The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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 Brard 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 Elyses, 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 “chtelaine” 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 Brard. 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, Pre Franois 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.” “Trs 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 Brard 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 cochre,” the count lifts his hat, as madame renters 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 eyening.

“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 Brard 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 Brard 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?

BOOK V.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

CHAPTER XVIII.

JOE WOODS SURPRISES A LADY.–LOVE’S GOLDEN NETS.

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 Brard’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 Pre Franois. 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. Pre Franois 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, Pre Franois 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 procs.”

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 djeuner, 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 Elyses, 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 “flneur.” Ah! another murder. He enjoys the details.

Pre Franois enters the colonel’s rooms, with grave air. While Vimont frets over his cigar, in the courtyard, the story of Marie Brard 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 Pre Franois 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 Brard 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 Pre Franois 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 “crpe de Chine,” her “prononce” 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 Dtaille. 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. Pre Franois 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 Pre Franois. 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.

Pre Franois thinks of the unavenged murder of the poor maid-servant. She is now sleeping the last sleep in Pre 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 Brard.

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 Pre Franois 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. Pre Franois 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 Pre Franois 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.

Pre Franois becomes a greater comfort to her daily. The graceful priest brings with him an air of peace into the gaudy palace on the Elyses. 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. Pre Franois 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 Brard’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 Brard 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 Brard’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 Brard 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 Brard’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 Brard’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:

SAN FRANCISCO.

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.

HARDIN.

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. Pre Franois 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 Pre Franois?

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 UNITED STATES SENATE.

“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 Pre Franois. She will urge him to accompany her and the girl to San Franciso. He will be a “background.” And his unrivalled calmness and wisdom. Pre Franois only knows her as the “lgante” of the Champs Elyses. 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, Pre Franois travels. He affects no intimacy with the distinguished voyagers. His breviary takes up all his time. Arrived at New York, Pre Franois 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 Pre Franois’ 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, Pre Franois 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 Pre Franois, the heiress and her young guardian are safe from even Hardin’s wiles.

Pre Franois 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 Pre Franois 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.”

CHAPTER XIX.

LOVERS ONCE.–STRANGERS NOW.–FACE TO FACE.

Ushered into a private room, the soulless Hardin’s iron nerves fail him. His heart leaps up wildly when royal “Madame de Santos” approaches silently. Heavens! Her startling beauty is only mellowed with time. Another woman than the Hortense Duval of old stands before him. A goddess.

She has grown into her new rle in life.

“Hortense!” he eagerly cries, approaching her.

“Spare me any further deceit, Philip,” she coldly replies. Seating herself, she gazes at him with flaming eyes! She is a queen at bay!

He is startled. A declaration of war. No easy mastery now.

“Where is your charge?” Hardin queries.

“Where you will not see her, until we understand each other,” rejoins the determined woman. Her steady glance pierces his very soul. Memories of old days thrill his bosom.

“What do you mean by all this?” Hardin’s nerve returns. He must not yield to mortal.

The woman who queened it over his home, extends a jewelled hand with an envelop. “Explain this,” she sharply cries.

The Judge reads it. It is the announcement of his double senatorial and matrimonial campaign.

“Is there any foundation for that report?” Madame de Santos deliberately asks.

“There is,” briefly rejoins the lawyer. He muses a moment. What devil is awakened in her now? This is no old-time pleading suppliant.

“Then you will not see Isabel until you have settled with me and provided the funds promised before the death of the count.”

“Ah!” sneers the old advocate; “I understand you NOW, madame. Blood money!”

“Partly,” remarks Madame de Santos. “I also insist upon your giving up this marriage.”

Hardin springs from his chair. Age has robbed him of none of his cold defiance. He will crush her.

“You dare to dream of forcing me to marry you?” His eyes have the glitter of steel.

“You need not give up the senate, but you must marry me, privately, and give your own child a name. Then I will leave, with the funds you will provide. You can separate from me afterward by the mere lapse of time. There will be no publicity needed.”

