Pierre Dominique and François de Moulin, in spirits as lightsome as their
costumes were gay, marched arm-in-arm down the moonlight-drenched street,
headed for the cluster of lights that told of the presence of the theater
ball.
“And he sayce to me,” De Moulin was saying, “‘you do nod realize eet,
_mon ami_, bud zis war es going to be brought home to us—an’ dam’ soon,
at zat!’ An’ when I laugh he sayce, ‘ze next step de British are going to
take will be an attemp’ to invade Louisiana!’”
“I’m not so sure, Grymes isn’t right,” said Lafitte, thoughtfully, for
once. “Jean tells me that he’s sure of it. Du Boulanger got through the
blockade last week—he was coming from France—and he told Jean that it
isn’t a rumor, but a fact; that none of us have the slightest conception
of the blow that Great Britain contemplates dealing us. He pointed out
that the war between England and France is at an end, that Napoleon is
safe in exile, and, therefore, that she is now able to send her whole
military and naval power against us—and you know what that means!”
De Moulin nodded.
“You may be right. Accord’n to Grymes, zere ees at zis moment an armada
on ze sea, zat consists of at least fifty warsheeps an’ a zousand guns;
manned by ze veterans of Trafalgar an ze Nile. But of course it’s all
rumor.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be a fire,” said Pierre, dryly.
“I’ll admit that I don’t believe the story that the Duke of Wellington,
himself, is to be in command, but I do believe that something is afoot.
Anyway, Du Boulanger thought it important enough to go to Claiborne and
warn him. But the pompous ass laughed at him.”
“If he wanted zat man to believe anyzing, he should ’ave told him exactly
ze opposite!” muttered François. “Ze more I zink of some people, ze less
I zink of zem!” with sage plagiarism.
For a moment or two they walked on in silence. A block ahead of them
a dark figure vanished around the corner of a stone wall on the Rue
Polymnia; a _guichinango_, perhaps—a garrotter, or night cutthroat, with
which the city abounded. When they reached the corner, however, he had
disappeared.
“Speaking of Grymes,” said François, “have you heard zat he ess in
financial difficulties?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised, when I remember how he gambled away his fee
two years ago,” referring to the Virginian’s visit to Grande Terre.
Jean Lafitte had sent him home in a yawl boat loaded to the gunwales
with chests containing the forty thousand dollars that was his and
Livingston’s fees, for the legal defense of Pierre Lafitte, in gold
and silver coins. And all New Orleans knew the story of how Grymes had
gambled away his share of the treasure before he had even returned to the
city, having stopped to visit several planter friends _en route_. It had
been the talk of the town, mulled over and magnified a hundred times in
the clubs and on the _banquettes_.
“Two years,” murmured De Moulin. “What a lot ’as happened in zose two
years! Heah it’s 1814 an’ ze war isn’t over yet. I wonder what will
happen in ze next two years?”
“According to Du Boulanger, quite a lot will happen!” retorted Pierre.
“He says that the fleet’s bringing along a complete set of civil
officials to govern us, after they’ve annexed us to His Majesty’s
dominions. The officers are said to be bringing their wives, so they must
no doubt expect to make a rather longish stay. And Du Boulanger says that
British speculators expect to bring home fourteen millions of dollars in
loot—loot from our homes!”
“Enough about ze war!” cried François, gaily. “We have bud one life to
live, Pierre—let’s get what we can out of eet. If ze war comes, we’ll
fight. In ze meantime we’ll flirt! _Allons!_”
And arm in arm they approached the bright entrance of the theater
ballroom and began to ascend the stairs, exchanging pleasantries with a
descending pair of convivial friends.
In the great long room where the ball was in progress, they found an
animated and noisy crowd. In the flickering light of the colored lamps a
merrymaking mob of both sexes, members of the _demi-monde_ in the main,
but with a fair sprinkling of the masculine upper class, were dancing to
the music of violins and guitars, whose piercing melody rose even above
the lively buzz of the chattering groups.
