_Wherein Is Encountered a Man—a Maid—And a Moon_
“Romance?” queried Lafitte. “Romance, Miss Grymes, enters into the
life of every mortal—and, like love—and hate—it is primitive.” He fell
strangely silent, staring into the darkness of the trees.
The two of them were alone, for Grymes had joined the feasters in the
banquet hall, leaving his host and daughter together on the terrace near
the dining room, leaning on the parapet overlooking the gardens. In the
distance, through the palmetto fronds and foliage of the magnolias, could
be seen the lights of great bonfires in the village and the glimmering
lanterns of the ships in the harbor. Snatches of song and altercation,
laughter and jesting, were borne to them on the night breeze, telling
them that the celebration of the day’s victory was not yet over.
Above them, high in the purple-black firmament, hung the harvest moon,
whose soft golden glow, falling on the shadowed gardens, breathing of
mystery and romance ... the gleaming, phosphorescent waters of the Bay
... and the flagged terraces and tiled roofs of Bordeaux Manor ... lent
an air of glamourous enchantment to the scene.
Forgetting to reply, the girl cupped her chin in her hands and stared
into the mysteriously alluring distance, fascinated by the scented, balmy
atmosphere—the odor of jasmine, orange blossoms, roses—and the magic of
the friendly but coquettish moon.
It was a typical Southern night, and Virginia, a Southerner in every
fiber, fairly gloried in it, basking in its magnetism—for it had
magnetism. But Lafitte, himself a lover of the beautiful—himself a
Southerner of that romantic Gallic land where chivalry and sentiment
went hand in hand, although under the same celestial hypnosis—was more
absorbed in another spectacle, the most exquisite that Nature vouchsafes
to mere man—that of a beautiful woman, of a land noted for its feminine
pulchritude.
Feasting his eyes on this slip of Virginian loveliness he felt his
artistic soul stirred to its tumultuous depths; filled with an exquisite
yearning, suffering every torturing ecstasy of the lover who feels that
he worships in vain.
A man—a maid—and a moon!
“What a beautiful moon!” exclaimed Virginia, impulsively.
Lafitte started, aroused from his self-imposed lethargy, and turned his
stare on that celestial gentleman. He regarded it seriously, probingly,
his shapely head slightly atilt.
“On just such a night,” he half whispered, as if to himself, “Jessica
stole from Shylock’s house to meet her lover ... Leander swam the
Hellespont ... and Romeo serenaded Juliet.”
As if to give credence to his words, a man’s rich baritone was heard
from the beach, singing a French love song—a pæan of nocturnal sins—to
the thrumming of a wailing guitar. The eyes of the two listeners
instinctively turned toward a high balcony above their heads, to the
right, much as if they expected to witness just such another amorous
tableau.
They looked at each other guiltily and laughed.
“You are a sentimentalist, Mr. Lafitte,” she accused, “and, apparently, a
great lover of novels ... and romance.”
“All Frenchmen are lovers of romance,” he returned, smiling.
“And are adepts in the art of love-making?”
He flushed. “No. If you will allow me to say so, here is one who is not.”
“I have—er—heard differently,” with an assumed indifference.
“Indeed?”
How exasperating he was. She realized she had met her match in the game
of repartee, and they had hardly as yet crossed swords! She grew reckless.
“What of your Mauritian fisher-girl?”
He stiffened. “What do you mean?” abruptly.
“I mean—Lizette Fondac,” faintly. Inexplicably, she turned her face from
him.
“What do you know of—of Ma’amselle Fondac?” he asked, in surprise.
“I know the whole story—of how she saved your life.” She paused
uncomfortably, then bravely plunged. “Speaking of love—and romance—there
is an example, sir. You said a moment ago that love is primitive, or
words to that effect. I say that real love is more than primitive—it is
magnificent—especially magnificent when it gives all without question.
Real love is renunciation. That is how, I imagine, your Lizette felt
toward love. She gave her life without question. Isn’t that the greatest
sacrifice a lover can make?”
“No!” fiercely. “Love’s greatest sacrifice is when one has loved and lost
... when one has given up one’s love—living—to his rival—to his best
friend—to his brother!”
The bitterness of his outburst startled her, and its wording the more.
Doubtless, she thought, he was referring to an affair in which he had
been worsted by a friend—or Pierre! Perhaps concerning Gabrielle, or
Céleste, or Angélique—or Margaret Claiborne! Like a lightning shock came
back to her the forgotten words of her chum, on that memorable day!
“I thought so, once, too,” with reference to the eyes of Lafitte.
