MORGAN LA FEE
In the hands of Doolittle, Rambaud & Cie., was a rather small deposit,
as deposits went with that distinguished international banking house.
It had originally amounted to about twenty thousand francs when placed
with them about the beginning of the war and was in the name of
Mademoiselle Solange d'Albret, whose place of nativity, as her
_dossier_ showed, was at a small hamlet not far from Biarritz, in the
Basse Pyrenees, and her age some twenty-two years at the present time.
Her occupation was given as gentlewoman and nurse, and her present
residence an obscure street near one of the big war hospitals. The
personality of Mademoiselle d'Albret was quite unknown to her bankers,
as she had appeared to them very seldom and then only to add small
sums to her deposit, which now amounted to about twenty-five thousand
francs in all. She never drew against it.
Such a sum, in the hands of an ordinary Frenchwoman would never have
remained on deposit for that length of time untouched, but, if not
needed, would have been promptly invested in _rentes_. The unusualness
of this fact, however, had not disturbed the bankers and had, in fact,
been of so little importance that they had failed to notice it at
all. When, therefore, a young woman dressed in a nurse's uniform
appeared at the bank and rather timidly asked to see Mr. Doolittle,
giving the name of Mademoiselle d'Albret, there was some hesitancy in
granting her request until a hasty glance at the state of her account
confirmed the statement that she was a considerable depositor.
Mr. Doolittle, informed of her request, sighed a little, under the
impression that he was about to be called upon for detailed advice and
fatherly counsel in the investment of twenty-five thousand francs. He
pictured to himself some thrifty, suspicious Frenchwoman with a small
fortune who would give him far more trouble than any millionaire who
used his bank, and whose business could and would actually be handled
by one of his clerks, whom she might as well see in the first place
without bothering him. As well, however, he knew that she would never
consent to see anybody but himself. Somewhat wearily, but with all
courtliness of manner, he had her shown into his consultation room.
Mademoiselle d'Albret entered, her nurse's cloak draped gracefully
from her shoulders, the little, nunlike cap and wimple hiding her
hair, while a veil concealed her face to some extent. Through its
meshes one could make out a face that seemed young and pretty, and a
pair of great, dark eyes. Her figure also left nothing to be desired,
and she carried herself with grace and easy dignity. Mr. Doolittle,
who had an eye for female pulchritude, ceased to regret the necessity
of catering to a customer's whim and settled himself to a pleasant
interview after rising to bow and offer her a chair.
"Mademoiselle has called, I presume, about an investment," he began,
ingratiatingly. "Anything that the bank can do in the way of
advice----"
"Of advice, yes, monsieur," broke in mademoiselle, speaking in a
clear, bell-like voice. "But it is not of an investment that I have
need. On the contrary, the money which you have so faithfully guarded
for me during the years of the war is reserved for a purpose which I
fear you would fail to approve. I have come to arrange with you to
transfer the account to America and to seek your assistance in getting
there myself."
The account had been profitable to the bank in the years it had lain
idle there, the lady was good to look upon and, even if the account
was to be lost, he felt benevolent toward her. Besides, her voice and
manner were those of a lady, and natural courtesy bade him extend to
her all the aid he could. Therefore he smiled acquiescence.
"The transfer of the money is a simple matter," he stated. "A draft on
our house in New York, or a letter of credit--it is all one. They will
gladly serve you there as we have served you here. But if you wish to
follow your money--that, I fear, is a different matter."
"It is because it is different--and difficult--that I have ventured to
intrude upon you, monsieur, and not for an idle formality. It is
necessary that I get to America, to a place called Eo-dah-o--is it
not? I do not know how to say it?"
"Spell it," suggested the tactful Doolittle.
Mademoiselle spelled it, and Doolittle gave her the correct
pronunciation with a charming smile which she answered.
"Ah, yes! Idaho! It is, I believe, at some distance from New York,
perhaps a night and a day even on the railroad."
"Or even more," said Doolittle. "Mademoiselle speaks of America, and
that is a large country. From New York to Idaho is as far as from
Paris to Constantinople--or even farther. But I interrupt.
Mademoiselle would go to Idaho, and for what purpose?"
"It is there, I fear, that the difficulty lies," said mademoiselle
with frankness. "It is necessary, I presume, that one have a purpose
and make it known?"
"It is not, so far as permission to go is concerned, although the
matter of a passport may be difficult to arrange. But there is the
further question of passage."
