A MARIPOSA BONANZA.--NATALIE DE SANTOS BORN IN PARIS.--THE QUEEN OF THE
EL DORADO JOINS THE GALLIC "FOUR HUNDRED."
Philip Hardin's days are busy after the steamer bears away his "Ex-Queen
of the El Dorado." There are his tangled finances to arrange; giant
speculations to follow up. The Lagunitas affairs are pressing. That
hidden mine!
Hardin sets his house in order. The establishment is reduced. He has,
now, peace for his schemes. No petticoat rule now. No prying eyes. As
the winter rain howls among his trees, he realizes that the crash of the
Confederacy will bring back clouds of stragglers from the ruin yet to
come. He must take legal possession of Lagunitas. He has a good reason.
Its hidden gold will give him power.
His public life is only cut off for a time. Gold is potent; yes,
omnipotent! He can bide his time. He must find that mine. He has now
two points to carry in his game. To rid himself of the padre is easy, in
time. To disembarrass himself of old "Kaintuck" is another thing.
His face grows bitter as he thinks of the boundless wealth to be reached
in Lagunitas's glittering quartz beds. The property must remain in his
care.
If the heiress were to die, the public administrator might take it.
He knows he is not popular. His disloyalty is too well known. Besides,
Valois' death is not yet officially proven. He has kept his counsel. No
one has seen the will. But the returning wave of Confederates may bring
news. The dead colonel was of too great local fame to drop unheeded into
his grave.
His carefully prepared papers make him the representative of Colonel
Valois. He is legal guardian of the child. He will try and induce
"Kaintuck" to quit the rancho. Then he will be able to open the mines.
If the Confederacy totters to its fall, with the control of that wealth
he may yet hold the highest place on the coast.
Dreaming over his cigar, he knows that legislatures can be bought,
governors approached, and high positions gained, by the adroit use of
gold. Bribery is of all times and places.
Telegraphing to "Kaintuck" to meet him near Stockton, at the station,
with a travelling carriage, the Judge revolves plans to rid himself of
this relic of the Valois rgime.
His stay at Lagunitas will be for some weeks. He has now several agents
ready to open up the mines.
A liberal use of the income of Lagunitas has buoyed up his sinking
credit. But his stock-gambling has been desperately unlucky. Hardin
revolves in his mind the displacement of old "Kaintuck." The stage
sweeps down the San Joaquin to the station, where his team awaits him.
An unwonted commotion greets him there. His arrival is opportune. In the
room which is the office, bar, and billiard-room of the little hostelry,
poor old "Kaintuck" lies dying, when the Judge dismounts. It is the hand
of fate.
During the hours of waiting, a certain freedom, induced by copious
draughts of fiery Bourbon, caused the old foreman to injudiciously
"Hurrah for Jeff Davis." He gave free vent to his peculiar Southern
opinions.
A sudden quarrel with a stranger results in a quick resort to weapons.
Benumbed with age and whiskey, the old trapper is shot while tugging at
his heavy "Colt."
Before the smoke cleared away the stranger was far away. Dashing off, he
spurred his horse at full speed into the chaparral. No one dared, no one
cared, to follow a desperate man riding for his life.
Hardin orders every attention to the sufferer. Old "Kaintuck" is going
out alone on the dark river.
Hardin, steeled to scenes like this, by an exciting life, blesses this
opportune relief. "Kaintuck" is off his hands forever. Before the Judge
leaves, a rude examination by a justice precedes the simple obsequies of
the dead ranger.
One more red mound by the wayside. A few pencilled words on a shingle
mark the grave, soon to be trampled down by the feet of cattle and
horses. So, one by one, many of the old pioneers leave the theatre of
their aimless lives.
The Judge, happy at heart, bears a grave face. He drives into Lagunitas.
Its fields looked never so fair. Seated in the mansion house, with every
luxury spread out before him, his delighted eye rests on the diamond
lake gleaming in the bosom of the fair landscape. It already seems his
own.
He settles in his easy-chair with an air of conscious lordship. Padre
Francisco, studiously polite, answers every deft question. He bears
himself with the self-possession of a man merely doing his duty.
Does the priest know of the hidden gold mines? No. A few desultory
questions prove this. "Kaintuck's" lips are sealed forever in death. The
secret is safe.
