinner at

Moreau's, Victor's, or Miguel's, the natural epilogue to the day's

pastime, the tag to the comedy! In the returning throng were creoles

with sky-blue costumes and palmetto hats; the Lafourche or Attakapas

planter; representatives of the older regime and the varied newer

populace. Superb equipages mingled in democratic confusion with carts

and wagons; the broken-winded nag and spavined crowbait--veterans at

the bugle call!--pricked up their ears and kicked up their heels like

colts in pasture, while the delighted darkies thumped their bony

shanks to encourage this brief rejuvenescence.

Those who had lost felt the money well spent; those who had won would

be the more lavish in the spending. They had simply won a few more

pleasures. "Quick come; quick go!" sang the whirling wheels. "The

niggard in pound and pence is a usurer in happiness; a miser driving a

hard bargain with pleasure. Better burn the candle at both ends than

not burn it at all! In one case, you get light; in the other nothing

but darkness. Laughter is cheap at any price. A castle in the air is

almost as durable as Solomon's temple. How soon--how soon both fade

away!"

Thus ran the song of the wheels before them and behind them, as the

soldier and Constance joined the desultory fag-end of the procession.

On either side of the road waved the mournful cypress, draped by the

hoary tillandsia, and from the somber depths of foliage came the chirp

of the tree-crickets and the note of the swamp owl. Faint music, in

measured rhythm, a foil to disconnected wood-sound, was wafted from a

distant plantation.

"Wait!" said Constance.

He drew in the horses and silently they listened. Or, was he

listening? His glance seemed bent so moodily--almost!--on space she

concluded he was not. She stole a sidelong look at him.

"A penny for your thoughts!" she said gaily.

He started. "I was thinking how soon I might leave New Orleans."

"Leave New Orleans!" she repeated in surprise. "But I thought you

intended staying here. Why have you changed your mind?"

Did he detect a subtle accent of regret in her voice? A deep flush

mounted to his brow. He bent over her suddenly, eagerly.

"Would it matter--if I went?"

She drew back at the abruptness of his words.

"How unfair to answer one question with another!" she said lightly.

A pause fell between them. Perhaps she, too, felt the sudden repulse

of her own answer and the ensuing constraint. Perhaps some compunction

moved her to add in a voice not entirely steady:

"And so you think--of going back to France?"

"To France!" he repeated, quickly. "No"--and stopped.

Looking up, a half-questioning light in her eyes took flight to his,

until suddenly arrested by the hard, set expression of his features.

Abruptly chilled by she knew not what, her lashes fell. The horses

champed their bits and tugged at the reins, impatient of the prolonged

pause.

"Let us go!" she said in a low, constrained voice.

At her words he turned, the harshness dropping from his face like a

discarded mask; the lines of determination wavering.

"Let us go!" she said again, without looking up.

He made no motion to obey, until the sound of a vehicle behind them

seemed to break the spell and mechanically he touched the horses with

the whip.

CHAPTER IV

LEAR AND JULIET

Susan dismissed her admirers at the races with some difficulty,

especially the tenacious marquis, who tenderly squeezed her hand,

saying:

"Were I twenty years younger, I would not thus be set aside."

"Fie, Marquis!" she returned. "These other people are dull, while you

are charmingly wicked."

"You flatter me," he cackled, detaining her, to the impatience of the

thick-set man who was waiting to escort the young woman back to town.

"But do you notice the gentleman over there with the medals?"

"The distinguished-looking man?" asked Susan.

"Yes; that is the Count de Propriac. It was he who was one of the

agents of Louis Philippe in the Spanish double marriage plot. It was

arranged the queen should marry her cousin, and her sister the son of

Louis Philippe. The queen and her cousin were not expected to have

children--but had them, to spite us all, and Louis Philippe's projects

for the throne of Spain failed disastrously."

"How inconsiderate of the queen! Good afternoon, marquis! I have been

vastly entertained."

"And I"--kissing her hand--"enamored!" Then, chuckling: "A week ago my

stupid doctors had me laid out in funereal dignity, and now I am

making love to a fine woman. Pretty pouting lips!"--tapping her chin

playfully--"Like rose-buds! Happy the lover who shall gather the dew!

But we meet again, Mistress Susan?"

"That will depend upon you, marquis," answered Susan, coquettishly, as

a thought flashed through her mind that it would not be unpleasant to

be called "Marquise," or "Marchioness"--she did not quite know which

would be the proper title. It was nearly vesper-time with the old

nobleman; he seemed but a procrastinating presence in the evening of

mortal life; a chateau and carriage--

"Then we will meet again," said the marquis, interrupting these

new-born ambitions.

