WEAVING SPIDERS.--A COWARD BLOW.--MARIE BRARD'S DOOM.
Peyton's good-bye rings in Woods' ears as the train leaves. The boxes
and parcels forced on the Confederate veteran, are tokens of his
affection. The cognac and cigars are of his own selection. Joe's taste
in creature comforts is excellent, and better than his grammar.
On the ferry, Joe surveys San Francisco complacently from the steamer.
"I've got those documents in the vaults. I'll have Peyton's evidence. I
rather fancy Captain Lee's biography will interest that dame in Paris.
I will prospect my friend Hardin's surroundings. He must have some devil
to do his dirty work. I will do a bit of 'coyote work' myself. It's a
case of dog eat dog, here."
Joseph classes all underhand business as "coyote work." He appreciates
the neatness with which that furtive Western beast has taken his boots,
soap, his breakfast and camp treasures under his nose.
Invincible, invisible, is the coyote.
"By Heavens! I'll make that old wolf Hardin jump yet!" Joseph swears a
pardonable oath.
After writing several telling letters to the Padre and Vimont, he feels
like a little stroll. He ordered Vimont to guard Louise Moreau at any
cost. "No funny business," he mutters.
"If she's the girl, that scoundrel might try to remove her from this
world," thinks Joseph. "As for the other girl, he's got a tiger cat to
fight in the 'de Santos.'"
Colonel Woods beams in upon the clerks of Judge Hardin. That magnate is
absent. The senatorial contest is presaged by much wire-pulling.
"I don't see the young man who used to run this shebang," carelessly
remarks the Croesus.
"Mr. Jaggers is not here any longer," smartly replies his pert
successor, to whom the fall of Jaggers was a veritable bonanza.
"What's the matter with him?" says Woods. "I wanted him to do a job of
copying for me."
The incumbent airily indicates the pantomime of conveying the too
frequent Bourbon to his lips.
"Oh, I see! The old thing," calmly says Woods. "Fired out for drinking."
The youth nods. "He is around Montgomery Street. You 'most always will
catch him around the 'old corner' saloon."
Joseph Woods is familiar with that resort of bibulous lawyers. He
wanders out aimlessly.
While Barney McFadden, the barkeeper, surveys Colonel Joseph swallowing
his extra cocktail, he admires himself in the mirror. He dusts off his
diamond pin with a silk handkerchief.
"Jaggers! Oh, yes; know him well. In back room playing pedro. Want him?"
Woods bows. The laconic Ganymede drags Jaggers away from his ten-cent
game.
Impelled by a telegraphic wink, Barney deftly duplicates the favorite
tipple of the Californian. The Golden State has been sustained in its
growth, by myriads of cocktails. It is the State coat of arms.
"Want to see me? Certainly, Colonel." Jaggers is aroused.
In a private room, Jaggers wails over his discharge. His pocket is his
only fear. Otherwise, he is in Heaven. His life now, is all "Cocktails
and poker!" "Poker and cocktails!" It leaves him little time for
business. Woods knows his man--a useful tool.
"Look here, Jaggers; I know your time is valuable." Jaggers bows
gravely; he smells a new twenty-dollar piece; it will extend his
"cocktail account." "I want you to do some business for me." Jaggers
looks stately.
"I'm your man, Colonel," says Jaggers, who is, strange to say, very
expert in his line. The trouble with Jaggers is, the saloon is not near
enough to Judge Hardin's office. The OFFICE should be in the SALOON. It
would save useless walking.
"I want you to search a title for me," says Colonel Joe, from behind
a cloud of smoke. Jaggers sniffs the aroma. Joseph hands him several
"Excepcionales."
Jaggers becomes dignified and cool. "Is there money in it, Colonel?" he
says, with a gleam of his ferret eyes.
"Big money," decisively says Woods.
"I'm very busy now," objects Jaggers. He thinks of his ten-cent ante in
that pedro game.
"I want you to give me your idea of the title to the Lagunitas mine. I
am thinking of buying in," continues Joe. "I'll give you five hundred
dollars, in cold twenties, if you tell me what you know."
"How soon?" Jaggers says, with a gasp.
"Right off!" ejaculates Woods, banging the bell for two more cocktails.
Jaggers drains the fiery compound. He whispers with burning breath in
Woods' ears:
"Make it a cool thousand, and swear you'll look out for me. I'll give
the thing dead away. You know what a son-of-a-gun Hardin is?"
Woods bows. He DON'T know, but he is going to find out. "I'll give you a
job in my mine (the Golden Chariot), as time-keeper. You can keep drunk
all your life, except at roll-call. If Hardin hunts you up there, I'll
have the foreman pitch him down the shaft. Is this square?"
"Honor bright!" says Jaggers, extending his palm. "Honor bright!" says
Joseph, who dares not look too joyous.
Jaggers muses over another cocktail. "You go to the bank, and get a
thousand dollars clean stuff. Give me a coup. I'll give you the things
you want, in half an hour. I've got 'em stowed away. Don't follow me!"
Woods nods, and throws him a double-eagle. "I'll be here when you come
back. Keep sober till we're done. I'll give you a pass to Virginia City,
so you can finish your drunk in high altitudes. It's healthier, my boy!"
Joe winks.
Jaggers is off like a shot. Colonel Joseph walks two blocks to the bank.
He returns with fifty yellow double-eagles.
"Got to fight coyote style to catch a coyote!" is the murmur of Colonel
Woods to his inward monitor. "It's for the fatherless kid."
"Barney," impressively says Joseph, "make me a good cocktail this time!
Send 'em in, ANY WAY, when that young man returns. His life is
insured. _I_ have to work for a living. Make one for yourself. YOU are
responsible."
Barney's chef d'oeuvre wins a smile from the genial son of Missouri.
As the last drops trickle down his throat, Jaggers enters. He has had
external cocktails. He is flushed, but triumphant.
"Colonel, you're a man of honor. There's your stuff." He throws an
envelope on the table.
Joseph Woods opens the packet. "Just count that, young man, while I look
at these."
He peruses the papers handed him, with interest. Jaggers follows him.
"This is all you have. Anything else in the office?" says Woods.
"Not a scratch. Colonel, I thought they would come in handy." Jaggers'
work is done.
"Take care of your money, my lad. It is yours," says Woods. He rings for
Barney, and indites a note to his foreman at the "Golden Chariot." "You
better get up there, to-night, Jaggers," he says, handing him the note
and a pass. "Your appointment is only good for that train. You give that
note to Hank Daly. He'll supply you all the whiskey you want, free. By
the way, the boys up there play poker pretty well. Now you keep cool,
or you'll get shot as well as lose your money. Don't you forget to stay
there, if it's ten years till I want you. Daly will have orders for you.
"If you come back here, Hardin will kill you like a dog, if he finds
this out."
"And you?" murmurs Jaggers, who is imbibing the stirrup cup.
"Oh, I'll look out for that!" remarks cheerful Joe Woods. Armed with
substantial "persuaders," Jaggers leaves with an agent of Barney's. He
has orders to see Jaggers and his "baggage," started for Virginia City.
Jaggers beams. Joe Woods never drops a friend. His future smiles before
him. Exit Jaggers.
Woods reads the documents. One is a press copy of a letter dated
January, 1864, addressed to Colonel Maxime Valois, from Hardin, asking
him to sell him the quartz claims on the Lagunitas grant.
The answer of Valois is written while recovering from his wounds. It
reads:
"TALLULAH, GEORGIA, March 1, 1864.
"MY DEAR HARDIN: I have your letter, asking me to sell you the quartz
leads on the Lagunitas grant. I am still suffering from my wound, and
must be brief.
"I cannot do this. My title is the title of my wife. I have no right to
dispose of her property by inheritance, without her consent. She has my
child to look after. As the ranch income may fail some day, I will not
cut off her chances to sell. It is her property. I would not cloud it. I
will join my regiment soon. If the war ends and I live to return, I will
arrange with you. I have no power to do this, now, as my wife would have
to join in the sale. I will not ask her to diminish the value of the
tract. I leave no lien on this property. My wife and child have it free
from incumbrance if I die.