Could it be that Margaret and Lafitte—and why not? Suddenly her heart
felt sick. Suppose she had been wrong all this time ... Margaret might
have told her that story purely from meanness of soul—or jealously!
Pierre Lafitte had unembarrassedly told her the story of Grambo, with but
the slightest mention of a slave girl.
“Jealousy!”
She hugged the word to her heart ... could it be? From that moment
a dislike of Margaret was to remain with her, and a new emotion was
born—the emotion that had gripped her by the throat when Espinosa had
attacked Lafitte, that very day.
Virginia would have given much to read the mind of the Baratarian
at that moment. If she had been able, many things would have been
cleared, for Lafitte, in his last bitter remark, had been referring
to herself—thinking that his own brother loved Virginia Grymes, and
he, Jean, could not enter the race, because of no less than—his past
attitude. For Pierre, he knew, was convinced that he, Jean, could never
love again ... that his heart was buried with Lizette. And, fool that he
was, he had strengthened Pierre’s conviction these past ten years, by his
acting, his foolish pose.
He could not, in honor, now drop what was really a mask and enter the
lists ... he must remain a poseur.
Yet how he loved her—how he fought to restrain his love! For one mad
moment he had thought of taking her—this American rose. Was she not in
his power? Was not his word law, here at Grande Terre? She had willfully
put herself into his hands ... why should he not take this gift of the
gods? After all, he was considered but a pirate, and a pirate took what
he wanted—regardless of consequences.
But the next moment found him despising himself for the thought, for he
remembered Espinosa. The Spaniard, too, had taken what he wanted.
Looking at her, bewitchingly lovely in the moonlight, he trembled with
the very fury of his emotions—longing to pick her up in his arms, and
fly, to the southern seas—to some uncharted tropical island—anywhere away
from the world. Happiness was sure to be found—
But he knew it was impossible—this. It was only a dream, tantalizing,
but unreal. There was one obstacle which he could never surmount—his
conscience—his sense of honor. Never could he play the traitor’s rôle to
his brother—and his associates—his comrades.
He stared at the lights of the distant village and heard the snatches
of rollicking laughter—the oaths—the songs. No, never could he desert
his beloved rascals, for without his brain, his cunning, they would be
but as easy prey to that inveterate enemy, William Claiborne. And if
love—bitter-sweet poison!—could force him to desert them, he could never
thus use his brother.
In this strain rushed Lafitte’s thoughts, while Virginia mused, neither
noticing the silent absorption of the other, yet both acutely conscious
of each other’s proximity.
“How did you come to hear of Lizette, Miss Grymes?” he asked, quietly,
regaining his poise.
“Your brother—Pierre Dominique—told me.”
“What—how much did he tell you?” asked Jean, wondering if Pierre had been
indiscreet enough to mention the death of Brouillard—his career in the
Caribbean.
“We were speaking about you—I was asking about you—” unguardedly. He
thrilled to learn that she had been interested enough in him to question
Pierre.
“He told me about the duel—and the accident—and that’s all—” lamely.
Suddenly she turned to him. “I hope you’ll pardon my curiosity, Mr.
Lafitte,” she said, contritely. “It was rude of me and far ruder to
mention it to you.” Her eyes clouded.
“Pardon her,” indeed! He trembled with delight.
“But certainly! Forget the matter. I will tell you of it, though I have
never spoken of it to anyone else.”
Virginia thrilled.
“I was but a boy when it took place. And I was deeply in love with
Lizette. _Parbleu_—yes! She was dark, slim, charming—a sprite—a
mermaid....” He paused for a moment, his introspective gaze bridging the
colorful years. “But you know the story ... it is not one that one likes
to talk about. In any event, after her death, and since, I have never
let myself fall in love—but once, perhaps, and that is irrelevant—”
She instantly thought of Margaret Claiborne—he was thinking of one
Virginia Grymes. But neither was a mind-reader, unfortunately.
“But Lizette ... I almost persuaded myself that my love was the real
thing. Indeed, I sincerely believed so ... until I met—until Pierre
persuaded me differently.” Damning evidence! “Pierre has always been my
adviser—my chum. There is a husband for any woman,” he added, loyally.
At his words she unaccountably flushed, and Jean felt convinced ... his
theory that she and his brother loved each other was a true one.
The tables had been turned on Virginia. Embarrassed, she turned the
conversation.
“By the way,” she interjected, suddenly, “pardon my interruption, but
there is something I want to talk to you about.”
At once he was all attention.
“It is ‘black ivory.’”
Jean stared at her.
“I believe that is what you call them—the slaves, I mean.”