Padre Francisco does not delay his request to be allowed to depart. As
he sips his ripe Mission claret, he tells Judge Hardin of the desire
of years to return to France. There are now no duties here to hold him
longer. He desires to give the Judge such family papers as are yet in
his charge. He would like practical advice as to his departure. For he
has grown into his quiet retreat and fears the outer world.
With due gravity the lawyer agrees in the change. He requests the padre
to permit him to write his San Francisco agent of the arrival of the
retiring missionary.
"If you will allow me," he says, "my agent shall furnish your passage to
Paris and arrange for all your wants."
Padre Francisco bows. It is, after all, only his due.
"When will you wish to leave?" queries Hardin.
"To-morrow, Judge. My little affairs are in readiness."
During the evening the light of the good priest glimmers late in the
lonely little sacristy. The chapel bell tolls the last vespers, for long
years, at Lagunitas.
All the precious family papers are accepted by the Judge when the padre
makes ready for his departure. The priest, with faltering voice,
says early mass, with a few attendants. Delivering up the keys of the
sacristy, chapel, and his home to the Judge, he quietly shares the
noonday meal.
If there is sadness in his heart his placid face shows it not. He sits
in the lonely room replete with memories of the past.
He is gone for a half hour, after the wily Judge lights his cigar, to
contemplate the rich domain which shall be his, from the porch of the
old home. When the priest returns, it is from the graves of the loved
dead. He has plucked the few flowers blooming there. They are in his
hand.
His eyes are moist with the silent tears of one who mourns the useless
work of long years. They have been full of sadness, separation,
spiritual defeat, and untimely death. Even Judge Hardin, merciless as he
is, feels compassion for this lonely man. He has asked nothing of him.
The situation is delicate.
"Can I do anything for you, Father Francisco?" says Hardin, with some
real feeling. He is a gentleman "in modo." The priest may be penniless.
He must not go empty-handed.
"Nothing, thank you, save to accept my adieux and my fondest blessing
for the little Isabel."
He hands Judge Hardin the address of the religious house to which he
will retire in Paris.
"I will deliver to your agent the other papers and certificates of the
family. They are stored for safety at the Mission Dolores church."
"My agent will have orders to do everything you wish," remarks the
Judge, as the carriage drives up for the priest.
Hardin arises, with a sudden impulse. The modest pride of this grave old
French gentleman will not be rudely intruded on. He must not, he shall
not, go away entirely empty-handed. The lawyer returns with an envelope,
and hands it to the padre.
"From the colonel," he says. "It is an order for ten thousand dollars
upon his San Francisco bankers."
"I will be taken care of by those who sent me here," simply remarks the
padre.
Hardin flushes.
"You can use it, father, in France, for the poor, for the friendless;
you will find some worthy objects."
The priest bows gravely, and presses the hand of the lawyer. With one
loving look around the old plaza, the sweeping forest arches, and the
rolling billows of green, he leaves the lonely lake gleaming amid its
wooded shores. Its beauty is untouched by the twenty long years since
first he wandered by its shores. A Paradise in a forest. His few
communicants have said adieu. There is nothing to follow him but the
incense-breathing murmurs of the forest branches, from fragrant pine and
stately redwood, sighing, "Go, in God's name."
Their wind-wafted voices speak to him of the happy past. The quiet,
saddened, patient padre trusts himself as freely to his unknown future,
as a child in its mother's cradling arms. In his simple creed, "God is
everywhere."
So Franois Ribaut goes in peace to spend a few quiet days at the
Mission Dolores church. He will then follow the wild ocean waves back
to his beloved France. "Apres vingt ans." A month sees him nearing the
beloved shores.
Walking the deck, he thinks often of that orphan child in Europe. He
remembers, strangely, that the Judge had neglected to give him any clew
to her present dwelling. Ah! he can write. Yes, but will he be answered?
Perhaps. But Judge Hardin is a cunning old lawyer.
Disembarrassed of the grave priest, Hardin at once sends orders for his
prospectors. A new man appears to superintend the grant.
It is with grim satisfaction he reflects that the hand of fate has
removed every obstacle to his control. His fiery energy is shown by the
rapidity with which hundreds of men swarm on ditch and flume. They are
working at mill and giant water-wheels. They are delving and tracing the
fat brown quartz, gold laden, from between the streaks of rifted basalt
and porphyry.
There is no one to spy, none to hinder now. Before the straggling
veterans of Lee and Johnston wander back to the golden West, the quartz
mine of Lagunitas yields fabulous returns.