"Address me at Atlanta, Georgia.
"YOURS, MAXIME VALOIS."
"I think I hold four aces now, Mr. Philip Hardin," says Woods,
contemplating himself in the mirror over the bar as he settles with the
gorgeous Barney.
"By the way," remarks Woods, "Barney; if that young man owes you a bill,
send it around to my office." Barney escorts his visitor to the door,
bowing gratefully. Woods departs in a quandary.
"I guess I'll gather up all my documents, and take a look over things.
New York is the place for me to get a square opinion."
When Woods reaches New York he meets Peyton, successful in his tour for
evidence. On consultation with Judge Davis, his adviser, Woods sends
Peyton to Tallulah. It is likely Valois' papers may be found, for the
Colonel "joined" hurriedly on the last advance of Sherman. Colonel
Joseph imparts his ideas to his counsel. A certified copy of the
transfer recorded by Hardin, of the Lagunitas mine, is sent on by
Jaggers, directed in his trip by Hank Daly from the mine.
In five days a despatch from Tallulah gladdens the miner, who longs for
Paris:
"Found and examined baggage. Original letter in my hands. Coming with
all. Many other papers.
"PEYTON."
On the Virginian's arrival Judge Davis instructs the friends. Woods
insists on Peyton taking joint charge of the quest for the orphan's
fortune.
"Hardin is responsible under his trusteeship. You can't force Peyton on
him as co-executor. He has concealed the will. A suit now would warn the
villain and endanger the child's life. Take the certified copy of the
transfer to Paris. Get the priest's deposition that the document is
forged; then guard the girl as if she were your life. In a few years the
heiress will be entitled to claim her estate. Keep the child near Paris,
but change her residence often. Watch the maid and Madame de Santos.
Follow them to California. Produce the girl you claim to be the heiress.
I will give you a letter to an advocate in Paris, who will close up
the proof. Beware of Hardin! If he suspects, the child's life may be in
danger!"
"I'll kill him myself if there is any foul play!" roars Joe Woods.
"My dear Colonel, that would not bring the child back," remarks Judge
Davis, smiling at his handsome counsel fee. "Count on me! Use the
cable."
On the Atlantic the guardians agree on their duties. "I will interview
Madame de Santos when I close some business in London," says Woods
grimly.
Peyton, with credentials to Padre Francisco, speeds from Liverpool to
Paris. He arrives none too soon.
Philip Hardin's villany strikes from afar!
Judge Hardin, passing the county seat, on his way to the mine, looks in
to obtain his annual tax papers. A voluble official remarks:
"Going to sell your mine, Judge?"
"Certainly not, sir," replies the would-be Senator, with hauteur.
"Excuse me. You sent for certified copies of the title. We thought you
were putting it on the market."
Hardin grows paler than his wont. Some one has been on the trail. He
asks no questions. His cipher-book is at San Francisco. Who is on the
track? He cannot divine. The man applying was a stranger who attracted
no attention. The Judge telegraphs to the mine for his foreman to come
to San Francisco. He returns to his house on the hill. From his private
safe he extracts the last letters of Natalie de Santos.
Since her urgent appeal, she has been brief and cold. She is waiting.
Is this her stroke? He will see. Has anyone seen the child and made
disclosures? His heart flutters. He must now placate Natalie. The child
must be quickly removed from Paris. He dare not give a reason. No, but
he can use a bribe.
After several futile attempts he pens this cipher:
Remove child instantly to Dresden. Telegraph your address on arrival.
Definite settlement as you wished. Remember your promise. Directions by
mail. Imperative.
PHILIP.
Hardin chafes anxiously before a reply reaches him. When he reads it, he
rages like a fiend. It clearly reads:
I will not obey. Marry me first. Come here. Keep your oath. I will keep
my promise. A settlement on the other child is no safeguard to me. She
must have a name. Letters final. Useless to telegraph. HORTENSE.
When Hardin's rage subsides, he reviews the situation in his palace. He
is safe for years from an accounting, yet it is coming on. If he brings
the heiress to California, it will precipitate it. Secret plans for the
Senate of the United States are now maturing. Marriage with Hortense.
Impossible. His friends urge his giving his name to an ambitious lady of
the "blue blood" of his Southern home. She is a relative of the head
of the Democratic capitalists. This is a "sine qua non." The lady has
claims on these honors. It has been a secret bargain to give his hand in
return for that seat. Hortense talks madness. Never.
As for facing her, he dare not. He has established her. She is too
subtle to risk herself out of the lines she has found safe. Who can be
the "Deus ex machina"?
Ah, that Italian meddler, Villa Rocca! Hardin weaves a scheme. He will
wait her letters. If the Italian is his enemy, he will lure him to
California and then----
Ah, yes, till then, patience--the patience of the tiger crouching at the
water-pool for his coming prey.
Peyton loses no time in Paris. He reaches the home of Aristide Dauvray.
He is welcomed by the circle. The young artists are busy with brush and
modelling tool. Woods' patronage has been a blessing. The fame of his
orders has been extended by the exhibition of the works ordered by him.
His bankers have directed the attention of the travelling Americans to
the young man.
Louise Moreau is no longer a bud, but an opening rose. So fair is she,
so lovely, that Armand feels his heart beat quicker when the girl nears
his canvas to admire his skill. By the direction of Pre Franois, she
leaves the house no more for her lessons. There is a secret guard of
loving hearts around her.
Pre Franois meets Peyton with open arms. They are to be joint
guardians over the innocent child of destiny.
At Peyton's hotel, the men commune. It is not strange that the
ex-Confederate is comfortably settled opposite the Dauvray mansion! In
an exchange of opinion with the able Josephine, it is agreed that one of
the young men or the Colonel shall be always at hand.
Woods meditates a "coup de maetre." He intends, on his arrival, to
remove the girl Louise where no malignity of Hardin can reach her, to
some place where even Marie Brard will be powerless. He will force some
one to show a hand. Then, God keep the villain who leaves his tree to
fight in the open! It is war to the death. Woods directs Peyton to use
his bankers and the police, telegraphing him at London. He has a fear
they have been followed to Europe. The bankers understand that Peyton
and the priest are Woods' ambassadors.
Marie Brard comes no more to the home of her charge. Her letters are
sent by a commissionaire. Peyton reads in this a danger signal. The
soldier is on the watch for treachery. His quiet habits are easily
satisfied. He has his books, daily journals, and also French lessons
from charming Louise.
It is sunny splendor at the house on the Champs Elyses, where Natalie
de Santos moves in her charmed circle of luxury. While Peyton waits for
the "Comstock Colonel," an anxious woman sits in her queenly boudoir.
Natalie's beauty is ravishing. The exquisite elegance of her manner is
in keeping with the charms of the shining loveliness which makes her a
cynosure in the "Bois."
Face to face with a dilemma, the fair "chtelaine" racks her brain for a
new expedient. Her woman's wit is nonplussed.
Villa Rocca DEMANDS, URGES, PLEADS, SUES for marriage. Is it love?
Of all her swains he is the only one who touches her heart. At his
approach, her tell-tale pulse beats high. She dare not yet quit Hardin.
There is a campaign before her. To force Hardin to marry her, even
secretly, is the main attack. He is now old. Then, to establish her
daughter as the heiress of Lagunitas. After Hardin's death, marriage
with Villa Rocca. That is the goal. But how to restrain his lover-like
ardor.
She smiles at her reflection in the glass. She knows "the fatal gift of
beauty." It is another woman than the "queen of the gambling hell" who
smiles back at her. The pearls on her neck rise and fall. Hardin! Ah,
yes; his possible treachery! Would he dare to take the convent pupil
away from her? Perhaps.
A devilish smile plays on her lips. She will let him steal his own
child; the other, the REAL Lady of Lagunitas, he never shall know. Gods!
If he should be aware of it. It must be prevented. Whom can she trust?
No one.
Villa Rocca? Triumph shines in her eyes! She must definitely promise him
marriage in these happy years, and give him the child as a gage. He can
hide her in his Italian hills. He really has a bit of a castle under the
olive-clad hills of Tuscany.
