The sunshine of an exquisite April morning was shimmering over the
Louisiana lowlands as Battery "X" was "hitching in," and Mrs. Cram's
pretty pony-phaeton came flashing through the garrison gate and reined
up in front of the guns. A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Cram, and
daintily she gathered the spotless, cream-colored reins and slanted her
long English driving-whip at the exact angle prescribed by the vogue of
the day. By her side, reclining luxuriously on his pillows, was Sam
Waring, now senior first lieutenant of the battery, taking his first
airing since his strange illness. Pallid and thin though he was, that
young gentleman was evidently capable of appreciating to the fullest
extent the devoted attentions of which he had been the object ever since
his return. Stanch friend and fervent champion of her husband's most
distinguished officer at any time, Mrs. Cram had thrown herself into his
cause with a zeal that challenged the admiration even of the men whom
she mercilessly snubbed because they had accepted the general verdict
that Lascelles had died by Waring's hand. Had they met in the duello as
practised in the South in those days, sword to sword, or armed with
pistol at twelve paces, she would have shuddered, but maintained that as
a soldier and gentleman Waring could not have refused his opponent's
challenge, inexcusable though such challenge might have been. But that
he could have stooped to vulgar, unregulated fracas, without seconds or
the formality of the cartel, first with fists and those women's weapons,
nails, then knives or stilettoes, as though he was some low dago or
Sicilian,--why, that was simply and utterly incredible. None the less
she was relieved and rejoiced, as were all Waring's friends, when the
full purport of poor Doyle's dying confession was noised abroad. Even
those who were sceptical were now silenced. For four days her comfort
and relief had been inexpressible; and then came the hour when, with woe
and trouble in his face, her husband returned to her from Waring's
bedside with the incomprehensible tidings that he had utterly repudiated
Doyle's confession,--had, indeed, said that which could probably only
serve to renew the suspicion of his own guilt, or else justify the
theory that he was demented.
Though Cram and the doctor warned Waring not to talk, talk he would, to
Pierce, to Ferry, to Ananias; and though these three were pledged by
Cram to reveal to no one what Waring said, it plunged them in an agony
of doubt and misgiving. Day after day had the patient told and re-told
the story, and never could cross-questioning shake him in the least.
Cram sent for Reynolds and took him into their confidence, and Reynolds
heard the story and added his questions, but to no effect. From first to
last he remembered every incident up to his parting with Lascelles at
his own gateway. After that--nothing.
His story, in brief, was as follows. He was both surprised and
concerned, while smoking and chatting with Mr. Allerton in the rotunda
of the St. Charles, to see Lascelles with a friend, evidently watching
an opportunity of speaking with him. He had noticed about a week
previous a marked difference in the old Frenchman's manner, and three
days before the tragedy, when calling on his way from town to see
Madame and Nin Nin, was informed that they were not at home, and
Monsieur himself was the informant; nor did he, as heretofore, invite
Waring to enter. Sam was a fellow who detested misunderstanding.
Courteously, but positively, he demanded explanation. Lascelles shrugged
his shoulders, but gave it. He had heard too much of Monsieur's
attentions to Madame his wife, and desired their immediate
discontinuance. He must request Monsieur's assurance that he would not
again visit Beau Rivage, or else the reparation due a man of honor, etc.
"Whereupon," said Waring, "I didn't propose to be outdone in civility,
and therefore replied, in the best French I could command, 'Permit me to
tender Monsieur--both. Monsieur's friends will find me at the
barracks.'"
