CHAPTER XVI. — NEARING EACH OTHER.—THE VALOIS HEIRS.
Paris is a human hive. Thousands labor to restore its beauty. The stream of life ebbs and flows once more on the boulevards. The galleries reopen. Armand labors in the Louvre. He finished the velvet-eyed Madonna, copied after Murillo's magic hand. He chafes under Raoul's laurels. The boy would be a man. Every day the sculptor tells of the home of the wealthy Spaniard. The girl is at her convent again. Raoul meets Madame Natalie "en ami de maison."
He tells of Count Villa Rocca's wooing. Marriage may crown the devotion of the courtly lover.
The bust in marble is a success. Raoul is in the flush of glory. His patroness directs him to idealize for her "Helen of Troy."
Armand selects as his next copy, a grand inspiration of womanly beauty. He, too, must pluck a laurel wreath.
Under the stress of emulation, his fingers tremble in nervous ardor. He has chosen a subject which has myriad worshippers.
Day by day, admirers recognize the true spirit of the masterpiece.
Throngs surround the painter, who strains his artistic heart.
A voice startles him, as the last touches are being laid on:
"Young man, will you sell this here picture?"
"That depends," rejoins Armand. His use of the vernacular charms the stranger.
"Have you set a price?" cries the visitor, in rough Western English.
"I have not as yet," the copyist answers.
He surveys the speaker, a man of fifty years, whose dress and manner speak of prosperity in efflorescent form.
The diamond pin, huge watch-chain, rich jewelled buttons, and gold-headed cane, prove him an American Croesus.
"Well, when it's done, you bring it to my hotel. Everyone knows me. I will give you what you want for it. It's way up; better than the original," says the Argonaut, with a leer at its loveliness.
He drops his card on the moist canvas. The nettled artist reads,
{{Colonel Joseph Woods, California. Grand Hotel.}}
on the imposing pasteboard.
The good-humored Woods nods.
"Yes sir, that's me. Every one in London, Paris, and New York, knows Joe Woods.
"Good at the bank," he chuckles.
"What's your name?" he says abruptly.
Armand rises bowing, and handing his card to the stranger:
"Armand Valois."
Woods whistles a resounding call. The "flaneurs" start in astonishment.
"Say; you speak English. By heavens! you look like him. Did you ever know a Colonel Valois, of California?" He gazes at the boy eagerly.
"I never met him, sir, but he was the last of my family. He was killed in the Southern war."
"Look here, young man, you pack up them there paint-brushes, and send that picture down to my rooms. You've got to dine with me to-night, my boy. I'll give you a dinner to open your eyes."
The painter really opens his eyes in amazement.
"You knew my relative in California?"
"We dug this gold together," the stranger almost shouts, as he taps his huge watch-chain. "We were old pardners," he says, with a moistened eye.
There was a huskiness in the man's voice; not born of the mellow cognac he loved.
No; Joe Woods was far away then, in the days of his sturdy youth. He was swinging the pick once more on the bars of the American River, and listening to its music rippling along under the giant pines of California.
The young painter's form brought back to "Honest Joe" the unreturning brave, the chum of his happiest days.
Armand murmurs, "Are you sure you wish this picture?"
"Dead sure, young man. You let me run this thing. Now, I won't take 'no.' You just get a carriage, and get this all down to my hotel. You can finish it there. I've got to go down to my bank, and you be there to meet me. You'll have a good dinner; you bet you will. God! what a man Valois was. Dead and gone, poor fellow!
"Now, I'm off! don't you linger now."
He strides to his carriage, followed by a crowd of "valets de place." All know Joe Woods, the big-souled mining magnate. He always leaves a golden trail.
Armand imagines the fairy of good luck has set him dreaming. No; it is all true.
He packs up his kit, and sends for a coupe. Giving orders as to the picture, he repairs to the home of the Dauvrays for his toilet. He tells PŠre Fran‡ois of his good fortune.
"Joe Woods, did you say," murmurs the priest. "He was a friend of Valois. He is rich. Tell him I remember him. He knows who I am. I would like to see him."
There is a strange light in Fran‡ois Ribaut's eye. Here is a friend; perhaps, an ally. He must think, must think.
The old priest taps his snuff-box uneasily.
In a "cabinet particulier" of the Grand Hotel restaurant, Woods pours out to the young man, stories of days of toil and danger; lynching scenes, gambling rows, "shooting scrapes," and all kaleidoscopic scenes of the "flush days of the Sacramento Valley."