But Marie Brard. She must outwit that maid. When the child is gone,
Marie's power ceases. No one will ever believe her. A few thousand
francs extra will satisfy the greedy soubrette.
Seizing her pen, she sends a note to the club where baccarat and
billiards claim Villa Rocca's idle hours. He meets her in the Bois de
Boulogne, now splendid in transplanted foliage. His coup dismissed,
they wander in the alleys so dear to lovers. There is triumph in her
face as they separate. A night for preparation; next day, armed with
credentials in "billets de banque," Villa Rocca will lure the girl to
her mysterious guardian who will be "sick" near Paris. Once under way,
Villa Rocca will not stop till the girl is in his Italian manor.
With bounding heart, he assents. He has now Natalie's promise to marry
him. They are one in heart.
"I am yours to the death," he says.
While Natalie sips her chocolate next morning, a carriage draws up
before Aristide Dauvray's home. Josephine is busied with the household.
Louise, singing like a lark, gayly aids her foster-mother. Aristide
is far away. He toils at the new structures of beauty. Arm in arm, the
young artists are taking a long stroll.
A gentleman of elegant appearance descends, with anxious visage. The
peal of the bell indicates haste. Josephine receives her visitor. He
curtly explains his visit. The guardian of Louise Moreau needs her
instant presence. She is ill, perhaps dying. In her excitement,
Josephine's prudence is forgotten. To lose the income from the child,
to hazard the child's chances of property. "But the child must go: at
once!" Josephine is awed and flurried. As she hastily makes preparation,
a ray of suspicion darts through her mind. Who is this messenger?
"I think I had better accompany you," cries Josephine. Then, "her
house," to be left to only one feeble old servant.
"Ah, ciel! It is terrible."
"Madame, we have no time to lose. It is near the train time. We will
telegraph. You can follow in two hours," the stranger remarks, in silken
voice.
The visitor urges. The girl is cloaked and bonneted. Josephine loses
her head. "One moment,"--she rushes for her hat and wrap; she will go at
once, herself.
As she returns, there is a muffled scream at the door of the coup.
"Mon Dieu!" Josephine screams. "My child! my Louise!" The coup door is
closing.
A strong voice cries to the driver, "Allez vite!"
As "Jehu" is about to lash his horses, an apparition glues him to his
seat.
A gray-haired man points an ugly revolver at his head.
"Halt!" he says. The street is deserted. Villa Rocca opens the door. A
strong hand hurls him to the gutter. Louise is urged from the coach. She
is in her home again!
Peyton turns to grasp the man, who picks himself from the gutter. He
is ten seconds too late. The carriage is off like a flash; it turns the
corner at a gallop. Too cool to leave the fort unguarded, Peyton enters
the salon. He finds Josephine moaning over Louise, who has fainted.
In a half-hour, Pre Franois and the young men are a bodyguard on duty.
Peyton drives to the bank, and telegraphs Woods at London:
"Come instantly! Attempt to abduct, prevented by me! Danger! PEYTON."
The next night, in the rooms of the miner, the padre and Peyton hold
a council of war. An engine waits at the "Gare du Nord." When sunlight
gilds once more Notre Dame, Peyton enters the car with a lady, clad in
black. A maid, selected by Joseph Vimont, is of the party. "Monsieur
Joseph" himself strolls into the depot. He jumps into the cab with the
engineer. "Allons!" They are off.
From forty miles away a few clicks of the telegraph flash the news to
Woods. The priest knows that Peyton and his ward are safely "en route."
"Trs bien!"
It is years before the light foot of Louise Moreau presses again the
threshold of her childhood's home. In a sunny chateau, near Lausanne,
a merry girl grows into a superb "Lady of the Lake." She is "Louise
Moreau," but Louise "en reine." She rules the hearts of gentle Henry
Peyton and the "autocrat of the Golden Chariot." It is beyond the ken
of "Natalie de Santos," or Philip Hardin, to pierce the mystery of that
castle by the waters of the Swiss lake.
Visions of peace lend new charms to the love of the pure-souled girl who
wanders there.
Louise is not always alone by Leman's blue waters. Colonel Peyton is a
thoughtful, aging man, saddened by his fiery past.
He sees nothing. He dreams of the flag which went down in battle and
storm. The flag of which Father Ryan sang--"in fond recollection of a
dead brother"--the ill-fated stars and bars:
"Furl that banner, for 'tis weary,
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary.
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it--
And there's not a sword to save it--
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it; let it rest."
But younger and brighter eyes than his own, dimmed with battle smoke,
look love into each other. Louise and Armand feel the throbbing whispers
of the lake in their own beating hearts.
Far above them there, the silver peaks lift unsullied altars to the God
of nature, life, and love.
And as the rosy flush of morning touches the Jungfrau, as the tender
light steals along the sunlit peaks of the Alps, so does the light of
love warm these two young hearts. Bounding pulse and melting accent,
blush of morning on rosy peak and maiden's cheek, tell of the dawning
day of light and love.
Shy and sweet, their natures mingle as two rivulets flowing to the sea.
Born in darkness and coldness, to dance along in warmth and sunlight,
and mingle with that great river of life which flows toward the unknown
sea.
In days of bliss, in weeks of happiness, in months of heart growth, the
two children of fortune drink in each other's eyes the philter of love.
They are sworn a new Paul and Virginia, to await the uncertain gifts
of the gods. The ardor of Armand is reflected in the tender fidelity of
graceful Louise, who is a radiant woman now.
While this single car flies out of Paris, a "mauvais quart d'heure"
awaits Ernesto de Villa Rocca, at the hands of Natalie.
Bounding from her seat, she cries, "Imbecile fool, you have ruined both
of us! The girl is lost now!"
In an hour the Italian evolves a new plan. Marie Brard shall herself
find and abduct the child! The Comte de Villa Rocca will escort them to
the Italian tower, where Natalie's dangerous ward will be lost forever
to Hardin.
But Marie must now be placated! Natalie de Santos smiles as she points
to a plump pocket-book.
"A magic sceptre, a magnetic charm, my dear Count." Her very voice
trickles with gold.
While Ernesto Villa Rocca and his promised bride dine in the lingering
refinement of a Parisian table, they await the return of the baffled
Marie. The maid has gone to arrange the departure of Louise. No
suspicion must be awakened! Once under way, then silence!--quietly
enforced. Ah, chloroform!
There was no etiquette in the sudden return of the pale-faced maid; she
dashed up, in a carriage, while the lovers dallied with the dessert.
"Speak, Marie! What has happened?" cries Natalie, with a sinking heart.
"Madame, she is gone! Gone forever!"
Madame de Santos bounds to the side of the defeated woman. "If you
are lying, beware!" she hisses. Her hand is raised. There is a dagger
flashing in the air. Villa Rocca wrests it from the raging woman's hand.
"No folly, Madame! She speaks the truth!"
Marie stubbornly tells of her repulse. Josephine was "not alone!" Blunt
Aristide elbowed her out of the house, saying:
"Be off with you! The girl is gone! If you want to know where she is,
apply to the police. Now, don't show your lying face here again! I will
have you arrested! You are a child stealer! You and your ruffian had
better never darken this door. Go!"
Natalie de Santos sinks back in her chair. Her teeth are chattering.
A cordial restores her nerves. Count Villa Rocca lingers, moody and
silent.
What powerful adversary has baffled them?
"Marie, await me in my room!" commands Natalie. In five minutes the roll
of rubber-tired wheels proves that madame and the count have gone out.
"To the opera?" "To the theatre?" The sly maid does not follow them.
Her brain burns with a mad thirst for vengeance. Her hoard must now be
completed. "Has she been tricked?" "Thousand devils, no!"
Softly moving over the driveway, Natalie eagerly pleads with Villa
Rocca. Her perfumed hair brushes his cheek. Her eyes gleam like
diamonds, as they sweep past the brilliantly lighted temples of
pleasure. She is Phryne and Aspasia to-night.
Villa Rocca is drunk with the delirium of passion. His mind reels.
