_How One Lafitte Repeats a Prayer, and Another Enters The Valley of the
Shadow_
I
François de Moulin clutched Jean’s arm eagerly, his dark eyes filled with
anxious forebodings.
“W’at—how—w’at does ze docteh say?” he demanded, huskily.
Lafitte did not answer until he had completely closed the door of the
room from which he had just emerged. And François, catching sight of his
abnormally pale face, felt a sinking of the heart.
“He says ... there is very little hope....” He choked and sobbed, but De
Moulin saw that his eyes were dry. “Father Chambertin is with him....”
François stared at him as if in a trance, his hand falling abruptly to
his side.
“Not—not—” he faltered.
Jean nodded, his head averted.
“Father Chambertin is Pierre’s confessor,” he said, rather unnecessarily.
With his hands locked behind his back, he began to walk up and down the
little room ... back and forth ... up and down. For a moment François
stared at him, his own eyes wet and his heart trembling with pain. Yet,
even in the midst of his own emotion, he could not but marvel at the
self-control of Jean ... unknowing that it was impossible for the other
to find physical relief in mere tears ... that the great grief which had
come to him was pent up within his breast, racking his soul, yet leaving
him dry-eyed and tortured as no man had ever been tortured before.
With an inarticulate murmur François turned to stare at the closed door
behind which lay his friend, who even now was making his peace with the
All-High, preparatory to venturing into the Valley of the Shadow. His
head falling upon his breast the Creole gazed at the floor, unseeing.
Through the open French window could be seen a Virginia cardinal in
a flaming red coat, perched upon the branch of a venerable magnolia,
pouring forth a symphony of sound ... a tribute to the glory of life;
expressing his thanks to the Omnipotent for the boon of living. The air
was heavy with the balmy fragrance of roses and the sweet perfume of
oleanders.
Somewhere below could be heard snatches of low conversation. Suddenly
came the sounds of prancing hoofs on cobblestones and the indescribable
whir of carriage wheels; the equipage slowly coming to a stop. Sounds of
renewed conversation. A well-ordered babel of voices.
A step upon the stair. First animated—then faltering. A light step.
Lafitte, engrossed in his thoughts, did not notice, beyond a vague,
momentary wonder as to the identity of the person who was invading the
upper regions so thoughtlessly. De Moulin, however, looked up sharply,
with mild resentment for the intruder.
Suddenly the person stood in the doorway ... and paused.
For a brief moment De Moulin stared at the intruder in astonishment, and
then, fiercely brushing his eyes, bowed in the direction of the door and,
turning quickly on his heel, vanished through the French window on to the
balcony without, disappearing from sight.
Suddenly sensing the presence of a stranger, Jean slowly looked up.
It was Virginia.
For a timeless space they stared at each other.
As she recognized him, she started violently, colored, and her hand
uncertainly clutched at her bodice. For another moment there was an
embarrassing silence. Pale as death, the Frenchman looked at her,
devouring her with his hungry eyes ... his heart wildly thumping against
his ribs. It was the first time he had seen her face-to-face for a period
of two years. If anything, he thought she was more beautiful than ever.
For the moment he forgot the man who lay in the next room—forgot life
itself—while his starved soul feasted itself upon her beauty.
Her pallor suddenly returning, she averted her embarrassed eyes and
looked quickly toward the closed door across the room. Jean, intercepting
the glance, felt his heart sink like lead ... and returned to realities.
He bowed ceremoniously, averting his tell-tale eyes.
She nervously returned a curtsy.
Being a woman, she regained her composure first.
“How is your brother—Captain Lafitte?” she asked, falteringly.
He bit his lip, and for a moment was silent. Her pallor deepened.
“Pierre is at—confessional.” He vaguely marvelled at his own poise.
She looked at the closed door in fascination, not pretending to
misunderstand his meaning. He saw her eyes suddenly fill with tears,
and, turning his back on her, rapidly walked to the window, to hide the
tortured soul that stood revealed in his own.
“I—I cannot begin to express my—my”—she paused, groping for words—“grief
and sympathy ... Pierre—your brother is a very dear friend of mine....”
He started at her words, but did not turn.
“I was expecting you to come,” he said, slowly, and did not see her look
of surprise at his words. For a moment she was at a loss.
“Perhaps this is an ill-chosen time to say so, sir, but allow me to
compliment you for your—bravery!” she said, half shyly. “I, like your
brother, owe my life to that same bravery, and can well appreciate its
worth....” Virginia paused abruptly, and could have bitten off her
tongue, for she suddenly remembered that Pierre was—at confession! The
irony of her words! She flushed with embarrassment, but Jean still did
not seem to see her.