"In that case you would soon get tired of me," laughed Susan.

"Never!" Tenderly. "When may I see you?"

"How importunate you are! Call when you will."

"But if you are out"--he insisted.

"That will make it the more delightfully uncertain," she said gaily.

"So it will!" Rubbing his hands. "Delightfully uncertain!" he

repeated. And he departed with many protestations, taking no more

notice of the thick-set man than if he were a block of wood.

"What an old ape!" growled the latter, viciously, as the marquis

ambled from their stall.

"Do you think so?" answered Susan, tossing her head. "He has that air

of distinction which only persons of rank and title can command."

"Distinction!" said the other, who was but a well-to-do merchant. "I

should call it bad manners."

"Because he never noticed you!" laughed Susan, spitefully. "But why

are we standing here? I believe you expect to take me home, don't

you?"

Although she chattered like a magpie on the road, he was silent and

sullen, nursing his injured pride and wounded self-sufficiency. Susan,

who was interested in him for the novel reason she disliked him so

heartily, parted from him with the air of a duchess, and entered the

hotel, holding her head so high that he swore under his breath as he

drove away. And, as a result of the quarrel with the lad, he would

probably have to risk being "pinked" for this jade! Susan, on the

other hand, was as happy as a lark when she entered the dining-room of

the St. Charles, that great eating-place and meeting-place of all

classes of people.

As she seated herself at a table, a smile lurked around the corners of

her mouth and flickered faintly upon the waiter who forthwith became a

Mercury for expedition and a prodigal for variety. Her quarrel on the

road with her companion had in nowise interfered with that appetite

which the fresh air and the lateness of the hour had provoked, nor

were her thoughts of a character to deter from the zest of eating.

From the present to the past was but an instant's flight of the

mind--thus may the once august years swiftly and unceremoniously be

marshaled by!--and she dwelt in not unpleasing retrospection on an

endless field of investigation and discovery and the various

experiences which had befallen her in arriving at the present period

of mature knowledge; a proficiency which converted her chosen

researches into an exact science.

Thus meditating and dining--counting on her fingers twice over

the fair actresses who had become titled ladies, and enviously

disbelieving she would join that triumphant company--Susan was

still seated at the table some time later when the soldier glanced

in. Imperatively she motioned him to her side and he obeyed with

not entirely concealed reluctance, and was so preoccupied, she

rallied him upon his reserve.

"I believe you and Constance had a quarrel on the road." Maliciously.

"I hope you were more amiable than my companion. He hardly spoke a

word, and, when I left him"--her voice sank to a whisper--"I heard him

swear."

"He pleased you so much earlier in the day that a duel will probably

be the outcome."

Susan laughed gaily.

"A duel! Then my fortune is made. All the newspapers will contain

paragraphs. It is too good to be true." And she clapped her hands.

"When is it to take place? Tell me about it!"

Then noting his manner, she continued with an assumption of

plaintiveness: "Now you are cross with me! You think me heartless. Is

it my fault? I care nothing for either of them and I am not to be

blamed if they are so foolish. It might be different if either had

touched my heart." And she assumed a coquettish demeanor, while

Saint-Prosper coolly studied her through the wreaths of smoke from his

weed.

"You are wondering what sort of a person I am!" she continued,

merrily, raising her glass of wine with: "To unrequited passion!"

Her roguish face sparkled as he asked; "Whose?"

She drained the glass and set it down demurely. "Mine!"

The cigar was suspended; the veil cleared between them.

"For whom?" he said.

"You!" Offering him the limpid depths of her blue eyes. "Is my liking

returned?"

"Liking? Perhaps!"

"My love?"

"Love? No." Coldly.

"You do not fear a woman scorned?" Her lips curved in a smile,

displaying her faultless teeth.

"Not when the avenging angel is so charming and so heartless!" he

added satirically.

Her lashes veiled the azure orbs.

"You think to disarm her with a compliment? How well you understand

women!" And, as he rose, the pressure of the hand she gave him at

parting was lingering.

* * * * *

Above in his room, Barnes, with plays and manuscripts scattered around

him, was engaged in writing in his note and date book, wherein

autobiography, ledger and journal accounts, and such miscellaneous

matter mingled indiscriminately. "To-day she said to me: 'I am going

to the races with Mr. Saint-Prosper.' What did I say? 'Yes,' of

course. What can there be in common between Lear and Juliet?

Naturally, she sometimes turns from an old fellow like me--now, if she

were only a slip of a girl again--with her short frock--her disorder

of long ringlets--running and romping--

"A thousand details pass through my mind, reminiscences of her

girlhood, lightening a lonesome life like glimmerings of sunshine in a

secluded wood; memories of her mother and the old days when she played

in my New York theater--for Barnes, the stroller, was once a

metropolitan manager! Her fame had preceded her and every admirer of

histrionic art eagerly awaited her arrival.

