CHAPTER XXVII.
THE EVE OF THE WEDDING.
On the night of the slave sale, Don Juan Moraquitos sat alone in the apartment which he called his study.
The following day was that appointed for the Spaniard's marriage with Pauline Corsi, and preparations had been made for the celebration of the ceremony with the splendor worthy of such a wealthy bridegroom.
Pauline and Camillia were together in the young girl's apartments.
On one of the sofas lay the dresses of white satin and lace, which the bride and bridemaid were to wear upon the following morning.
On a table near stood a box, which contained the wreaths selected by the Frenchwoman for herself and Camillia.
This box had not as yet been opened.
"Come, dearest Camillia," exclaimed Pauline; "have you no wish to see the Parisian flowers which are to adorn that beautiful head to-morrow? You certainly are most devoid of that feminine weakness—curiosity."
"I can trust to your taste, Pauline," answered Camillia.
"That's just as much as to say you don't care a straw about the matter; and that you are thinking of nothing but that stupid lover of yours, who is, no doubt, thousands and thousands of miles away."
Camillia sighed. Her face was averted, and she did not see the arch smile which lighted up the Frenchwoman's face. "However," continued Pauline; "I shall insist on your approving of my choice."
She unfastened the cord which was tied about the box; and, lifting the lid, took out the two wreaths.
They were both of the same pattern—coronet-shaped garlands of orange flowers and buds, purely white amidst their glistening green leaves; as true to nature as if they had been gathered from a hot-house, and breathing the delicious perfume of the flower.
They were the perfection of Parisian taste and art.
"Why, Pauline," exclaimed Camillia, "they are both bridal wreaths."
"Can you guess why it is?"
"No, indeed."
"Because there will be two brides to-morrow. I never break a promise. To-morrow, Don Juan Moraquitos will divide his fortune; one-half he will reserve for himself and his wife, the other he will give to his daughter and the husband of her choice."
"But, Pauline, how in Heaven's name will you accomplish this?"
"That is my secret. There is very little time left me for my work. It is now nine o'clock, I must go out immediately."
"Go out, and at this hour?"
"It is absolutely necessary."
"But, dear Pauline, you will have my carriage, you will let me accompany you?"
"Neither; I go on foot and alone."
She hurried from the room before Camillia could remonstrate further, and the Spanish girl, bewildered and amazed, seated herself near the table, looking musingly at the two bridal wreaths.
That night Silas Craig sat alone in the office in which was the map of America.
The lawyer had triumphed over the man who had scorned him.
He had seen Gerald Leslie's proud nature abased to the very dust, and the darling child of a doting father sold to her most deadly enemy; for the slave has no greater enemy than the hardened profligate, whose guilty passions her charms have awakened.
Silas Craig was a winner in the game of life—what cared he for dark secrets upon the cards he had played? He was rich, and he could defy mankind. He had dined sumptuously after the fatigue of the slave sale, and the table before him was spread with glittering decanters of the choicest wines.
This man reveled in the luxuries of a palace; but he had risen from the gutter; and his low and groveling soul still wore the degradation of the foul haunts in which he had been reared. He lounged in his easy chair, sipping wine, which sparkled like melted jewels in the light of the shaded lamp.
He was disturbed from his reverie by the entrance of the slave who waited upon him.
"A lady, massa," said the man.
"A lady? a lady at this time of night? pshaw; why you must be dreaming."
"No, massa, me wide awake. A lady, a very beautiful lady, with white hands and rings, oh, golly! dey shine like stars."
"Did she tell you her name?"
"No, massa, but she gib me dis."
The negro handed Silas a card.
This card bore the name of Mlle. Pauline Corsi.
Beneath the card was written this warning:
"There are secrets which Silas Craig may wish to preserve; if so, he will do well to see Mlle. Corsi."
Like all base creatures, Silas was a coward. The card dropped from his trembling hand, and his bloated face grew ashy pale.
"Admit the lady," he said.
The slave left the room, and in a few minutes returned with Pauline Corsi.
During those few brief moments, Silas Craig had recovered from his first impulse of terror.
What could this woman know of his secrets?
Who was she but the paid dependent of Don Juan Moraquitos? He had nothing to fear, therefore.
All the native insolence of his nature returned, and when the governess entered the room, he neither rose from his seat nor offered her a chair.
The impertinence did not escape Pauline Corsi. With a smile of provoking assurance, she seated herself opposite to the lawyer, and threw back the dark veil that had shaded her face.
"We shall understand one another better, by-and-by, Mr. Craig," she said, quietly.
"May I ask the motive of this rather untimely visit?"
"We will come to that in good time, my dear sir," replied Pauline, laughing; "perhaps there are several motives. Suppose then, that we begin with motive number one."
The lawyer writhed beneath her calm assurance.
"I must tell you, mademoiselle," he said, "that these ain't my business hours, and that if you've anything particular to say to me, you'd better call another time. Though I should think," he added insolently, "that the governess of Don Juan Moraquitos can't have much business with lawyers."
"But the wife of Don Juan Moraquitos may, Mr. Craig."
"The wife."
"Yes, I see your client does not give you his entire confidence. I am to become Pauline Moraquitos before twelve o'clock to-morrow."
The lawyer's cheek once more grew ashy pale. Again a sudden terror seized him. He felt that there was some mystery shrouded beneath this business, of which he now heard for the first time.
"I know the question which very naturally rises to your lips," said Pauline, with quiet deliberation. "You would ask what motive can have induced Don Juan Moraquitos to take such a step. I reply to that question before it is asked: The motive is a most powerful one."
