_Wherein Twenty Thousand Dollars Appears upon the Scene_
“Why, my dear fellow, your contention is perfectly absurd! I am very
much afraid, Grymes, that your ideas of jurisprudence and mine can never
coincide. Why, take the speech of Sir Vickary Gibbs, the Royal Attorney
General in the Court of the King’s Bench, delivered on November the
twentieth, 1809, if I mistake not....”
“The devil take your exactness, Livingston! You’re always quoting some
authority or another. But it’s useless to argue with you—you’ve always
got an apt retort,” with a comical grimace.
Edward Livingston smiled. He was a tall, spare, silver-haired man, with
bushy, grizzled eyebrows, a habitual contraction of the forehead, and the
clearly cut features and haughty carriage of the born aristocrat. Known
to be the most distinguished member of the Louisiana bar, together with
the accrued prestige of his New York legal reputation, he was perhaps
one of the best-informed men of his day. These were the days when every
gentleman, apparently, was a lawyer or a politician.
“Grymes, the trouble with you is that you don’t read enough. You’re an
excellent advocate, but a poor scholar. You would do well, I think, to
read some of the letters to the Right Honorable Sir Joseph Banks, K.B.,
P.R.S. They are extremely interesting.” He paused. “Have you ever read
Thomas Andrew Knight’s letter on The Comparative Influence of Male and
Female Parents on Their Offspring’? It is exceedingly—”
“—Dry, Livingston, no doubt of it!” responded Grymes, good-humoredly.
“Personally, for entertainment, I prefer good old Boccaccio, or
Rabelais....”
“No doubt!” dryly.
“Or an enjoyable hour with Margaret of Valois’s _Heptameron_. To my mind,
the _Decameron_ and _Heptameron_ are two of the most interesting books
ever written!” He chuckled. “And, speaking of literary matters, when
reading of the birth of Gargantua, have you _ever_ read—”
Livingston frowned, displeased.
“I am surprised at your taste, Grymes. And you with a young daughter, at
that.”
Grymes laughed.
“Oh, Livingston, Livingston! You old-fashioned old fogey! Do you think
that I could amuse myself, for a moment, by reading an old law tome or
something equally thrilling? Not John Grymes—no, sir!”
Livingston was obviously piqued.
“Not necessarily. But why don’t you read something more suitable for a
man of your age? I’ll send you over George Pryme’s _Conquest of Canaan_.
It was a Seatonian prize poem. I’ve just received it in response to
my order on Cadell and Davies, of London. There is one passage in
particular, Grymes, referring to the command of universal extirpation—”
Grymes held up his hand in humorous protest.
“My dear Livingston, you are incorrigible. But listen here—”
At this moment old Rappahannock, the Grymes butler, entered the
book-lined, oak-paneled library.
“Massa Grymes! Massa Lafitte is in de droring-room.”
Grymes turned in surprise.
“Which Mr. Lafitte, Rappahannock?”
“Massa Jean, suh.”
Livingston and Grymes exchanged glances.
“He asted if Massa Livingston was heah, suh.”
“Show him in here, Rappahannock.” The old negro shuffled out.
Grymes turned to Livingston.
“Jean Lafitte in New Orleans!” he exclaimed. “What is he doing here?”
Before his companion could answer, however, Lafitte himself entered and
the two attorneys politely rose to their feet.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Lafitte. “No, don’t go, Mr. Livingston, I
wish to see both of you gentlemen.”
Without another word Grymes rang for Rappahannock, who answered the call
a moment later.
“Rappahannock,” said Grymes, “close the door and see that we are not
disturbed. I am not at home to anyone.”
Bowing, Rappahannock left the room, closing the double doors behind him.
“Gentlemen,” said Lafitte, abruptly, after he had seated himself, “I have
no doubt that you are aware of the fact that the Governor has seen fit to
indict my associates and myself on a charge of piracy?”
Livingston merely nodded, his features impassive.
“Yes, I have heard it, Mr. Lafitte,” said Grymes, “and I think His
Excellency has acted very unwisely. He does not appreciate the delicate
viewpoint which we Louisianians hold toward—er—”
“Privateering,” supplemented Jean, smiling.
“Precisely,” finished the district attorney, also smiling.