"I will do it," he hoarsely murmurs. Arrived at the "porte cochre," the
count lifts his hat, as madame reenters her home.
There is a fatal glitter in Natalie's eyes, as she enters alone her
robing room.
When madame is seated in the freedom of a wonderful "robe de chambre,"
her face is expectant, yet pleasant. Marie has fulfilled every duty of
the evening.
"You may go, Marie. I am tired. I wish to sleep," remarks the lady,
nonchalantly.
"Will madame pardon me?"
Marie's voice sounds cold and strange. Ah, it has come, then! Natalie
has expected this. What is the plot?
Natalie looks her squarely in the eyes. "Well?" she says, sharply.
"I hope madame will understand that I close my duties here to-night!"
the maid slowly says.
"Indeed?" Madame lifts her eyebrows.
"I would be glad to be permitted to leave the house to-morrow."
"Certainly, Marie!" quietly rejoins Natalie. "You may leave when you
wish. The butler will settle your account. I shall not ring for you
to-morrow." She leans back. Checkmate!
"Will madame excuse me?" firmly says the maid, now defiantly looking
her mistress in the eyes. "The butler can probably not settle my little
account."
"What is it?" simply asks Madame de Santos.
"It is one hundred thousand francs," firmly replies the woman.
"I shall not pay it! decidedly not!" the lady answers.
"Very good. Judge Hardin might!"
The maid moves slowly to the door.
"Stay!" commands Natalie. "Leave my house before noon to-morrow. You
can come here with any friend you wish at this hour to-morrow night. You
will have your money. How do you wish it?"
"In notes," the maid replies, with a bow. She walks out of the room.
She pauses at the threshold. "Will madame ask Georgette to look over the
property of madame?"
"Certainly. Send her to me!"
Marie Brard leaves her world-wearied mistress, forever, and without a
word.
When the other maid enters, madame finds need for the assistant. "You
may remain in my apartment and occupy the maid's couch. I may want you.
I am nervous. Stay!"
The under-maid is joyous at her promotion. Madame de Santos sleeps the
sleep of the just. Happy woman!
Marie Brard rages in her room, while her mistress sleeps in a bed once
used by a Queen of France.
The ticking clock drives her to madness. She throws it into the
court-yard.
Spurned! foiled! baffled!
Ah, God! She will have both fortunes. She remembers that little paper of
years ago.
Yes, to find it now. Near her heart. By the candle, she reads the
cabalistic words:
"Leroyne & Co., 16 Rue Vivienne."
Was it an imprudence to speak of Hardin? No, it was a mere threat.
Marie's cunning eyes twinkle. She will get this money here quietly.
Then, to the bank--to the bank! Two fortunes at one "coup."
But she must see Jules! Jules Tessier! He must help now; he must help.
And how? He is at the Caf Ney.
Yet she has often slipped out with him to the "bals de minuit." A friend
can replace him; servants keep each others' secrets. Victory!
She must see him at once. Yes, Jules will guide her. He can go to the
bank, after she has received her money. And then the double payment and
vengeance on madame!
Like lightning, she muffles herself for the voyage. A coup, ten
minutes, and above all--a silent exit. All is safe; the house sleeps.
She steals to her lover. Jules Tessier starts, seeing Marie in the
ante-room at the Caf Ney. There are, even here, curious spies.
Marie's eyes are flashing; her bosom heaves. "Come instantly, Jules! it
is the hour. My coup is here."
"Mon Dieu, in an instant!" The sly Jules knows from her shaken voice the
golden hoard is in danger.
In a few moments he is by her side in the coup. "Where to?" huskily
asks the head-waiter.
"To the 'bal de minuit.' We can talk there."
"Allons! au Jardin Bullier," he cries.
Before the "fiacre" stops, Jules has an idea of the situation. Ah! a
grand "coup." Jules is a genius!
Seated in a bosky arbor, the two talk in lowest tones over their chicken
and Burgundy.
There is a noisy party in the next arbor, but a pair of dark Italian
eyes peer like basilisks through the leaves of the tawdry shade. The
lovers are unconscious of the listener.
With joint toil, the pair of lovers prepare a letter to Leroyne & Co.,
bankers, 16 Rue Vivienne.
Marie's trembling hand draws the paper from her bosom. She knows that
address by heart.
"Give it to me, Marie," he pleads, "for safety." A FRENCHWOMAN can deny
her lover nothing.
"Now, listen, 'ma cherie,'" Jules murmurs. "You get the one treasure.
To-morrow I go to the bank, the telegraph, you understand, but not till
you have the other money safe." Her eyes sparkle. A double fortune! A
double revenge! A veritable "coup de Machiavelli."
"And I must go, dearest. I wait for you to-morrow. You get your money;
then I am off to the bank, and we will secure the rest. Bravo!"
Jules snaps his fingers at the imbeciles. He sees the "Hotel Tessier"
rising in cloudland.
"Press this proud woman hard now. Be careful. I will pay the coup; we
might be followed."
While Jules is absent, Marie dreams the rosy dreams of fruition. Love,
avarice, revenge!
Down through the entrance, they saunter singly. Both are Parisians.
After a square or two brings them to night's obscurity, parting kisses
seal the dark bond; Judge Hardin shall pay after madame; Marie's velvet
hand grips Jules' palm in a sinful compact.
Home by the usual way, past Notre Dame, and Jules will discreetly watch
her safety till she reaches the omnibus.
She knows not when she reaches Notre Dame that Tessier lies behind her,
stunned upon the sidewalk, his pockets rifled, and his senses reeling
under brutal blows. Her heart is blithe, for here, under the shade of
Notre Dame, she is safe. Twenty steps bring her to the glaring street.
Yet the avenger has panther feet.
Out of the shadow, in a moment, she will be. "Oh, God!" the cry smothers
in her throat. Like lightning, stab after stab in her back paralyzes
her.
Bubbling blood from her quivering lips, Marie falls on her face. A dark
shadow glides away, past buttress and vaulted door.
Is it Villa Rocca's ready Italian stiletto?
BOOK V.
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
CHAPTER XVIII.
JOE WOODS SURPRISES A LADY.--LOVE'S GOLDEN NETS.
When a cab is halted, the horses shying at a prostrate body, knots of
street loungers gather at the cries of the discoverers of Marie Brard's
body. The "sergents de ville" raise the woman. Her blood stains the
sidewalk, in the shadow of the Church of Christ. Twinkling lights
flicker on her face. A priest passing by, walks by the stretcher. He is
called by his holy office to pray for the "parting soul."
It is Pre Franois. He has been in Notre Dame. To the nearest hospital
the bearers trudge. It is only a few rods. When the body is examined,
the pale face is revealed. Pre Franois clasps his hands.
It is, indeed, the mysterious guardian of Louise, stabbed and dying. It
is the hand of fate!
Breathing faintly, the poor wretch lies prone. There is no apparent
clue to her assailant. She is speechless. It has not been robbery; her
valuables are intact. Hastily anointing her, Pre Franois departs. He
promises to return in the morning. He hastens to the nearest cabstand,
and whirls away to Colonel Woods' hotel. Whose hand has dealt this blow?
The financier is startled at the priest's face. Joseph has been jocular
since the safe departure of Louise.
He listens. A prodigious whistle announces his feelings. "Padre," says
he, "if that Frenchwoman is alive to-morrow, you must see her. Find out
all she knows. I'll turn out at daybreak, and watch Madame Santos' house
myself. I think that handsome 'she devil' had something to do with this.
"Got done with the maid. No more use for her. Now, my dear friend, I
will be here to-morrow when you show up. We will interview the madame.
She's the spider in this game."
Woods sleeps like a man in a tossing storm. He knows from the padre's
repeated visits at the Santos mansion that dying Marie holds the secret
of these two children's lives. If she could only talk.
All night the miner battles for Valois' unknown child.
Up with the lark, Joe sends his "French fellow" for detective Vimont.
"Voila! un grand procs."
Vimont sees gold ahead.
By eight o'clock, ferret eyes are watching the Santos mansion, the home
of discreet elegance.
