_Wherein Our Pirate Meets a Lady, and One Virginia Grymes Hears a Strange
Tale_
I
“Speak of Angels,” remarked Pierre, brightly, “and you hear the flutter
of their wings!” He straightened up from his bow to the occupants of a
passing carriage.
“Meaning—?” asked Jean, inquiringly.
“The two ladies who have just passed.”
“The fair Amélie and her cousin Angélique?”
“Precisely. It is something unusual to see them together. I wonder what’s
up?”
“Ze frien’sheep of two women ees nozzing bud a plot against a zird,”
contributed De Moulin, sententiously.
The little group of friends, the Lafittes, De Moulin, and two Creole
acquaintances, all laughed together at this conceit. It was a bright
sunny day and the Rue Royale was alive with promenaders. As the little
group strolled down the street headed toward the waterfront, stopping
every now and then to salute a passing acquaintance, bow to a lady or
ladies in some picturesque balcony or passing carriage, they presented
a gallant sight. At this period of history, fashions in men’s clothing
were undergoing a marked change. The Lafittes, like most of their Creole
friends, still clung to the colorful knee-breeches and silk stockings
of the Revolutionary period, or highly polished boots. They carried
sword-canes. The Americans of the new order of things, however—men like
Livingston, Grymes, Governor Claiborne, and others of their official
contemporaries—wore the long breeches which were buttoned at the ankles,
that were just at that time becoming the vogue, with long stocks for
neck-wear, high beaver hats, and double-breasted, full-skirted coats.
“I have heard,” said Pierre, “that Amélie is contemplating entering the
Convent of the Ursulines. Is it true?”
De Moulin laughed wickedly.
“If you notice,” he remarked, “ze ladiz turn to God when ze dev’l won’
hay’ nozzin’ moah to do wiz dem—dat is, speak’n’ gen’rallee ...” he
amended, hastily.
Jean laughed.
“Don’t defame the fair sex so, François,” said he, “for if men loved God
as much as they love women—as Pascal says—men would be saints!”
“Without love,” said Pierre, sagely, “it would be sad to be a man....”
“From which I am to infer,” responded his brother, “that you are in that
tortured state? Who is it this time?”
Pierre sighed heavily.
“You may jest about it, little brother, but wait—just wait—until the germ
bites _you_! I should like to see that day....”
“The holy saints forfend!” exclaimed Jean, with mock piety.
“Of co’se Pierre eez in love!” cried De Moulin. “An’ so am I—an’ oweh
fr’en’s heah, too.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Jean.
“There gan be bud won,” went on the Creole.
“Who?” with perplexity.
“_La belle Américaine!_”
“A nymph—a fairy!” cried Pierre. “I had forgotten that you but just came
to town, Jean. Forgive me. She is a stranger—an American—and she is
ravishing—divine!”
“Heh nem is Virginia Grymes,” contributed one of the others.
“Grymes?” asked Jean. “Could it be—”
“_Mais oui, mon frère!_ It is the only daughter of our good friend
Grymes, the district attorney. It is said that she left a trail of broken
hearts in Philadelphia and Richmond. _Sacré diable!_ One can well believe
it! She was the belle of the Assembly Ball in the Quaker City when she
made her _début_ there.”
“Ah, Pierre,” said Jean, “I see you’ve been up to your old tricks. Has
she refused you, yet?”
“Only twice,” returned his brother, coolly, “but there is yet time.
Women like brave men, but audacious ones still more. I shall keep on
trying. However, I advise you to watch yourself well, _mon frère_, for
if she ever directs the battery of her eyes at you your poor heart will
capitulate at once. She is not the usual type of girl one meets, Jean.
Somehow she is different, fresher, a typical American, a Virginia rose!”
Jean looked amused. No woman had ever interested him like that. And he
told himself that no woman ever would. He had much to learn!
“Whatever she is,” he remarked, dryly, “I see that she has no lack of
supporters. But you need have no cause for anxiety.... What’s that,
gentlemen?”
With one accord the group turned their eyes in the direction of his
glance. There, a few hundred yards up the street, was tearing a large
open carriage, of the type known as barouche, drawn by two magnificent
black horses. Their eyes flamed, their teeth were bared between slavering
jaws, and their clattering hoofs struck sparks from the old cobblestones.
As the careening equipage bore down on them the crowd scattered left and
right, upsetting one another in their eagerness to escape from the path
of the oncoming steeds, to whose fright they added materially by their
excited cries and calls.
On second glance one saw that the box was empty. Almost two blocks behind
the carriage ran a coachman in livery, his black face almost livid with
fear, shouting to the horses and brandishing his useless whip.
The woman, or rather, girl, who was in the carriage, made no outcry, but
gripped the arm of her seat, her face white and tense, lips parted, eyes
wide.
Less than a block away, at the foot of the street, was the levee, beyond
which sparkled the waters of the Mississippi. It was straight for this
that the maddened runaways were thundering, straight to destruction.
The street was in an uproar. In the whole crowd of sailors, soldiers,
merchants, laborers, loafers, and negroes, not one man had the presence
of mind to do something to stop their spectacular flight—except one.
Suddenly, as if he had sprung up from the very earth, there appeared a
man standing in the middle of the street ... standing in the path of the
oncoming runaways bearing down upon him with the speed of a veritable
Juggernaut. The crowd for an instant ceased its cries, awaiting the
further action of this rash man.
The runaways were about fifteen yards from him when the man, pistol in
hand, aimed at the nearest horse.
