Margaret Claiborne frowned.
“Yes, I’ll admit that he’s brave, Jinny, and all of that, but I wouldn’t
cultivate him.”
“But he seemed very nice. And really, honey, I almost insulted him. When
he told me his name, I exclaimed, like a perfect little fool—‘not _the_
Jean Lafitte!’—and it sounded _terrible_, my dear! But I didn’t know that
he was really a gentleman ... and such a handsome one ... before to-day.
You see, in your letters to me you mentioned him occasionally, and called
him a pirate. And then, his name is also known back home, too. They call
him the Buccaneer of Barataria—that is, the newspapers do, and lots of
other horrid names; so—so I naturally came to think of him as being a
picturesque old pirate, with black whiskers—with a red handkerchief on
his head, and pistols, and everything, and I was astonished, you may be
sure, when that handsomely dressed gentleman coolly said his name was
Jean Lafitte. What does it mean, Margie?”
“Simply this. This Lafitte person, although a pirate, is a rather
prominent society man in New Orleans.”
“No!” Miss Grymes was shocked or surprised. Perhaps both—perhaps neither.
“Yes, it’s a fact. Strange as it may seem, the very best people here—the
Creoles—who are, you know, Virgie, descended from some of the oldest and
proudest families in France—welcome him and his brother in society as if
he were one of themselves.”
“That reminds me! I just learned that that fascinating Mr. Lafitte I met
at the Lavalayé dinner last night is his brother. He saw his brother,
the pirate—rescue me—that is, stop the horses, to-day, and wanted to
introduce me formally to him, but he had disappeared.”
“Yes, Pierre is rather nice. But his brother is impossible.”
“But why, Margie? They are both in the same trade, aren’t they? And I
really think Jean—Mr. Lafitte—is much better-looking than his brother. He
has such fine eyes!”
Margaret Claiborne flushed suspiciously, but Virginia forgot it at her
next words:
“_I_ thought so once, too, Virgie, but let me tell you _why_ I say he is
impossible. If it were only his occupation, I wouldn’t mind it so much,
for everyone in New Orleans is his friend—everyone worth knowing. But—he
is a murderer!”
Virginia Grymes gasped, her delicately chiseled lips parting in surprise
and disclosing a row of pearls, apparently.
“A—a—murderer!”
“Yes. It is said that he killed a man—another pirate—shot him in cold
blood!”
“Here in New Orleans?”
“No; at their rendezvous at a little island in Barataria Bay, about fifty
miles from here.”
“That handsome—er—nice-looking young man, shot—_killed_ a man?” asked
Virginia incredulously.
“Yes,” reiterated her friend.
“But why?”
Margaret Claiborne unconsciously lowered her voice.
Virginia leaned forward.
“Over—a woman! A negro slave girl!”
Virginia gasped, and suddenly felt faint. A feeling of intense disgust—of
loathing, pervaded her.
“How do you know?” she questioned, breathlessly. After all, she should
not condemn him unheard. He had saved her life. And he did have such fine
eyes!
Margaret leaned back in her chair.
“My father told me,” she replied, simply, as if stating an
incontrovertible fact. “He ought to know, oughtn’t he?”
Virginia nodded dumbly, her eyes on the floor, her mind awhirl.
Yes, Margaret’s father ought to know. Who should, if not William C. C.
Claiborne?
He was the Governor of Louisiana.