“However,” said Lafitte, “it may be possible that you gentlemen do not
know that my brother has been placed under arrest.”
Both of his auditors started and exchanged quick glances.
“No, we do not,” answered Livingston. “On what charge has he been
arrested?”
“On the charge of being an accessory to piracy. But that is not all,
however. He has been refused bail.”
He paused, but received no answer. The two attorneys merely looked
thoughtful.
“Therefore, gentlemen, I have come to you,” said Lafitte.
“Exactly what do you wish us to do?” asked Grymes, beginning to
understand.
Jean Lafitte leaned back in his chair and smiled again.
“Just this, gentlemen. I will speak plainly; but first I’d better outline
the situation. Governor Claiborne is not an antagonist to be despised.
Glance over his record and you can readily see that.
“His Excellency has seen fit to institute legal proceedings, and has
gone so far as to arrest my brother on a charge of complicity in piracy,
without even extending him the courtesy—nay, the right, of giving bail!
We, the privateers of Barataria, doing business in our own way as it
is being done all over the world to-day, have done naught thus far to
interfere with the Governor. From now it is war to the knife, however. We
shall fight this to a finish. We shall have justice!”
“Justice?” murmured Grymes to himself. He could not help thinking
that justice was exactly what the Governor of Louisiana had in mind
to mete out to the Baratarians, but in a very different sense than
that, no doubt, meant by Lafitte.... However, notwithstanding his
own sentiments in the matter, the chief of the “privateers” had come
to him, professionally, it appeared, and therefore was protected by
professional ethics. He was the district attorney, the representative of
the commonwealth, the people. Should he listen further? It looked very
much as if Lafitte was about to attempt to enlist his aid. Yet there was
Livingston—
“And to get justice,” went on Lafitte, “we must fight him with his own
weapons. Legally. Therefore, gentlemen, knowing that you are the two
ablest ornaments of the Louisiana bar, the Baratarians, whom I represent,
wish you to do us the honor of accepting our case—to be our legal counsel
in the coming trial.”
It was as if a bombshell had fallen into the midst of the room, such a
disturbing effect did it have on the distinguished “ornaments of the
Louisiana bar.” To say that they were surprised would be putting it
mildly.
To Grymes, this offer was not wholly a surprise, but Livingston, strange
to say, had not foreseen this as a result of Lafitte’s opening remarks
and was rather at a loss for words. Though not prejudiced or biased in
the matter, he leaned toward the Baratarians’ cause, yet rather felt as
if he needed time to consider the proposal. Friendly though he was toward
Lafitte, he was still a cautious man, and never made a decision until
he had weighed the matter carefully in his mind and had resolved as to
whether or not his decision would be either beneficial or detrimental to
himself, one way or the other.
In this brief moment, before Lafitte had finished speaking, all this and
more had swiftly passed through his brain. True to his nature, Edward
Livingston was mentally debating this question: would it benefit him most
to espouse the cause of Lafitte, popular as he was in New Orleans, or
that of the Governor of Louisiana, who, after all, represented the law of
the state?
Before he had time to make a decision, however, or even to further debate
it within himself, he was arrested by Lafitte’s next words.
“Gentlemen, I am not asking you to look at this offer from a biased
viewpoint, one way or the other. This is purely a business matter and
should be treated as such. If I am so fortunate as to possess your
friendship, don’t let that influence you. But, gentlemen, I hereby make
this offer:
“If you will accept this case, which means to attempt to acquit my
brother, my associates, and myself, from these infamous, unjust charges,
I will—pay—you—each—the sum of—twenty—thousand—dollars, win or lose!”
If his earlier offer had had the effect of a bombshell, this last had
that effect multiplied a hundredfold, a thousandfold. For a moment the
two eminent lawyers gazed at him dumbly, as if unable to believe their
ears.
“Twenty thousand dollars?” cried the district attorney, gripping the arm
of his chair.
“Twenty thousand dollars, win or lose!” gasped Edward Livingston, for
once startled out of his invariable pose of impassivity.
Jean smiled and sipped the Burgundy in his glass.
“Twenty thousand dollars,” he repeated. “And you can rely on the word of
Jean Lafitte when he says that it will be paid promptly. I have a little
habit of paying my debts,” he added, whimsically.
