CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
CHAPTER XLIII.
CHAPTER XLIV.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHAPTER XLVI.
CHAPTER XLVII.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER I.
He was a Northern journalist, and it was in the interest of his paper
that he found himself, one bright March morning, in New Orleans, almost
dazed by the rapidity with which he had been whirled from the ice and
snow of the frozen North to the sunshine and flowers of the sunny South.
He was charmed with the quaint and unique Crescent City. It was a
totally different world from that in which he had been reared--a summer
land, warm, indolent, luxurious, where one plucked the golden oranges
from the dark-green boughs, laden at once with flowers and fruit, and
where the senses were taken captive by the sensuous perfume of rare
flowers that, in his Northern land, grew only within the confines of
the close conservatory. Then, too, the dark, handsome faces of the
people, and their mixture of foreign tongues, had their own peculiar
charm. Nothing amused him so much as a stroll through the antique
French Market, with its lavish abundance of tropic vegetables, fruits,
and flowers, vended by hucksters of different nationalities in the
Babel of languages that charmed his ear with the languorous softness of
the Southern accent.
He had a letter of introduction to a member of the Jockey Club, and
this famous organization at once adopted him, and, as he phrased it,
"put him through." The theaters, the carnival, the races, all whirled
past in a blaze of splendor never to be forgotten; for it was at the
famous Metairie Race-course that he first met Mme. Lorraine.
But you must not think, reader, because I forgot to tell you his name
at first, that he is the Little Nobody of my story. He was not little
at all, but tall and exceedingly well-favored, and signed his name
Eliot Van Zandt.
Mme. Lorraine was a retired actress--ballet-dancer, some said. She
was a French woman, airy and charming, like the majority of her race.
The Jockey Club petted her, although they freely owned that she was a
trifle fast, and did not have the _entrée_ of some of the best houses
in the city. However, there were some nice, fashionable people not
so strait-laced who sent her cards to their fêtes, and now and then
accepted return invitations, so that it could not be said that she was
outside the pale of society.
Mme. Lorraine took a fancy to the good-looking Yankee, as she dubbed
him, and gave him _carte blanche_ to call at her _bijou_ house in
Esplanade Street. He accepted with outward eagerness and inward
indifference. He was too familiar with women of her type at the
North--fast, frivolous, and avaricious--to be flattered by her notice
or her invitation.
"She may do for the rich Jockey Club, but her acquaintance is too
expensive a luxury for a poor devil of a newspaper correspondent," he
told the Club. "She has card-parties, of course, and I am too poor to
gamble."
Pierre Carmontelle laughed, and told him to call in the afternoon, when
there was no gambling in the _recherché_ saloon.
"To see madame at home, informally, with her little savage, would be
rich, _mon ami_. You would get a spicy paragraph for your newspaper,"
he said.
"Her little savage?"
"Do not ask me any questions, for I shall not answer," said
Carmontelle, still laughing. "Perhaps Remond there will gratify your
curiosity. The little vixen flung her tiny slipper into his face once
when he tried to kiss her, under the influence of a _soupçon_ too much
of madame's foamy champagne."
"Madame's daughter, perhaps?" said Van Zandt, looking at Remond; but
the latter only scowled and muttered, under his breath:
"The little demon!"
He thought they were guying him, and decided not to call in Esplanade
Street.
But it was only one week later that he saw Mme. Lorraine again at
Metairie. Her carriage was surrounded by admirers, and she was betting
furiously on the racing, but she found time to see the Yankee and
beckon him importunately with her dainty, tan-kidded hand.
They made way for him to come to her where she sat among her silken
cushions, resplendent in old-gold satin, black lace, and Maréchal Niel
roses, her beautiful, brilliant face wreathed in smiles, her toilet so
perfectly appointed that she looked barely twenty-five, although the
Club admitted that she must be past forty.
"It is fifteen years since Lorraine married her off the stage, and
she had been starring it ten years before he ever saw her," said
Carmontelle, confidentially.
The big, almond-shaped dark eyes flashed reproachfully, as she said,
with her prettiest _moue_:
"You naughty Yankee, you have not called!"
"I have been too busy," he fibbed; "but I am coming this evening."