"But the temple of art is a lottery. The town that had welcomed her so

wildly now went Elssler-mad. The gossamer floatings of this French

_danseuse_ possessed everyone. People courted trash and trumpery.

Greatness gave way to triviality. This pitiful condition preyed upon

her. The flame of genius never for a moment became less dim, but her

eyes grew larger, brighter, more melancholy. Sometimes she would fall

into a painful reverie and I knew too well the subject of her

thoughts. With tender solicitude she would regard her daughter,

thinking, thinking! She was her only hope, her only joy!

"'The town wants dancers, not tragedians, Mr. Barnes,' she said sadly

one day.

"'Nonsense,' I replied. 'The town wants a change of bill. We will put

on a new piece next week.'

"'It will be but substituting one tragedy for another,' she retorted.

'One misfortune for a different one! You should import a rival dancer.

You are going down; down hill! I will leave you; perhaps you will

discover your dancer, and your fortune is made!'

"'And you? What would you do?' I demanded. 'And your child?'

"At this her eyes filled and she could not answer. 'And now, Madam,' I

said firmly, 'I refuse once and for all to permit you to break your

contract. Pooh! The tide will change. Men and women are sometimes

fools; but they are not fools all the time. The dancer will have had

her day. She will twirl her toes to the empty seats and throw her

kisses into unresponsive space. Our patrons will gradually return;

they will grow tired of wriggling and twisting, and look again for a

more substantial diet.'

"Matters did, indeed, begin to mend somewhat, when to bring the whole

fabric tumbling down on our heads, this incomparable woman fell ill.

"'You see? I have ruined you,' she said sadly.

"'I am honored, Madam,' was all I could reply.

"She placed her hand softly on mine and let her luminous eyes rest on

me.

"'Dear old friend!' she murmured.

"Then she closed her eyes and I thought she was sleeping. Some time

elapsed when she again opened them.

"'Death will break our contract, Mr. Barnes,' she said softly.

"I suppose my hand trembled, for she tightened her grasp and continued

firmly: 'It is not so terrible, after all, or would not be, but for

one thing.'

"'You will soon get well, Madam,' I managed to stammer.

"'No! Do you care? It is pleasant to have one true, kind friend in the

world; one who makes a woman believe again in the nobility of human

nature. My life has been sad as you know. I should not regret giving

it up. Nor should I fear to die. I can not think that God will be

unkind to one who has done her best; at least, has tried to. Yet there

is one thing that makes me crave for life. My child--what will she

do--poor, motherless, fatherless girl--all alone, all alone--.

"'Madam, if I may--will you permit me to care for her? If I might

regard her as my child!'

"How tightly she held my hand at that! Her eyes seemed to blaze

with heavenly fire. But let me not dwell further upon the sad

events that led to the end of her noble career. Something of her life

I had heard; something, I surmised. Unhappy as a woman, she was

majestic as an actress; the fire of her voice struck every ear; its

sweetness had a charm, never to be forgotten. But only to those who

knew her well were revealed the unvarying truth and simplicity of her

nature. Even as I write, her spirit, tender and steadfast, seems

standing by my side; I feel her eyes in the darkness of night, and,

when the time comes--and often of late, it has seemed not far--to go

from this mere dressing-room, the earth, into the higher life--"

A knock at the door rudely dispelled these memories. For a moment the

manager looked startled, as one abruptly called back to his immediate

surroundings; then the pen fell from his hand, and he pushed the book

from him to the center of the table.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened and Saint-Prosper entered.

"Am I interrupting you?" asked the soldier, glancing at the littered

table.

"Not at all," answered the manager, recovering himself, and settling

back in his chair. "Make yourself at home. You'll find some cigars on

the mantel, or if you prefer your pipe, there's a jar of tobacco on

the trunk. Do you find it? I haven't had time yet to bring order out

of chaos. A manager's trunks are like a junk-shop, with everything

from a needle to an anchor."

Filling his pipe from the receptacle indicated, which lay among old

costumes and wigs, the soldier seated himself near an open window that

looked out upon a balcony. Through a door at the far end of the

balcony a light streamed from a chandelier within, playing upon the

balustrade. Once the figure of the young actress stepped for a moment

out upon the balcony; she leaned upon the balustrade, looked across

the city, breathed the perfume of the flowers, and then quickly

vanished.

"Can you spare me a little time to-morrow morning--early--before

rehearsal?" said Saint-Prosper, finally.