The legacy of "Kaintuck" was wonderful. The golden bars, run out roughly
at the mine, represented to Hardin the anchor of his tottering credit.
They are the basis of a great fortune, and the means of political
prestige.
When the crash came, when the Southern flags were furled in the awful
silence of defeat and despair, the wily lawyer, safe in Lagunitas, was
crowning his golden fortunes.
Penniless, broken in pride and war-worn, the survivors of the men whom
he urged into the toils of secession, returned sadly home, scattering
aimlessly over the West. Fools of fortune.
Philip Hardin, satisfied with the absence of the infant heiress, coldly
stood aloof from the ruin of his friends.
As the months ran on, accumulating his private deposits, Judge Hardin,
engrossed in his affairs, grew indifferent even to the fate of the woman
he had so long cherished. His unacknowledged child is naught to him.
It was easy to keep the general income and expenses of the ranch nearly
even in amount.
But the MINE was a daily temptation to the only man who knew its real
ownership. It must be his at any cost. Time must show the way. He must
have a title.
Hardin looked far into the future. His very isolation and inaction was a
proof of no overt treason. With the power of this wealth he might, when
a few years rolled away, reach lofty civic honors. Young at sixty, as
public men are considered, he wonders, looking over the superb
estate, if a high political marriage would not reopen his career. In
entertaining royally at San Francisco and Sacramento, with solid and
substantial claims in society, he may yet be able to place his name
first in the annals of the coast. A senator. Why not? Ambition and
avarice.
With prophetic insight, he knows that sectional rancor will not long
exist in California. Not really, in the war, a divided community, a
debatable land, there will be thousands of able, hardy men, used to
excitement, spreading over the West. It is a land of easy and liberal
opinion. Business and the mine's affairs cause him to visit San
Francisco frequently. He reaches out for all men as his friends. Seated
in his silent parlors, walking moodily through the beautiful rooms,
haunted with memories of the splendid "anonyma" whose reign is yet
visible, he dreams of his wasted past, his lonely future. Can he repair
it? Enveloped in smoke wreaths, from his portico he surveys the thousand
twinkling city lights below. He is careless of the future movements of
his Parisian goddess.
It cost Philip Hardin no heart-wrench to part with voluptuous Hortense
Duval. Partners in a crime, the stain of "French Charlie's" blood
crimsoned their guilty past. An analytical, cold, all-mastering mind, he
had never listened to the heart. He supposed Hortense to be as chilly in
nature as himself. Yet she writes but seldom. Taught by his profession
to dread silence from a woman, he casually corresponds with several
trusted friends of the Confederate colony in France. What is her
mystery? Madame Natalie de Santos is now a personage. The replies tell
him of her real progress in the glittering ranks of the capital, and
her singularly steady life. As the months roll on, he becomes a little
anxious. She is far too cool and self-contained to suit him. He wishes
women to lean on him and to work his will. Does she intend to establish
a thorough position abroad, and claim some future rights? Has she views
of a settlement? Who knows?
Hardin sees too late, that in the control of both children, and
her knowledge of his past, she is now independent of his mere daily
influence. The millions of Lagunitas mine cannot be hidden. If he
recalls the heiress, will "Natalie de Santos" be as easily controlled as
"Hortense Duval"?
And his own child, what of her? Hardin dares not tie himself up by
acknowledging her claims. If he gives a large sum to the girl, it will
give his "sultana" a powerful weapon for the future.
Is she watching him through spies? She betrays no anxiety to know
anything, save what he imparts. He dare not go to Paris, for fear of
some public scandal and a rupture. He must confirm his position there.
What new friends has she there?
Ah! He will wait and make a final settlement of a handsome fortune on
the child. He will provide a future fixed income for this new social
star, now, at any rate, dependent on her obedience. Reports, in due
form, accompany the occasional communications forwarded from the "Sacred
Heart" as to the heiress. This must all be left to time.
With a deep interest, Hardin sees the cessation of all hostilities, the
death of Lincoln, the disbandment, in peace, of the great Union armies.
Bayonets glitter no more upon the crested Southern heights. The embers
of the watchfires are cold, gray ashes now. The lonely bivouac of the
dead is the last holding of the foughten fields.
While the South and East is a graveyard or in mourning, strange to say,
only a general relief is felt in the West. The great issue easily
drops out of sight. There are here no local questions, no neighborhood
hatreds, no appealing graves. Happy California! happy, but inglorious.