"_Quel plaisir_!" she exclaimed, and then the racing distracted their
attention again.
The blaze of sunshine fell on one of the gayest scenes ever witnessed.
The old race-course was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of
people in carriages, on horseback, and afoot. The grand stand was
packed with a living mass.
The tropical beauty and rich costumes of the Louisiana ladies lent glow
and brilliancy to the exciting scene. The racing was superb, and men
and women were betting freely on their favorites. Gloves and jewels and
thousands of dollars were won and lost that day.
The most interesting event of the day was on. A purse of gold had been
offered for the most skillful and daring equestrienne, and the fair
contestants were ranged before the judge's stand, magnificently mounted
on blooded steeds curveting with impatient ardor, their silver-mounted
trappings glistening in the sunlight, and their handsome riders clothed
faultlessly in habits of dark rich cloth fitting like a glove. It was
truly a splendid sight, and the Jockey Club immediately went wild,
and cheered as if they would split their throats. Even Mme. Lorraine
brought her gloved hands impetuously together as the five beauties rode
dauntlessly forward.
"Jove! how magnificent!" Carmontelle burst forth. "But, madame, look!"
excitedly. "Who is that little tot on the Arab so like your own?
Heavens! it is--it is--" Without completing the sentence, he fell back
convulsed with laughter.
Every one was looking eagerly at the slip of a girl on the back of the
beautiful, shiny-coated Arab. She rode skillfully, with daring grace,
yet reckless _abandon_--a girl, a child almost, the lissom, budding
figure sitting erect and motionless in the saddle, a stream of ruddy
golden hair flying behind her on the breeze, the small, white face
staring straight before her as she swept on impetuously to the victory
that every one was proclaiming would perch upon her banner.
Mme. Lorraine's face paled with blended dismay and anger. She muttered,
loud enough for the Yankee to overhear:
"_Mon Dieu_! the daring little hussy! She shall pay for this escapade!"
But to her admirers she exclaimed, a moment later, with a careless,
significant shrug of the shoulders:
"She has stolen a march upon me. But, pshaw! it is nothing for her, the
little savage! You should have seen her mother, the bare-back rider,
galloping at her highest speed and jumping through the hoops in the
ring!"
"_Vive_ the little savage!" cried Remond, his dark face relaxing into
enthusiasm. "She has stolen a march upon you, indeed, madame, has she
not?"
Madame frowned and retorted, sharply:
"Yes, monsieur; but I will make her pay for this! The idea of her
racing my Arab, my splendid Arab, that I care for so guardedly! Why,
one of his slender hoofs is worth more to me than the girl's whole
body! Oh, yes, I will make her pay!"
The journalist's dancing gray eyes turned on her face curiously.
"She belongs to you?"
"In a way, yes," madame answered, with a sharp, unpleasant laugh. "Her
mother, my maid, had the bad taste to die in my employ and leave the
baggage on my hands. She has grown up in my house like an unchecked
weed, and has furnished some amusement for the Jockey Club."
"As a sort of Daughter of the Regiment," said one, laughing; but madame
frowned the more darkly.
"Nonsense, Markham," she said, shortly. "Do not put such notions into
Monsieur Van Zandt's head. Let him understand, once for all, she is a
cipher, a little nobody."
She did not quite understand the gleam in the dark-gray eyes, but he
smiled carelessly enough, and replied:
"At least she is very brave."
"A madcap," madame answered, shortly; and just then a shriek of triumph
from a thousand throats rent the air. The meteor-like figure of the
golden-haired girl on the flying Arab had distanced every competitor,
and the applause was tremendous. In the midst of it all she reined
in her gallant steed a moment before the judges' stand, then, before
the dust cleared away, she was galloping rapidly off the grounds,
followed by every eye among them all; while Mme. Lorraine, beneath an
indifferent air, concealed a hidden volcano of wrath and passion.
She stayed for the rest of the races, but her mind was only half upon
them now, and she made some wild bets, and lost every stake. She could
think of nothing but the daring girl who had taken her own Selim, her
costly, petted Arab, and ridden him before her eyes in that wild race
in which she had won such a signal victory.