"All the same," said Waring, "when I found Madame and Nin Nin stuck in
the mud I did what I considered the proper thing, and drove them, _coram
publico_, to 'bonne maman's,' never letting them see, of course, that
there was any row on tap, and so when I saw the old fellow with a
keen-looking party alongside I felt sure it meant mischief. I was
utterly surprised, therefore, when Lascelles came up with hat off and
hand extended, bowing low, praying pardon for the intrusion, but saying
he could not defer another instant the desire to express his gratitude
the most profound for my extreme courtesy to Madame and his beloved
child. He had heard the whole story, and, to my confusion, insisted on
going over all the details before Allerton, even to my heroism, as he
called it, in knocking down that big bully of a cabman. I was confused,
yet couldn't shake him off. He was persistent. He was abject. He begged
to meet my friend, to present his, to open champagne and drink eternal
friendship. He would change the name of his _château_--the rotten old
rookery--from Beau Rivage to Belle Alliance. He would make this day a
_fête_ in the calendar of the Lascelles family. And then it began to
dawn on me that he had been drinking champagne before he came. I did not
catch the name of the other gentleman, a much younger man. He was very
ceremonious and polite, but distant. Then, in some way, came up the fact
that I had been trying to get a cab to take me back to barracks, and
then Lascelles declared that nothing could be more opportune. He had
secured a carriage and was just going down with Monsieur. They had _des
affaires_ to transact at once. He took me aside and said, 'In proof that
you accept my _amende_, and in order that I may make to you my personal
apologies, you must accept my invitation.' So go with them I did. I was
all the time thinking of Cram's mysterious note bidding me return at
taps. I couldn't imagine what was up, but I made my best endeavors to
get a cab. None was to be had, so I was really thankful for this
opportunity. All the way down Lascelles overwhelmed me with civilities,
and I could only murmur and protest, and the other party only murmured
approbation. He hardly spoke English at all. Then Lascelles insisted on
a stop at the Pelican and on bumpers of champagne, and there, as luck
would have it, was Doyle,--drunk, as usual, and determined to join the
party; and though I endeavored to put him aside, Lascelles would not
have it. He insisted on being presented to the comrade of his gallant
friend, and in the private room where we went he overwhelmed Doyle with
details of our grand reconciliation and with bumper after bumper of
Krug. This enabled me to fight shy of the wine, but in ten minutes Doyle
was fighting drunk, Lascelles tipsy. The driver came in for his pay,
saying he would go no further. They had a row. Lascelles wouldn't pay;
called him an Irish thief, and all that. I slipped my last V into the
driver's hand and got him out somehow. Monsieur Philippes, or whatever
his name was, said he would go out,--he'd get a cab in the neighborhood;
and the next thing I knew, Lascelles and Doyle were in a fury of a row.
Lascelles said all the Irish were knaves and blackguards and swindlers,
and Doyle stumbled around after him. Out came a pistol! Out came a
knife! I tripped Doyle and got him into a chair, and was so intent on
pacifying him and telling him not to make a fool of himself that I
didn't notice anything else. I handled him good-naturedly, got the knife
away, and then was amazed to find that he had my own pet paper-cutter. I
made them shake hands and make up. It was all a mistake, said Lascelles.
But what made it a worse mistake, the old man _would_ order more wine,
and, with it, brandy. He insisted on celebrating this second grand
reconciliation, and then both got drunker, but the tall Frenchman had
Lascelles's pistol and I had the knife, and then a cab came, and,
though it was storming beastly and I had Ferry's duds on and Larkin's
best tile and Pierce's umbrella, we bundled in somehow and drove on down
the levee, leaving Doyle in the hands of that Amazon of a wife of his
and a couple of doughboys who happened to be around there. Now Lascelles
was all hilarity, singing, joking, confidential. Nothing would do but we
must stop and call on a lovely woman, a _belle amie_. He could rely on
our discretion, he said, laying his finger on his nose, and looking sly
and coquettish, for all the world like some old _roué_ of a Frenchman.
He must stop and see her and take her some wine. 'Indeed,' he said,
mysteriously, 'it is a rendezvous.' Well, I was their guest; I had no
money. What could I do? It was then after eleven, I should judge.
Monsieur Philippes, or whatever his name was, gave orders to the driver.
We pulled up, and then, to my surprise, I found we were at Doyle's. That
ended it. I told them they must excuse me. They protested, but of course
I couldn't go in there. So they took a couple of bottles apiece and went
in the gate, and I settled myself for a nap and got it. I don't know how
long I slept, but I was aroused by the devil's own tumult. A shot had
been fired. Men and women both were screaming and swearing. Some one
suddenly burst into the cab beside me, really pushed from behind, and
then away we went through the mud and the rain; and the lightning was
flashing now, and presently I could recognize Lascelles, raging.
'Infâme!' 'Coquin!' 'Assassin!' were the mildest terms he was volleying
at somebody; and then, recognizing me, he burst into maudlin tears,
swore I was his only friend. He had been insulted, abused, denied
reparation. Was he hurt? I inquired, and instinctively felt for my
knife. It was still there where I'd hid it in the inside pocket of my
overcoat. No hurt; not a blow. Did I suppose that he, a Frenchman, would
pardon that or leave the spot until satisfaction had been exacted? Then
I begged him to be calm and listen to me for a moment. I told him my
plight,--that I had given my word to be at barracks that evening; that I
had no money left, but I could go no further. Instantly he forgot his
woes and became absorbed in my affairs. _'Parole d'honneur!_' he would
see that mine was never unsullied. He himself would escort me to the
_maison de_ Capitaine Cram. He would rejoice to say to that brave
ennemi, Behold! here is thy lieutenant, of honor the most unsullied, of
courage the most admirable, of heart the most magnanimous. The Lord only
knows what he wouldn't have done had we not pulled up at his gate. There
I helped him out on the banquette. He was steadied by his row, whatever
it had been. He would not let me expose myself--even under Pierce's
umbrella. He would not permit me to suffer 'from times so of the dog.'