“Yes, we call them ‘black ivory,’” answered Lafitte, somewhat puzzled.
“I’ll tell you,” she began, assuming a confidence she did not feel. “You
see, I’ve spent the past few years in Philadelphia, and during that time
I’ve met many interesting people, among whom were some members of the
Society of Friends.”
“The Quakers,” supplemented the Frenchman.
“Yes. Well, their sect doesn’t seem to be at all in favor of slavery,
Mr. Lafitte, and to a certain extent I agree with them. Personally,
I really think that slavery is a cruel institution—but it can’t be
otherwise, I suppose, and will always exist. Father says that the negro
is too uncivilized and altogether mentally incapable of assuming the
responsibility of his own welfare—if he were allowed to do so.”
“That is true,” said Lafitte, “and not only that, but the blacks will
never be freed, for the simple reason that we can’t do without them ...
they are our only source of labor.”
“Isn’t that a selfish doctrine?” demanded Virginia.
“Perhaps, but nevertheless a true one. What the Quakers say is all
nonsense. Slavery is better for all concerned.”
“But in the North the slave isn’t very important.”
“Because he couldn’t live in the Northern climate. While here, in the
South, the negro, accustomed to heat, is the only laborer to use. I have
heard some of these men speak, from the Colonies of Massachusetts and New
York,” he went on, “but they are wrong—absolutely. And they forget, most
of them, that it was their own ancestors who fostered slavery in America.
Finding that they could not profitably use the blacks in the cold North,
they sold them to the Southern planters. Now Congress has forbidden the
further importation of slaves. The Northern Colonies can no longer make
money by selling them to us, and so are enraged—”
“But, Mr. Lafitte, I am not talking about the rights or wrongs of the
practice of slavery itself. You may be right there. But I do think
they should be treated better—not like cattle or goods.” She looked
up, facing him, with hesitation. His dark eyes were meditative. “And
not only smuggled, but stolen!” She paused then took the plunge. “Mr.
Lafitte, why do you engage in this trade—in the barter of human souls?”
He did not answer, but looked into the distance. Suddenly he realized
that he had been expecting this question—dreading it—and knew that he was
unable to answer it.
“You know what they are saying of you?” she asked.
“My enemies, yes. That I am a pirate—a—”
“The world does say that! And, true or not, is it worth it?” Impulsively
she laid her hand on his as it rested on the parapet. “No real gentleman
would stoop to such an occupation. Ah, I have hurt you? No? I didn’t mean
to, but nevertheless it is the truth. Some day you may regret it, Mr.
Lafitte. It does not benefit one to antagonize convention, sir, or the
world. Come, why do you do it? There must be a reason; of course, it’s
partly money, but still another. What is it?”
He stared at her for a moment before speaking.
“You are right,” he said, slowly, “it is more than mere money. I have
enough of that. But it is the love of the game—the excitement of the
thing—that keeps me at it. Excitement is the breath of my life; it
stimulates me—keeps me from thinking too much—gives me my only pleasure.”
She grew thoughtful, her ivory-like brow wrinkling.
“But why not use your brain and money in a legitimate service, Mr.
Lafitte? Lead an honest life, if I may use the term, and don’t give
anyone an opportunity to say that ‘Jean Lafitte is a pirate, who, with
his money and influence, corrupts men of honor and is a menace to the
government!’ That is practically what a great many people are saying,
to-day.
“Why do you do this, Mr. Lafitte? I know, or rather, have been told,
that the Creoles dislike our government—and that there are those who
wish to defy it, who really hold it in contempt! But it won’t be long,
sir—it won’t be long before your Creoles will be only too proud to call
themselves Americans! Some day our United States will be the greatest
nation on earth ... I know it!” In her voice was the fiery spirit
bequeathed to her by her mother and grandmother, the women who had sent
their husbands and sons to fight for their nation’s independence with
smiling lips and breaking hearts.
As she stood there, her face earnestly aglow with a prophetic light, her
figure etherealized by the moon’s magic, she looked almost unearthly.
Lafitte was as one struck dumb, his eyes alone shining with adoration,
his heart-beats set a-rioting by the contact of their hands, of which she
seemed unconscious.
“Mr. Lafitte, what do you say? It is not too late. Give up this life—”
The light in his eyes died out and his lips closed firmly.
“You may be right, Miss Grymes, but I cannot desert my friends.”
But she ignored this.
“Sue for pardon of the Governor, sir. You have friends. It can be done!”
“Ask Claiborne for a favor? Never! You don’t know the Lafittes,
ma’amselle. No, what you ask is impossible—utterly!” His voice was harsh;
she could not know of the mental strain under which he was laboring—how
he fairly longed to win her favor, to do this thing that would make them
friends. If he did, if he but would ... what could not happen?
