The carriage, rolling majestically down the Rue de Burgundy, that quaint
street of heavily grated archways, high lattices, and iron-railed
balconies, came to a smooth halt before the red-brick-front, balconied
mansion of the Livingstons, with its dark, covered carriageway and green
batten shutters. A passer-by, at sight of its occupant, suddenly stopped
and stared at her, unnoticed.
Alighting from the carriage, a woman ascended the steps of the imposing
dwelling, was admitted, ushered into the high-ceilinged, paneled chamber,
and was left there to face the master of the house.
Hardly waiting to go through with the usual polite banalities, Virginia
Grymes plunged directly into conversation.
“Could you tell me, Mr. Livingston, where father has gone? I’ve just
returned from the Claibornes’, to find a note at home telling me that
he has had to go out of town on business and would be gone about a
week. That is quite unusual for father. He always tells me where he
goes—Rappahannock told me, however, that he was here just before leaving,
so I thought perhaps that you might know. I’m rather worried ... and I
_must_ see him!”
Livingston smiled paternally.
“There is no need to worry, my dear, for I do happen to know where he has
gone. But I should prefer not to tell you ... at least, I don’t believe
that he would like me to tell you, since he hasn’t so informed you in his
note. It is a business matter, you see.” He smiled again quite paternally.
She looked puzzled, her expressive dark eyes clouding.
“But why all the secrecy, Mr. Livingston?”
“Well, I—”
“But I simply must see him. It is very important for me to do so.”
“I’m very sorry, but it is impossible.”
“Why?” sharply.
The attorney decided to tell her.
“Because you cannot reach him at present. He has gone to Barataria.”
She clutched at her bosom, her hand rigid.
“To Barataria?” she murmured.
Livingston looked surprised, and vaguely annoyed at her emotion.
“Yes, to Grande Terre.”
“But why—why?” she cried.
“What do you mean?” he asked, coldly.
“Why did he go there, of all places?”
“If you must know,” he answered, his displeasure manifest in his voice,
“he went to see Mr. Lafitte, on business.”
“Mr. Lafitte!” thunder-struck. “But why did he go? You must tell me—I
insist!”
Livingston gazed at her disapprovingly.
“I am afraid I cannot,” he said, calmly. It could easily be seen, he
thought, that the daughter of John Grymes was spoiled. Virginia, however,
forgetting all convention, grasped his coat lapels.
“You must tell me why,” she commanded, her eyes defiant, her chin
haughty; “you must, you _must_!”
Livingston stared at her, thoroughly astonished and somewhat alarmed.
“My dear Miss Grymes, calm yourself! I am very much surprised at your
behavior, I must admit. Indeed, I would like an explanation.”
Virginia looked at him for a moment, gravely.
“Mr. Livingston ... it is highly essential that I know. You must tell
me!” She released his lapels.
“But—”
“I saw Pierre Lafitte last Tuesday. He mentioned nothing of any such
trip.”
“He did not know anything about it, Miss Grymes. But, since you are so
insistent, I will tell you. Your father went to Grande Terre to collect
our fees, at the invitation of Jean Lafitte.”
She stared at him, puzzled.
“But why didn’t Mr. Lafitte send it to you? Why didn’t you go with father
to Barataria?”
Livingston looked rather uncomfortable, although he fought against
showing it. Why should he, Edward Livingston, experience embarrassment
on being questioned by a mere slip of a girl? But then, why shouldn’t he
tell her the reason of his reluctance to accept the pirate’s invitation?
He fairly ached to discuss it with some one ... and she was John
Grymes’s daughter. Why not with her?
“I’ll tell you, Miss Grymes. Personally, I mistrusted Mr. Lafitte’s
invitation to come to Barataria to get our money. As you say, why
shouldn’t he have sent it to us here, as is proper? Therefore, I refused,
and—”
“Let father go!” finished Virginia. “Mr. Livingston, I am surprised at
you! How dared you let him go, alone, to that nest of—pirates? I just
know he’ll never get back alive! And it will be your fault, sir, and
Mr. Lafitte’s, too! I warned father not to take that case—that no good
would come of it. And I was right! What _has_ come of it? First, father
resigned his official position to accept it. That was bad enough. Then
he was insulted in open court—accused—of—of—dishonor, and was forced
to fight a duel in consequence ... and almost killed Mr. Hemingway ...
crippled him for life!” She was almost in tears now, but her anger was
growing upon her. Livingston stared at her, fascinated, unable to put in
a word in his own or Grymes’ defense, so petrified with surprise was he.
As for his militant companion, she swept on.
“And now you’ve let him go to Grande Terre—to those pirates, and didn’t
stop him! Why? Because you wanted that money, Mr. Livingston, but valued
your own skin too much to try to get it! So you let father go! How did
you _dare_ to, sir, how _did_ you dare to, when you knew that he was
going into danger?”