"Yes," returned the manager, in surprise. "What is it?"

"A foolish piece of business! The patroon is in New Orleans."

Barnes uttered an exclamation of annoyance and apprehension. "Here!

What is he doing here?" he said. "I thought we had seen the last of

him. Has he followed--Constance?"

"I don't know. We met yesterday at the races."

"It is strange she did not tell me about it," remarked the manager,

without endeavoring to conceal the anxiety this unexpected information

afforded him.

"She does not know he is here." And Saint-Prosper briefly related the

circumstances of his meeting with the land baron, to which the manager

listened attentively.

"And so she must be dragged into it?" exclaimed Barnes at length,

resentfully. "Her name must become public property in a broil?"

A frown darkened the soldier's face, but he replied quickly: "Need any

one know? The land baron has not been seen with her."

"No; but you have," returned the manager, suddenly pausing and looking

down at the other.

The silence between them lasted for some moments. Barnes stood with

his hands in his pockets, his face downcast and moody. He felt that

events were happening over which he had no control, but which were

shaping the destiny of all he loved best. In the dim light the rugged

lines of his countenance were strongly, decisively outlined. Turning

to the trunk, with a quick, nervous step, he filled a pipe himself.

After he had lighted it, he once more contemplated the soldier,

thinking deeply, reviewing the past.

"We have been together for some time, Mr. Saint-Prosper," he said, at

length. "We have gone through fair and rough weather, and"--he paused

a moment before continuing--"should understand each other. You asked

me when you came in if you were interrupting me, and I told you that

you were not. As a matter of fact, you were."

And, walking to a table, Barnes took up the notebook.

"A garrulous, single man must tell his little secrets somewhere," he

continued. "Will you look at the pages I was writing when you came

in?"

Saint-Prosper took the book, and, while he was turning the leaves that

were hardly dry, the manager relighted his pipe, over which he glanced

nervously from time to time at his companion. Finally, when the

soldier had finished the perusal of the diary, Barnes turned to him

expectantly, but the other silently laid down the little volume, and,

after waiting some moments for him to speak, the manager, as though

disappointed by his reticence, breathed a sigh. Then, clearing his

throat, in a voice somewhat husky, he went on, simply:

"You will understand now why she is so much to me. I have always

wanted to keep her from the world as much as possible; to have her

world, her art! I have tried to keep the shadow of the past from her.

An actress has a pretty face; and there's a hue and cry! It is not

notoriety she seeks, but fame; fame, bright and pure as sunlight!"

"The land baron will not cry abroad the cause of the meeting," said

the soldier, gravely. "These fashionable affairs need but flimsy

pretexts."

"Flimsy pretexts!" cried Barnes. "A woman's reputation--her good

name--"

"Hush!" said Saint-Prosper.

From the door at the far end of the balcony Constance had again

emerged and now approached their room. A flowing gown of an early

period surrounded her like a cloud as she paused before Barnes'

apartment. At the throat a deep-falling collar was closely fastened;

the sleeves were gathered in at elbow and wrist, and from a

"coverchief," set upon the dusky hair, fell a long veil of ample

proportions. With the light shimmering on the folds of her raiment,

she stood looking through the open door, regarding the manager and

Saint-Prosper.

"Oh, you are not alone?" she said to the former. "You look as though

you were talking together very seriously?" she added, turning to

Saint-Prosper.

"Nothing of consequence, Miss Carew!" he replied, flushing beneath her

clear eyes.

"Only about some scenery!" interposed the manager, so hastily that she

glanced, slightly surprised, from the one to the other. "Some sets

that are--"

"'Flimsy pretexts!' I caught that much! I only wanted to ask you about

this costume. Is it appropriate, do you think, for the part we were

talking about?" Turning around slowly, with arms half-raised.

"Charming, my dear; charming!" he answered, enthusiastically.

"If I only thought that an unbiased criticism!" Her dark lashes

lowered; she looked toward the soldier, half shyly, half mockingly.

"What do you think, Mr. Saint-Prosper?"

At that moment her girlish grace was irresistible.

"I think it is not only appropriate, but"--looking at her and not at

the costume--"beautiful!"

A gleam like laughter came into her eyes; nor did she shun his

kindling gaze.

"Thank you!" she said, and courtesied low.