The railway approaches completion. A great activity of scientific
mining, enterprises of scope and local development, urge the Western
communities to action. The bonanza of Lagunitas gives Judge Hardin even
greater local prominence. He establishes his residence at the old home
in the Sierras.
With no trusted associates, he splits and divides the funds from the
mine, placing them in varied depositories. He refrains from an undue
appearance of wealth or improvement at the rancho itself. No one knows
the aggregates, the net returns, save himself. Cunning old robber.
To identify himself with the interior and southern part of the State,
he enters the higher body of the Legislature. His great experience and
unflagging hospitalities make him at once a leader.
Identified with State and mining interests, he engages public attention.
He ignores all contention, and drops the question of the Rebellion. A
hearty welcome from one and all, proves that his commanding talents are
recognized.
There are no relatives, no claims, no meddlesome legatees to question
the disposition of Colonel Valois' estate. His trusteeship is well
known, and his own influence is pre-eminent in the obscure District
Court having control of the legal formalities.
Hardin is keenly watchful of all returning ex-Confederates who might
have been witnesses of Maxime Valois' death. They do not appear. His
possession is unchallenged. His downy couch grows softer daily.
He has received the family papers left by the departing padre. They are
the baptismal papers of the little heiress. The last vouchers.
Hardin, unmoved by fear, untouched by sympathy, never thinks of the
lowly grave before the ramparts of Atlanta. The man lies there, who
appealed to his honor, to protect the orphaned child, but he is silent
in death.
He decides to quietly strip the rancho of its great metallic wealth. He
will hold the land unimproved, to be a showing in future years should
trouble come as to the settlement of the estate.
With the foresight of the advocate, Hardin fears the Valois heirs of
New Orleans. He must build up his defensive works in that quarter. From
several returned "Colonels" and "Majors" he hears of the death of old
Judge Valois.
The line of the family is extinct, save the boy in Paris, who has been
lost sight of. A wandering artist.
A sudden impulse seizes him. He likes not the ominous silence of Natalie
as to important matters.
Selecting one of his law clerks (now an employee of the estate), he
sends him to Paris, amply supplied with funds, to look up the only scion
left of the old family. He charges his agent to spare neither money
nor time in the quest. A full and detailed report of Madame de Santos'
doings and social surroundings is also ordered.
"Mingle in the circles of travelling Americans, spend a little money,
and find out what you can of her private life," are his orders. He says
nothing of the heiress.
In the gay season of 1866, Hardin, still bent on the golden quest in the
hills, reads with some astonishment, the careful "precis" of his social
spy. He writes:
"I have searched Paris all over. The old Confederate circles are
scattered now. They are out of favor at the imperial court. Even Duke
Gwin, the leader of our people, has departed. His Dukedom of Sonora
has gone up with our Confederacy. From one or two attaches of the old
Confederate agency, I learned that the boy Armand Valois is now sixteen
or seventeen years old, if living. He was educated in one of the best
schools here, and is an artist by choice. When his father died he was
left without means. I understand he intended to make a living by selling
sketches or copying pictures. I have no description of him. There are
thousands of young students lost in this maze. I might walk over him in
the Louvre and not know him. If you wish me to advertise in the journals
I might do so."
"Fool," interjects Hardin, as he reads this under the vines at
Lagunitas. "I don't care to look up an heir to Lagunitas. One is
enough."
"Now for Madame de Santos: I have by some effort worked into the circle
of gayety, where I have met her. She is royally beautiful. I should say
about thirty-five. Her position is fixed as an 'elegante." Her turnout
in the Bois is in perfect taste. She goes everywhere, entertains freely,
and, if rumor is true, is very rich. She receives great attention, as
they say she is guardian of a fabulously wealthy young girl at one of
the convents here.
"Madame de Santos is very accomplished, and speaks Spanish, French, and
English equally well. I have made some progress in her acquaintance, but
since, by accident, she learned I was from California she has been quite
distant with me. No one knows her past, here. It is supposed she has
lived in Mexico, and perhaps California. The little feminine 'Monte
Cristo' is said to be Spanish or Mexican. Madame Santos' reputation is
absolutely unblemished. In all the circle of admirers she meets, she
favors but one. Count Ernesto de Villa Rocca, an Italian nobleman, is
quite the 'ami de maison.'
"I have not seen the child, save at a distance. Madame permits no one
to meet her. She only occasionally drives her out, and invariably alone
with herself.