For a moment the eminent lawyer was speechless—with rage, and something
else, something he couldn’t quite define. But she gave him no time
for further thought—further argument. She walked to the door, cheeks
blazing and eyes flashing, without another word ... as if unable to
trust herself to say more. Livingston followed her to the hall; indeed,
almost jeopardized his dignity by hurrying. What might not this Amazonian
creature do? Where might she not make another scene, doing infinite harm
to both her father and himself? Suppose Claiborne should get hold of the
story ... at just this most inopportune time? Or suppose any one of those
Creole gentlemen scandalmongers should get it into their heads that he,
Edward Livingston, scion of one of America’s most elegant families, was
afraid to risk his skin in the stronghold of the man who was his client,
whom he had just extolled so highly before all the world! What gossip
would ensue! At the clubs—on the _banquettes_!
She must be stopped at all costs!
“Miss Grymes, where are you going—what do you purpose doing?” asked
Livingston, nervously, as he reached her at the door, which she had
already opened. At the curb her carriage was waiting, with the impassive
Scipio on the box.
She turned and looked at him, her manner breathing contempt.
“Do, sir? Why, I’m going to father, of course!”
He was astounded at this intelligence. Was the girl demented?
“You’re going to Barataria?” he cried, hoarsely. “Good God, girl, you
don’t know what you are saying! It—it’s impossible!”
Her chin came up defiantly.
“Why is it impossible? I’m my own mistress, Mr. Livingston.”
“But, Miss Grymes ... it _is_ impossible! Think of it ... you, a
young—lady ... a gentlewoman, to go alone to that pirates’ resort ... to
voluntarily place yourself in the power of those outlaws, low sailors! It
is preposterous! Unthinkable!”
“I hardly think that Mr. Lafitte, if he _is_ a ruffian, would let me come
to harm, sir. He would not dare!”
The choleric Livingston almost choked with exasperation.
“But, Miss Grymes, you do not understand! It is impossible because you
simply cannot. It would be the worst breach of convention one could
make.... Come, Miss Grymes, you must admit that it will arouse a great
deal of unpleasant talk—scandal! It may be bad taste for me to mention
this, but you force me to.... Come, come—give up this foolish project!
You have your name, your reputation, to think of ... and that of your
father, besides. I know you love him too well to cast a stain on his
name!”
For a moment she regarded him intently, as if trying to fathom his very
soul.
“That is just why I am going, Mr. Livingston,” she said, proudly,
“because I love him and wish to shield him from harm. In the event
that he is in danger, as you, yourself, believe him to be—don’t deny
it, sir!—I may be the means of averting it. They would not dare harm
me! As for scandal, let them talk! This is no time to consider petty
conventions! My father is in danger and I am going to him ... and
besides, sir, who can be a better chaperon for me than my own father?”
“Yes, but people will think—will say—er—they will put different
constructions—”
“Who need know, Mr. Livingston? I will go on our own little sloop, which
will be manned by our own people.... And I’m sure you will not advertise
the fact of my departure.”
“No, no, it is not to be thought of!”
“I am of the same opinion, Mr. Livingston. It is not to be _thought of_
... it is to be done! And the sooner the better! Therefore, I wish you a
very good day, Mr. Livingston!”
She swept him a curtsy and descended the steps, walking toward the
carriage. Scipio gathered up the reins and the mettlesome blacks
champed at their bits, eager to be off. Unnoticed, the same passer-by,
a Spaniard, was still loitering near by, his insolent gaze fixed on
Virginia.
Livingston followed her to the carriage step, not primarily for the
purpose of helping her into the vehicle, as was the custom, but to
further remonstrate. Virginia would not hear him, however. The coachman
was about to start.
Livingston, goaded to desperation in the knowledge of her intentions,
which, if discovered, would make that estimable personage the
laughing-stock of New Orleans, threw all discretion to the winds. He had
tried everything—cajolery, veiled threats, argument. But she had been
obdurate. He was desperate.
“Miss Grymes,” he cried, as the carriage was about to roll off, “in your
father’s name, in the name of decency, I _forbid_ you to go to Grande
Terre!”
For a moment she stared at him in unbelief, and then burst into silvery
laughter. At his distinctly audible words the loiterer started in
surprise and moved a little nearer. Neither the girl nor the man noticed
him, so absorbed were they.
“I’ faith,” she cried, “_you_ should be the last to forbid anyone, Mr.
Livingston!” Her scorn deepened. “Though one shouldn’t be surprised in
your forbidding a mere girl to go where a great strong man like yourself
would not trust himself! But Virginia Grymes is the daughter of her
father, sir! Good day, Mr. Livingston!”
The carriage rolled away over the cobblestones and turned the next
corner, to disappear.
But Edward Livingston stood on the curbstone—dumb—infuriated.
For the first time in his life, Edward Livingston, leader of the
Louisiana bar, a Livingston—of _the_ Livingstons—had been insulted,
shamed to his face, and by a mere slip of femininity.
He shook with the violence of his emotions.
“Impertinent baggage!”
But Manuel Encarnacion Espinosa paid him no further attention, for he was
staring down the street after the departing carriage, a joyous gleam in
his eyes, his faith in the holy saints now trebly strengthened by this
stroke of luck.
A moment later, he, too, walked hurriedly away, and again the
sun-splashed Rue de Burgundy was deserted.