_In Which Our Pirate Walks into a Trap And Hauls Down His Colors_
I
“I ’ave news foah you, _mon ami_,” said De Moulin, following his host up
the broad steps to the white-columned veranda above. Grymes motioned him
to a comfortable chair, and sat down in another near-by.
“I can guess at it,” he answered, smilingly.
“W’at?”
“Your news.”
“Guess away, zen, monsieur.”
“I don’t have to guess—I know.”
“Impossybl’!” with exaggerated doubt.
John Grymes laughed. Before he could answer, however, old Rappahannock,
the Grymes butler, made his appearance. As he caught sight of him, the
Virginian’s eyes brightened.
“A bottle of that claret, Rappahannock. Bin four!” Grinning widely, the
old darky turned, but Grymes, struck by another thought, recalled him.
“No, wait! Make us a couple of mint juleps instead, Rappahannock—the
kind you make at home!” Rappahannock’s grin became more accentuated and
he disappeared into the cool recesses of the hall of the rambling old
mansion. The Virginian favored his guest with a broad wink.
“Wait until you taste that julep, De Moulin. There’s not a man in the
South that can make it like that old darky of mine can.”
François smiled.
“As for your news,” went on Grymes, fanning himself with his hat, “it’s
public property.”
François, startled, looked up quickly. Grymes intercepted the look and
laughed.
“It couldn’t but be otherwise, old man. You are referring to the
President’s proclamation, of course.”
De Moulin looked blank. The Virginian chuckled with the glee of a man who
has found a responsive audience to which he can impart news of which it
is ignorant.
“You guess’ wrong,” said the Creole. “My news concerns Jean.”
Grymes chuckled.
“Of course it does! You can’t be thinking of anything else but the
proclamation. There’s Lafitte’s revenge against Claiborne. I’ll bet the
Governor is as sore as a wet hen!”
“W’at you mean?”
“What do I mean? Lord! Lord! The man doesn’t know! I’m talking about
President Madison’s proclamation, of course! Jean Lafitte and his
Baratarians are no longer pirates, but officially acknowledged patriots.
That’s what I mean! You may not know it, but, after the battle, General
Jackson strongly urged Washington to make some recognition of the
splendid services rendered by the Baratarians. Now the President has
granted them a full pardon. His message ends something like this:
“‘Offenders who have refused to become the associates of the enemy in
war upon the most seducing terms of invitation, and who have aided to
repel his hostile invasion of the territory of the United States, can no
longer be considered as objects of punishment, but as objects of generous
forgiveness.’
“Jean Lafitte can hold his head as high as any man in America to-day,
François. And, do you know, it was really he and his men who turned the
tide at the battle, and who, consequently, saved Louisiana from invasion.
Jean Lafitte has made history—and the world knows it! Lafitte, the
pirate! Now, it’s ‘Mister Lafitte, patriot.’... How he must be laughing
up his sleeve!”
“I know zat all along, _mon ami_. Bud I ’ave ozzer news. Jean eez going
to _la belle France_, Mistah Grymes.”
The Virginian sat upright with a jerk, abruptly putting down his hat.
Footsteps in the hall of the house were heard approaching, but Grymes was
oblivious to anything but this startling intelligence.
“What the devil do you mean?” he asked, in astonishment. The young
indigo-planter smiled.
“Joos’ what I say, Jean eez goin’ bac’ to France.”
The Virginian leaned back in his seat limply.
“Well I’ll be damned!” he ejaculated, with emphasis. “I _am_ damned!”
“Poor father!” said a sympathetic voice. And Virginia, a cool vision in
white, stepped out upon the spacious veranda.
Both men instantly rose to their feet. François bowed gallantly, and she
greeted him cordially.
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Grymes, flushing, “for my er—words,
but—”
“But what, father? Of course I’ll forgive you. But I confess I’m
curious. What made you say it?” She glanced archly at the young Creole.
“Reason enough,” said her father, brusquely. “De Moulin tells me that
Jean Lafitte is going back to France.” He looked at the Creole for
confirmation, and so failed to see the strange look that passed across
his daughter’s face.
“Why?” asked Virginia, in a voice meant to be casual.
“Yes, why?” said Grymes. He began pacing the porch. “Here I’ve been
looking forward to an opportunity to repay him for his hospitality to
us—_me_”—hastily—“when I was at Grande Terre, and you tell me that he is
going to France.”
“Foah won zing, I s’pose he want a change of scene,” said De Moulin.
“Yes, that’s so. Pierre’s death broke him all up, I know. _There_ was a
man for you.”
François de Moulin stared into the distance.
“He was won of ze bes’ man zat evah live’,” he said, soberly, “an’ I
am ’appee to be able to say zat I was eez fr’en’.” He turned his head
abruptly.
“_Requiescat in pace_,” murmured the Virginian.
“He was a brave man and—a gallant gentleman,” said Virginia, softly, her
eyes suddenly moist. She thought of that moonlit night at the dance, when
Pierre, a handsome figure in cambric frills and claret-colored damask,
had made love to her in the little trellised bower under the magnolias.
How long ago that seemed—how far away! She could still see, in her mind’s
eye, the sparkling of his eyes as he told her the story of Jean and
Lizette ... could still hear the musical inflections of his voice. Poor
Pierre! What a great number of things had happened since that time. Now
Pierre was peacefully sleeping in the crypt of St. Louis’s, and Jean—
“And Jean Lafitte is just as true a gentleman in every respect!” remarked
Grymes, assertively. At his words Virginia started and a slow blush
mounted to her cheek. She experienced an uncanny feeling, as if her
father had taken the words right out of her own mind.