'You will drive Monsieur to his home and return here for me at once,' he
ordered cabby, grasped both my hands with fervent good-night and the
explanation that he had much haste, implored pardon for leaving me,--on
the morrow he would call and explain everything,--then darted into the
gate. We never could have parted on more friendly terms. I stood a
moment to see that he safely reached his door, for a light was dimly
burning in the hall, then turned to jump into the cab, but it wasn't
there. Nothing was there. I jumped from the banquette into a berth
aboard some steamer out at sea. They tell me the first thing I asked for
was Pierce's umbrella and Larkin's hat."
And this was the story that Waring maintained from first to last.
"Pills" ventured a query as to whether the amount of Krug and Clicquot
consumed might not have overthrown his mental equipoise. No, Sam
declared, he drank very little. "The only bacchanalian thing I did was
to join in a jovial chorus from a new French opera which Lascelles's
friend piped up and I had heard in the North:
Oui, buvons, buvons encore!
S'il est un vin qu'on adore
De Paris à Macao,
C'est le Clicquot, c'est le Clicquot."
Asked if he had formed any conjecture as to the identity of the
stranger, Sam said no. The name sounded like "Philippes," but he
couldn't be sure. But when told that there were rumors to the effect
that Lascelles's younger brother had been seen with him twice or thrice
of late, and that he had been in exile because, if anything, of a
hopeless passion for Madame his sister-in-law, and that his name was
Philippe, Waring looked dazed. Then a sudden light, as of newer, fresher
memory, flashed up in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but as
suddenly controlled himself and turned his face to the wall. From that
time on he was determinedly dumb about the stranger. What roused him to
lively interest and conjecture, however, was Cram's query as to whether
he had not recognized in the cabman, called in by the stranger, the very
one whom he had "knocked endwise" and who had tried to shoot him that
morning. "No," said Waring: "the man did not speak at all, that I
noticed, and I did not once see his face, he was so bundled up against
the storm." But if it was the same party, suggested he, it seemed hardly
necessary to look any further in explanation of his own disappearance.
Cabby had simply squared matters by knocking him senseless, helping
himself to his watch and ring, and turning out his pockets, then
hammering him until frightened off, and then, to cover his tracks,
setting him afloat in Anatole's boat.
"Perhaps cabby took a hand in the murder, too," suggested Sam, with
eager interest. "You say he had disappeared,--gone with his plunder.
Now, who else could have taken my knife?"
Then Reynolds had something to tell him: that the "lady" who wrote the
anonymous letters, the _belle amie_ whom Lascelles proposed to visit,
the occupant of the upper floor of "the dove-cot," was none other than
the blighted floweret who had appealed to him for aid and sympathy, for
fifty dollars at first and later for more, the first year of his army
service in the South, "for the sake of the old home." Then Waring grew
even more excited and interested. "Pills" put a stop to further
developments for a few days. He feared a relapse. But, in spite of
"Pills," the developments, like other maladies, throve. The little
detective came down again. He was oddly inquisitive about that _chanson
à boire_ from "_Fleur de Thé_." Would Mr. Waring hum it for him? And
Sam, now sitting up in his parlor, turned to his piano, and with long,
slender, fragile-looking fingers rattled a lively prelude and then
faintly quavered the rollicking words.
"Odd," said Mr. Pepper, as they had grown to call him, "I heard that
sung by a fellow up in Chartres Street two nights hand-running before
this thing happened,--a merry cuss, too, with a rather loose hand on his
shekels. Lots of people may know it, though, mayn't they?"
"No, indeed, not down here," said Sam. "It only came out in New York
within the last four months, and hasn't been South or West at all, that
I know of. What did he look like?"
"Well, what did the feller that was with you look like?"
But here Sam's description grew vague. So Pepper went up to have a beer
by himself at the _café chantant_ on Chartres Street, and didn't return
for nearly a week.
Meantime came this exquisite April morning and Sam's appearance in the
pony-phaeton in front of Battery "X." Even the horses seemed to prick up
their ears and be glad to see him. Grim old war sergeants rode up to
touch their caps and express the hope that they'd soon have the
lieutenant in command of the right section again,--"not but what
Loot'n't Ferry's doing first-rate, sir,"--and for a few minutes, as his
fair charioteer drove him around the battery, in his weak, languid
voice, Waring indulged in a little of his own characteristic chaffing:
"I expect you to bring this section up to top notch, Mr. Ferry, as I am
constitutionally opposed to any work on my own account. I beg to call
your attention, sir, to the fact that it's very bad form to appear with
full-dress _schabraque_ on your horse when the battery is in fatigue.