“Indeed!” Hardin snarls, “A nice programme, You have had some meddling fool advise you; some later confidant; some protector.”

“Exactly so, Judge,” replies the woman, her bosom heaving in scorn and defiance. “We have lived together. We are privately married now by law! Philip, you know the nameless girl you have never asked for is your own child.”

Hardin paces the floor in white rage. He gazes sternly in her eyes. She regards his excited movements, glaring with defiant eyes. A tigress at bay.

“I will end this here, madame! In two weeks Isabel Valois will be eighteen. If she is not forthcoming I will invoke the law. If I am forced to fight you, you will not have a cent from me. I will never marry you! I decline to provide for you or yours, unless you yield this girl up. You must leave the country before the senatorial election. That is my will.”

Natalie faces her old lover. Tyrant of her heart once, he is now a malignant foe!

“Philip Hardin,” she pleads, “look out of that window. You can see the house my child was born in–YOUR home, OUR home! Philip, give that child a name; I will leave you in peace forever!” There is the old music in her velvet voice.

“Never!” cries the Judge. “Give up the girl you took away. Leave at once. I will secure your fortune. You cannot force me. You never could. You cannot now!” He glares defiance to the death.

His eyes tell the truth. He will not yield,

“Then God help you, Philip,” the woman solemnly says. “You will never reach the Senate! You will never live to marry another woman!”

“Do you threaten me, you she-devil?” snarls Hardin, alarmed at the settled, resolute face. “I have a little piece of news for you which will block your game, my lady. There is no proof of the legitimacy of the child, Isabel Valois. A claim has already been filed by a distant Mexican relative of the Peraltas. The suit will come up soon. If the girl is declared illegitimate, you can take her back to France, and keep her as a beggar. You are in my hands!” He chuckles softly.

“Philip Hardin, you are a liar and a monster. This is your conspiracy. Now, show yourself a thief, also.” Natalie retorts. The words cut the proud man like a lash.

He seizes her jewelled wrist. He is beside himself.

“Beware,” she hisses. “By the God who made me, I’ll strike you dead.”

He recoils.

She is once more the queen of the El Dorado. Her ready knife is flashing before his eyes. “You have a fearful reckoning to answer. You will meet your match yet at the game of Life!” she cries.

But, Natalie de Santos is stunned by his devilish plot to rob the despoiled orphan even of her name. He reads her face. “I will give you a day to think this over. I will come to-morrow.” Hardin’s voice rings with ill-concealed triumph.

“Not ten minutes will you give me. I tell you now I will crush you in your hour of victory, if I die to do it. Once more, will you marry me and give your child a name?” She rises and paces room, a beautiful fury.

“You have your answer,” he coldly replies.

“Then, may the plundered orphan’s curse drag you down to the hell you merit,” is Natalie’s last word as she walks swiftly out of the door. She is gone.

He is alone. Somethings rings with dull foreboding in his ears as his carriage rolls away. An orphan’s curse! A cold clammy feeling gnaws at his heart. An orphan’s curse!

Ah! from the tomb of buried years the millionaire hears the voice of Maxime Valois and shudders:

“May God deal with you as you deal with my child.”

At home, in his library, where the silken rustling of that woman’s dress has thrilled him in bygone years, the old Judge drinks a glass of cognac and slowly recovers his mental balance.

Through smoke-clouds he sees the marble chamber of the Senate of the Great Republic. He must move on to the marriage, he has deferred until the election. It is a pledge of twenty votes in joint ballot.

As for the girl Isabel, why, there is no human power to prove her legitimacy now. That priest. Bah! Dead years ago. Silence has rolled the stone over his tomb.

Hardin has foreseen for years this quarrel with Natalie de Santos. But she can prove absolutely nothing. He will face her boldly. She is ALONE in the world. He can tear the veil aside and blacken her name.