Armand learns his cousin's life in California. He imparts to the Colonel, now joyous over his "becassine aux truffes" and Chambertin, the meagre details he has of the death of the man who fell in the intoxicating hour of victory on fierce Hood's fiercest field.
Colonel Joe Woods drains his glass in silence.
"My boy," he suddenly says, "Valois left an enormous estate; don't you come in anywhere?"
"I never knew of his will," replies Armand. "I want you, Colonel, to meet my old friend PŠre Fran‡ois, who was the priest at this Lagunitas. He tells me, a Judge Hardin has charge of all the property."
Joe Woods drops the knife with which he is cutting the tip of his imperial cigar.
"By Heavens! If that old wolf has got his claws on it, it's a long fight. I'll see your Padre. I knew him. Now, my boy," says Colonel Joe, "I've got no wife, and no children," he adds proudly.
"I'll take you over to California with me, and we'll see old Hardin. I'm no lawyer, but you ought to hear of the whole details. We'll round him up. Let's go up to my room and look at your picture."
Throwing the waiter a douceur worthy of his financial grade, the new friends retire to the Colonel's rooms.
Here the spoils of the jeweler, the atelier, and studio, are strangely mingled. Joe Woods buys anything he likes. A decanter of Bourbon, a box of the very primest Havanas, and a business-like revolver, lying on the table, indicate his free and easy ways.
Letters in heaps prove that "mon brave Colonel Woods" is even known to the pretty free-lances who fight under the rosy banner of Venus Victrix.
In hearty terms, the Californian vents his enthusiasm.
"By the way, my boy, I forgot something." He dashes off a check and hands it to the young painter.
"Tell me where to send for a man to frame this picture in good shape," he simply says.
He looks uneasily at the young man, whose senses fail him when he sees that the check is for five thousand francs.
"Is that all right?" he says cheerfully, nudging Armand in the ribs. "Cash on delivery, you know. I want another by and by. I'll pick out a picture I want copied. I'm going to build me a bachelor ranch on Nob Hill: Ophir Villa." He grins over some pet "deal" in his favorite Comstock. Dulcet memories.
For Colonel Joe Woods is a man of "the Golden Days of the Pacific." He too has "arrived."
The boy murmurs his thanks. "Now look here, I've got to run over to the Cafe Anglais, and see some men from the West. You give me your house number. I'll come in and see the padre to-morrow evening.
"Stay; you had better come and fetch me. Take dinner with me to-morrow, and we'll drive down in a hack."
The Colonel slips his pistol in its pocket, winks, takes a pull at the cocktail of the American, old Kentucky's silver stream, and grasps his gold-headed club. He is ready now to meet friend or foe.
Joy in his heart, good humor on his face, jingling a few "twenties," which he carries from habit, he grasps a handful of cigars, and pushes the happy boy out of the open door.
"Oh! never mind that; I've got a French fellow sleeping around here somewhere," he cries, as Armand signals the sanctum is unlocked. "He always turns up if any one but HIMSELF tries to steal anything. He's got a patent on that," laughs the "Croesus of the American River."
Armand paints no stroke the next day. He confers with PŠre Fran‡ois. He is paralyzed when the cashier of the "Credit Lyonnais" hands him five crisp one-thousand-franc notes. Colonel Joe Woods' check is of international potency. It is not, then, a mere dream.
When the jovial Colonel is introduced to the family circle he is at home in ten minutes. His good nature carries off easily his halting French. He falls into sudden friendship with the young soldier-sculptor. He compliments Madame Josephine. He pleases the modest Louise, and is at home at once with Padre Francisco.
After a friendly chat, he says resolutely:
"Now, padre, you and I want to have a talk over our young friend here. Let us go up to his room a little."
Seated in the boy's studio, Woods shows the practical sense which carried him to the front in the struggle for wealth.
"I tell you what I'll do," he says. "I'm going out to the coast in a month or so. I'll look this up a little. If I want our young friend here, I'll send you a cable, and you can start him out to me. My banker will rig him out in good style. Just as well he comes under another name. See? Padre, you take a ride with me to-morrow. We will talk it all over."
The Californian's questions and sagacity charm the padre. He is now smoking one of those blessed "Imperiales." An innocent pleasure.
They rise to join the circle below. A thought animates the priest.
Yes, he will confer with the clear-headed man and tell him of the child below, whose pathway is unguarded by a parent's love.
