CHAPTER XVII. — 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 PŠre Fran‡ois, she leaves the house no more for her lessons. There is a secret guard of loving hearts around her.
PŠre Fran‡ois 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 B‚rard 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 B‚rard 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 Elys‚es, 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 "chƒtelaine" 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 B‚rard. 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, PŠre Fran‡ois 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." "TrŠs 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 B‚rard 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 cochŠre," 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 B‚rard 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 B‚rard 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?