The red blanket, sir, the red blanket only should be used. Be good
enough to stretch your traces there, right caisson. Yes, I thought so,
swing trace is twisted. Carelessness, Mr. Ferry, and indifference to
duty are things I won't tolerate. Your cheek-strap, too, sir, is an inch
too long. Your bit will fall through that horse's mouth. This won't do,
sir, not in my section, sir. I'll fine you a box of Partagas if it
occurs again."
But the blare of the bugle sounding "attention" announced the presence
of the battery commander. Nell whipped up in an instant and whisked her
invalid out of the way.
"Good-morning, Captain Cram," said he, as he passed his smiling chief.
"I regret to observe, sir, that things have been allowed to run down
somewhat in my absence."
"Oh, out with you, you combination of cheek and incapacity, or I'll run
you down with the whole battery. Oh! Waring, some gentlemen in a
carriage have just stopped at your quarters, all in black, too. Ah,
here's the orderly now."
And the card, black-bordered, handed into the phaeton, bore a name which
blanched Waring's face:
+--------------------------------+
| |
| _M. Philippe Lascelles_, |
| |
| |
| _N'lle Orléans_.|
+--------------------------------+
"Why, what is it, Waring?" asked Cram, anxiously, bending down from his
saddle.
For a moment Waring was silent. Mrs. Cram felt her own hand trembling.
"Can you turn the battery over to Ferry and come with me?" asked the
lieutenant.
"Certainly.--Bugler, report to Lieutenant Ferry and tell him I shall
have to be absent for a while.--Drive on, Nell."
When, five minutes later, Waring was assisted up the stair-way, Cram
towering on his right, the little party came upon a group of
strangers,--three gentlemen, one of whom stepped courteously forward,
raising his hat in a black-gloved hand. He was of medium height,
slender, erect, and soldierly in bearing; his face was dark and oval,
his eyes large, deep, and full of light. He spoke mainly in English,
but with marked accent, and the voice was soft and melodious:
"I fear I have intrude. Have I the honor to address Lieutenant Waring? I
am Philippe Lascelles."
For a moment Waring was too amazed to speak. At last, with brightening
face and holding forth his hand, he said,--
"I am most glad to meet you,--to know that it was not you who drove down
with us that night."
"Alas, no! I left Armand but that very morning, returning to Havana,
thence going to Santiago. It was not until five days ago the news
reached me. It is of that stranger I come to ask."
It was an odd council gathered there in Waring's room in the old
barracks that April morning while Ferry was drilling the battery to his
heart's content and the infantry companies were wearily going over the
manual or bayonet exercise. Old Brax had been sent for, and came.
Monsieur Lascelles's friends, both, like himself, soldiers of the South,
were presented, and for their information Waring's story was again told,
with only most delicate allusion to certain incidents which might be
considered as reflecting on the character and dignity of the elder
brother. And then Philippe told his. True, there had been certain
transactions between Armand and himself. He had fully trusted his
brother, a man of affairs, with the management of the little inheritance
which he, a soldier, had no idea how to handle, and Armand's business
had suffered greatly by the war. It was touching to see how in every
word the younger strove to conceal the fact that the elder had
misapplied the securities and had been practically faithless to his
trust. Everything, he declared, had been finally settled as between them
that very morning before his return to Havana. Armand had brought to him
early all papers remaining in his possession and had paid him what was
justly due. He knew, however, that Armand was now greatly embarrassed in
his affairs. They had parted with fond embrace, the most affectionate of
brothers. But Philippe had been seeing and hearing enough to make him
gravely apprehensive as to Armand's future, to know that his business
was rapidly going down-hill, that he had been raising money in various
ways, speculating, and had fallen into the hands of sharpers, and yet
Armand would not admit it, would not consent to accept help or to use
his younger brother's property in any way. "The lawyer," said Philippe,
"informed me that Beau Rivage was heavily mortgaged, and it is feared
that there will be nothing left for Madame and Nin Nin, though, for that
matter, they shall never want." What he had also urged, and he spoke
with reluctance here, and owned it only because the detectives told him
it was now well known, was that Armand had of late been playing the
_rôle_ of _galant homme_, and that the woman in the case had fled. Of
all this he felt, he said, bound to speak fully, because in coming here
with his witnesses to meet Lieutenant Waring and his friends he had two
objects in view. The first was to admit that he had accepted as fact the
published reports that Lieutenant Waring was probably his brother's
slayer; had hastened back to New Orleans to demand justice or obtain
revenge; had here learned from the lawyers and police that there were
now other and much more probable theories, having heard only one of
which he had cried "Enough," and had come to pray the forgiveness of Mr.