Around the frugal board Colonel Joe enters into the family spirit. He insists on having Raoul come to him for a conference about his portraiture in marble.
"I have just finished a bust of Madame de Santos, the beautiful Mexican lady," remarks Raoul.
Colonel Joe bounds from his chair. "By hokey, young man, you are a bonanza. Do you know her well?" he eagerly asks.
The sculptor tells how he saved her from the bedlam horrors of the Orangery.
The miner whistles. "Well, you control the stock, I should say. Now, she's the very woman, Gwin, and Erlanger, and old Slidell, and a whole lot told me about. I want you to take me up there," he says.
"I will see Madame de Santos to-morrow," remarks Raoul, diplomatically.
"Tell her I'm a friend of her Southern friends. They're scattered now. Most of them busted," says Wood calmly. "I must see her. See here, padre; we'll do the thing in style. You go and call with me, and keep me straight." The priest assents.
In gayest mood the Colonel bids Raoul come to him for this most fashionable call. Claiming the padre for breakfast and the ride of the morrow, he rattles off to his rooms, leaving an astounded circle.
Golden claims to their friendly gratitude bound them together.
Colonel Joe has the "dejeuner a deux" in his rooms. He says, "More homelike, padre, you know," ushering the priest to the table. Under the influence of Chablis, the Californians become intimate.
Raoul arrives with news that Madame de Santos will be pleased to have the gentlemen call next day in the afternoon. After an arrangement about the bust, the horses, champing before the doors, bear the elders to the Bois, now beginning to abandon its battle-field appearance.
Long is their conference on that ride. PŠre Fran‡ois is thoughtful, as he spends his evening hour at dominoes with Aristide Dauvray. His eyes stray to fair Louise, busied with her needle. At last, he has a man of the world to lean on, in tracing up this child's parentage. Raoul and Armand are deep in schemes to enrich Joe's queer collection, the nucleus of that "bachelor ranch," "Ophir Villa."
In all the bravery of diamonds and goldsmithing the Westerner descends from his carriage, at the doors of Madame de Santos, next day.
Pale-faced, aristocratic PŠre Fran‡ois is a foil to the "occidental king." Mind and matter.
Waiting for the Donna, the gentlemen admire her salon.
Pictures, objets d'art, dainty bibelots, show the elegance of a queen of the "monde."
"Beats a steamboat," murmurs Colonel Joe, as the goddess enters the domain.
There is every grace in her manner. She inquires as to mutual friends of the "Southern set." Her praises of Raoul are justified in the beautiful bust, a creation of loveliness, on its Algerian onyx pedestal.
Colonel Joe Woods is enchanted. He wonders if he has ever seen this classic face before.
"I drive in the Bois," says madame, with an arch glance.
She knows the Californian is a feature of that parade, with his team. Paris rings with Colonel Joe's exploits.
"No poor stock for me," is Colonel Joe's motto.
With a cunning glance in his eyes, the miner asks: "Were you ever in California, madame?"
Her lips tremble as she says, "Years ago I was in San Francisco."
Colonel Joe is thoughtful. His glance follows madame, who is ringing a silver bell.
The butler bows.
"I shall not drive this afternoon," she says.
With graceful hospitality, she charms PŠre Fran‡ois. Chat about the Church and France follows.
The gentlemen are about to take their leave. Madame de Santos, observing that PŠre Fran‡ois speaks Spanish as well as French, invites him to call again. She would be glad to consult him in spiritual matters.
Colonel Joe speaks of California, and asks if he may be of any service.
"I have no interests there," the lady replies with constraint.
Passing into the hall, PŠre Fran‡ois stands amazed as if he sees a ghost.
"What's the matter, padre?" queries Colonel Joe as they enter their carriage.
"Did you see that maid who passed us as we left the salon?" remarks the padre.
"Yes, and a good-looking woman too," says the Californian.
"That woman is the guardian of Louise Moreau," the padre hastily replies.
"Look here! What are you telling me?" cries the Colonel.
"There's some deviltry up! I'm sorry I must leave. But how do you know?" he continues.
The priest tells him about artful Josephine, whose womanly curiosity has been piqued. He has seen this person on her visits. Useless to trace her. Entering an arcade or some great shop, she has baffled pursuit. Through the Bois, the friends commune over this mystery.
"I'll fix you out," says Woods, with a shout. "I've got a fellow here who watched some people for me on a mining deal. I'll rip that household skeleton all to pieces. We'll dissect it!"