But Pierre, what of Pierre?
“No, Miss Grymes,” he went on, gravely, “I am sorry to be forced to say
so ... and please believe that I appreciate your interest. But what you
ask is impossible. I have made my bed and must lie on it. Some day,
perhaps, some day....” He stopped and stared moodily at the Bay. What was
the use?
For a brief moment Virginia was silent. But her mind ran riot with
tumultuous thoughts. A strange mental metamorphosis toward Lafitte had
taken place—from one extreme to another. Whereas, up to this eventful
day, and this last hour of enlightenment, she had held a fierce
antagonism toward this gentleman smuggler—born of her belief that he
had shot the quadroon for the possession of a negress—now that she had
unwittingly discovered the falsity of the tale, or rather, had convinced
herself of its falsity, she felt overwhelmed with a sense of shame and
remorse, perhaps not unmixed with self-pity.
Shame, that she should have ever harbored or expressed a feeling of
repulsion or hatred against Lafitte; remorse, that she should have ever
spoken or felt bitterly against him, who, whatever he might be, had saved
her life, and again saved her from a fate worse than death; and lastly,
she felt self-pity as she thought of what might have been—of how she
might have had even this man among men at her feet. Not because of a
spirit of coquetry nor as a salve for her vanity—she was too sweet to be
vain—but for some undefinable reason, she knew she wanted him there, with
a fierce desire ... why, she couldn’t even explain to herself.
But, easily to be seen, the Baratarian was not in that position, and
she could not but admit that she was piqued by his aloofness. Masculine
aloofness toward herself was a hitherto unimaginable experience. This
pique it was, then, that had forced her so to dislike him! A woman will
forgive anything in a man—anything, ’tis said—but a pointed lack of
interest in herself. What woman is insensible to the homage paid her
charms? And by the same token, what woman is insensible to the _lack_ of
that homage?
With all the passionate fire of her Southern temperamental heritage,
Virginia was fiercely jealous of Margaret Claiborne—and Lizette. Equally
unknown to herself, she loved the man styled “the duke of Little Manchac”
... the handsome autocrat of his island domain.
On one thing she was clearly resolved. She would do all she could to
atone for her unjust suspicions, her lack of faith. She would reclaim
him, if possible, from his piratical life—and perhaps yet break that wall
of aloofness.
The end justified the means ... why worry at this pregnant moment about
the niceties of convention? All man-made customs and conventions and
inhibitions must give way to the demands of nature.... Was not nature and
romance but as one? And had not Lafitte himself but a short time before
quoted an immutable cosmic law?
“Romance,” he had said, “enters into the life of every mortal—and, like
love—and hate—it is primitive.”
Yes, romance was primitive ... as was love and hate. The cave-woman of
the Stone Age and this cultured young girl of this modern era, beneath
the thin veneer of civilization, were at heart but as one.
Thus Eve. Thus Cleopatra. Thus Laura. Thus Helen. Thus Juliet. And thus
the Eves, Cleopatras, Lauras, Helens, and Juliets of all ages, all time.
“Jean—Mr. Lafitte—” The “Jean” was a daring touch.
He turned abruptly, thrilling at their proximity. How he yearned for
her!—with a mental ache that tortured his every nerve. He struggled to
avert his eyes, to resist the temptation of crushing her in his arms.
“_Sacré Dieu!_” he muttered, his senses in a swirl, “was ever man so
tempted before?” _Was_ ever man so seared by this fiendish demon of Love?
He gripped the parapet until his knuckles shone white—fighting within
himself for control—struggling to regain his much-vaunted poise. Two
internal Lafittes were now at grips—the cool-headed, impassive cynic and
the emotional, love-torn sentimentalist. Which would gain the mastery?
But the girl could not know of this mental chaotic maelstrom. If she had
known, would she carry out her plan—execute her test? Perhaps not, and
again, being a woman, perhaps....
“Captain Lafitte,” she breathed, face upturned to his, dark eyes on his
in mute appeal, “won’t you do this—can’t you, for my sake?” It was the
acme of feminine appeal, this, used, perhaps, since the days of Eve.
For a moment Lafitte was stone-like—his black eyes in vivid contrast to
his pale face.
“For _your_ sake?” he murmured, more with a fierce joy than in surprise.
“_Nom de Dieu!_ For your sake?” He gripped her by the arms and gazed
searchingly into her eyes, an operation not conducive to lucid
introspection at any time, let alone when they shone with the very
essence of the moon-glamour.