Silas quailed beneath the look which accompanied these emphatic words.
Pauline Corsi had not boasted idly of the power of her will.
The guilty lawyer, versed in every art of lying and chicanery, trembled, he scarce knew why, in the presence of this frail girl.
"Do you ask the nature of this motive?" said Pauline.
"I do," he faltered, pouring out a glass of wine. His hand shook so violently that the neck of the decanter rattled against the rim of the glass, and he spilled half the costly liquid as he raised it to his quivering lips.
He had no reason to fear this Frenchwoman—but the strength of her indomitable will had a magnetic power over him, and his brutal nature bowed beneath its force.
"I will tell you, Silas Craig," answered Pauline; "there are some secrets which, once known, give to the person who discovers them a fearful and boundless power over the guilty wretches whom they concern. Secrets that are discovered when least the criminals fear detection. Words that are overheard, and cherished for years by the person who overhears them. Words which have power to drag the guilty to the scaffold; words that can kill. Do you understand me?"
"No."
He spoke doggedly, but sat with his hands clasped upon the arms of his easy-chair, his rat-like eyes almost starting from his head as he gazed at Pauline.
"Think again, Silas Craig," said the Frenchwoman; "surely I have spoken plainly. Can you not understand me?"
"No," he repeated with a terrible oath.
"I must speak more plainly still then, it appears. Silas Craig, thirteen years ago it was my good fortune to become acquainted with such a secret as this!"
The lawyer raised one of his trembling hands and wiped the perspiration from his icy forehead.
"Thirteen years," he muttered.
"Yes; I see you remember the date. I was a penniless girl of seventeen when I discovered this secret. I am now thirty; I have kept it long and patiently, have I not?"
He did not answer her.
"I have waited my time. I knew that this secret would bring me wealth and power whenever it was told. It concerns two men. Those two men are my slaves! At a word from me, they stand before the tribunals of this city branded with crime—loathed by their fellow citizens. A word from me, and they go from homes of luxury to the gloom of a prison, from which but a few steps will lead them to the gallows. Shall I tell you who those two men are, Silas Craig?"
"If you please."
He tried to speak with his accustomed insolent and mocking smile, but the white lips refused to do his will, and his words came in a hollow whisper.
"The first is Don Juan Moraquitos, the second is—you!"
The word seemed to whistle from her lips like the bullet from a pistol. The lawyer fell back in his chair as if he had received a blow.
"The secret concerns the night upon which Tomaso Crivelli died, and the will which on that night was forged by you, after the real will had been made away with. The secret also concerns the young man called Paul Lisimon. The man whom you dared to accuse of theft."
"How—how did you discover this?"
"No matter how. Enough that I did make the discovery. Shall I tell you now the price I ask for my secret?"
"Yes."
All attempts at insolence or defiance upon the part of the lawyer was now abandoned.
Silas Craig cowered before the Frenchwoman as humbly as the criminal who awaits the sentence of his judge.
"Don Juan Moraquitos will make me his wife and will share with me his own fortune. From him I ask no more than this. We shall leave America for Paris, and in the delight of my native city I shall endeavor to forget the sorrows of my youth. But although I am ambitious, I am not utterly selfish, and in my triumph I wish to secure the happiness of others. Those others are Camillia Moraquitos and the young man it has pleased Don Juan to call Paul Lisimon."
"How do they concern me?" asked Silas.
"You shall hear. By a foul and infamous plot, the details of which I do not know, but which is doubtless worthy of the person who has concocted it, you have contrived to brand the name of Paul Lisimon with infamy. You will reveal that plot. You will withdraw that shameful accusation; and you will insert an advertisement in every paper printed in New Orleans declaring that young man's innocence. You may call your plot a practical joke if you please. You are so universally beloved and respected that you will of course be believed. That is my first condition. Do you comply with it?"
Silas Craig bent his head. He had scarcely power to speak.
"My second demand is that you produce the real will, signed by Don Tomaso Crivelli, in which he leaves the whole of his estate to his only and legitimate son, Paul Crivelli, known in this city as Paul Lisimon."
Again the lawyer bent his head.
"In conjunction with Don Juan Moraquitos, you will restore to this young man the wealth of his father, which you divided into equal portions soon after Don Tomaso's death. You will find no difficulty with Juan Moraquitos. Pirate and adventurer as he has been, he is not so fortunate as you. He has still a conscience."
"Is that all?" gasped the lawyer.
"It is. I think we understand each other a little better now than we did half an hour ago. Good night."
She left the room before he could reply, and before he could summon the negro to usher her from the house.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when Pauline Corsi left the lawyer's office, but the streets were lighted brilliantly by the full moon which sailed high in the heavens. The Frenchwoman drew her veil closely over her face. She was dressed in dark garments, which shielded her from observation, and she hurried rapidly through the lonely streets.
About half way toward her destination she met two men walking side by side, smoking cigars.
Suddenly she stopped, and, clasping her hand upon her heart, looked eagerly at the younger of these two men.
"It cannot be," she murmured; "it cannot be. It is the moonlight which deceives me."
At this moment they drew near a tavern, the door of which was brilliantly lighted.
The lamp-light fell upon the face of the younger man.
The two men entered the tavern, and Pauline Corsi remained a few paces from the threshold, looking after them.
"Can I be mistaken?" she said, "and yet it seems like some bewildering dream. I might—after thirteen weary years—and to-night!"