He cries: "Now, padre, I'm a-going to back you through this affair," as they sit in his rooms over a good dinner. Colonel Joe has sent all his people away. He wants no listeners. As he pours the Cliquot, he says, "You give me a week and I'll post you. Listen to me. You can see there is an object in hiding that child. Keep her safely guarded. Show no suspicion. You make friends with the lady. Leave the maid dead alone. Take it easy, padre; we'll get them. I'll tell my bankers to back you up. I'll take you down; I'll make you solid.
"All I fear is they will get frightened and take her off. You people have got to watch her. They'll run her off, if they suspect. Poor little kid.
"It's strange," says the miner; "they could have put this poor little one out of the way easy. But they don't want that. Want her alive, but kept on the quiet. I suppose there's somebody else," he mutters.
"By Jove! that's it. There's property or money hanging on her existence. Now, padre, I'll talk plain. You priests are pretty sly. You write your people about this child. I'll see you have money. My banker will work the whole municipality of Paris for you.
"That's it; we've got it." The miner's fist makes the glasses rattle, as he quaffs his wine.
"Don't lose sight of her a minute. Don't show your hand."
The priest rolls home in Joe's carriage. He busies himself the next days with going to the bank, conferring with his fellows, and awaking the vigilance of Josephine.
It is left to the priest and his ally from the ranks of "Mammon" to follow these tangled threads. The younger men know nothing, save the injunctions to Josephine.
Ten days after this visit, Colonel Joe, who has run over to London, where he closed some financial matters of note, sends post-haste to PŠre Fran‡ois this note:
"Come up, padre. I've got a whole history for you. It will make your eyes open. I want you to talk to the detective."
Even the Californian's horses are not quick enough to-day for the priest.
Ushered in, he finds Colonel Joe on the broad grin.
Accepting a cigar, his host cries, "We've struck it rich. A mare's nest. Now, Vimont, give my friend your report."
Joe Woods smokes steadily, as Jules Vimont reads from his note-book:
"Madame Natalie de Santos arrived in Paris with two young girls, one of whom is at the Sacre-Coeur under the name of Isabel Valois; the other is the child who is visited by Marie Berard, her maid. She is called Louise Moreau."
PŠre Fran‡ois listens to this recital. The detective gives a description of the beautiful stranger, and at length.
Joe interrogates. The priest gravely nods until the recital is finished. Vimont shuts his book with a snap and disappears, at a nod from the miner. The friends are alone.
PŠre Fran‡ois is silent. His face is pale. Joe is alarmed at his feeling. Forcing a draught of Bourbon on the padre, Joe cries, "What is the matter?"
"I see it now," murmurs the priest. "The children have been changed. For what object?"
He tells Woods of the proofs gained in days of Louise's illness.
"Your little friend is the heiress of Lagunitas?" Woods asks.
"I am sure of it. We must prove it."
"Leave that to me," bursts out Joe, striding the room, puffing at his cigar.
"How will you do it?" falters the priest.
"I will find the father of the other child," Joe yells. "I am going to California. I will root up this business. I have a copy of Vimont's notes. You write me all you remember of this history. Meanwhile, not a word. No change in your game. You make foothold in that house on the Elysees.
"There was no railroad when these people came here. I will get the lists of passengers and steamer reports, I have friends in the Pacific Mail."
Joe warms up. "Yes, sir. I'll find who is responsible for that extra child. The man who is, is the party putting up for all this splendor here. I think if I can stop the money supplies, we can break their lines. I think my old 'companero,' Judge Hardin, is the head-devil of this deal.
"It's just like him.
"Now, padre, I have got something to amuse me. You do just as I tell you, and we'll checkmate this quiet game.
"We are not on the bedrock yet, but we've struck the vein. Don't you say a word to a living soul here.
"I'll have that maid watched, and tell Vimont to give you all the particulars of her cuttings-up.
"She's not the master-mind of this. She has never been to the convent. There's a keynote in keeping these girls apart. I think our handsome friend, Madame de Santos, is playing a sharp game." In two days he has vanished.
In his voyage to New York and to the Pacific, Joe thinks over every turn of this intrigue. If Hardin tries to hide Armand Valois' fortune, why should he dabble in the mystery of these girls?