"And it is precisely there that I seek monsieur's advice. How am I to
secure passage to America?"
Doolittle was on the point of insinuating that a proper use of her
charms might accomplish much in certain quarters, but there was
something so calmly virginal and pure about the girl as she sat there
in her half-sacred costume that instinct conquered cynicism and he
refrained. Unattached and unchaperoned as she was, or appeared to be,
the girl commanded respect even in Paris. Instead of answering at once
he reflected.
"Do you know any one in America?" he asked.
"No one," she replied. "I am going to find some one, but I do not even
know who it is that I seek. Furthermore, I am going to bring that some
one to his death if I can do so."
She was quite calm and matter-of-fact about this statement, and
therefore Mr. Doolittle was not quite so astounded as he might
otherwise have been. He essayed a laugh that betrayed little real
mirth.
"Mademoiselle jests, of course?"
"Mademoiselle is quite serious, I assure you, and not at all mad. I
will be brief. Twenty years ago, nearly, my father was murdered in
America after discovering something that would have made him wealthy.
His murderer was never brought to justice, and the thing he found was
lost again. We are Basques, we d'Albrets, and Basques do not forget an
injury, as you may know. I am the last of his family, and it is my
duty, therefore, to take measures to avenge him. After twenty years it
may be difficult, and yet I shall try. I should have gone before, but
the war interrupted me."
"And your fortune, which is on deposit here?" asked the curious Mr.
Doolittle.
"Has been saved and devoted to that purpose. My mother left it to me
after providing for my education--which included the learning of
English that I might be prepared for the adventure. The war is
over--and I am ready to go."
"Hum!" said Doolittle, a little dazed. "It is an extraordinary affair,
indeed. After twenty years--to find a murderer and to kill him. It is
not done in America."
"Then I will be the first to do it," said the young woman, coolly.
"But there is no possibility--there is no possible way in which you
could secure passage with such a story, mademoiselle. Accommodations
are scarce, and one must have the most urgent reasons before one can
secure them. Every liner is a troopship, filled with returning
soldiers, and the staterooms are crowded with officers and diplomats.
Private errands must yield to public necessities and, above all, such
exceedingly private and personal errands as you have described.
Instead of allowing you to sail, if you told this story, they would
put you under surveillance."
"Exactly," said mademoiselle. "Therefore I shall not tell it. It
remains, therefore, that I shall get advice from you to solve my
dilemma."
"From me!" gasped the helpless Doolittle; "how can I help solve it?"
Yet, even as he said this, he recalled his client of the previous day
and _his_ strange story and personality. Here, indeed, were a pair of
lunatics, male and female, who would undoubtedly be well mated. And
why not? The soldier needed something to jolt him out of his
despondency, to occupy his energy--and he was American. A reckless
adventurer, no matter how distinguished, was just the sort of mate for
this wild woman who was bent on crossing half the earth to conduct a
private assassination. Mr. Doolittle, in a long residence in France,
had acquired a Gallic sense of humor, a deep appreciation of the
extravagant. It pleased him to speculate on the probable consequences
of such a partnership, the ex-légionnaire shepherding the Pyrenean
wild cat who was yet an aristocrat, as his eyes plainly told him. He
had an idea that the American West was as wild and lawless as it had
ever been, and it pleased him to speculate on what might happen to
these two in such a region. And, come to think about it, De Launay had
referred to himself as having been a cowboy at one time, before
becoming a soldier. That made it even more deliciously suitable. He
also recalled having made a suggestion to the general which had been
met with scorn. And yet, the man had said that he would gamble on
anything. If it were made what he called a "sporting proposition" he
might consider it.
"How can I help solve it?" And even as he said it again, he knew that
here was a possible solution.
"I see no way except that you should marry a returning American
soldier," he said, at last, while she stared at him through her veil,
her deep eyes making him vaguely uncomfortable.
"Marry a soldier--an American! Me, Morgan _la fée_, espouse one of
these roistering, cursing foreigners? Monsieur, you speak with
foolishness!"
"Morgan _la fée_!" Doolittle gasped. "Mademoiselle is----"
"Morgan _la fée_ in the hospitals," answered Solange d'Albret icily.
"Monsieur has heard the name?"