And yet, as evening falls, his spirit sinks within him. He can not, will not, marry the woman who has defied him. What devil, what unseen enemy put her on his track again? If he had never trusted her. Ah, too late; too late!

Secretly he had laid his well-devised mines. The judge in Mariposa is weighted down with a golden bribe. The court officials are under his orders. But who is the unknown foe counselling Natalie? He cannot fathom it. Blackmail! Yes, blackmail.

In three days Hardin is at Sacramento. His satellites draw up their cohorts for the senatorial struggle. If the legislature names him senator, then his guardianship will be quickly settled before the Mariposa Court. There, the contest will be inaugurated, which will declare Isabel Valois a nameless child of poverty. This is the last golden lock to the millions of Lagunitas, The poor puppet he has set up to play the contestant is under his control. He had wished to see Natalie homeward bound before this denouement. It must be. He muses. Kill her! Ah, no; too dangerous. He must FOIL her.

But her mad rage at his coming marriage. Well, he knew the ambitious and stately lady who aspired to share his honors would condone the story of his early “bonnes fortunes.” What could lonely Natalie do at the trial? Nothing. He has the Court in his pocket. He will brave her rage.

Hardin writes a final note, warning the woman he fears, to attend with the heiress on the day of the calling for his accounting.

Marvels never cease. He tears open the answer, after two sleepless nights. She simply replies that the young Lady of Lagunitas will be delivered to him on the appointed day. He cannot read this riddle. Is it a surrender in hopes of golden terms? He knows not of Pre Franois’ advice.

He smiles in complacent glee. He has broken many a weak woman’s nerve: she is only one more.

While he ponders, waiting that reply, Natalie Santos, with heavy heart, tells the priest the story of her tryst with her old lover.

Pre Franois smiles thoughtfully. He answers: “Be calm. You will be protected. Trust to me. I will confer with our advisers. Not a word to Isabel of impending trouble.”

The little court-house at Mariposa is not large enough for the crowd which pours in to see the Lady of Lagunitas when the fated day approaches. It is the largest estate in the country. A number of strangers have arrived. They are targets for wild rumors. Several grave-looking arrivals are evidently advocates. There is “law” in their very eyebrows.

Raoul Dauvray escorts Madame de Santos and the girl whose rumored loveliness is famous already. Philip Hardin, with several noted counsel, is in readiness. Pre Franois is absent. There is an elderly invalid, with an Eastern party of strangers, who resembles him wonderfully.

On the case being reached, there is a busy hum of preparation. One or two professional-looking men of mysterious identity quietly take their places at the bar. In the clerk’s offices there is also a bevy of strangers. By a fortuitous chance, the stalwart form of Colonel Joe Woods illuminates the dingy court-room. His business is not on the calendar, He sits idly playing with a huge diamond ring until the “matter of the guardianship of Isabel Valois” is reached.

Several lawyers spring to their feet at once. A queer gleam is in Joe Woods’ eye as he nods carelessly to Hardin. They are both Knights of the Golden Circle.

Judge Hardin’s counsel opens the case, Hardin passes Natalie in the court-room, with one last look of warning and menace. There is no quiver to her eyelids. The graceful figure of a veiled young girl is beside her.

When Hardin’s advocate ceases, counsel rises to bring the contest for the heirship of Lagunitas to the judicial notice of the Court.

The Judge is asked to stay the confirmation of the guardian’s accounts and reports. His Honor blandly asks if the young lady is in court.

“Let Isabel Valois take the stand,” is the direction.

Judge Hardin arises and passing to Natalie Santos, whose glittering eyes are steadily fixed on his, in an inscrutable gaze, leads the young lady beside her to the stand. Natalie has whispered a few words of cheer.

All eyes are fixed upon the beautiful stranger, who is removing a veil from a face of the rarest loveliness. There is a sensation.

Philip Hardin rises to his feet, ghastly pale, as Joseph Woods quietly leads up to the platform a slight, girlish form. It is another veiled woman, who quietly seats herself beside the claimant.