Crossing the plains, where the buffalo still roam by thousands, Woods meets in the smoking-room many old friends. A soldierly-looking traveller attracts his attention. The division superintendent makes Colonel Peyton and Colonel Woods acquainted. Their friendship ripens rapidly. Joe Woods, a Southern sympathizer, has gained his colonelcy by the consent of his Western friends. It is a brevet of financial importance. Learning his friend is a veteran of the "Stars and Bars," and a Virginian, the Westerner pledges many a cup to their common cause. To the battle-torn flag of the Confederacy, now furled forever.
As the train rattles down Echo Canyon, Peyton tells of the hopes once held of a rising in the West.
Woods is interested. When Peyton mentions "Maxime Valois," the Croesus grasps his hand convulsively.
"Did you serve with him?" Joe queries with eagerness. "He was my pardner and chum."
"He died in my arms at Peachtree Creek," answers Peyton.
Joe embraces Peyton. "He was a game man, Colonel."
Peyton answers: "The bravest man I ever saw. I often think of him, in the whirl of that struggle for De Gress's battery. Lying on the sod with the Yankee flag clutched in his hand, its silk was fresh-striped with his own heart's blood. The last sound he heard was the roar of those guns, as we turned them on the enemy."
"God! What a fight for that battery!" The Californian listens, with bated breath, to the Virginian. He tells him of the youthful quest for gold.
The war brotherhood of the two passes in sad review. Peyton tells him of the night before Valois' death.
Joe Woods' eyes glisten. He cries over the recital. An eager question rises to his lips. He chokes it down.
As Peyton finishes, Woods remarks:
"Peyton, I am going to get off at Reno, and go to Virginia City. You come with me. I want to know about Valois' last days."
Peyton is glad to have a mentor in the West. He has gained neither peace nor fortune in wandering under the fringing palms of Latin America.
Toiling up the Sierra Nevada, Woods shows Peyton where Valois won his golden spurs as a pathfinder.
"I have a favor to ask of you, Peyton," says Joe. "I want to hunt up that boy in Paris. I'm no lawyer, but I think he ought to have some of this great estate. Now, Hardin is a devil for slyness. I want you to keep silent as to Valois till I give you the word. I'll see you into some good things here. It may take time to work my game. I don't want Hardin to suspect. He's an attorney of the bank. He counsels the railroad. He would spy out every move."
"By the way, Colonel Woods," Peyton replies, "I have the papers yet which were found on Valois' body. I sealed them up. They are stained with his blood. I could not trust them to chances. I intended to return them to his child. I have never examined them."
Joe bounds from his seat. "A ten-strike! Now, you take a look at them when we reach 'Frisco.' If there are any to throw a light on his affairs, tell me. Don't breathe a word till I tell you. I will probe the matter. I'll break Hardin's lines, you bet." The speculator dares not tell Peyton his hopes, his fears, his suspicions.
San Francisco is reached. Peyton has "done the Comstock." He is tired of drifts, gallery, machinery, miners, and the "laissez-aller" of Nevada hospitality. The comfort of Colonel Joe's bachelor establishment places the stranger in touch with the occidental city.
Received with open arms by the Confederate sympathizers, Peyton is soon "on the stock market." He little dreams that Joe has given one of his many brokers word to carry a stiff account for the Virginian. Pay him all gains, and charge all losses to the "Woods account."
Peyton is thrilled with the stock gambling of California Street. Every one is mad. Servants, lawyers, hod carriers, merchants, old maids, widows, mechanics, sly wives, thieving clerks, and the "demi-monde," all throng to the portals of the "Big Board." It is a money-mania. Beauty, old age, callow boyhood, fading manhood, all chase the bubble values of the "kiting stocks."
From session to session, the volatile heart of San Francisco throbs responsive to the sliding values of these paper "stock certificates."
Woods has departed for a fortnight, to look at a new ranch in San Joaquin. He does not tell Peyton that he lingers around Lagunitas. He knows Hardin is at San Francisco. A few hours at the county seat. A talk with his lawyer in Stockton completes Joe's investigations. No will of Maxime Valois has ever been filed. The estate is held by Hardin as administrator after "temporary letters" have been renewed. There are no accounts or settlements. Joe smiles when he finds that Philip Hardin is guardian of one "Isabel Valois," a minor. The estate of this child is nominal. There is no inventory of Maxima Valois' estate on file. County courts and officials are not likely to hurry Judge Philip Hardin.
On the train to San Francisco, Woods smokes very strong cigars while pondering if he shall hire a lawyer in town.