Waring for having believed an officer and a gentleman guilty of so foul
a crime. Second, he had come to invoke his aid in running down the
murderer. Philippe was affected almost to tears.
"There is one question I must beg to ask Monsieur," said Waring, as the
two clasped hands. "Is there not still a member of your family who
entertains the idea that it was I who killed Armand Lascelles?"
And Philippe was deeply embarrassed.
"Ah, monsieur," he answered, "I could not venture to intrude myself upon
a grief so sacred. I have not seen Madame, and who is there who
could--who would--tell her of Armand's----" And Philippe broke off
abruptly, with despairing shrug, and outward wave of his slender hand.
"Let us try to see that she never does know," said Waring. "These are
the men we need to find: the driver of the cab, the stranger whose name
sounded so like yours, a tall, swarthy, black-haired, black-eyed fellow
with pointed moustache----"
"_C'est lui! c'est bien lui!_" exclaimed Lascelles,--"the very man who
insisted on entering the private office where, Armand and I, we close
our affairs that morning. His whispered words make my brother all of
pale, and yet he go off humming to himself."
"Oh, we'll nail him," said Cram. "Two of the best detectives in the
South are on his trail now."
And then came Ananias with a silver tray, champagne, and glasses (from
Mrs. Cram), and the conference went on another hour before the guests
went off.
"Bless my soul!" said Brax, whose diameter seemed in no wise increased
by the quart of Roederer he had swallowed with such gusto,--"bless my
soul! and to think I believed that we were going to have a duel with
some of those fellows a fortnight or so ago!"
Then entered "Pills" and ordered Waring back to bed. He was sleeping
placidly when, late that evening, Reynolds and Cram came tearing up the
stair-way, full of great news; but the doctor said not to wake him.
Meantime, how fared it with that bruised reed, the lone widow of the
late Lieutenant Doyle? Poor old Jim had been laid away with military
honors under the flag at Chalmette, and his faithful Bridget was
spending the days in the public calaboose. Drunk and disorderly was the
charge on which she had been arraigned, and, though she declared herself
abundantly able to pay her fine twice over, Mr. Pepper had warned the
authorities to keep her under lock and key and out of liquor, as her
testimony would be of vital importance, if for nothing better than to
send her up for perjury. Now she was alternately wheedling, cursing,
coaxing, bribing; all to no purpose. The agent of the Lemaître property
had swooped down on the dove-cot and found a beggarly array of empty
bottles and a good deal of discarded feminine gear scattered about on
both floors. One room in which certain detectives were vastly interested
contained the unsavory relics of a late supper. Three or four empty
champagne-bottles, some shattered glasses, and, what seemed most to
attract them, various stubs of partially-consumed cigarettes, lay about
the tables and floor. Adjoining this was the chamber which had been
known as Mrs. Dawson's, and this, too, had been thoroughly explored.
'Louette, who had disappeared after Doyle's tragic death, was found not
far away, and the police thought it but fair that Mrs. Doyle should not
be deprived of the services of her maid. Then came other additions,
though confined in other sections of the city. Mr. Pepper wired that
the party known as Monsieur Philippes had been run to earth and would
reach town with him by train about the same time that another of the
force returned from Mobile by boat, bringing a young man known as Dawson
and wanted as a deserter, and a very sprightly young lady who appeared
to move in a higher sphere of life, but was unquestionably his wife, for
the officer could prove their marriage in South Carolina in the spring
of '65. As Mr. Pepper expressed it when he reported to Reynolds, "It's
almost a full hand, but, for a fact, it's only a bobtail flush. We need
that cabman to fill."
"How did you trace Philippes?" asked Reynolds.
"Him? Oh, he was too darned musical. It was--what do you call it?--Flure
de Tay that did for him. Why, he's the fellow that raised all the money
and most of the h--ll for this old man Lascelles. He'd been sharping him
for years."
"Well, when can we bring this thing to a head?" asked the aide-de-camp.
"_Poco tiempo!_ by Saturday, I reckon."
But it came sooner.
Waring was seated one lovely evening in a low reclining chair on Mrs.