“But that is a fortune!” cried Grymes, voicing Livingston’s own thought.
“It sounds impossible. Twenty thousand dollars!”
“_Parbleu! C’est vrai_,” said Lafitte, relapsing for the moment into
French, “but nevertheless a fact. We Baratarians, you see, are willing to
pay heavily to have our honor vindicated. What do you say, gentlemen? Do
you accept? What is your decision? I do not like to hurry you, but time
presses.”
Edward Livingston looked at the floor for a moment, his face impassive,
his brain hard at work. Then he looked up, glanced fleetingly at Grymes,
and then looked Lafitte full in the face.
“I accept!” he said, quietly.
“_Bon!_” cried Jean, “I thank you! And you, Mr. Grymes?”
The district attorney was staring into his wine glass, his fingers
beating a restless tattoo on the polished top.
In his mind’s eye was that magic, “Twenty thousand dollars.” To John
Grymes, high-living and pleasure-loving as he was, and by no means
well-off, twenty thousand dollars was simply—twenty thousand dollars.
Still....
“I am the district attorney,” he stated, looking questioningly at
Lafitte. “How can I—”
Oh, the wonderful promise held forth by that twenty thousand dollars!
Lafitte laughed.
“That’s easily enough dealt with,” said he. “Simply resign!”
“Resign?” echoed Grymes. Why had he not thought of that? It was the
simplest matter, after all, that. To resign. He could then accept the
case—and the twenty thousand dollars. What couldn’t he do with all
that money, a bagatelle, apparently, to Lafitte, but in his present
circumstances, unknown as they were to the rest of the world, a fortune
to himself?
And then Livingston, the conservative, the former celebrity of the New
York bar and at present equally well-known lawyer of the Louisiana bar,
had accepted. If he, the respected Livingston—whom, truth to tell, Grymes
held in some awe—had accepted, then why not he?
And Virginia, what of her? What mightn’t he give her with that money?
“I accept,” said Grymes, firmly, “and shall resign immediately.”
Jean Lafitte smiled and shook him heartily by the hand.
“The present is the best time,” he remarked. “Do so by all means.”
For the next half hour the three men talked business, going over the
coming legal campaign as if they were a council of generals planning a
battle. At the end of that period they arose, their compact was sealed in
a toast, and then the group broke up. Lafitte and Livingston to go their
respective ways, and Grymes to return to the large, oak-paneled library.
Sitting down to his large carved mahogany desk, he spent the next fifteen
minutes in composing a letter. Sanding it, he waved it lightly back and
forth in the air to assist the drying process and laid down his quill pen.
As he was thus occupied, he heard a step and looked up.
Entering the door was Virginia, charming in a simple but costly evening
gown; a blood-red rose in her dark coiffure and her exquisite shoulders
agleam in the light of the many candles in the wall sconces, with their
twinkling pendant prisms. She was apparently returning from a dance, or
a dinner perhaps. The social season of “Little Paris” was at its hectic
height.
As she stopped to kiss her father, Virginia noticed the letter he had
written and, woman-like, was at once curious to know what it contained,
not really expecting to be told. For once, however, she was agreeably
disappointed. Smiling, Grymes handed it to her, and she, proceeding to
put on a charmingly business-like air, began to read it through. Before
she had finished, however, the laughter left her face.
“What does this mean, father?” she asked, her voice troubled.
Grymes assumed a casualness he did not at all feel.
“Just what it says, Jinny. It is my resignation. I am giving up my post
as district attorney.”
She looked vaguely uneasy.
“But why, father? You tried so hard to get this office. Why do you
resign?”
“Listen, Jinny. Mr. Livingston and I are to be the legal counsel of Mr.
Lafitte.”
“Mr. Lafitte?”
“Yes. Pierre Lafitte has been arrested.”
“Pierre? What for?”
“Don’t ask so many questions, puss, and I’ll tell you. As you know, the
Lafittes have been indicted for piracy. The Governor had Pierre arrested.
Well, his brother was here and asked that Livingston and I take the case.
We accepted.”
“But why?”
“What do you mean, Jinny? He merely offered us the case, and after due
consideration we accepted.”