"If I could only choose one who would STAY bought when I BOUGHT> him, I'd give a long price," Joe growls. With recourse to his great "breast-pocket code," the Missourian runs over man after man, in his mind. A frown gathers on his brow.
"If I strike a bonanza, I may have to call in some counsel. But I think I'll have a few words with my friend Philip Hardin."
Woods is the perfection of rosy good-humor, when he drags Hardin away from his office next day to a cosey lunch at the "Mint."
"I want to consult you, Judge," is his excuse. Hardin, now counsel for warring giants of finance, listens over the terrapin and birds, to several legal posers regarding Joe's affairs. Woods has wide influence. He is a powerful friend to placate. Hardin, easy now in money matters, looks forward to the United States Senate. Woods can help. He is a tower of strength.
"They will need a senator sometime, who knows law, not one of those obscure MUD-HEADS," says Hardin to himself.
Colonel Joe finishes his Larose. He takes a stiff brandy with his cigar, and carelessly remarks:
"How's your mine, Judge?"
"Doing well, doing well," is the reply.
"Better let me put it on the market for you. You are getting old for that sort of bother."
"Woods, I will see you by and by. I am trustee for the Valois estate. He left no will, and I can't give a title to the ranch till the time for minor heirs runs out. So I am running the mine on my own account. Some outside parties may claim heirship."
"Didn't he leave a daughter?" says Woods.
"There is a girl—she's East now, at school; but, between you and me, old fellow, I don't know if she is legitimate or not. You know what old times were."
Colonel Joe grins with a twinge of conscience. He has had his "beaux-jours."
"I will hold on till the limitation runs out. I don't want to cloud the title to my mine, with litigation. It comes through Valois."
"You never heard of any Eastern heirs?" Joe remarks, gulping a "stiffener" of brandy.
"Never," says Hardin, reaching for his hat and cane. "The Judge died during the war. I believe his boy died in Paris. He has never turned up. New Orleans is gone to the devil. They are all dead."
"By the way, Judge, excuse me." Woods dashes off a check for Hardin. "I want to retain you if the 'Shooting Star' people fool with my working the 'Golden Chariot;' I feel safe in your hands."
Even Hardin can afford to pocket Joe's check. It is a prize. Golden bait, Joseph.
Woods says "Good-bye," floridly, to his legal friend. He takes a coupe at the door. "Cute old devil, Hardin; I'll run him down yet," chuckles the miner. Joe is soon on his way to the Pacific Mail Steamship office.
Several gray-headed officials greet the popular capitalist.
He broaches his business. "I want to see your passenger lists for 1865." He has notes of Vimont's in his hand. While the underlings bring out dusty old folios, Joe distributes his pet cigars. He is always welcome.
Looking over the ancient records he finds on a trip of the Golden Gate, the following entries:
Madame de Santos,
Miss Isabel Valois,
Marie Berard and child.
He calls the bookkeeper. "Can you tell about these people?"
The man of ink scans the entry. He ponders and says:
"I'll tell you who can give you all the information, Colonel Joe. Hardin was lawyer for this lady. He paid for their passages with a check. We note these payments for our cash references. Here is a pencil note: 'CK Hardin.' I remember Hardin coming himself."
"Oh, that's all right!" says the Argonaut.
An adjournment of "all hands," to "renew those pleasing assurances," is in order.
"Ah, my old fox!" thinks Woods. "I am going to find out who gave Marie Berard that other child. But I won't ask YOU. YOUR TIME IS TOO VALUABLE, Judge Philip Hardin."
He gives his driver an extra dollar at the old City Hall.
Joe Woods thinks he is alone on the quest. He knows not that the Archbishop's secretary is reading some long Latin letters, not three blocks away, which are dated in Paris and signed Fran‡ois Ribaut. They refer to the records of the Mission Dolores parish. They invoke the aid of the all-seeing eye of the Church as to the history and rights of Isabel Valois.
PŠre Ribaut humbly begs the protection of his Grace for his protege, Armand Valois, in case he visits California.
Philip Hardin, in his office, weaving his golden webs, darkened here and there with black threads of crime, is deaf to the cry of conscience. What is the orphaned girl to him? A mere human puppet. He hears not the panther feet of the avengers of wrong on his trail. Blind insecurity, Judge Hardin.
Woods has seized Captain Lee, and taken him out of his sanctum to the shades of the "Bank Exchange."