Cram's broad gallery, sipping contentedly at the cup of fragrant tea she
had handed him. The band was playing, and a number of children were
chasing about in noisy glee. The men were at supper, the officers, as a
rule, at mess. For several minutes the semi-restored invalid had not
spoken a word. In one of his customary day-dreams he had been calmly
gazing at the shapely white hand of his hostess, "all queenly with its
weight of rings."
"Will you permit me to examine those rings a moment?" he said.
"Why, certainly. No, you sit still, Mr. Waring," she replied, promptly
rising, and, pulling them off her fingers, dropped them into his open
palm. With the same dreamy expression on his clear-cut, pallid face, he
turned them over and over, held them up to the light, finally selected
one exquisite gem, and then, half rising, held forth the others. As she
took them and still stood beside his chair as though patiently waiting,
he glanced up.
"Oh, beg pardon. You want this, I suppose?" and, handing her the dainty
teacup, he calmly slipped the ring into his waistcoat-pocket and
languidly murmured, "Thanks."
"Well, I like that."
"Yes? So do I, rather better than the others."
"May I ask what you purpose doing with my ring?"
"I was just thinking. I've ordered a new Amidon for Larkin, a new
ninety-dollar suit for Ferry, and I shall be decidedly poor this month,
even if we recover Merton's watch."
"Oh, well, if it's only to pawn one, why not take a diamond?"
"But it isn't."
"What then, pray?"
"Well, again I was just thinking--whether I could find another to match
this up in town, or send this one--to her."
"Mr. _Waring_! _Really?_" And now Mrs. Cram's bright eyes are dancing
with eagerness and delight.
For all answer, though his own eyes begin to moisten and swim, he draws
from an inner pocket a dainty letter, post-marked from a far, far city
to the northeast.
"You _dear_ fellow! How can I tell you how glad I am! I haven't dared
to ask you of her since we met at Washington, but--oh, my heart has been
just full of her since--since this trouble came."
"God bless the trouble! it was that that won her to me at last. I have
loved her ever since I first saw her--long years ago."
"Oh! _oh!_ OH! if Ned were only here! I'm wild to tell him. I may,
mayn't I?"
"Yes, the moment he comes."
But Ned brought a crowd with him when he got back from town a little
later. Reynolds was there, and Philippe Lascelles, and Mr. Pepper, and
they had a tale to tell that must needs be condensed.
They had all been present by invitation of the civil authorities at a
very dramatic affair during the late afternoon,--the final lifting of
the veil that hid from public view the "strange, eventful history" of
the Lascelles tragedy. Cram was the spokesman by common consent. "With
the exception of the Dawsons," said he, "none of the parties implicated
knew up to the hour of his or her examination that any one of the others
was to appear." Mrs. Dawson, eager to save her own pretty neck, had
told her story without reservation. Dawson knew nothing.
The story had been wrung from her piecemeal, but was finally told in
full, and in the presence of the officers and civilians indicated. She
had married in April, '65, to the scorn of her people, a young Yankee
officer attached to the commissary department. She had starved all
through the war. She longed for life, luxury, comforts. She had nothing
but her beauty, he nothing but his pay. The extravagances of a month
swamped him; the drink and desperation of the next ruined him. He
maintained her in luxury at the best hotel only a few weeks, then all of
his and much of Uncle Sam's money was gone. Inspection proved him a
thief and embezzler. He fled, and she was abandoned to her own
resources. She had none but her beauty and a gift of penmanship which
covered the many sins of her orthography. She was given a clerkship, but
wanted more money, and took it, blackmailing a quartermaster. She
imposed on Waring, but he quickly found her out and absolutely refused
afterwards to see her at all. She was piqued and angered, "a woman
scorned," but not until he joined Battery "X" did opportunity present
itself for revenge. She had secured a room under Mrs. Doyle's reputable
roof, to be near the barracks, where she could support herself by
writing for Mrs. Doyle and blackmailing those whom she lured, and where
she could watch _him_, and, to her eager delight, she noted and prepared
to make much of his attentions to Madame Lascelles. Incidentally, too,
she might inveigle the susceptible Lascelles himself, on the principle
that there's no fool like an old fool. Mrs. Doyle lent herself eagerly
to the scheme. The letters began to pass to and fro again. Lascelles was
fool enough to answer, and when, all on a sudden, Mrs. Doyle's
"long-missing relative," as she called him, turned up, a pensioner on
her charity, it was through the united efforts of the two women he got a
situation as cab-driver at the stable up at the eastern skirt of the
town. Dawson had enlisted to keep from starving, and, though she had no
use for him as a husband, he would do to fetch and carry, and he dare
not disobey. Twice when Doyle was battery officer of the day did this
strangely-assorted pair of women entertain Lascelles at supper and
fleece him out of what money he had. Then came Philippes with Lascelles
in Mike's cab, as luck would have it, but they could not fleece
Philippes. Old Lascelles was rapidly succumbing to Nita's fascinations
when came the night of the terrible storm. Mike had got to drinking, and
was laid low by the lieutenant. Mike and Bridget both vowed vengeance.