* * * * *

That same evening Spedella's fencing rooms were fairly thronged with

devotees of the ancient art of puncturing. The master of the place was

a tall Italian, lank and lean, all bone and muscle, with a Don Quixote

visage, barring a certain villainous expression of the eyes,

irreconcilable with the chivalrous knight-errant of distressed

Dulcineas. But every man with a bad eye is not necessarily a

rascallion, and Spedella, perhaps, was better than he looked. With a

most melancholy glance he was now watching two combatants, novices in

feats of arms. Dejection sat upon his brow; he yawned over a clumsy

_feinte seconde_, when his sinister eyes fell on a figure that had

just entered the hall. Immediately his melancholy vanished, and he

advanced to meet the newcomer with stately cordiality.

"Well met, Mr. Mauville," he exclaimed, extending a bony hand that had

fingers like the grip of death. "What good fortune brought you here?"

"An ill wind, Spedella, rather!"

"It's like a breath of the old days to see you; the old days before

you began your wanderings!"

"Get the foils, Spedella; I'll have a bout with the master. Gad,

you're as ill-looking as ever! It's some time since I've touched a

foil. I want to test myself. I have a little affair to-morrow. Hark

you, my old brigand; I wish to see if I can kill him!"

"A lad of spirit!" chuckled the master, a gleam of interest illumining

his cavernous eyes. "Young!--frisky!--an affair of honor to-day is but

nursery sport. Two children with tin swords are more diverting. The

world goes backward! A counter-jumper thinks he can lunge, because he

is spry, that he can touch a button because he sells them. And I am

wasting my genius with ribbon-venders--"

"I see the wolf growls as much as ever!" said the patroon. "Here's a

quiet corner. Come; tell me what I've forgotten."

"Good!" returned the other. "You can tell me about your travels as we

fence."

"Hang my travels!" replied the patroon, as they leisurely engaged.

"They've brought me nothing but regrets."

"_Feinte flanconnade_--well done!" murmured Spedella. "So it was not

honey you brought home from your rambles? _Feinte seconde_ and

decisive tierce! It's long since I've touched a good blade. These

glove-sellers and perfume-dealers--"

"You are bitter against trade, my bravo," remarked the land baron.

"I was spoiling with languor when you came. Not bad, that feint--but

dangerous, because of the possibility of misjudging the attack. Learn

the paroles he affects to-morrow by quick, simple thrusts, and then

you will know what feints to attack him with. Time in octave--you

quitted the blade in a dangerous position. Cluck; cluck, my game cock!

Intemperance has befogged your judgment; high-living has dimmed

your--"

"You have it!" laughed the land baron.

The button of his foil touched the old bravo's breast; the steel was

bent like a bow.

Spedella forgot his English and swore in soft and liquid Italian. "I

looked around to see how those ribbon-venders were getting on," he

said after this euphonious, foreign prelude. "They pay me; I have to

keep an eye on them. All the same," he added, generously, "there isn't

another man in New Orleans could have stopped that stroke--except

myself!"

"Will I do--for to-morrow?" asked the patroon, moodily.

The master cocked his head quizzically; his deep-set eyes were soft

and friendly.

"The devil's with him, if you don't put your spur in him, my bantam!"

CHAPTER V

THE MEETING BENEATH THE OAKS

The mist was lifting from the earth and nature lay wrapped in the rosy

peace of daybreak as the sun's shafts of gold pierced the foliage,

illumining the historic ground of the Oaks. Like shining lances, they

gleamed from the interstices in the leafy roof to the dew-bejeweled

sward. From this stronghold of glistening arms, however, the

surrounding country stretched tranquil and serene. Upon a neighboring

bank sheep were browsing; in the distance cow-bells tinkled, and the

drowsy cowherds followed the cattle, faithful as the shepherds who

tended their flocks on the Judean hills.

Beneath the spreading trees were assembled a group of persons

variously disposed. A little dapper man was bending over a case of

instruments, as merry a soul as ever adjusted a ligature or sewed a

wound. Be-ribboned and be-medaled, the Count de Propriac, acting for

the land baron, and Barnes, who had accompanied the soldier, were

consulting over the weapons, a magnificent pair of rapiers with costly

steel guards, set with initials and a coronet. Member of an ancient

society of France which yet sought to perpetuate the memory of the old

judicial combat and the more modern duel, the count was one of those

persons who think they are in honor bound to bear a challenge, without

questioning the cause, or asking the "color of a reason."

"A superb pair of weapons, count!" observed the doctor, rising.

"Yes," said the person addressed, holding the blade so that the

sunlight ran along the steel; "the same Jacques Legres and I fought

with!"

Here the count smiled in a melancholy manner, which left no doubt

regarding the fate of the hapless Jacques. But after a moment he

supplemented this indubitable assurance by adding specifically:

"The left artery of the left lung!"

"Bless my soul!" commented the medical man. "But what is this head in

gold beneath the guard?"

"Saint Michael, the patron saint of duelists!" answered the count.