The great detective captain, an encyclopedia of the unwritten history of San Francisco, regards Woods with a twinkle in his gray eye. The hunted, despairing criminal knows how steady that eye can be. It has made hundreds quail.
Lee grins over his cigar. Another millionaire in trouble. "Some woman, surely." The only question is "What woman?"
The fair sex play a mighty part in the mysteries of San Francisco.
"Lee, I want you to hunt up the history of a woman for me," says the old miner.
The captain's smile runs all over his face. "Why, Colonel Joe!" he begins.
"Look here; no nonsense!" says Joseph, firmly. "It's a little matter of five thousand dollars to you, if you can trace what I want."
There is no foolishness in Lee's set features. He throws himself back, studying his cigar ash. That five thousand dollars is an "open sesame."
"What's her name?"
Joseph produces his notes.
"Do you remember Hardin sending some people to Panama, in '65?" begins the Colonel. "Two women and two children. They sailed on the GOLDEN GATE."
"Perfectly," says the iron captain, removing his cigar. "I watched these steamers for the government. He was a Big Six in the K.G.C., you remember, Colonel Joe?"
Joe winces; that Golden Circle dinner comes back, when he, too, cheered the Stars and Bars.
"I see you do remember," says Lee, throwing away his cigar. "Now be frank, old man. Tell me your whole game."
Woods hands him the list of the passengers. He is keenly eying Lee.
"Who was that Madame de Santos?" he says eagerly.
"Is it worth five thousand to know?" says the detective, quietly.
"On the dead square," replies Joe, "Cash ready."
"Do you remember the 'Queen of the El Dorado'?" Lee simply says.
"Here! Great God, man!" cries Lee, for Joe Woods' fist comes down on the table. Flying cigars, shattered glasses, and foaming wine make a rare havoc around.
"By God!" shouts the oblivious Joe," the woman Hardin killed 'French Charlie' for."
"The same," says Lee, steadily, as he picks some splintered glass out of his goatee. "Joe, you can add a suit of clothes to that check."
"Stop your nonsense," says the happy Joe, ringing for the waiter to clear away the wreck of his cyclonic fist. "The clothes are O.K."
"Where did she come from to take that boat?" demands Woods.
"From Hardin's house," says Lee.
A light breaks in on Colonel Joe's brain.
"And that woman with her?"
"Was her maid, who stayed with her from the time she left the El Dorado, and ran the little nest on the hill. The mistress never showed up in public."
"And the child who went with the maid?" Joe's voice trembles.
"Was Hardin's child. Its mother was the 'Queen of the El Dorado.'"
Woods looks at Lee.
"Can you give me a report, from the time of the killing of 'French Charlie' down to the sailing?"
"Yes, I can," says the inscrutable Lee.
"Let me have it, to-morrow morning. Not a word to Hardin."
"All right, Colonel Joe," is the answer of silent Lee.
Joseph chokes down his feelings, orders a fresh bottle of wine, some cigars, and calls for pen and ink.
While the waiter uncorks the wine, Joe says: "What do you pay for your clothes, Lee?"
"Oh, a hundred and fifty will do," is the modest answer. "That carries an overcoat."
Joe laughs as he beautifies a blank check with his order to himself, to pay to himself, five thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, and neatly indorses it, "Joseph Woods." "I guess that's the caper, Captain," he says. This "little formality" over, the wine goes to the right place THIS TIME.
"Now I don't want to see you any more till I get your reminiscences of that lady," remarks Joe, reaching for his gold-headed club.
"On time, ten o'clock," is the response of the police captain.
"Have you seen her since, Joe? She was a high stepper," muses the Captain. He has been a great connoisseur of loveliness. Many fair ones have passed under his hands in public duty or private seance.
"That's my business," sturdy Joe mutters, with an unearthly wink. "You give me back my check, old man, and I'll tell you what I know."
Lee laughs. "I'm not so curious, Colonel."
They shake hands, and the gray old wolf goes to his den to muse over what has sent Joe Woods on a quest for this "fallen star."
Lee wastes no time in mooning. The check is a "pleasing reality." The memories of Hortense Duval are dearer to Joe than to him. His pen indites the results of that watchful espionage which covers so many unread leaves of private life in San Francisco.
There is an innocent smile on Woods' face when he strolls into his own office and asks Peyton to give him the evening in quiet. Strongly attracted by the Virginian, Woods has now a double interest in his new friend.