A stunning toilet is made by Joseph, in the vain hope of impressing the
madame. He will face this Lucrezia Borgia "in his raiment of price." He
has a dim idea, that splendid garb will cover his business-like manner
of coming to "first principles."
A happy man is he at his well-ordered djeuner, for though Joe is no De
Rohan or Montmorency, yet he eats like a lord and drinks like a prince
of the blood. He is the "first of his family"--a golden fact.
He revenges himself daily for the volunteer cuisine of the American
River. Often has he laughed over haughty Valois' iron-clad bread, his
own flinty beans, the slabs of pork, cooked as a burnt offering by slow
combustion. Only one audacious Yankee in the camp ever attempted a pie.
That was a day of crucial experiment, a time of bright hopes, a period
of sad failure.
Vimont reports at noon. A visit from Villa Rocca of a half-hour.
Sauntering up the Elyses, after his departure, the count, shadowed
carefully, strolled to his club. He seemed to know nothing. The waxen
mask of Italian smoothness fits him like a glove. He hums a pleasant
tune as he strolls in. The morning journals? Certainly; an hour's
perusal is worthy the attention of the elegant "flneur." Ah! another
murder. He enjoys the details.
Pre Franois enters the colonel's rooms, with grave air. While Vimont
frets over his cigar, in the courtyard, the story of Marie Brard is
partly told.
She will not live through the night. At her bedside, Sisters of Charity
twain, tell the beads and watch the flickering pulse of the poor lost
girl. The police have done their perfunctory work. They are only owls
frightened by sunlight. Fools! Skilful fools! She knows nothing of her
assailant. Her feeble motions indicate ignorance. She must have rest and
quiet. The saddened Pre Franois can not disguise from Woods that he
suspects much. Much more than the police can dream in their theories.
What is it? Hopes, fears, the rude story of a strange life, and upon
it all is the awful seal of the confessional. For, Marie Brard has
unfolded partly, her own life-story. Joe Woods clasps the padre's hands.
"You know which of these children is a million-heiress, and which a
pauper?"
The padre's eyes are blazing. He is mute. "Let us trust to God. Wait, my
friend," says Pre Franois solemnly. Before that manly voice, the miner
hushes his passionate eagerness. Violence is vain, here.
It seems to him as if the dead mother of an orphan child had placed her
hand upon his brow and said: "Wait and hope!"
Monte Cristo's motto once more.
The padre eyes the Comstock colonel under his thin lashes.
"My friend"--his voice trembles--"I can tell you nothing yet, but I will
guide you. I will not see you go wrong."
"Square deal, padre!" roars Joseph, with memories of gigantic poker
deals. Irreverent Joe.
"Square deal," says the priest, solemnly, as he lays an honest man's
hand in that of its peer. He knows the Californian force of this appeal
to honor. Joseph selects several cigars. He fusses with his neckgear
strangely.
"Vamos, amigo," he cries, in tones learned from the muleteers of the far
West.
Once in the halls of "Madame de Santos," Colonel Joe is the pink of
Western elegance. The acute sense of the Missourian lends him a certain
dignity, in spite of his gaudy attire.
Under fire, this Western pilgrim can affect a "sang froid" worthy of
Fontenoy.
Radiant in white clinging "crpe de Chine," her "prononce" beauty
unaccentuated by the baubles of the jeweller, Madame de Santos greets
the visitors.
A blue circle under her eyes tells of a vigil of either love or hate.
Speculation is vain. The "monde" has its imperial secrets.
Who can solve the equation of womanhood? Colonel Joseph is effusive
in his cheery greeting. "My dear madame, I am glad to be in Paris once
more." He would charm this sphinx into life and warmth. Foolish Joseph.
"We all are charmed to see you safely returned," murmurs the madame.
The padre is studying the art treasures of the incomparable "Salon de
Santos."
"I have some messages from a friend of yours," continues Joseph,
strangely intent upon the narrow rim of his hat.
"Ah, yes! Pray who remembers me so many years?"
Joseph fires out the answer like a charge of canister from a Napoleon
gun: "Philip Hardin."
The lady's lips close. There is a steely look in her eyes. Her hand
seeks her heaving bosom. Is there a dagger there?
"Useless, my lady." There are two men here. The padre is intent upon a
war picture of Dtaille. His eyes catch a mirror showing the startled
woman.
"And--what--did--Mr.--Philip--Hardin say?" the lady gasps.
"He asked me if you remembered Hortense Duval, the Queen of the El--"
Natalie reels and staggers, as if shot.
"By God, Lee was right!" cries Woods. He catches her falling form. The
first and only time he will ever hold her in his arms.
"Padre, ring the bell!" cries the excited miner.
The clock ticks away noisily in the hall. The wondering servants bear
madame to her rooms. All is confusion. A fainting fit.
"Let's get out of here," whispers Woods, frightened by his own
bomb-shell.
"Stay till we get a message of formality," murmurs the diplomatic padre.
"It would look like violence or insult to leave abruptly. No one here
must suspect." Joe nods gloomily and wipes his brows.
The stately butler soon expresses the regrets of madame. "A most
unforeseen affair, an assault upon one of her discharged servants, has
tried her nerves. Will Colonel Woods kindly excuse madame, who will send
him word when she receives again?"
"Colonel Woods will decidedly excuse madame." He returns to his hotel.
He grieves over the dark shadows cast upon her suffering loveliness. "By
the gods! It's a shame SHE IS WHAT SHE IS," he murmurs to his cigar. Ah,
Joseph! entangled in the nets of Delilah.
In a few days the spacious apartments of Colonel Woods have another
tenant. Bag and baggage he has quietly departed for the Pacific Slope.
Pre Franois runs on to Havre. He waves an adieu from the "quai."
It would not be possible to prove that Colonel Joe has not gone to
Switzerland. That is not the question, however. But the padre and the
colonel are now sworn allies. Joseph is the bearer of a letter to
the Archbishop of California. It carries the heart and soul of Pre
Franois. The great Church acts now.
"My dear old friend," says Woods in parting, "I propose to keep away
from Paris for a couple of years and watch Philip Hardin's handling of
this great estate. Peyton will bring the girl on, when her coming of age
calls for a legal settlement of the estate. I don't want to strike that
woman down until she braves me.
"I'm going to lure Madame de Santos over to California. If she wants
to watch me, I will be on deck every time there. I'll bring Peyton and
Louise Moreau over to San Francisco. I will never lose sight of that
child. Judge Davis shall now run my whole game. I don't ask you who
killed that woman, padre, but I will bet the de Santos knows the hand
which struck the blow.
"By leaving you, Vimont, to watch her, you may be yet able to catch
our man. We'll let her bring forward the heiress of Lagunitas, whom she
stowed away in the convent. Don't spare the cash, padre. You can use
what you want from my bankers. They will cable me at once, at your wish.
Good-bye." Joe Woods is off. His mind is bent on a great scheme.
Pre Franois thinks of the unavenged murder of the poor maid-servant.
She is now sleeping the last sleep in Pre la Chaise. Paris has its
newer mysteries already, to chase away her memory--only one more
unfortunate.
Joe gets news after his arrival at the Golden Gate. "I will tell you, my
dear friend, that a large sum of money was due to this woman from Madame
de Santos. She was to have it the next day. I can not see who would kill
her to prevent her getting money from a prosperous mistress. She was
making her a final present on leaving her service. Madame de Santos
openly admits she intended to give her a considerable sum of money. She
has acted with commendable kindness as to her funeral. All is quiet. The
police are baffled." This is the priest's letter.
"I cannot, at present, reveal to you all I learned from the dying
penitent. I need a higher permission. I have given you an order to
receive the original Valois marriage papers, and the baptismal and
birth certificates of Isabel Valois. She is the only child of Maxime and
Dolores Valois. Louise Moreau is the real heiress, in my opinion, but we
must prove it. I shall come to San Francisco to watch the sequel of the
guardianship of the rightful heiress.
"One person ALONE can now positively swear to this child. I shall watch
that defiant woman, until she goes to California."