But meantime Doyle himself had got wind of something that was going on,
and he and his tyrant had a fearful row. He commanded her never to allow
a man inside the premises when he was away, and, though brought home
drunk that awful night, furiously ordered the Frenchman out, and might
have assaulted them had not Bridget lassoed him with a chloroformed
towel. That was the last he knew until another day. Lascelles,
Philippes, and she, Mrs. Dawson, had already drunk a bottle of champagne
when interrupted by Doyle's coming. Lascelles was tipsy, had snatched
his pistol and fired a shot to frighten Doyle, but had only enraged him,
and then he had to run for his cab. He was bundled in and Doyle disposed
of. It was only three blocks down to Beau Rivage, and thither Mike drove
them in all the storm. She did not know at the time of Waring's being in
the cab. In less than fifteen minutes Mike was back and called
excitedly for Bridget; had a hurried consultation with her; she seized a
waterproof and ran out with him, but darted back and took the bottle of
chloroform she had used on her husband, now lying limp and senseless on
a sofa below, and then she disappeared. When half an hour passed and
Lascelles failed to return with them, bringing certain papers of which
he'd been speaking to Philippes, the latter declared there must be
something wrong, and went out to reconnoitre despite the storm. He could
see nothing. It was after midnight when Mrs. Doyle came rushing in,
gasping, all out of breath "along of the storm," she said. She had been
down the levee with Mike to find a cushion and lap-robe he dropped and
couldn't afford to lose. They never could have found it at all "but for
ould Lascelles lending them a lantern." He wanted Mike to bring down two
bottles of champagne he'd left here, but it was storming so that he
would not venture again, and Lieutenant Waring, she said, was going to
spend the night with Lascelles at Beau Rivage: Mike couldn't drive any
farther down towards the barracks. Lascelles sent word to Philippes that
he'd bring up the papers first thing in the morning, if the storm
lulled, and Philippes went out indignant at all the time lost, but Mike
swore he'd not drive down again for a fortune. So the Frenchman got into
the cab and went up with him to town. The moment he was gone Mrs. Doyle
declared she was dead tired, used up, and drank huge goblets of the wine
until she reeled off to her room, leaving an apron behind. Then Mrs.
Dawson went to her own room, after putting out the lights, and when, two
days later, she heard the awful news of the murder, knowing that
investigation would follow and she and her sins be brought to light, she
fled, for she had enough of his money in her possession, and poor
demented Dawson, finding her gone, followed.
Philippes's story corroborated this in every particular. The last he saw
of the cab or of the cabman was near the house of the hook-and-ladder
company east of the French Market. The driver there said his horse was
dead beat and could do no more, so Philippes went into the market,
succeeded in getting another cab by paying a big price, slept at
Cassidy's, waited all the morning about Lascelles's place, and finally,
having to return to the Northeast at once, he took the evening train on
the Jackson road and never heard of the murder until ten days after. He
was amazed at his arrest.
And then came before his examiners a mere physical wreck,--the shadow of
his former self,--caught at the high tide of a career of crime and
debauchery, a much less bulky party than the truculent Jehu of Madame
Lascelles's cab, yet no less important a witness than that same driver.
He was accompanied by a priest. He had been brought hither in an
ambulance from the Hôtel-Dieu, where he had been traced several days
before and found almost at death's door. His confession was most
important of all. He had struck Lieutenant Waring as that officer turned
away from Lascelles's gate, intending only to down and then kick and
hammer him, but he had struck with a lead-loaded rubber club, and he was
horrified to see him drop like one dead. Then he lost his nerve and
drove furiously back for Bridget. Together they returned, and found
Waring lying there as he had left him on the dripping banquette. "You've
killed him, Mike. There's only one thing to do," she said: "take his
watch and everything valuable he has, and we'll throw him over on the
levee." She herself took the knife from his overcoat-pocket, lest he
should recover suddenly, and then, said the driver, "even as we were
bending over him there came a sudden flash of lightning, and there was
Lascelles bending over us, demanding to know what it meant. Then like
another flash he seemed to realize what was up, sprang back, and drew
pistol. He had caught us in the act. There was nothing else to do; we
both sprang upon him. He fired, and hit me, but only in the arm, and
before he could pull trigger again we both grappled him. I seized his
gun, Bridget his throat, but he screamed and fought like a tiger, then
wilted all of a sudden. I was scared and helpless, but she had her wits
about her, and told me what to do. The lieutenant began to gasp and
revive just then, so she soaked the handkerchief in chloroform and
placed it over his mouth, and together we lifted him into the cab. Then
we raised Lascelles and carried him in and laid him on his sofa, for he
had left the door open and the lamp on the table. Bridget had been there
before, and knew all about the house. We set the pistol back in his
hand, but couldn't make the fingers grasp it. We ransacked the desk and
got what money there was, locked and bolted the doors, and climbed out
of the side window, under which she dropped the knife among the bushes.