In the sanctum, Woods says, "Peyton, I am going to tell you a story, but you must first show me the papers you have kept so long of poor Valois."
Peyton rises without a word. He returns with a packet.
"Here you are, Woods. I have not examined them yet. Now, what is it?"
"You told me Valois made a will before he died, Peyton," begins Woods.
"He did, and wrote to Hardin. He wrote to the French priest at his ranch."
Woods starts. "Ha, the damned scoundrel! Go on; go on." Joe knows PŠre Fran‡ois never got that letter. "I read those documents. His letter of last wishes to Hardin. When I was in Havana, I found Hardin never acknowledged the papers."
Woods sees it all. He listens as Peyton tells the story.
"We have to do with a villain," says Joe. "He destroyed the papers or has hidden them. Colonel, open this packet." Joe's voice is solemn.
With reverent hand, Peyton spreads the papers before the miner. There are stains upon them. Separating them, he arranges them one by one. Suddenly he gives a gasp.
"My God! Colonel Joe, look there!"
Woods springs to his side.
It is a "message from the dead."
Yes, lying for years unread, between the last letters of his wife and the tidings of her death, is an envelop addressed:
Major Henry Peyton,
Fourteenth Louisiana Inf'y,
C.S.A."
Tears trickle through Peyton's fingers, as he raises his head, and breaks the seal.
"Read it, Major," says Woods huskily. He is moved to the core of his heart. It brings old days back.
Peyton reads:
Atlanta—In the field,
July 21, 1864.
My Dear Peyton:—I am oppressed with a strange unrest about my child! I do not fear to meet death to-morrow. I feel it will take me away from my sadness. I am ready. Our flag is falling. I do not wish to live to see it in the dust. But I am a father. As I honor you, for the brotherhood of our life together, I charge you to watch over my child. Hardin is old; something might happen to him. I forgot a second appointment in the will; I name you as co-executor with him. Show him this. It is my dying wish. He is a man of honor. I have left all my estate to my beloved child, Isabel Valois. It is only right; the property came by my marriage with my wife, her dead mother. In the case of the death of my child, search out the heirs of Judge Valois and see the property fairly divided among them. Hardin is the soul of honor, and will aid you in all. I desire this to be a codicil to my will, and regarded as such. I could not ask you to ride out again for me this wild night before my last battle.
The will you witnessed, is the necessary act of the death of my wife. If you live through the war, never forget
Your friend and comrade, MAXIME VALOIS.
P.S. If you go to California, look up Joe Woods. He is as true a man as ever breathed, and would be kind to my little girl. Padre Francisco Ribaut married me at Lagunitas to my Dolores. Good-bye and good-night. M.V. — The men gaze at each other across the table, touched by this solemn voice sweeping down the path of dead years. That lonely grave by the lines of Atlanta seemed to have opened to a dead father's love. Peyton saw the past in a new light. Valois' reckless gallantry that day was an immolation. His wife's death had unsettled him.
Joe Woods' rugged breast heaved in sorrow as he said, "Peyton, I will stand by that child. So help me, God! And he thought of me at the last—he thought of me!" The old miner chokes down a rising sob. Both are in tears.
"Look here, Colonel!" said Woods briskly. "This will never do! You will want to cheer up a little, for your trip, you know."
"Trip?" says the wondering Virginian.
"Why, yes," innocently remarks Joseph Woods. "You are going to New Orleans to look up about the Valois boy. Then you are to see those bankers at Havana, and get proof before the Consul-General about the documents. I want you to send your affidavit to me. I've got a lawyer in New York, who is a man. I'll write him. You can tell him all. I'm coming on there soon. After you get to New York from Havana, you will go to Paris and stay there till I come."
Peyton smiles even in his sadness. "That's a long journey, but I am yours, Colonel. Why do I go to Paris?"
"You are going to answer the letter of that dead man," impressively remarks Joseph.
"How?" murmurs Peyton.
"By being a father to his lonely child and watching over her. There's two girls there. You can keep an eye on them both. I'll trap this old scoundrel here. You've got to leave this town. He might suspect YOU when I start MY machinery.
"I'll plow deep here. I'll meet you in New York. Now, I want you to take to-morrow's train. I'll run your stock account, Colonel Henry," Woods remarks, with a laugh.
The next day, Peyton speeds away on his errand after receiving the old miner's last orders. His whispered adieu was: "I'm going to stand by my dead pardner's kid, for he thought of me at the last."