“I would to God that I were in his place!” he exclaimed, dispassionately.
She did not answer, but unaccountably flushed again. The years seemed to
have vanished, as if they had never been.
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, incredulously. “_You_ ask me _that_?”
She nodded uncertainly. He paused.
“Because I have nothing to live for,” bitterly. Jean Lafitte was only
human, after all.
Her face expressed her astonishment. He continued speaking, quickly, to
hide his embarrassment.
“Do you remember a certain evening two years ago, mademoiselle?” he
asked, abruptly.
She did not answer, her face averted.
“It was a moonlight—”
“Don’t!” she pleaded.
He swept on, unheeding.
“—night. Do you, by chance, remember our conversation?”
Virginia was silent.
“Do you remember,” he went on, “what you asked of me?”
“Yes,” slowly.
“And what I answered?”
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his in fascination.
“Do you remember, mademoiselle,” he swallowed hard, “those—_kisses_?” His
eyes were burning—glowing. It seemed to Virginia that she could detect
his very soul imprisoned in those magnetic eyes.
She shivered with a strange emotion, and turned scarlet with
embarrassment.
“Mr. Lafitte!...” The crimson wave receded and rose again.
He laughed shortly, painfully.
“Afterwards—you said you were flirting, mademoiselle. But I did not
believe you—I could not believe—” She started. “But now I do believe!” he
added, bitterly.
Virginia paled, and grasped the back of a chair, to steady herself.
Jean Lafitte bowed to her again, with elaborate courtesy.
“I repeat,” he said, quietly, “that now I do believe. _That_ is why I say
that I wish with all my soul that I were on Pierre’s death bed!”
The Virginian girl looked at him with astonishment, amazed at his
frankness, his utter lack of self-consciousness.
“You are surprised?” asked Jean. “Don’t be! It is best to remove our
masks. I was a fool—a blind fool! But it is too late now for vain
regrets. You are right, mademoiselle. I was, and am, naught but a pirate!
An outcast from decent society—a pariah! Your choice was wise. I cannot
blame you. I merely pity myself—and curse circumstance.” In a sense, his
words were meaningless; an incoherent rigmarole.
“What do you mean?” in real astonishment.
“Evidently everyone who comes into intimate contact with me must suffer!
Even you and Pierre cannot enjoy happiness ... for the bullet that should
have reached me was directed toward him by the malignant fate that
watches over Jean Lafitte!”
Virginia stared at him, full of wonderment. As for Jean, he was even more
amazed at himself, for his unpremeditated outburst, but, now that he had
begun, he resolved to finish his peroration, sparing neither himself nor
his companion. He felt that his whole being was in an uproar ... in a
chaos of crucifying emotions.
“I confess that I cannot understand your—wild words, Mr. Lafitte,” the
girl said with hauteur. “Allow me to believe that they were born of your
great—grief. You know not what you say, sir!”
He smiled—a sad smile. A sudden transformation had taken place in him at
her voice.
“You are right, mademoiselle. I do _not_ know what I say. Please forget
and forgive my words. But I mean what I said. It may interest you to know
that I sought death on the field with an ardor with which I have never
sought anything else. Life is all wrong, somehow—and I will not try to
understand its mysteries. They are not for mortal eyes. But Pierre’s
fatal bullet _should_ have reached me, instead of himself—”
Virginia interrupted, vexed at the mystery in his words.
“Why do you repeat that, sir?”
“Why?” he repeated. He could not help thinking that they were both
back at the same point in their conversation that they had been at its
beginning. “You ask me that?” unconsciously repeating, too, the same
words he had used five minutes before. “It is because you and Pierre—”
But he was never to finish his sentence. At this juncture the door of
Pierre’s room opened slowly and a portly tonsured priest garbed as a
Capuchin came out. As he caught sight of the lady a strange expression
flitted across his face, but he said nothing.
The two others looked at the ecclesiastic inquiringly, but he gave them
no time to question him.
“My son,” he said, softly, “your brother wishes to speak to you.” He drew
closer. “Pierre Dominique Lafitte has made his peace with his Maker,”
he continued, “therefore I advise you, _mon fils_, to be as forgiving
as your Master has been.” He crossed himself. “Be not hasty in thy
judgment,” he went on enigmatically, although in a kindlier tone, “for
it is more blessed to forgive than to punish.”
Jean looked at him in bewilderment.
“What do you mean, father?”
The old Capuchin looked at him pityingly.
“You shall know in good time, _Deo volente_.”
He pointed to the closed door.
Without another word or glance toward the girl, Jean Lafitte opened the
door—visibly stiffened—and went in.
The heavy door closed behind him. The old Capuchin turned toward the
girl, his face grave.
“My daughter—”