High life in Paris rolls on golden wheels as always. Ernesto Villa
Rocca is a daily visitor at the Santos residence. A change has been
inaugurated by the death of Marie Brard.
There is a lovely girl there now, whose beauty shines out even by the
side of Natalie the peerless. The heiress is at home. Not even to Villa
Rocca does Natalie confide herself. The disappearance of Louise
Moreau startles her yet. The sudden death of Marie brings her certain
advantages in her once dangerous position. She has no fear to boldly
withdraw the blooming Isabel Valois, so called, from the "Sacre Coeur,"
now she has learned that the legal control of the child can only be
taken from her by Hardin himself. He will never dare to use open force
as regards her. No! fear will restrain him. The dark bond of the past
prevents.
But by fraud or artifice, yes! To defeat any possible scheme, she
surrounds the young girl with every elegance of instruction and
accomplishment. She watches her like a tigress guarding its young, But
by her side, in her own home, the young "claimant" will be surely safe.
Hardin fears any public denouncement of his schemes. Open scandal is
worse than secret crime, in the high circles he adorns.
Count Ernesto Villa Rocca does not plead immediately for madame's hand.
Wise Italian. "Chi va piano va sano." Since the fateful evening when
he promised to do a certain deed of blood for Natalie, his ardor has
chilled a little. "Particeps criminis." He revolves the whole situation.
With cool Italian astuteness, he will wait a few months, before linking
himself to the rich lady whose confidential maid was so mysteriously
murdered. There has been no hesitation, on his part, to accept a
large sum of money from Natalie. Besides, his eye rests with burning
admiration on the young girlish beauty. Her loveliness has the added
charms of untold millions, in her future fortune. A prize. Does he dare?
Ernesto Villa Rocca cannot fathom the mysterious connection between the
guardian siren and her charge. Would he be safe to depend upon Madame de
Santos' fortune? He knows not. Has not the young girl a greater value in
his eyes?
Seated in the boudoir of Natalie, with bated breath, Villa Rocca has
told Natalie what he expects as a reward for freeing her from Marie.
Natalie hails the expiration of the minority of the "daughter of the
Dons." The millions will now fall under her own control. Power!--social
power! concrete power!
The most urgent appeals to her from Hardin cannot make her leave France.
Hardin storms. He threatens. He implores. He cannot leave California and
go to France himself. The wily wretch knows that Natalie THERE will have
a local advantage over him. Month after month glides away. Swordplay
only. Villa Rocca, dallying with Natalie, gloats over the beauties of
the ward.
Armand Valois, by invitation of Colonel Peyton, has decided to spend a
year or so in Switzerland and Germany, painting and sketching. Louise
Moreau soons becomes a proficient amateur artist. She wanders on the
lovely shores of the lake, with the gifted young American. Love weaves
its golden web. Joined heart and soul, these children of fortune whisper
their love by the throbbing bosom of the lake.
It is with the rare genius of her sly nature, a happy thought, that
Madame de Santos requests the chivalric Raoul Dauvray to instruct her
own ward in modelling and sketching. It will keep her mind busy, and
content the spirited girl. She must save her from Villa Rocca. Dauvray
is also a painter of no mean talent. A studio is soon arranged. The
merry girl, happy at her release from convent walls, spends pleasant
hours with the ex-Zouave. Drifting, drifting daily down happy hours to
the knowledge of their own ardent feelings.
Natalie absolutely debars all other visitors from meeting her young
ward. Only her physician and Pre Franois can watch these studio
labors. She fears Hardin's emissaries only.
Many visits to the studio are made by Villa Rocca. He is a lover of the
"beaux-arts."
The days fly by pleasantly. Natalie is playing a cool game now. Pre
Franois and Raoul Dauvray are ever in her charmed circle. She dare not
refuse the friendship of the inscrutable priest. She watches, cat-like,
for some sign or token of the absent Louise Moreau. Nothing. Colonel
Joseph's sagacity has arranged all communication from the Swiss lakes,
through his trusted banker. It is a blind trail.
Vimont, eying Natalie and Villa Rocca keenly, reports that he cannot
fathom their relations. Guilty lovers? No. There is no obstacle at all
to their marriage. Then why not a consummation? "Accomplices?" "In what
crime?" "Surely none!" The count is of station undoubted. A member of
the Jockey Club. Natalie de Santos speaks frankly to Pre Franois
of her obligations to the dead woman. That mysterious assailant still
defies the famed police of Paris.
Yet around Madame de Santos a web of intrigue is woven, which even her
own keen eyes do not ferret out.
Strange woman-heart. Lonely and defiant, yet blind, she thinks she
guards her control of the budding heiress, "Isabel Valois." Waiting?
In the studio, handsome Raoul Dauvray bends glowing eyes on the clay
which models the classic beauty of Isabel Valois. The sabre scar on his
bronzed face burns red as he directs the changes of his lovely model.
Neither a Phryne nor an Aphrodite, but "the Unawakened Venus."
A dreamy light flickers in her eyes, as she meets the burning gaze of an
artist lover.
Fighting hard against the current, the heiress of millions affects not
to understand.
It is "Monsieur Raoul," "Mademoiselle Isabel;" and all the while, their
hearts beat in unison.
Raoul, soldier-artist, Frenchman, and lover, dissembles when Villa Rocca
is present. There is a strange constraint in the girl's dark eyes, as
her idle hands cross themselves, in unconscious pose, when they are
alone.
"Lift your eyes a little, mademoiselle. Look steadily at me," is his
gentle request. He can hear the clock tick as if its beat was the fail
of a trip hammer.
When even his fastidious task can no longer delay, he says, as the
afternoon sun gilds the dome of the Invalides, throwing down his graver,
"Je n'en puis plus, mademoiselle. It is finished. I will release you
now."
As Raoul throws the cloth over the clay model, Isabel passes him with a
gasp, and gazes with set face from the window.
His bursting heart holds him back. There is no longer an excuse.
"And I shall see you no more, Monsieur Raoul?" the heiress of millions
softly says.
"Not till this is in marble, mademoiselle. A poor artist does not mingle
in your own gay world."
"But a soldier of France is welcome everywhere," the girl falters.
A mist rises to Raoul's eyes. He bears the cross of the Legion of Honor
on his breast. The perfume from her hair is blown across his face. "Les
violettes de Parme." The artist sinks in the soldier.
Springing to the window, the girl's assenting hand, cold as ice, is
clasped in his palm.
"Isabel!" he cries. She trembles like a leaf. "May the soldier ask what
the artist would not dare?" He is blind with passion.
The lovely dark-eyed girl turns a splendid face upon him, her eyes
filled with happy tears, and cries:
"Captain, you saved my life!"
The noisy clock ticks away; the only sound beside its clang is the
beating hearts which close in love's first embrace, when the soldier
knows he has won the heart of the Pearl of Paris.
"Your rank, your millions, your guardian! The Count Villa Rocca, my
enemy!" he hoarsely whispers.
The clinging beauty hands him the ribbon from her throat.
"Claim me with this!" she cries as his arms enfold her.
The dream of young love; first love; true love.
Every obstacle fades away: Lagunitas' millions; proud guardian; scheming
duenna; watchful Villa Rocca. The world is naught to the two whose arms
bind the universe in love's golden circle,
Raoul murmurs to the glowing maiden in his arms:
"And can you trust me?"
The splendid beauty clasps him closer, whispering softly:
"A Spanish girl loves once and to the death."
"But, darling," she falters, as her arms cling closer, "we must wait and
hope!"
A letter from Philip Hardin arrives, in the gayest midwinter of a
rejuvenated Paris. The time for decisive action has arrived. Natalie
revolves every clause of Hardin's proposition in her mind.
In less than a year the now blooming Isabel will be eighteen years of
age. The accounting--
Hardin is trying now to cut the legal Gordian knot. His letter reads as
follows:
I have determined to make you a proposition which should close all our
affairs. It should leave no cause for complaint. I need Isabel Valois
here, You will not trust yourself in America with our past relations
unsettled. I shall not force you, but I must do my duty as guardian.