As the pair entered, the dance came to an end and the floor began to
clear, until the center was almost empty. But as the music struck up
again, with the preliminary rattle of castanets, instead of beginning to
dance, the crowd formed a circle.
And as they eagerly craned their necks there was a slight commotion and a
babel of voices at the upper end of the room, and a girl was half pushed
into the circle—a quadroon, true, but beautiful as only beauties are that
are found among her caste—languorous, provocative eyes, sheenful hair of
storm-cloud hue, and a slim, lithesome, perfectly proportioned figure.
“Eet ees ze adorable Dolores,” whispered François. “She ees going to
dance—bud wait an’ see!”
Even as he spoke the “adorable Dolores,” with a swish of skirts and a tap
of little red heels, had begun to dance. The queen of the _demi-monde_,
for as such was she known, although of mixed descent, looked to be
Spanish to her dainty finger tips, and danced with the daring abandon
inherited from some light-footed Andalusian ancestress. To the rattle
of castanets, and the delirious throb of the music, she whirled and
pirouetted, the admired cynosure of all eyes.
At the finish of her dance the crowd closed around her with acclamation
and applause, and the music struck up again.
Shouldering his way through the throng, using his elbow to good
advantage, De Moulin with some difficulty reached her side, to find her
beseiged by a dozen gallants, begging her for the next dance.
“Ef ze gentlemen will pardon her”—his voice carried over the shoulders
of the group—“ma’amselle, I believe, ’as honored me wiz zis dance!” And
he smiled ingenuously into her startled eyes as he pushed his way to her
side.
A chorus of voices protested, but he took her arm decisively, looking
deep into her eyes, a proceeding rather popular with his friends of the
other sex.
“Am I not right?” he asked, and winked almost imperceptibly. For a moment
she hesitated, colored, then smiled. Without another word he began to
lead her to the floor.
Pierre Lafitte, watching the little scene from the rear, chuckled.
“In the meantime, we’ll flirt!” he quoted, and laughed.
But his laugh died away, for he saw a third figure suddenly confront the
Creole and his fair companion and lay his hand on the girl’s arm. With
surprise he recognized the gangling figure of the Yankee, Cyrus Nash,
friend of Hemingway, the district attorney, who had seconded the latter
in his duel with John Grymes.
“This dance is mine, Mister dee Moolan!” cried the Yankee, angrily. “What
do you mean by—”
De Moulin looked at him in surprise.
“Why, it’s Meestaire Nash!” he murmured, with feigned cordiality. “And
’ow ees youah nose, sair?” innocently.
Nash reddened, acutely conscious of the fact that the member mentioned
was now the object of a hundred curious stares. For a moment he merely
spluttered incoherently.
“You—you—I’ll break every bone in your body!”
“M’sieu wishes to fight?” cried François, with alacrity. “He ’ave wait a
long time—two years, _n’est-ce-pas_? I ’ave been greatly disappoint!”
“Who said anything about—” began the other, but paused. “So you want
to fight, do you? Any time’ll suit me! But it will be with bare
hands, Frenchy!” His fists doubled with anger as he stepped forward
threateningly. Dolores sprang between them theatrically, secretly
overjoyed to have two men of the _haut monde_ publicly quarreling over
her; ignorant of the real cause of their enmity.
“Stop—stop—m’sieurs! You muz not fight! I gave dis dance to—”
“—Me!” broke in François, urbanely. “If m’sieu wants to fight, for why he
don’t join ze army?”
A shout of laughter went up, in which even Dolores joined, at which Nash
paled with anger.
“Will you fight?” he demanded.
“No!” responded François, promptly. Dolores looked at him in dismay. Was
she to be cheated out of this?
“You’re scared!” exclaimed Nash, triumphantly.
De Moulin laughed, and stared pointedly at the other’s nose.
“Perhaps I am. But I only fight as gentlemen do, not like lackeys,”
contemptuously.
“All right!” snapped Nash, desperately. “I’ll meet you with pistols!”