There is amazement in the court-room, “His Honor,” with a startled glance at Judge Hardin, who is gazing vacantly at the two figures before him, says, “Which of these young ladies is Miss Isabel Valois?”

A voice is heard. It is one of the strange counselors speaking.

Hardin hears the words, as if each stabbed him to the heart.

“Your Honor, we are prepared to show that the last young lady who has taken the stand, is Miss Isabel Valois.”

There is consternation in the assembly. Hardin’s veins are knotted on his forehead. He stares blankly at the two girls. His eyes turn to Natalie de Santos. She is gazing as if the grave had given up its dead. Her cheeks whiten to ashes. Pre Franois, Henry Peyton, and Armand Valois enter and seat themselves quietly by the side of the man who is speaking. What does this all mean? No one knows. The lawyer resumes.

“We will show your Honor, by the evidence of the priest who baptized her, and by the records of the church, that this young lady is the lawful and only child of Maxime Valois and Dolores Peralta. We have abundant proof to explain the seeming paradox. We are in a position to positively identify the young lady, and to dispose of the contest raised here to-day, as to the marriage of the parents of the real heiress.”

Philip Hardin has sprung to his lawyers. They are amazed at the lovely apparition of another Isabel Valois. At the bidding of the Court, Louise Moreau’s gentle face appears.

“And who is the other young lady, according to your theory?” falters the astounded judge, who cannot on the bench receive the support of his Mephistopheles.

“We will leave that to be proved, your Honor! We will prove OUR client to be Isabel Valois. We will prove the other lady not to be. It remains for the guardian, who produces her, to show who she may be.” The lawyer quietly seats himself.

There is a deadlock. There is confusion in court. Side by side are seated two dark-eyed girls, in the flush of a peerless young womanhood. Lovely and yet unlike in facial lines, they are both daughters of the South. Their deep melting eyes are gazing, in timid wonder, at each other. They are strangers.

“What is the name of your witness?” the judge mechanically questions. The lawyer calmly answers, “Franois Ribaut (known in religion as ‘Padre Francisco’), who married the father and mother of this young lady, and also baptized her.”

A faint sob from Natalie breaks the silence. Her eyes are filled with sudden tears. She knows the truth at last. The priest has risen. Hardin looks once more upon that pale countenance of the padre which has haunted his dreams so long. “Is it one from the dead?” he murmurs. But, with quick wit, his lawyer demands to place on the witness stand, the lady charged with the nurture of “Isabel Valois.” Philip Hardin gazes wolfishly at the royal beauty who is sworn. A breathless silence wraps the room.

The preliminary questions over, while Hardin’s eyes rove wildly over the face of the woman he has cast off, the direct interrogatory is asked:

“Do you know who this young lady is?” says the attorney, with a furtive prompting from Hardin. “I do!” answers the lady, with broken voice.

Before another question can be asked, the colleagues of Hardin’s leading lawyer hold a whispered colloquy with their chief.

There is a breathless silence in the court. The principal attorney for the guardian asks the Court for a postponement of two weeks.

“We were prepared to meet an inquiry into the legitimacy of the ward of our client. This production of another claimant to the same name, is a surprise to us. On account of the gravity of this matter, we ask for a stay.”

No objection is heard. His Honor, anxious himself to have time to confer with the would-be senator, adjourns the hearing for two weeks.

Before Hardin could extricate himself from the circle of his advisers, the long-expected girl he has seen for the first time has disappeared with Madame de Santos. He has no control over her now. Too late!

His blood is bounding through his veins. He has been juggled with. By whom? Natalie, that handsome fiend. And yet, she was paralyzed at the apparition of the second beauty, who has also vanished.

He must see Natalie at once before she can frame a new set of lies. After all, the MINE is safe.

As he strides swiftly across the plaza, the thought of the senatorial election, and the lady whom he has to placate, presses on his mind.