'They'll never suspect us in the world, Mike,' she said. 'It's the
lieutenant's knife that did it, and, as he was going to fight him
anyhow, he'll get the credit of it all.' Then we drove up the levee, put
Waring in Anatole's boat, sculls and all, and shoved him off. 'I'll
muzzle Jim,' she said. 'I'll make him believe 'twas he that did it when
he was drunk.' She took most of the money, and the watch and ring. She
said she could hide them until they'd be needed. Then I drove Philippes
up to town until I began to get so sick and faint I could do no more. I
turned the cab loose and got away to a house where I knew they'd take
care of me, and from there, when my money was gone, they sent me to the
hospital, thinking I was dying. I swear to God I never meant to more
than get square with the lieutenant. I never struck Lascelles at all;
'twas she who drove the knife into his heart."
Then, exhausted, he was led into an adjoining room, and Mrs. Doyle was
marched in, the picture of injured Irish innocence. For ten minutes,
with wonderful effrontery and nerve, she denied all personal
participation in the crime, and faced her inquisitors with brazen calm.
Then the chief quietly turned and signalled. An officer led forward from
one side the wreck of a cabman, supported by the priest; a door opened
on the other, and, escorted by another policeman, Mrs. Dawson
re-entered, holding in her hands outstretched a gingham apron on which
were two deep stains the shape and size of a long, straight-bladed,
two-edged knife. It was the apron that Bridget Doyle had worn that fatal
night. One quick, furtive look at that, one glance at her trembling,
shrinking, cowering kinsman, and, with an Irish howl of despair, a loud
wail of "Mike, Mike, you've sworn your sister's life away!" she threw
herself upon the floor, tearing madly at her hair. And so ended the
mystery of Beau Rivage.
There was silence a moment in Cram's pretty parlor when the captain had
finished his story. Waring was the first to speak:
"There is one point I wish they'd clear up."
"What's that?" said Cram.
"Who's got Merton's watch?"
"Oh, by Jove! I quite forgot. It's all right, Waring. Anatole's place
was 'pulled' last night, and he had her valuables all done up in a box.
'To pay for his boat,' he said."
* * * * *
A quarter of a century has passed away since the scarlet plumes of Light
Battery "X" were last seen dancing along the levee below New Orleans.
Beau Rivage, old and moss-grown at the close of the war, fell into rapid
decline after the tragedy of that April night. Heavily mortgaged, the
property passed into other hands, but for years never found a tenant.
Far and near the negroes spoke of the homestead as haunted, and none of
their race could be induced to set foot within its gates. One night the
sentry at the guard-house saw sudden light on the westward sky, and then
a column of flame. Again the fire-alarm resounded among the echoing
walls of the barracks; but when the soldiers reached the scene, a
seething ruin was all that was left of the old Southern home. Somebody
sent Cram a marked copy of a New Orleans paper, and in their cosey
quarters at Fort Hamilton the captain read it aloud to his devoted Nell:
"The old house has been vacant, an object of almost superstitious dread
to the neighborhood," said the _Times_, "ever since the tragic death of
Armand Lascelles in the spring of 1868. In police annals the affair was
remarkable because of the extraordinary chain of circumstantial evidence
which for a time seemed to fasten the murder upon an officer of the army
then stationed at Jackson Barracks, but whose innocence was triumphantly
established. Madame Lascelles, it is understood, is now educating her
daughter in Paris, whither she removed immediately after her marriage a
few months ago to Captain Philippe Lascelles, formerly of the
Confederate army, a younger brother of her first husband."
"Well," said Cram, "I'll have to send that to Waring. They're in Vienna
by this time, I suppose. Look here, Nell; how was it that when we
fellows were fretting about Waring's attentions to Madame, you should
have been so serenely superior to it all, even when, as I know, the
stories reached you?"
"Ah, Ned, I knew a story worth two of those. He was in love with Natalie
Maitland all the time."
THE END.