That brief moment before he fired seemed an age to the onlookers. Just
as the horses were upon him he nimbly jumped aside. With a scream that
sounded almost human, the off horse fell dead in its tracks, a bullet in
his head. The other came to an abrupt halt.
In the meantime the man had not been idle. As the horses lurched past
him, he sprang to the carriage just in time to grasp its occupant in his
arms as she fell forward from the jar of the sudden halt. So nicely was
this maneuver timed that she hardly felt the shock and was lightly swung
into the street.
The crowd, cheering, surged tumultuously about them, leaving them
inclosed in a little space by the carriage steps.
Jean Lafitte stared at the girl he had rescued, and, unconsciously
dropped his jaw in amazement. For the first time in his life he felt
disconcerted, bewildered, unsure of himself. His mind was in a tumult.
Never before, he thought, had he seen such a beautiful girl.
Nut-brown hair, dark, curly and now a mass of riotous disorder, hung
about her shoulders, framing a piquant, highbred face of a delightful
olive complexion, which was heightened by a soft rosy glow. Her eyes,
veiled by long silky lashes, topped with exquisitely arched eyebrows,
were of an indescribable greenish-gray-brown color, the emerald note
predominating, perhaps. At the moment, in his subconscious mind, Jean
was trying to solve that all-important question, but their color was so
changeable that he felt himself baffled. Before he had time to complete
his mental inventory of her charms, however, he was brought back to the
prosaic realities of life by the sound of her voice.
Low, mellow, well modulated, it enchanted him as much as had her finely
cut face and slim, graceful, perfectly proportioned figure. As she spoke
he forced himself to listen.
“I cannot fully express, sir, my gratitude to you for your brave act. It
was wonderful!” Her eyes glowed, and her girlish bosom could be seen to
rise and fall from the excitement engendered by that wild ride.
“Scipio, the coachman, left the box for a few minutes, and our poor
horses took fright at something. In a moment they had bolted on that
terrible, thrilling ride! It was glorious!”
Jean mentally reared back on his heels. Here was a bit of femininity
altogether different from the languishing, insipid ladies of his
acquaintance.
“Glorious!” he gasped.
“Of course! It was wonderful!” she cried, not noticing the look on his
face. “Only, I’m sorry my poor horses caused you any inconvenience.”
“Wonderful!” “Inconvenience!” Jean stared.
“Do you realize, mademoiselle,” he said, stiffly, “that you might have
been seriously injured—killed—or perhaps drowned?”
“Drowned?” she repeated, with a bewildered look. An old sailor, one of
the bystanders, now chimed in.
“_Mon Dieu!_ De black devils were headed straight for dat wharf, down
dere. If it hadn’t been for _monsieur le capitaine_....” His voice
trailed off vaguely into nothingness, as if the words he left unsaid were
too terrible for contemplation, much less speech.
Her terrified eyes followed his finger. She shuddered. Then, as suddenly
as before, she resumed her former attitude. Her voice was abjectly
apologetic.
“How ungrateful I have acted! Pray forgive me, sir ... er ... Captain?”
she begged, archly contrite.
The bow that _monsieur le capitaine_ made was worthy of a Brummel. It set
her to thinking. Indeed, he presented a figure that any maiden would not
disdain to admire, and this one was not false to her sex.
For the first time she critically took note of his firm mouth, square
chin, domineering arched nose, broad brow, fine eyes and graceful
figure, and was at once favorably impressed. She also suddenly noticed
the obvious respect accorded him by the bystanders, a fact worthy of
investigation in itself. She at once burned to know his identity.
“I realize now, sir,” she went on, “what a debt I owe you, and shall
never forget it. If you would do me the honor of calling, sir, my father
would take pleasure in adding his thanks to mine. Perhaps you know him.
I—I am Virginia Grymes,” she ended.
So this was the new beauty—the rage of Creole society! He might have
known it, he thought, vexed.
“And I—I am Jean Lafitte,” he answered, with a studied carelessness.
Though he scarcely knew why, he waited for her next words eagerly. There
was a momentary pause as the significance of that well-known name sank
into her consciousness.
“Not—not—_the_ Jean Lafitte,” she faltered, and then could have bitten
off her tongue.
He stiffened, and a curious dignity was apparent in his reply.
“I believe I have that honor,” he said, dryly, as he mentally wondered at
the repugnance manifest in her tone, which he could not understand.
She hesitated for the briefest timable space, and in her answer Jean
recognized her as the thoroughbred and gentlewoman that she was,
notwithstanding the fact that she obviously had cause to dislike his name.
“Both my father and I would be delighted to have you call at your
earliest convenience,” she said, graciously, if somewhat stiltedly.
At this moment Pierre Lafitte, accompanied by his friends, reached them,
having fought his way with difficulty through the dense crowd.
“My dear Mademoiselle Grymes,” he cried, bowing, “how strange that this
should have happened! And that it should have been my brother who had the
pleasure of serving you! The lucky dog!”
“Your brother!” she exclaimed, strangely moved.
“But certainly! _Que je suis bête!_ I have forgotten that you do not
know him. How awkward of me! Allow me to introduce, mademoiselle,” said
Pierre, turning, “my only brother, M’sieu Jean Lafitte.” He stopped
suddenly, embarrassed and surprised.
Jean Lafitte had disappeared.
And not ten feet away, in the thick of the throng, Manuel Espinosa
studied the little tableau with his insolent eyes. He had seen Lafitte
unobtrusively slip away, but his intent glance had not followed him. It
was fixed on Virginia Grymes, and it was not pleasant to see. At that
moment his eyes were those of a primitive beast....