Dolores brightened and looked at François eagerly.
“But I only fight _with_ gentlemen,” added the latter, suavely, at which
Nash sprang forward, cursing furiously. “Bud since you ’ave insult’ zese
ladies here wit’ your language,” the Creole continued, “I weel fight you
right now and will horsewhip you afterward!” The dancer simpered, and the
crowd yelled encouragement. The music had long since abruptly stopped.
“You muz nod fight ’count of me,” Dolores put in faintly, hoping that
they would pay her no attention. To her delight, and the envy of certain
of her dearest friends, her wish was gratified, but beyond even her
wildest dreams, for other gallants in the room, anxious to share the
limelight, pressed forward with offers to fight the “Yan-kee,” on the
flimsy grounds of his insult to the “ladies.” Evidently his profanity of
a few minutes before was to cost him dear.
As the tumult heightened, De Moulin, who was now sorry that he had given
way to the temptation of baiting the man he disliked, wondered how the
matter could be peaceably terminated; not because he was afraid to fight,
but because of what he knew the crowd would do to the rash New Englander,
in their eagerness to win admiration from their women-folk. For a moment
he hesitated, and his eyes, meeting those of Lafitte, flashed a message.
But at this moment some adventurous spirit fired a shot, and a lamp fell
to the floor, shattered. Women screamed and men cursed, forgetting their
chivalric intentions; there was a flashing of knives. Close upon the
heels of the first shot came a second, and a third, all fired harmlessly
overhead, but adding materially to the confusion. The Latin is quick to
take advantage of an opportunity to fight—especially a heaven-sent moment
like this when one could safely and conveniently wipe out old scores
with a dexterous blade or an errant bullet, and still add one’s bit to
the pleasure of the evening—for a ballroom fracas was no less than a
pleasure, here in the _demi-monde_.
Both Lafitte and De Moulin well knew these things, and simultaneously
decided to make themselves conspicuous by their absence, as some others
were already doing. They did not relish the prospect of having their
names connected with any such affair.
Cyrus Nash stood, an impotent figure in his bewilderment, a
well-justified apprehension taking its place as he uncertainly regarded
the rapidly darkening room, whose confusion was increasing tenfold.
François had unaccountably disappeared, he could hear the “adorable”
Dolores shrieking, and felt himself hemmed in, powerless to extricate
himself from the mêlée.
“Follow me!” Of a sudden he heard François’s voice in his ear and felt a
hand on his arm. The next moment he was being hurried along by two men
toward the door, the trio’s combined weight forcing a quick exit through
the milling throng. It was now completely dark, and the gun-fire, yells,
and screams had increased in volume. The suddenness of what had taken
place seemed dream-like, nightmarish, unreal.
A moment later the three reached the door, were stopped for a space by
an inrush of newcomers anxious not to miss the excitement, and with some
difficulty reached the bottom of the stairs and the outer air, which,
once gained, they hurried down the street, to pause a block away, panting
from their exertions, the gaiety of their raiment somewhat spoiled.
“Meestaire Nash,” said De Moulin, abruptly, “I apologize for what I said;
you were right to be angry!” As he spoke they heard the sounds of battle
from the theater ballroom increase, the ranks of the disputants evidently
having been augmented from the gambling dens.
“Forget it,” said the Yankee, “and thank you for getting me out of there.
I take back what I said, sir! You _are_ a gentleman!” And he held out his
hand, which François shook warmly. Then, for a moment, they listened,
and watched several women emerge hurriedly from the building in the next
block.
“That Dolores,” said Cyrus Nash, reflectively, “sure did make a fool
out of me. You know, Mister dee Moolan, she really had promised me that
dance!”
“I know it!” admitted François, chuckling.
“Then why—” began Nash.
But Pierre Lafitte interrupted. “Simply,” he explained, “because François
came to flirt and had not counted on a fight. _Mais, sacré nom!_ What’s a
pretty wench more or less between friends?”
And arm in arm the trio marched off down the moonlight-spattered street.