As for the election, he will secure that. If Natalie attempts exposure, he will claim it to be a blackmail invention of political enemies. Ha! Money! Yes, the golden arguments of concrete power. He will use it in floods of double eagles.

He will see Natalie on her way to Paris before the second hearing. Yes, and send some one out of the State to watch her as far as New York. He must buy her off.

A part of the money in hand; the rest payable at Paris to her own order. She must be out of the way.

Mariposa boasts two hotels. The avoidance of Hardin’s friends brings all the strangers, perforce, together in the other. They have been strangely private in their habits.

Philip Hardin’s brow is set. It is no time for trifling. He sends his name up to Madame de Santos. She begs to be excused. “Would Judge Hardin kindly call in the evening?”

This would be after a council of war of his enemies. It must be prevented. He pens a few words on a scrap of paper, and waits with throbbing pulses,

“Madame will receive him.” As he walks upstairs, he realizes he has to face a reckoning with Joe Woods. He will make that clumsy-headed Croesus rue the day. And yet Woods is in the State Senate, and may oppose his election.

With his eyes fixed on the doors of Natalie’s apartment, he does not notice Woods gazing at him, from the end of the hall, in the open door of the portico.

Natalie motions him to a seat as he enters. He looks at her in amazement. She is not the same woman who entered that court-house. He speaks. The sound of his own voice makes him start.

“What is all this devil’s tomfoolery? Explain it to me. Are you mad?” His suppressed feelings overmaster him. He gives way to an imprudent rage.

“Are you ready to marry me? Are you ready to keep the oath you swore to stand by me?” Her dark eyes burn into his heart. She is calm, but intense in her demand.

“Tell me the truth or I’ll choke it out of you,” he hisses, grasping her rudely.

His rashness breaks the last bond between them. A shriek from the struggling woman echoes through the room.

The door flies open.

Hardin is hurled to the wall, reeling blindly.

The energetic voice of Joe Woods breaks the silence. “You are a mean dog, but, by God, I did not think you’d strangle a woman.”

Hardin has struggled to his feet. In his hand, flashes a pistol.

Joe Woods smiles.

“Trying the old El Dorado dodge, Judge, won’t work. Sit down now. Listen to me. Put up that shooting iron, or I’ll nail you to the wall.”

His bowie knife presses a keen point to Hardin’s breast. It is checkmate.

Natalie Santos is buried in the cushions of her chair. She is sobbing wildly. Shuffling feet are at the door. The fracas has been overheard.

Joe Woods quietly opens it. He speaks calmly. “The lady has fainted. It’s all right. Go away.”

Through the door a girl’s lovely face is seen, in frightened shyness. “I’ll send for you, miss, soon,” Colonel Joe remarks, with awkward sympathy.

He seats himself nonchalantly.

“Now, Hardin, I’ve got a little account to settle with you. I’ll give you all the time you want. But I’ll say right here before this lady, I know you are under an obligation to treat her decently.

“I remember her at the El Dorado!”

Hardin springs to his feet. Natalie raises her tearful eyes.

“Keep cool, Judge,” continues the speaker. “You used to take care of her. Now I’m a-going to advise her in her little private affairs. I want you to let her severely alone. I want you to treat her as she deserves; like a woman, not a beast. You can finish this interview with her. I’m a-going out. If you approach her after this, without my presence or until she sends for you, I’ll scatter your brains with my old six-shooter. I shall see she gets a square deal. She’s not going to leave California till this whole business is cleared up. You hear me.” Joe’s mood is dangerous.

“Now go ahead with your palaver, madame. I’m not going to leave the house. I know my business, and I’ll stand by you as long as my name is Joe Woods. When you’re done I want you to see me, and see my lawyer.”

There is silence. Natalie’s eyes give the stalwart miner a glance of unutterable thankfulness.

She has met a man at last.

Her bosom heaves with pride, her eyes beam on rough old Joe. Woods has taken out an unusually long cigar. He lights it at the door, and leisurely proceeds to smoke it on the upper veranda.