You are worthy of a settlement. No one knows you here now. Marry Villa
Rocca. Come here with Isabel. I will give you jointly a fortune which
will content you. I will settle upon your child the sum of one hundred
thousand dollars, to be paid over to her use when of age. If you marry
Villa Rocca now, I will give him the drafts for the child's money.
If you decide to marry him, you may ask him to visit me here, as your
agent. I will show him where your own property is located, to the extent
of half a million dollars. This is to be turned over to you and him
jointly, when you are man and wife. This will satisfy his honor and
his rank. Otherwise, I shall soon cease my remittances. You may not be
willing to do as I wish, but the heiress must be returned to me, or you
and your child will remain without means.
Your marriage will be my safeguard and your own establishment. Tell
Villa Rocca any story of your life; I will confirm and prove it. I shall
name my bankers as trustee to join with any person you name for your
child. The principal to be paid over to her on her marriage, to her
own order. She can take any name you choose, except mine. If this is
satisfactory, cable to me, "Accepted; agent coming." Send a letter by
your agent, with a private duplicate to me, with your wishes. HARDIN.
Natalie stands face to face with a life's decision. Can she trust Villa
Rocca? By the dark bond of crime between them she must. A poor bond
of crime. And the millions of Lagunitas. To yield them up. A terrible
temptation.
In her boudoir, Villa Rocca sums up with lightning flashes, the merits
of this proposition. It is partly unfolded to him by the woman, who
holds his pledge to marry her. "She must settle her affairs." It is a
good excuse. He smiles, as he says:
"Madonna mia, in whose name will this property be placed, if I make you
Countess Villa Rocca?"
"In our joint names, with benefit to the survivor," she replies.
"If arranged in even sums on each of us, with a reversion to me, if you
die childless, I will accept. I will go to California, and bring the
deposit for the missing child. I can make every arrangement for your
lawyer. We can go over together and marry there, when you restore the
heiress next year to her guardian." A bargain, a compact, and a bond of
safety. It suits both.
The lady despatches to Hardin her acceptance of his proposal.
In preparing a letter to the Judge she gives her "fianc" every
instruction. She permits him to mail the duplicate, carefully compared.
In a week, Count Ernesto is tossing on the billows of the Atlantic. He
is a fashionable Columbus. He is sufficiently warned to be on his guard
in conversation with the wily Hardin. Natalie is far-seeing.
Villa Rocca laughed as he embraced his future bride. "Trust an Italian,
in finesse, cara mia."
It is arranged between the two that Hardin is to have no hint of the
character, appearance, or whereabouts of the child who receives the
bounty. The letter bears the name of "Irene Duval" as the beneficiary
of the fund. A system of correspondence is devised between them. Villa
Rocca, using his Italian consul at San Francisco as a depositary, will
be sure to obtain his letters. He will write to a discreet friend in
Paris. Perhaps a spy on herself, Natalie muses.
Still she must walk hand in hand with Villa Rocca, a new sharer of her
secret. But HE dare not talk.
When these two have said their last adieux, when Natalie sums up her
lonely thoughts, she feels, with a shudder for the future, that not a
shade of tenderness clings around this coming marriage. Mutual passion
has dissipated itself. There is a self-consciousness of meeting eyes
which tells of that dark work under the gloomy buttresses of Notre Dame.
Murder--a heavy burden!
Can they trust each other? They MUST. The weary secret of unpunished
crime grows heavier, day by day. In losing a tyrant, in the maid, will
she not gain a colder master in the man she marries? Who knows?
Natalie Santos realizes that she has no legal proof whose hand struck
that fatal blow. But Villa Rocca can expose her to Hardin. A fatal
weakness. The anxious woman realizes what her false position and idle
luxury cost in heartache. It is life!
The roses turn to ashes on her cheeks as she paces her lonely rooms.
Restless and weary in the Bois, she is even more dull and "distraite"
in society. The repression of her secret, the daily presence of the
daughter she dares not own, all weary her heart and soul. She feels that
her power over Hardin will be gone forever when the heiress enters upon
her rights. Has the child learned to love another? Her life is barren, a
burning waste.
Money, with its myriad luxuries, must be gained by the marriage with
Villa Rocca. To see her child inherit an honored name, and in possession
of millions, will be revenge enough upon Philip Hardin. He never shall
know the truth while he lives. Once recognized, Isabel Valois cannot be
defeated in her fortune. Marie is dead. The only one who might wish to
prove the change of the two children, Hardin himself, knows not. He must
take her word. She is invincible.
Pre Franois becomes a greater comfort to her daily. The graceful
priest brings with him an air of peace into the gaudy palace on the
Elyses. She softens daily.
Raoul Dauvray has finished the artistic labors of his commissions. He
is now only an occasional visitor. If he has the love of the heiress he
dares not claim her yet. The fiery Zouave chafes in vain. Natalie holds
him off. Pre Franois whispers, "Wait and hope!"
With the blindness of preoccupation, Natalie sees not how the tendrils
of "first love" have filled the girl's heart. The young soldier-artist
rules that gentle bosom. Love finds its ways of commune. Marriage seems
impossible for years. Isabel must mount her "golden throne" before
suitors can come to woo. A sculptor! The idea is absurd.
Not a single trace is left of "Louise Moreau." Natalie's lip curls as
she fathoms the motive of the girl's disappearance. Friends of Marie
Brard's have probably secreted her, as a part of the old scheme of
blackmail upon her. Did the secret die with her? It is fight now. She
muses: "Now they may keep her. The seal of the grave is on the only lips
which could tell the story of Lagunitas." Villa Rocca even, does not
know who the child was! His evidence would be valueless.
If--yes, if the Dauvray household should seek to fathom the history of
the waif, how like an everyday history is the story in reply:
"Marie Brard wished to disembarrass herself of her fatherless child.
She yet wished to hold some claim on the future in its behalf. That
explains Louise Moreau's motives." There is a high wall of defence
around her whole position. Her own child dead; but where, or how? She
must invent. Walls have been scaled, my Lady of the Castle Dangerous.
The enemy is mining under your defences, in silence.
With Villa Rocca's nerve and Italian finesse, even Hardin can be
managed. If HE should die, then the dark secret of her child's
transformation is safe forever!
Days fly by. Time waits for no aching hearts. There is a smile of
satisfaction on the lovely face of Natalie. She peruses the letters from
Hardin and the count. They announce the arrangement of the dower for
the absent "Irene Duval." Villa Rocca is in San Francisco. The count
forwards one set of the drafts, without comments. He only says he will
bring the seconds, and thirds of exchange himself, He is going to come
"home."
He announces his departure to the interior with Judge Hardin. He wishes
to see the properties and interests held for Madame de Santos by her
lawyer.
In a month he will be on his homeward way; Judge Hardin has loyally
played his part. Villa Rocca's letters prove his respect for a bride
who brings him a half million. The letters warm visibly. Even an Italian
count can be impressed by solid wealth. Natalie de Santos's lips curl
in derision of man. Her clouded history is now safe. Yes, the golden
glitter of her ill-gotten fortune will cover all inquiry as to the late
"Se¤or de Santos," of shadowy memory. She IS safe!
It is only a fair exchange of courtesy. She has not investigated the
family stories of the noble Villa Rocca.
Cool, suave, polished; accepted at the clubs as a man of the world;
an adept with rapier and pistol; Ernesto Villa Rocca bears his social
coronet as bravely as the premier duke of France--always on guard!
"Does she love this man?" Natalie looks in her glass. From girlhood she
has been hunted for her beauty. Now a fortune, title, and the oblivion
of years will aid her in reigning as a mature queen. A "mondaine" with
no entanglements. Paradise opens.
Liberal in works of charity, the adventuress can glide easily into
religion. Once her feet firmly planted, she will "assume that virtue, if
she have it not."
"And then--and after all!" The last tableau before the curtain falls.
The pall of sable velvet. Natalie shudders. She remakes her toilet and
drives to the opera.
"After all, social life is but a play." Her heart beats high with pride.