For a brief space she was filled with consternation at the reaction her
words had evoked, and longed—fairly longed—for the power to recall them.
But something greater than her will, some vague, indefinable power, urged
her on. She nodded dumbly, unable to resist the magnetism of his eyes,
momentarily fascinated.
Sweeping her into his arms, he passionately kissed her, once—twice—on the
lips, and, wonder of wonders!—she returned it! But it was that strange,
delirious power within her that did so. The normal Virginia Grymes was in
a spell—a spell of sudden, overwhelming happiness, ’tis true, but still
in a state of unreality—the sweet wonderland of love’s flaming exaltation.
Attempting to awaken from that delicious momentary surrender, to
regain the world of prosaic reality, she attempted to break away, but
hopelessly, and capitulated—gloriously.
She knew, at that moment, that she loved and always would love this
imperious pirate—this Jean Lafitte!
“For your sake,” he repeated, with a fierce under-note, “I’d cheerfully
walk through the Inferno and laugh! I, who have seen your form in every
flower, your eyes in every star—whose voice echoed in every breeze—whose
angelic presence has blessed my dreams! For your sake—”
“You love me?” she murmured, still under the hypnosis of that magic
glamour. “_You_ love me?” unbelievingly, mechanically.
“Do I love you?” he cried, exultantly. “Great God! Why did Leander swim
the Hellespont? Because he loved her! Why did I—love you? _Je t’adore!_ I
adore you—worship you!” He half sobbed with a fierce joy, the joy bells
in his soul deafening him with their wondrous pæan.
“The wonder of it!” he whispered, “the glorious wonder! I love you, and
you love—but do you, do you? Tell me, light of my life, _ma cœur_, if
you could care for a poor devil of a Frenchman? Tell me ... tell me!” he
entreated, hoarsely, holding her a little away, staring with devouring
eyes into her pale face—experiencing a rhapsody of eager joy.
Of a sudden voices were heard; across the gardens, ’tis true, but none
the less distinct. Startled, the two lovers looked up and half fell apart.
“But where can I find _le bosse_?” they heard, faintly.
“He cannot be disturbed. He is with his guests,” came the reply.
“But I must see him!” exclaimed the first, with an oath. “I come
post-haste from N’Awleens with letters from Monsieur Pierre Lafitte.
There is trouble in the wind. Martain says that Claiborne has cooked up
another scheme. _Dame_, yes!”
“Trouble again?” said the other. “It is to laugh! Why, only to-day—” His
voice became indistinguishable as the two evidently moved away.
When Jean next spoke, the fire had died from his voice. Jean the lover
was gone ... the old Lafitte was back in his place, jerked back to
himself by the interruption at this critical moment.
“Virginia—ma’amselle—” he said, dully, “forgive me, pray forgive me, if
you can. I was mad—mad! This thing can never be. God, no! What a fool
I was! I thought to bury honor—manhood. ‘The evil that men do lives
after them’ ... _c’est vrai_ ... too true! I cannot turn traitor to my
friends—my men. _Le bon Dieu_ forgive me for a coward ... a heartless
wretch—but I cannot! You will forgive my ungentlemanly conduct, Miss
Grymes?” he pleaded.
“Ungentlemanly conduct!” And he had just avowed eternal love! What a
mockery—a travesty—is life!
She smothered a sob in the merciful shadows, and Lafitte looked at her
eagerly.
“Can’t you—won’t you understand?” he asked, a world of suffering in his
voice. But she was oblivious to it, apparently, for she laughed—or was it
a sob?
“I understand perfectly, sir,” she said, with hauteur, in a hard, bitter
voice, “and despise the advantage you took of a defenseless woman. And
I do not forgive you, for there is nothing to forgive!” She laughed
scornfully, but it broke and became a sob. “But I suppose all men are
alike! Only the—the Spaniard was frank—”
“Ma’amselle!” His hands contracted ... the thrust had gone painfully
deep. “Do you mean to say that you do not—that you did not—”
She raised her chin haughtily, though her wet, sensitive eyes denied any
imputation of acting on her part.
“Precisely. I was merely playing with you, Mr. Lafitte, flirting, if you
will.” Ah, if his eyes could have but pierced the gloom and detected the
heartbreaking lie. Poor Jean ... and poor Virginia.
His head fell to his breast and his half-outstretched hands to his side.
For a moment her features softened, but only for a moment. For she
remembered those kisses—her surrender.
She hardened.
“Moreover, Mr. Lafitte,” she exclaimed in a choked voice, “I—hate you.”
And she was gone.