“The only thing lacking in Lafitte’s make-up,” went on Grymes,
thoughtfully, “is his birthplace; meaning no offense. De Moulin,” turning
to the Creole, “Lafitte should have been a Virginian!” The others laughed
and De Moulin surreptitiously cleared his throat.
“I forgot to say,” he remarked, “zat anozzeh meestery eez aboud to be
solv’. Jean heemself tol’ me zat he eez going to Havre, een particular.
It seems zat he eez relate’ to Lafitte, ze banker of Havre, whose
daughteh eez to be married zis summeh to Prince de la Moskowa. I ’ave
also learn zat zees Lafitte of Havre eez an int’mate fren’ of ze Emperor,
an’ I would nod be sooprize if Jean neveh comes bac’ heah. _Sans doute_
... weezout doubt, his relations will mek him remain een France. An’ you
rilly gannot blame Jean. He eez reech ... _très riche_, an’ he gan go
high een ze service of ze Emperor. Napoleon laks reech men, anniway.”
For a moment Grymes did not make any comment, so surprised was he at
this budget of news. As for Virginia, her mind was in a chaos. Jean was
going away—perhaps forever. She would never see him again. Although her
pride would not let her admit it, even to herself, ever since the day
of Pierre’s death she had anxiously waited—waited for the coming of the
lover—who never came. Everything had been cleared—yet he did not come.
And here she learned that he was going to France—perhaps never to return.
How lonely life would be for her—and how passionately she loved him! She
did not trouble to deny this to herself, now. She knew it was only too
true. She loved him more than life itself. And she was sure that he loved
her—or thought so. Yet—he was going to France! She could feel the hot
tears of self-pity and longing well up in her eyes.
Suddenly, so suddenly as to attract the attention of her two companions,
she murmured something inaudible and hurriedly disappeared within the
house.
The two men stared at her with surprise, and Grymes looked openly
troubled.
“To tell you the truth, De Moulin,” he said gravely, “I am rather worried
about Virginia. I hope you will excuse her sudden withdrawal.... I
suppose she—No, I’ll tell you the truth!”
The Creole looked at him in surprise.
“W’at do you mean, m’sieur?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t know exactly what to say, because I really don’t—can’t
understand. But the fact is, that Virginia has been behaving rather
strangely, here lately. No, I don’t mean that, either. I’m trying to say
that for some time she hasn’t appeared to be herself, exactly. She’s not
ill, as far as I know, but she eats very little, is unusually quiet, and
seems to be worried about something or other. She’s _always_ thinking or
brooding, whichever you may prefer. I’ll confess I’m worried.”
For a moment or two the Creole was silent.
“I gan tell you in a word,” said De Moulin, wise philosopher that he was,
“Virginia eez een love!” He looked keenly at the other.
“Well, I’ll be—” Grymes caught himself abruptly. Then he swore to himself
softly under his breath. Finally he burst into roars of laughter until
the tears came. De Moulin merely smiled.
“Of course that’s it!” exclaimed the Virginian, after his mirth had
subsided. “Why couldn’t I see that before? All girls in love act that
way, strangely enough, I suppose I thought my Jinny different from other
girls.”
“She _eez_!” put in François, warmly.
“But who can it be?” asked Grymes, a new idea striking him. Then, “It
isn’t _you_, is it?” with genuine interest.
François sniffed.
“I onlee weesh eet were!” he exclaimed, devoutly, shaking his head in sad
negation.
“Then, who in the world—” Suddenly the older man stopped and a shadow
of real worry passed across his face. When he next spoke, his voice was
seriousness itself.
“It can’t be—you don’t think it was—Pierre Lafitte?” A real fear had
entered his mind, now. If this were the truth, what suffering must his
daughter—the legacy of his long-lost wife—be undergoing! With a painful
pang he suddenly remembered that her recent absorption could be traced
back to the period, some weeks previously, of Lafitte’s death. His mouth
tightened.
But François, understanding his sudden fear, quickly put him at his ease.
“No, eet was not Pierre,” he said, earnestly; “zat I gan sweah to!”
“Then who is it?” demanded the Virginian, vexed in spite of himself.
De Moulin leaned forward and tapped his arm slowly.
“_Jean Lafitte!_”
For a moment Grymes stared at him with utter disbelief, but the look in
the other’s face convinced him. A wave of relief swept over him, and he
could not but tell himself that this intelligence pleased him.
“Then why—” said he, and could go no further.
But the astute Creole understood.
“Jean Lafitte—I know—ees mad aboud Virginia—_bud_—”
“But what? You say that she loves him, and _he_ loves _her_—then why
don’t they—” he paused—“Er—I’m sure I would have no objections. As I
said, I think he is a perfect gentleman, and I believe him to be worthy
of her,” magnanimously.
François nodded and smiled. Then, glancing around to assure himself of
their security from any possible eavesdroppers, he pulled his chair
closer to that of the Virginian and began to talk in a low voice. And
talked on. And talked.
Ten minutes later, when Virginia reappeared on the veranda to apologize
for her sudden withdrawal—having regained control of herself, and,
incidentally, having had a self-communion of relieving tears—she found
them, head to head, carrying on what appeared to be a highly interesting
conversation. And John Grymes was unashamedly smiling broadly. But she
forebore to ask questions.
And a little later, just as De Moulin was leaving, her father turned to
Virginia innocently.
“By the way, Virginia, we are having guests to-night for dinner. Just
François, here, and Captain Lafitte. We want to bid him farewell before
he leaves for France.” He turned back to his departing guest and again
bade him good-by ... and, incidentally, temporarily closed his left eye.