“But you cannot; you are the district attorney!”
“That’s why I am resigning, dear,” indulgently.
“But, father, why have you taken this case? Why have you resigned? What
influenced you? There must have been something to make you defend this
murd—I mean, this Mr. Lafitte.”
“Isn’t Pierre Lafitte a friend of yours? Wouldn’t you like me to get him
out of jail?” asked the masculinely subtle Grymes, understanding her
aversion toward Jean.
“Why, of course! But still, it wasn’t necessary for you to resign, to
help him, was it? And besides, he has his brother. They are rich enough
to protect themselves. And you—you must depend on your salary. You know
you wouldn’t take a cent of the money mother left me, although I’ve
begged you to. Don’t you think that charity begins at home?” she ended,
pleadingly.
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“That’s why I am resigning, Jinny. Charity does begin at home. And that’s
why Livingston took the case, too. I know. Rich as he is, twenty thousand
dollars isn’t to be despised!”
“Twenty thousand dollars? What do you mean?” she asked, in surprise.
“Just what I say. Lafitte offered us each twenty thousand dollars, if we
would take the case. And we accepted. After all, twenty thousand dollars
is a fortune.”
“Oh, father, how _could_ you?” she asked, her cheeks glowing.
He looked at her in astonishment, and with well-masked trepidation, it
may be admitted.
“What do you mean, Jinny?” sharply.
“How could you take that pirate’s blood money? The money he made out
of human flesh, out of the bodies and souls of poor negro slaves!” she
cried, flaming. “This terrible slave trade should be abolished—destroyed!
And instead of that—what do men do? They smuggle them, like silks and tea
and wine, and mistreat and beat them! And this pirate ... he is worse!
And yet you will defend him?”
“And what about your precious Pierre Lafitte?” demanded Grymes. “He is
no better than his brother, if you regard it in that light. He is just
as much of a pirate, as you call them. Yet _you_ are defending him! Just
because Jean, however, had the misfortune to kill two men, both of whom
attempted to take his life, as I’ve been told by reliable persons, you
call him a murderer! And after he saved your life! That’s not like you
at all! I told you, Virginia, not to pay any attention to what Margaret
Claiborne tells you. Her father is the man who sent Pierre to jail
without bail and is their deadly enemy! How can you expect him to speak
well of the Lafittes?”
Virginia listened to her father’s angry peroration in silence. He,
however, could not know of what she was thinking—of the story of the
slave girl—for whose possession Jean had supposedly killed Grambo, the
quadroon.
“I don’t care!” she cried, passionately, “I hate him ... despise him
... loathe him! And both you and that supercilious Mr. Livingston ought
to be ashamed to have any dealings with him! The ... the....” She broke
off abruptly. “I warn you, father, that no good will come of this. Don’t
resign—don’t!” Her eyes glistened, tearful, pleading.
He did not answer her this time, however.
Folding the resignation, he placed it in an envelope, addressed it,
sealed it, and rang for the butler.
A moment later old Rappahannock entered.
“Rappahannock,” said Grymes, without looking at Virginia, “see that this
letter is delivered to Judge Linwood the first thing in the morning. That
is all.” The old butler, with a glance at the silent Virginia, took the
letter and, bowing, shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind him.
No sooner had he left, however, than Virginia followed him to the door.
“Good night, father,” she said, listlessly, and was gone.
John Grymes stared at the closed door, the muscles of his face tense. For
the first time in her life Virginia had not kissed him good-night and
suddenly, inexplicably, without being able to understand it himself, he
found himself thinking of her long-dead mother. After all these years....
Dropping into his armchair, he filled his glass from the decanter of
Burgundy on the table, and drank it down. Staring into the dying fire in
the huge fireplace, he drank another, and another and another.
The candles began to gutter out. Weird shadows furtively stalked the
circumambient gloom.
Plans, projects—gold. Exaltation....
A few words from youthful lips—lips framing the hymnus of youth, the
gladness of life. Words vibrant with the honesty, the unhypocriticalness
of youth. Stinging, damning words.
Walking to the window, John Grymes stared out into the velvet chalice of
the night, drenched in magic and moonlight.
Twenty thousand dollars?