"She visits the convent school regularly. She seems to be a vigilant
wide-awake woman of property. She goes everywhere, opera, balls,
theatres, to the Tuileries. She is popular with women of the best set,
especially the French. She sees very few Americans. She is supposed
to be Southern in her sympathies. Her life seems to be as clear as a
diamond. She has apparently no feminine weaknesses. If there is a sign
of the future, it is that she may become 'Countess de Villa Rocca.' He
is a very fine fellow, has all the Italian graces, and has been in the
'Guardia Nobile.' He is desperately devoted to Madame, and to do him
justice, is an excellent fellow, as Italian counts go.
"By the way, I met old Colonel Joe Woods here. He entertained me in his
old way. He showed me the sights. He has become very rich, and operates
in New York, London, and Paris. He is quite a swell here. He is liberal
and jolly. Rather a change from the American River bar, to the Jockey
Club at Paris. He sends you remembrances.
"I shall wait your further orders, and return on telegraph. I cannot
fathom the household mysteries of the Madame. When all Paris says a
woman is 'dead square,' we need not probe deeper. There is no present
sign of her marrying Villa Rocca, but he is the first favorite."
"So," muses the veteran intriguer Hardin, as he selects a regalia, "my
lady is wary, cautious, and blameless. Danger signals these. I must
watch this Villa Rocca. Is he a 'cavalier servente'? Can he mean
mischief? She would not marry him, I know," he murmurs.
The red danger signal's flash shows to Hardin, Marie Berard standing by
the side of Natalie and the two girls. Villa Rocca is only a dark shade
of the background as yet.
He smiles grimly.
The clicking telegraph key invokes the mysterious cable. For two days
Judge Philip paces his room a restless wolf.
His prophetic mind projects the snares which will bring them all to his
feet. He will buy this soubrette's secrets.
A French maid's greed and Punic faith can be counted on always.
With trembling fingers he tears open the cipher reply from his spy. He
reads with flaming eyes:
"Have seen girl; very knowing. Says she can tell you something worth one
hundred thousand francs. Will not talk now. Money useless at present.
She wants your definite instructions, and says, wait. Cable me orders."
Hardin peers through the grindstone, and evolves his orders. He acts
with Napoleon's rapidity. His answer reads:
"Let her alone. Tell her to notify Laroyne & Co., 16 Rue Vivienne, when
ready to sell her goods. Wait orders."
Hardin revolves in his busy brain every turn of fortune's wheel.
Has Natalie an intrigue?
Is she already secretly married? Is the heiress of Lagunitas dead?
The labors of his waking hours and the brandy bottle only tell him of an
unfaithful woman's vagaries; a greedy lover's plots, or the curiosity of
the dark-eyed maid, whose avarice is above her fidelity.
Bah! she will tattle. No woman can resist it; they all talk.
But this Italian cur; he must be watched.
The child! Pshaw; she is a girl in frocks. But Villa Rocca is a needy
man of brains and nerve; he must be foiled.
Now, what is her game? Hardin must acknowledge that she is true to her
trust, so far.
The Judge walks over to his telegraph office, for there is a post,
telegraph, and quite a mining settlement now on the Lagunitas grant.
He sends a cable despatch to Paris to his agent, briefly:
"Stop work. Report acceptable. Come back. Take your time leisurely,
East. Well pleased."
He does not want any misplaced zeal of his spy to alarm Natalie. As the
year 1866 rolls on, the regular reports, business drafts and details as
to Isabel Valois are the burden of the correspondence. Natalie's heart
is silent. Has she one? She has not urged him to come back; she has not
pressed the claims of her child. His agent returns and amplifies the
general reports, but he has no new facts.
The clerk drops into his usual life. He is not curious as to the Madame.
"Some collateral business of the Judge, probably," is his verdict.
While the stamps rattle away in the Lagunitas quartz mills, Judge Hardin
takes an occasional run to the city by the bay. The legislative season
approaches. Senator Hardin's rooms at the Golden Eagle are the centre
of political power. Railroads are worming their way into politics.
Franchises and charters are everywhere sought. Over the feasts served
by Hardin's colored retainers, he cements friendships across old party
lines.
