Pierre Dominique, his eyes moodily fixed on the glistening shoulders of
his dusky blacksmith’s as they busily moved around in the firelight,
swung his sword-cane idly. Apparently all was not well with Pierre. The
truth was that Virginia Grymes, the evening before, had refused his
proffered heart and hand.
François de Moulin, true friend that he was, sympathetically commiserated
with him.
“Don’ worree, _mon ami_, zere are many ozzer demoiselles who weel nod
repulse Pierre. Try you’ luck wiz Gabrielle, or Céleste Angélique.” He
gracefully twisted the ends of his mustache, eying Pierre mischievously.
Lafitte, catching the look, reddened.
“What do you know about—Angélique?” he demanded.
De Moulin laughed and clapped him on the back.
“_Comme c’est drole!_ I know all, _mon galant_, all! Abou’ ze flow’rs,
an’ _billets_, an’ zat histo’ical serenade und’—”
“Shut up!”
“—ze balc’ny. An’ how all change’ when _la belle_ Virginia come—”
Pierre shrugged his shoulders in exasperation.
“If Angélique had not grown so stout—so fleshy; but what can a man do?
One can’t be expected to bind one’s affections fast to one woman all the
time. That were to make love as irksome as marriage! And, as the poet
says, ‘_Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_’!”
The Creole made a grimace.
“A plague on you’ Latin! Why drag in a poet? _Ventre-saint-gris!_ How
een-consist’nt eez man! Heah you say zat love eez as irksome as marriage.
And a moment ago you were on ze verge of despair becoz _la belle_
Virginia refuse’ you! An’ eet ees betteh so. You do nod love heh, Pierre.
Fah from eet. You are een love wiz ze game of love! You, oldeh zan Jean,
are nod as wise as he. You know w’at I b’lieve, Pierre? I b’lieve zat _la
belle_ Virginia loves M’sieu Jean! _Voilà!_”
Pierre stared at him with open disbelief.
“Jean? You are mad, François, stark, staring mad! Why, she dislikes
him—nay, hates him. I cannot help but see it.”
De Moulin laughed.
“Ah, Pierre, you ’ave much to learn. When a woman show hate foah a
man—show scorn—she eez interest’ in him. When she ees indifferent—_dame_!
Zat is an altogezzer different mattaire. She never can love him—unless
her indifference melts. Bud woman ees as changeable as ze weazzer. No, I
shall enlighten you no furzzer. I geev you ze _petit pois_ to plant—ze
little idea. Eet may grow—but, _le bon Dieu!_ ... what have we here?”
As he spoke, a constable, accompanied by a file of soldiers, entered the
smithy. Without parley, he advanced toward Pierre.
“Mister Peer Lafitte?” he asked.
Pierre nodded dumbly.
“I’m sory, sor, but yez’ll have to come with me.”
“I presume you are arresting me?” asked Pierre, in surprise.
“That I am, sor,” replied the constable.
“But why have you arrested M’sieu Lafitte?” demanded the Creole
authoritatively of the constable. “What eez ze charge?”
The constable touched his cap and displayed a warrant. De Moulin read it
attentively.
“What is it for?” asked Pierre.
De Moulin looked at him in exasperation.
“Eet ees—you are accused of being an accessaree to piracy!”
Pierre Dominique considered for a moment. They looked at each other.
“Let us go, then, and get the particulars.”
“And I will go your bail!” cried François, gayly slipping his arm through
Pierre’s. “_Allons, mes gendarmes, à la calabosa!_”
And so, arm in arm, to the city prison, known by the euphonious title
of the “calaboose,” they marched, accompanied by the constable and his
deputies.
At the station-house, however, they met with an unexpected difficulty.
The charges against Pierre, it seemed, were only as an accessory to
piracy, but when the Creole asked to be told the amount of bail necessary
to temporarily release Pierre from custody the police captain gave them a
disconcerting reply.
“By order of His Excellency the Governor himself,” he said, “the prisoner
must remain in custody until the day of trial and is allowed no bail
whatsoever.”
At this they were both taken back. De Moulin was furious.
“W’at you mean by zat?” he cried, “zat eez not law! I will give any
amount you say!”
Smiling, the police captain informed him somewhat lengthily as to the
intricacies of the law, but the Creole refused to listen. Imbued with
hatred as he and his class were against the new government, this example
of their tyranny, as he deemed it, only incensed him the more.
“_Sacré diable!_ Ees zis a free government—a free law?” he cried.
The man at the desk said nothing.
“Hah, eet ees of no use to argue wiz you—you are but a servant.” The
police captain winced angrily at this. “I shall go to your superior—ze
Governor—ze President heemself!”
The prisoner intervened.
“Go nowhere, François—but to Jean! Let him know of this!” said Pierre.
François de Moulin stared at him for a moment, and then, wringing his
hand, left the room hurriedly, without a backward glance.
“This way, sor, if ye plaze,” said O’Rourke, the constable, to Lafitte,
and together they disappeared through the door leading to the cells.