"I have heard it," said Doolittle feebly. He had, in common with a
great many other people. He had heard that the poilus had given her
the name in some fanatic belief that she was a sort of fairy
ministering to them and bringing them good luck. They gave her a
devout worship and affection that had guarded her like a halo through
all the years of the war. But she had not needed their protection. It
was said that a convalescent soldier had once offered her an insult, a
man she herself had nursed. She had knifed him as neatly as an apache
could have done and other soldiers had finished the job before they
could be interfered with. French law had, for once, overlooked the
matter, rather than have a mutiny in the army. Doolittle began to
doubt the complete humor in his idea, but its dramatic possibilities
were enhanced by this revelation. Of course this spitfire would never
marry a common soldier, either American or of any other race. He did
not doubt that she claimed descent from the Navarrese royal family and
the Bourbons, to judge from her name. But then De Launay was certainly
not an ordinary soldier. His very extraordinariness was what qualified
him in Doolittle's mind. The affair, indeed, began to interest him as
a beautiful problem in humanity. De Launay was rich, of course, but he
did not believe that mademoiselle was mercenary. If she had been she
would not have saved her inheritance for the purpose of squandering it
on a wild-goose chase worthy of the "Arabian Nights." Anyway De Launay
had no use for money, and mademoiselle probably had. However, he had
no intention of telling her of De Launay's situation. He had a notion
that Morgan _la fée_ would be driven off by that knowledge.
"But, mademoiselle, it is not necessary that you marry a rough and
common soldier. Surely there are officers, gentlemen, distinguished,
whom one of your charms might win?"
"We will not bring my charms into the discussion, monsieur," said
Solange. "I reject the idea that I should marry in order to get to
America. I have serious business before me, and not such business as I
could bring into a husband's family--unless, indeed, he were a Basque.
But, then, there are no Basques whom I could marry."
"I wouldn't suggest a Basque," said Doolittle. "But I believe there is
one whom you could wed without compromising your intentions. Indeed, I
believe the only chance you would have to marry him would be by
telling him all about them. He is, or was, an American, it is true,
but he has been French for many years and he is not a common soldier.
I refer to General de Launay."
"General de Launay!" repeated Solange wonderingly. "Why, he is a
distinguished man, monsieur!"
"It would be more correct to say that he _was_ a distinguished man,"
said Doolittle, smiling at the recollection of the general as he had
last seen him. "He has been demoted, as many others have been, or will
be, but he has not taken it in good part. He is a reckless adventurer,
who has risen from the ranks of the Legion, and yet--I believe that he
is a gentleman. He has, I regret to say, taken to--er--drink, to some
extent, out of disappointment, but no doubt the prospect of excitement
would restore him to sobriety. And he has told me that he might
marry--if it were made a sporting proposition."
"A sporting proposition! _Mon Dieu!_ And is such a thing their idea
of sport? These Americans are mad!"
"They might say the same of you, it seems to me," said the banker
dryly. "At any rate there it stands. The general might agree as a
sporting proposition. Married to the general there should be no
difficulty in securing passage to America. After you get to America
the matter is in your hands."
"But I should be married to the general," exclaimed Solange in
protest. Doolittle waved this aside.
"The general would, I believe, regard the marriage merely as an
adventure. He does not like women. As for the rest, marriage, in
America, is not a serious matter. A decree of divorce can be obtained
very easily. If this be regarded as a veritable _mariage de
convenance_, it should suit you admirably and the general as well."
"He would expect to be paid?"
"Well, I can't say as to that," said Doolittle, smiling as he thought
of De Launay's oil wells. "He might accept pay. But he is as likely to
take it on for the chance of adventure. In any event, I imagine that
you are prepared to employ assistance from time to time."
"That is what the money is for," said Solange candidly. "I have even
considered at times employing an assassin. It is a regrettable fact
that I hesitate to kill any one in cold blood. It causes me to
shudder, the thought of it. When I am angry, that is a different
matter, but when I am cold, ah, no! I am a great coward! This General
de Launay, would he consider such employment, do you think?"
"Judging from his reputation," said Doolittle, "I don't believe he
would stop at anything."
Solange knew something of De Launay and Doolittle now told her more.
Before he had finished she was satisfied. She rose with thanks to him
and then requested the general's address.
"I think you'll find him," he referred to a memorandum on his desk,
"at the café of the Pink Kitten, which is in Montmartre. It is there
that he seems to make his headquarters since he resigned from the
army."
"Monsieur," said Solange, gratefully, "I am indeed indebted to you."
"Not at all," said Doolittle as he bowed her out. "The pleasure has
been all mine."