"Patron!" exclaimed the doctor. "Well, all I have to say is, it is a

saintless business for Michael."

The count laughed and turned away with a business-like air.

"Are you ready, gentlemen?"

At his words the contestants immediately took their positions. The

land baron, lithe and supple, presented a picture of insolent and

conscious pride, his glance lighted by disdain, but smoldering with

fiercer passions as he examined and tested his blade.

"Engage!" exclaimed the count.

With ill-concealed eagerness, Mauville began a vigorous, although

guarded attack, as if asserting his supremacy, and at the same time

testing his man. The buzzing switch of the steel became angrier; the

weapons glinted and gleamed, intertwining silently and separating with

a swish. The patroon's features glowed; his movements became quicker,

and, executing a rapid parry, he lunged with a thrust so stealthy his

blade was beaten down only as it touched the soldier's breast.

Mauville smiled, but Barnes groaned inwardly, feeling his courage and

confidence fast oozing from him. Neither he nor the other spectators

doubted the result. Strength would count but little against such

agility; the land baron was an incomparable swordsman.

"Gad!" muttered the count to himself. "It promises to be short and

sweet."

As if to demonstrate the verity of this assertion, Mauville suddenly

followed his momentary advantage with a dangerous lunge from below.

Involuntarily Barnes looked away, but his wandering attention was

immediately recalled. From the lips of the land baron burst an

exclamation of mingled pain and anger. Saint-Prosper had not only

parried the thrust, but his own blade, by a rapid _riposte_, had

grazed the shoulder of his foe.

Nor was the manager's surprise greater than that of the count. The

latter, amazed this unusual strategem should have failed when directed

by a wrist as trained and an eye as quick as Mauville's, now

interposed.

"Enough!" he exclaimed, separating the contestants. "Demme! it was

superb. Honor has been satisfied."

"It is nothing!" cried the land baron, fiercely. "His blade hardly

touched me." In his exasperation and disappointment over his failure,

Mauville was scarcely conscious of his wound. "I tell you it is

nothing," he repeated.

"What do you say, Mr. Saint-Prosper?" asked the count.

"I am satisfied," returned the young man, coldly.

"But I'm not!" reiterated the patroon, restraining himself with

difficulty. "It was understood we should continue until _both_ were

willing to stop!"

"No," interrupted the count, suavely; "it was understood you should

continue, if both were willing!"

"And you're not!" exclaimed the land baron, wheeling on Saint-Prosper.

"Did you leave the army because--"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! let us observe the proprieties!" expostulated

the count. "Is it your intention, sir"--to Saint-Prosper--"not to

grant my principal's request?"

A fierce new anger gleamed from the soldier's eyes, completely

transforming his expression and bearing. His glance quickly swept from

the count to Mauville at the studied insult of the latter's words; on

his cheek burned a dark red spot.

"Let it go on!"

The count stepped nimbly from his position between the two men. Again

the swords crossed. The count's glance bent itself more closely on the

figure of the soldier; noting now how superbly poised was his body;

what reserves of strength were suggested by the white, muscular arm!

His wrist moved like a machine, lightly brushing aside the thrusts.

Had it been but accident that Mauville's unlooked-for expedient had

failed?

"The devil!" thought the count, watching the soldier. "Here is a

fellow who has deceived us all."

But the land baron's zest only appeared to grow in proportion to the

resistance he encountered; the lust for fighting increased with the

music of the blades. For some moments he feinted and lunged, seeking

an opening, however slight. Again he appeared bent upon forcing a

quick conclusion, for suddenly with a rush he sought to break over

Saint-Prosper's guard, and succeeded in wounding the other slightly in

the forehead. Now sure of his man, Mauville sprang at him savagely.

But dashing the blood from his eyes with his free hand, and without

giving way, Saint-Prosper met the assault with a wrist of iron, and

the land baron failed to profit by what had seemed a certain

advantage. The wound had the effect of making the soldier more

cautious, and eye, foot and hand were equally true. Mauville was

breathing heavily from his exertions, but the appearance of both men,

the supple movements of the one contrasting with the perfect precision

of the other, would have delighted those members of the count's

society, who regarded these matches as leading to a renaissance of

chivalry.

In his fury that his chance had slipped away, after wounding, and, as

he supposed, blinding his opponent, Mauville, throwing prudence to the

winds, recklessly attempted to repeat his rash expedient, and this

time the steel of his antagonist gleamed like quicksilver, passing

beneath his arm and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Something

resembling a look of apprehension crossed the land baron's face. "I

have underestimated him!" he thought. "The next stroke will be driven

nearer home."