Villa Rocca's return with the funds will be only a prelude to their
union. But how to insure the half million? "How?"
The count's greed and entire union in interest with her will surely hold
him faithful,
She will marry Ernesto as soon as he returns. She can trust him with the
heiress until the property is settled on the married lovers.
Hardin, when Jules Tessier's addled brains are restored by careful
nursing, receives a document from Leroyne & Co., which rouses his inmost
soul.
Jules Tessier, handsome brute, chafes under the loss of the double
blackmail. "Two hundred thousand francs," and his Marie.
To add to his anguish, he knows not where or under what name, Marie
has deposited her own golden hoard. The "Hotel Tessier" has gone to
Cloudland with the other "chateaux en Espagne"--the two payments are
lost! Jules rages at knowing that even the savings of murdered Marie are
lost to him. Even if found, they cannot be his by law. The ruffians who
robbed him of everything, have left no trace.
The two weeks passed tossing on a hospital bed, have been lost to the
police. Dimly Jules remembers the sudden assault. Crashing blows raining
down upon him! Not a scrap of paper is left. The fatal letter to Leroyne
& Co. is gone.
The police question the artful Jules.
He holds the secret of Leroyne & Co. to himself.
He may yet get a handsome bribe to tell even the meagre facts he knows.
Marie Brard's case is one of the reigning sensations. Her lips are now
sealed in death.
The baffled police only see in the visit to the "bal de minuit," a
bourgeois intrigue of ordinary character.
Jules dares not tell all. He fears the stern French law. Tossing on his
bed of pain, his only course is to secretly visit Leroyne & Co.
The bereaved lover feels that the parties who followed him, were
directed by some malign agency which is fraught with future danger for
him.
The poniard of darkness may reach his heart, if he betrays his designs.
Strongly suspecting Natalie de Santos, yet he knows her revenge struck
through meaner hands than her own.
He has no proof. Not a clue. Villa Rocca is to him unknown. He fears to
talk.
He hobbles forth to his vocation, and dares not even visit Marie's
grave.
Spies may track him as on that fatal night. And even Leroyne's bank may
be watched.
He must take this risk, for his only reward lies in that mysterious
address.
Jules, in workman's blouse, spends an hour with the grave-faced banker
of the Rue Vivienne.
When he emerges, he has ten one-thousand-franc notes in his waist-lining
and the promise of more.
The banker knows the whole story of Jules' broken hopes; of the promised
reward; the double crime.
He directs Jules Tessier to further await orders at the caf, and to
ignore the whole affair.
A significant hint about going forth at night makes Jules shudder. And
the cipher cablegram gives Hardin the disjointed facts of Marie's death!
His one ally gone. Her lips sealed forever.
Musing in his library, Hardin's clear head unravels this intrigue. The
Paris police know not the past history of the actors in this drama.
Jules is simply greedy and thick-headed. Leroyne & Co. are passionless
bankers.
But Hardin gathers up the knotted threads and unravels all.
Accustomed to weigh evidence, to sift facts, his clear mind indicates
Natalie de Santos as the brain, Villa Rocca as the striking assassin of
this plot.
It is all aimed at him.
"Ah, yes!" the chafing lawyer muses, as he walks the legal quarter-deck
of his superb library. "Villa Rocca and Natalie are lovers. The girl
tried to blackmail them. She was trapped and put out of the way.
"Marie Brard dead--one dangerous ally gone. Villa Rocca and Natalie are
the only two who know all. Her mind is his now.
"Ah, I have it!" with a devilish sneer. "I will separate these two
billing and cooing lovers. If I get Villa Rocca here, he will never get
back to France.
"When he is out of the way, Natalie can prove nothing.
"If she comes here I will treat her story as that of an insane woman."
Hardin draws a glass with shaking hand.
"Yes; a private asylum."
As for the heiress, there are plans in his mind he dare not whisper.
Illegitimacy and other reasons may bar her rights. The heiress knows
nothing and she has not a paper.
Some outsider must fight this case.
In Hardin's dreams he sees his enemies at his feet. On Ernesto Villa
Rocca's handsome face is the pallor of death. Lagunitas and its millions
are his by right of power and cunning.
Marie Brard's avenger is thousands of miles away from her grave, and
his cunning plan already woven to ensnare the Italian when off his
guard. Yet Hardin's blood boils to feel that "the secret for a price"
is buried in Marie Brard's grave. Toss as he may, his dreams do not
discover the lost secret. Even Philip Hardin may meet a Nemesis.
Villa Rocca, slain by a well-contrived accident, died for a secret he
knew not.
His own hand slew the woman who knew alone of the changelings, save the
bright and defiant ex-queen of the El Dorado.
Dark memories hover around some of the great mines of the Pacific. Giant
stock operations resulted from a seeming accidental fire. A mine filled
with water by mysterious breakage of huge pumps. Hoisting machinery
suddenly unmanageable; dashing to their doom unsuspecting wretches.
Imprisoned miners, walled up in rich drifts, have died under stifling
smoke, so that their secrets would die with them.
Grinning Molochs of finance have turned markets on these ghastly tricks.
Madame de Santos may never suspect how a steel spike adroitly set could
cut a rope and dash even a noble Villa Rocca to his doom, carrying down
innocent men as a mask to the crime.
In the clear sky of Natalie's complacency, a lightning stroke of the
gods brings her palace of delight crashing down around her. Nemesis!
The telegraph flashes across the prairies, far beneath the Atlantic;
the news of Villa Rocca's death arrives. Hardin's cable is brief. It is
all-sufficient. Her trembling limbs give way. She reads:
SAN FRANCISCO.
Count Ernesto killed while visiting a mine, with friends. Accident
of hoisting machinery. I was not there. Leave to-night for the place.
Telegraph your wishes. Remain. Wait my reports. Write fully in a few
days.
HARDIN.
She is all alone on earth. This is a crushing blow. No one to trust.
None to advise, for she has leaned on Ernesto. Her mind reels under this
blow. Pre Franois is her only stay. The sorrow of these days needs
expression.
Villa Rocca's gay letters continue to arrive. They are a ghastly mockery
of these hours. Hardin can cast her off now, and claim the heiress.
Hardin's full account dispels any suspicion of foul play. After a visit
to the interior, the count went to see some interesting underground
workings. By a hazard of mining life, a broken rope caused the death
of the visitor, with several workmen, and a mine superintendent who was
doing the honors. Death waited at the foot of the shaft for the noble
stranger.
Hundreds of days, on thousands of trips like this, the princes of the
Comstock have risked their own lives in the perils of the yawning pits.
These dark holes blown out of the mountain rocks have their fearful
death-rolls to show.
It is the revenge of the gnomes. Every detail points to a frank
explanation. Journals and reports, with letters from the Italian consul,
lifted the sad tragedy above any chance of crime or collusion. It is
kismet.
Hardin's letter was manly. In it, he pledged his honor to carry out
the agreement, advising Natalie to select a friend to accompany her to
California with the heiress, as soon as she could travel. His banker had
orders to supply funds.
"I suggest, in view of this untimely accident, you would sooner have
your funds settled on you in Europe. It shall be as you wish. You may
rely on me," so ran the closing lines.
The parted strands of the hoisting cable cannot reveal whether it was
cut or weakened, yet Hardin knows. It was his devilish masterpiece.
Days of sadness drag down the self-reliant adventuress. Whom can she
trust now? Dare she confide in Pre Franois?
A simple envelope addressed in a scrawling hand, and postmarked San
Francisco, drives all sorrow from her heart. The tiger is loosened in
her nature. She rages madly. A newspaper slip contains the following, in
flaming prominence:
"THE UNITED STATES SENATE.
"The choice of the Legislature for U. S. Senator will undoubtedly fall
upon that distinguished jurist Judge Hardin, who is now supported by the
railroad kings and leading financiers of the coast.
"It is rumored that Judge Hardin will, in the event of his election,
contract a matrimonial alliance with one of our leaders of society. His
bride will entertain extensively in the national capital."
A paper bears pithy advice:
"Come out and strike for your rights. You will find a friend to back you
up. Don't delay."