As Christmas approaches in this year, the Judge receives a letter from
Natalie de Santos which rouses him from his bed of roses. He steadies
his nerves with a glass of the best cognac, as he reads this fond
epistle:
I have waited for you to refer to the future of our child. I will not
waste words. If you wished to make me happy, you would have, before now,
provided for her. I do not speak of myself. You have been liberal enough
to me. I am keeping up the position you indicated. My child is now old
enough to ask meaning questions, to be informed of her place in the
world and to be educated for it. You spoke of a settlement for her. If
anything should happen to me, what would be her future? Isabel will be
of course, in the future, a great lady. There is nothing absolutely my
own. I am dependent on you. What I asked you, Philip, you have not given
me: the name of wife. It is for her, not for myself, I asked it. I have
made myself worthy of the position I would hold. You know our past. I
wish absolutely now, to know my child's destiny. If you will not do the
mother justice, what will you do for the child? Whose name shall she
bear? What shall she have?
Philip, I beg you to act in these matters and to remember that, if I
once was Hortense Duval, I now am NATALIE DE SANTOS.
Danger signals. Red and flaring they burn before Hardin's steady eyes.
What does she mean? Is her last clause a threat? Woman! Perfidious
woman!
Hardin tosses on a weary couch several nights before he can frame a
reply. It is not a money question. In his proud position now, forming
alliances daily with the new leaders of the State, he could not stoop to
marry this woman. Never. To give the child a block sum of money would be
only to give the mother more power. To settle an income on her might be
a future stain on his name. Shall he buy off Natalie de Santos? Does she
want money alone? If he did so, would not Villa Rocca marry her and he
then have two blackmailers on his hands? To whom can he trust Isabel
Valois if he breaks with Natalie? The girl is growing, and may ask
leading questions. She must be kept away. In a few years she not only
will be marriageable, but at eighteen her legal property must be turned
over.
And to give up the Lagunitas quartz lead? Hardin's brow is gloomy. He
uses days for a decision. The letter makes him very shaky in his mind.
Is the "ex-Queen of the El Dorado" ready to strike a telling blow?
He remembers how tiger-like her rage when she drew her dagger over the
hand of "French Charlie." She can strike at need, but what will be her
weapon now?
He sets the devilish enginery of his brain at work. His answer to
Natalie de Santos is brief but final:
"You may trust my honor. I shall provide a fund as soon as I can, to be
invested as you direct, either in your name or the other. You can impart
to the young person what you wish. In the meantime you should educate
her as a lady. If you desire an additional allowance, write me. I have
many burdens, and cannot act freely now. Trust me yet awhile."
Philip Hardin feels no twinge as he seals this letter. No voice from
the grave can reach him. No proof exists in Natalie de Santos' hands to
verify her story.
As for Lagunitas, and orphan Isabel, he pores over every paper left by
the unsuspicious Padre Francisco. He smiles grimly. It was a missionary
parish. Its records have been all turned over to him. He quietly
destroys the whole mass of papers left at Lagunitas by the priest. As
for the marriage papers of her parents and certificate of baptism of
Isabel, he conceals them, ready for destruction at a moment's notice.
He will wait till the seven years elapse before filing legal proof of
Maxime Valois' death.
Securing from the papers of the old mansion house, materials, old in
appearance, he quietly writes up a bill of sale of the quartz lead known
as the Lagunitas mine, to secure the forty thousand dollars advanced by
him to Maxime Valois, dated back to 1861. Days of practice enable him
to imitate the signature of Valois. He appends the manual witness of
"Kaintuck" and "Padre Francisco." They are gone forever; one in the
grave, one in a cloister.
This paper he sends quietly to record. It attracts no attention.
"Kaintuck" is dead. Valois sleeps his last sleep. From a lonely cell in
a distant French monastery, Padre Francisco will never hear of this.
As for Isabel Valois, he has a darker plot than mere theft and forgery,
for the future.
The years to come will strengthen his possession and drown out all
possible gossip.
Natalie de Santos must hang dependent on his bounty. He will not arm her
with weapons against himself. He knows she will not return to face him
in California. His power there is too great. If she dares to marry any
one, her hold on him is lost. She must lie to hide her past. Hardin
smiles, for he counts upon a woman's vanity and love of luxury. The
veteran lawyer sums up the situation to himself. She is powerless. She
dares not talk. Time softens down all passions. When safe, he will give
the child some funds, but very discreetly.
And to bury the memory of Maxime Valois forever is his task.
Broadening his political influence, Hardin moves on to public
prominence. He knows well he can bribe or buy judge and jury, suppress
facts, and use the golden hammer in his hands, to beat down any attack.
Gold, blessed gold!
The clattering stamps ring out merry music at Lagunitas as the months
sweep by.