He felt no fear, however; only mute, helpless rage. In the soldier's

hand the dainty weapon was a thing of marvelous cunning; his vastly

superior strength made him practically tireless in this play. Not only

tireless; he suddenly accelerated the tempo of the exercise, but

behind this unexpected, even passionate, awakening, the spectators

felt an unvarying accuracy, a steely coldness of purpose. The blades

clicked faster; they met and parted more viciously; the hard light in

Saint-Prosper's eyes grew brighter as he slowly thrust back his

antagonist.

Mauville became aware his own vigor was slowly failing him; instead of

pressing the other he was now obliged to defend himself. He strove to

throw off the lethargy irresistibly stealing over him; to shake the

leaden movements from his limbs. He vainly endeavored to penetrate the

mist falling before his eyes and to overcome the dizziness that made

his foeman seem like a figure in a dream. Was it through loss of

blood, or weariness, or both?--but he was cognizant his thrusts had

lost force, his plunges vitality, and that even an element of chance

prevailed in his parries. But he uttered no sound. When would that

mist become dark, and the golden day fuse into inky night?

Before the mist totally eclipsed his sight he determined to make one

more supreme effort, and again sprang forward, but was driven back

with ease. The knowledge that he was continuing a futile struggle

smote him to the soul. Gladly would he have welcomed the fatal thrust,

if first he could have sent his blade through that breast which so far

had been impervious to his efforts. Now the scene went round and

round; the golden day became crimson, scarlet; then gray, leaden,

somber. Incautiously he bent his arm to counter an imaginary lunge,

and his antagonist thrust out his rapier like a thing of life,

transfixing Mauville's sword arm. He stood his ground bravely for a

moment, playing feebly into space, expecting the fatal stroke! When

would it come? Then the slate-colored hues were swallowed in a black

cloud. But while his mind passed into unconsciousness, his breast was

openly presented to his antagonist, and even the count shuddered.

With his blade at guard, Saint-Prosper remained motionless; the land

baron staggered feebly and then sank softly to the earth. That fatal

look, the expression of a duelist, vanished from the soldier's face,

and, allowing the point of his weapon to drop to the ground, he

surveyed his prostrate antagonist.

"Done like a gentleman!" cried the count, breathing more freely. "You

had him at your mercy, sir"--to Saint-Prosper--"and spared him."

A cold glance was the soldier's only response, as without a word he

turned brusquely away. Meanwhile the doctor, hastening to Mauville's

side, opened his shirt.

"He is badly hurt?" asked Barnes, anxiously, of the surgeon.

"No; only fainted from loss of blood," replied that gentleman,

cheerfully. "He will be around again in a day or two."

The count put away his blades as carefully as a mother would deposit

her babe in the cradle.

"Another page of history, my chicks!" he observed. "Worthy of the song

of Pindar!"

"Why not Straws or Phazma?" queried the surgeon, looking up from his

task.

"Would you have the press take up the affair? There are already people

who talk of abolishing dueling. When they do they will abolish

reputation with it. And what's a gentleman got but his honor--demme!"

And the royal emissary carefully brushed a crimson stain from the

bespattered saint.

By this time the land baron had regained consciousness, and, his

wounds temporarily bandaged, walked, with the assistance of the count,

to his carriage. As they were about to drive away the sound of a

vehicle was heard drawing near, and soon it appeared followed by

another equipage. Both stopped at the confines of the Oaks and the

friends of the thick-set man--Susan's admirer--and the young lad, on

whom she had smiled, alighted.

"Ha!" exclaimed the doctor, who had accompanied the count and his

companion to the carriage. "Number two!"

"Yes," laughed the count, as he leaned back against the soft cushions,

"it promises to be a busy day at the Oaks! Really"--as the equipage

rolled on--"New Orleans is fast becoming a civilized center--demme!"

CHAPTER VI

A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON

The land baron's injuries did not long keep him indoors, for it was

his pride rather than his body that had received deep and bitter

wounds. He chafed and fumed when he thought how, in all likelihood,

the details of his defeat could not be suppressed in the clubs and

_cafes_. This anticipated publicity he took in ill part, fanning his

mental disorder with brandy, mellow and insidious with age. But

beneath the dregs of indulgence lay an image which preyed upon his

mind more than his defeat beneath the Oaks: a figure, on the crude

stage of a country tavern; in the manor window, with an aureole around

her from the sinking sun; in the grand stand at the races, the gay

dandies singling her out in all that seraglio of beauty.

"I played him too freely," he groaned to the Count de Propriac, as the

latter sat contemplatively nursing the ivory handle of his cane and

offering the land baron such poor solace as his company afforded. "I

misjudged the attack, besides exposing myself too much. If I could

only meet him again!"

