_Wherein Lizette Fondac Makes a Great Sacrifice and One Jean Lafitte
Makes a Momentous Decision_
I
“But, Jean, _mon frère_, this is not your quarrel! ’Tis folly to fight
this man—madness! _Mon Dieu!_ I’m sure this Brouillard meant no offense.
No doubt he was well in his cups.”
His companion turned on him with sudden fury.
“Enough, Pierre, enough! I am no longer a child to be told what to do! I
love Lizette, and this is my affair—mine alone. You should be the last to
interfere—you!”
Pierre Dominique Lafitte smiled deprecatingly at his younger brother;
this fair-skinned, handsome youth with the coal-black eyes of their
long-dead mother, and the uncertain personality of an uncountable line of
temperamental ancestors, that was as surely his heritage.
“Jean,” said Pierre, patiently, “you are but a hot-headed youth, with
all the foibles and fancies of youth. I tell you that Brouillard but
jested....”
“Jested? _Sacré nom de Dieu!_ When he named her ‘_fille de joie_’?...
When he dared—_dared_—call my Lizette a courtesan? A sorry jest ’twill be
for him—a bitter jest! By all the devils of Satan he shall—”
Pierre Lafitte shook his head sadly, angrily. He had all along mistrusted
this affair. On the very first day of their visit to this sunny island
of Mauritius, when Jean had encountered Lizette Fondac, the fisherman’s
daughter, and as promptly fell in love with her, he had had disquieting
fears. Hitherto, he knew, his impetuous yet well-poised brother had
rather shied away from the fateful sex. Being experienced, he would have
intervened in this affair, but had refrained, fearful of precipitating
matters.
Of course Lizette was beautiful. Too beautiful, he thought, musing on her
delicate patrician features and shapely hands and feet. Without doubt she
possessed good blood—Brouillard had hinted at that—and it was reasonable
to believe that morose old Fondac was not even her father. Even he,
Pierre, the _bon vivant_, to whom beautiful women were no novelty, had
been momentarily intrigued by her unusual beauty and unsophisticated
charm, but he was too sensible—so he told himself—to lose his head over a
mere chit of a girl, a fisherman’s wench. That Jean had done so was to be
deplored; yet he was young, inexperienced—and obstinate.
Pierre sighed a _blasé_, sophisticated sigh.
“This Brouillard, Jean—do you know that he is an excellent shot? And,
since you are the challenger, it is most likely that he will choose
pistols rather than steel—more’s the pity! I tell you frankly, _garçon_,
I have no great liking for this business. There are too many pretty women
in the world, as it is, to risk losing your temper, and mayhap your life.
Think, first. You are neither the legal guardian, nor yet the betrothed,
of this girl. It is not your quarrel.”
Jean shrugged his shoulders impatiently ... nervously.
“It matters not, Pierre. I will fight him—and kill him.”
“Don’t be over-confident,” dryly. “It is more probable that he will
kill—_you_! Don’t be a fool!”
“The outcome is on the knees of the gods. If he kills me, I shall die
content, knowing I died for _her_!”
“Heroics are quite unnecessary,” observed Pierre, resignedly. “If you’re
determined to be a target for Brouillard, it’s no use—”
“My mind is quite made up,” returned Jean, flushing. “But since our ideas
do not coincide, please do not interfere. I’m sure that Bonville, or De
Queux, will be glad to second me.”
“I surrender,” said Pierre. “If you are determined on being slaughtered,
of course I’ll second you. It is my right. And if you must be a fool, I
had just as well enjoy your folly as the next one. I’ll hunt up our fine
captain’s friend. _Au revoi’!_”
With an expressive shrug, the elder Lafitte stalked out of the tavern
and disappeared into the diamond-studded night. Jean, staring after him
curiously, stood stockstill, a picture of indecision, and then, turning,
sat down near the table, and began to shoot, with careful precision, at
the three candles on the trestle near the window.
When Pierre returned, later, having made arrangements for the coming
meeting, he found the air smoke-laden and his brother haggard.
There were still three candles burning on the trestle.