"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 itIn 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?
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 B‚rard'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 PŠre Fran‡ois. 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. PŠre Fran‡ois 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, PŠre Fran‡ois 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 procŠs."
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 d‚jeuner, 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 Elys‚es, 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 "flƒneur." Ah! another murder. He enjoys the details.
PŠre Fran‡ois enters the colonel's rooms, with grave air. While Vimont frets over his cigar, in the courtyard, the story of Marie B‚rard 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 PŠre Fran‡ois 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 B‚rard 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 PŠre Fran‡ois 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 "crˆpe de Chine," her "prononc‚e" 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 D‚taille. 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. PŠre Fran‡ois 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 PŠre Fran‡ois. 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.
PŠre Fran‡ois thinks of the unavenged murder of the poor maid-servant. She is now sleeping the last sleep in PŠre 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 B‚rard.
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 PŠre Fran‡ois 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. PŠre Fran‡ois 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 PŠre Fran‡ois 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.
PŠre Fran‡ois becomes a greater comfort to her daily. The graceful priest brings with him an air of peace into the gaudy palace on the Elys‚es. 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. PŠre Fran‡ois 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 B‚rard'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 B‚rard 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 B‚rard'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 B‚rard 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 B‚rard'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 B‚rard'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:
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.
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. PŠre Fran‡ois 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 PŠre Fran‡ois?
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 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."
Natalie recognizes Joe Woods in this. He is the only man knowing half the secret. Tossing on her pillow, the Queen of the El Dorado suffers the tortures of the Inferno. Now is the time to strike Hardin. Before the great senatorial contest. Before this cruel marriage. She will boldly claim a secret marriage. The funds now in the Paris bank are safe. She can blast his career. If she does not take the heiress out, her chances vanish. And once there, what will not Hardin do? What is Woods' motive? Jealousy. Revenge. Hatred.
Ah, the priest! She will unbosom herself to PŠre Fran‡ois. She will urge him to accompany her and the girl to San Franciso. He will be a "background." And his unrivalled calmness and wisdom. PŠre Fran‡ois only knows her as the "‚l‚gante" of the Champs Elys‚es. She feels that Woods has been wisely discreet.
Summoning the ecclesiastic, Madame de Santos tells the story of her claims upon Hardin.
The old Frenchman passes his rosary beads, with a clinking sound, as he listens to the half-truths told him.
"And your child?" he queries.
"I have placed her secretly where Hardin cannot reach her. She will be produced if needed."
There is a peculiar smile in the priest's face. "Madame, I will accompany you on one condition."
"Name it," cries the siren, "I will furnish money, and every comfort for you. It shall be my duty to reward you."
The priest bows gravely.
"I wish to have a resolute man with our party. My young friend, Raoul Dauvray, has a lion's courage. Let him go with us. I do not wish Judge Hardin to know of my presence in San Francisco. Dauvray will guard you with his life."
"I agree to your wishes!" says madame thoughtfully. And loyal Raoul will fight for her and his hoped-for bride. In a month there is a notable departure from Paris. Madame de Santos, Mademoiselle Isabel Valois, with their maids, and Raoul, "en cavalier." On the same steamer, PŠre Fran‡ois travels. He affects no intimacy with the distinguished voyagers. His breviary takes up all his time. Arrived at New York, PŠre Fran‡ois leaves for San Francisco several days in advance of the others.
It is singular that he goes no farther than Sacramento. The legislature is about to assemble. Joseph Woods, as State senator, is launched in political life. The robust miner laughs when he is asked why he accepts these cheap honors.
"I'm not too old to learn some new tricks," he cheerfully remarks. His questions soon exhaust PŠre Fran‡ois' stock of answers.
A day's conference between the friends leads to a series of Napoleon-like mandates of the mining Croesus. Telegraph and cable bear abroad to the shores of the Lake of Geneva the summons which brings Peyton, with Armand Valois and the lovely blooming "Louise Moreau," secretly to the Pacific. Natalie knows nothing of these pilgrims. Quietly reaching San Francisco, by a local train, PŠre Fran‡ois becomes again Padre Francisco. He rests his weary head under the hallowing sounds of the well-remembered bells of the past at the Mission Dolores.
Natalie de Santos rubs her eyes in wonder at the queen city of the West, with its conquered hills and vanished sand-dunes. Whirled away to a secure quiet retreat in a convent, selected by PŠre Fran‡ois, the heiress and her young guardian are safe from even Hardin's wiles.
PŠre Fran‡ois at New York has conferred a day with Judge Davis, and bids his new charge be calm and trust to his own advice. Isabel Valois is in a maze of new impressions, and bewildered by a strange language.
Bravely attired, and of a generous port, Raoul Dauvray installs himself in one of the palatial hotels which are the pride of the occidental city. Colonel Joseph Woods is conspicuously absent.
When the fatigue of travel is over, Natalie de Santos quietly summons Philip Hardin to the interview she dreads. She has been prepared by PŠre Fran‡ois for this ordeal. Yet her tiger blood leaps up in bubbling floods. She will at last face the would-be traitor, and upbraid him. Oh, for one resolute friend!
It is in another convent that lovely "Isabel Valois" is concealed. The heiress longs to burst her bonds. Is not Raoul near her? Assured of a necessity for patience, the wayward beauty bides her time. Every day the roses she caresses, whisper to her of the ardent lover who sighs near her in vain.
Philip Hardin steels himself to face the woman he intends to trick and deceive at the very last. There are such things as insane asylums in California, if she makes any hubbub.
But he has a "coup d'‚tat" in his mind. The old schemer will bring Natalie to terms. Flattery first; fear afterwards.
"And they are face to face once more."