The visitor reflectively took the handle of the stick from his lips,

thrust out his legs and yawned. The count was sleepy, having drowned

dull care the night before, and had little sympathy with such spirited

talk so early in the day. His lack-luster gaze wandered to the

pictures on the wall, the duel between two court ladies for the

possession of the Duc de Richelieu and an old print of the deadly

public contest of Francois de Vivonne and Guy de Jarnac and then

strayed languidly to the other paraphernalia of a high-spirited

bachelor's rooms--foils, dueling pistols and masks--trappings that but

served to recall to the land baron his defeat.

"It would be like running against a stone wall," said the count,

finally; "demme if it wouldn't! He could have killed you!"

"Why didn't he do it, then?" demanded the land baron, fiercely.

The count shrugged his shoulders, drank his brandy, and handed the

bottle to his companion, who helped himself, as though not averse to

that sort of medicine for his physical and mental ailments.

"What's the news?" he asked abruptly, sinking back on his pillow.

"The levees are flooded."

"Hanged if I care if it's another deluge!" said Mauville. "I mean news

of the town, not news of the river."

"There's a new beauty come to town--a brunette; all the bloods are

talking about her. Where did she come from? Who is she? These are

some of the questions asked. But she's a Peri, at any rate! shy, hard

to get acquainted with--at first! An actress--Miss Carew!"

The glass trembled in the patroon's hand. "Do you know her?" he asked

unsteadily.

Smiling, the visitor returned the cane to his lips and gazed into

vacancy, as though communing with agreeable thoughts.

"I have met her," he said finally. "Yes; I may say I have met her.

Ged! Next to a duel with rapiers is one with eyes. They thrust at

you; you parry; they return, and, demme! you're stabbed! But don't ask

me any more--discretion--you understand--between men of the

world--demme!"--and the count relapsed into a vacuous dream.

"What a precious liar he is!" commented the land baron to himself. But

his mind soon reverted to the duel once more. "If I had only followed

Spedella's advice and studied his favorite parades!" he muttered,

regretfully.

"It would have been the same," retorted the count, brutally. "When you

lost your temper, you lost your cause. Your work was brilliant; but he

is one of the best swordsmen I ever saw. Who is he, anyway?"

"All I know is, he served in Algiers," said Mauville, moodily.

"A demmed adventurer, probably!" exclaimed the other.

"I'd give a good deal to know his record," remarked the patroon,

contemplatively. "You should be pretty well acquainted with the

personnel of the army?"

"It includes everybody nowadays," replied the diplomat. "I have a

large acquaintance, but I am not a directory. A person who knows

everybody usually knows nobody--worth knowing! But it seems to me I

did know of a Saint-Prosper at the military college at Saumur; or was

it at the _Ecole d'application d'etat-major_? Demmed scapegrace, if I

am not mistaken; sent to Algiers; must be the same. A hell-rake

hole!--full of German and French outcasts! Knaves, adventureres, ready

for plunder and loot!"

Here the count, after this outburst, closed his eyes and seemed almost

on the point of dropping off, but suddenly straightened himself.

"Let's get the cards, or the dice, Mauville," he said, "or I'll fall

into a doze. Such a demmed sleepy climate!"

Soon the count was shuffling and the land baron and he were playing

bezique, but in spite of the latter's drowsiness, he won steadily from

his inattentive companion, and, although the noble visitor had some

difficulty in keeping his eyes open, what there was of his glance was

vigilantly concentrated on his little pile of the coin of the realm.

His watchfulness did not relax nor his success desert him, until

Mauville finally threw down the cards in disgust, weary alike of such

poor luck and the half-nodding automaton confronting him; whereupon

the count thrust every piece of gold carefully away in his pocket,

absently reached for his hat, drawled a perfunctory farewell and

departed in a brown study.

The count's company, of which he had enjoyed a good deal during the

past forty-eight hours, did not improve Mauville's temper, and he bore

his own reflections so grudgingly that inaction became intolerable.

Besides, certain words of his caller concerning Saint-Prosper had

stimulated his curiosity, and, in casting about for a way to confirm

his suspicions, he had suddenly determined in what wise to proceed.

Accordingly, the next day he left his rooms, his first visit being to

a spacious, substantial residence of stone and lime, with green

veranda palings and windows that opened as doors, with a profusion of

gauzy curtains hanging behind them. This house, the present home of

the Marquis de Ligne, stood in the French quarter, contrasting

architecturally with the newer brick buildings erected for the

American population. The land baron was ushered into a large reception

room, sending his card to the marquis by the neat-appearing colored

maid who answered the door.