When his foot-fall dies away, Hardin essays to speak. His lips are strangely dry. He mutters something, and the words fail him. Natalie interrupts, with scorn: “Curse you and your money, you cowardly thief. You have met your match at last. I trusted to your honor. Your hands were on my throat just now. I have but one word to say to you now. Go, face that man out there!” Hardin is in a blind rage.

His legal vocabulary finds no ready phrase of adieu. His foot is on the top stair. Joe Woods says carelessly:

“Judge, you and I had better have a little talk to-night.” Ah, his enemy! He knows him at last. Hardin hoarsely mutters: “Where? when?”

“When you please,” says Woods.

“Ten, to-night; your room. I’ll bring a friend with me.” Hardin nods, and passes on, crossing the square to his hotel. He must have time for thought; for new plans; for revenge; yes, bloody revenge.

Colonel Joseph Woods spends an hour in conference with Peyton and Father Franois. Their plans are all finished.

Judge Davis, who is paralyzed by the vehemence of California character, caresses his educated whiskers. He pets his eye-glasses, while the three gentlemen confer. He is essentially a man of peace. He fears he may become merely a “piece of man” in case the appeal to revolvers, or mob law, is brought into this case. They do things differently in New York.

While the two lovely girls are using every soothing art of womanly sympathy to care for Natalie, it begins to dawn upon each of them that their futures are strangely interlinked. The presence of Madame de Santos seals their lips. They long for the hour when they can converse in private. They know now that the redoubtable Joe Woods has TWO fatherless girls to protect instead of ONE.

Natalie Santos, lying on her couch, watches these young beauties flitting about her room. “Does the heiress, challenged in her right, dream of her real parentage?” A gleam of light breaks in on the darkness of her sufferings. Why not peace and the oblivion of retirement for her, if her child’s future is assured in any way? Why not?

Looking forward hopefully to a conference with Colonel Joe, she fears only the clear eyes of old Padre Francisco. “Shall she tell him all?” In these misgivings and vain rackings of the mind, she passes the afternoon. She yields to her better angel, and gives the story of her life to the patient priest.

Armand Valois and Raoul Dauvray have a blessed new bond of brotherhood. They are both lovers. With Padre Francisco, they are a guard of honor, watching night and day the two heiresses.

They share the secret consciousness of Natalie de Santos that Joe Woods has in store some great stroke.

Judge Davis, Peyton, and the resolute Joe are the only calm ones in the settlement. For, far and wide the news runs of racy developments. In store, saloon, and billiard lounging-place, on the corners, and around the deserted court-room, knots of cigar-smoking scandal-mongers assuage their inward cravings by frequent resort to the never-failing panacea–whiskey. Wild romances are current, in which two great millionaires, two sets of lawyers, duplicate heiresses, two foreign dukes, the old padre and the queenly madame are the star actors in a thrilling local drama, which is so far unpunctuated by the crack of the revolver.

It is a struggle for millions, and the clash of arms will surely come.

There has been no great issue ever resolved in Mariposa before the legal tribunal, which has not added its corpses to the mortuary selections lying in queer assortment on the red clay hillsides.

“Justice nods in California while the pistols are being drawn.”

Hardin, closeted with his lawyers, suspends their eager plotting, to furtively confer in private with the judge.

When the first stars sweep into the blue mountain skies, and a silver moon rises slowly over the pine-clad hills, Joseph Woods summons all his latent fascinations to appease Madame Natalie de Santos. The sturdy Missourian has had his contretemps with Sioux and Pawnee. He has faced prairie fires, stampeded buffalo herds, and met dangers by flood and field. Little personal discussions with horse thieves, some border frays, and even a chance encounter on a narrow trail with a giant grizzly, have tried his nerve. But he braces with a good stiff draught of cognac now. He fears the wily and fascinating Natalie. He is at heart a would-be lady’s man. Roughness is foreign to his nature, but he will walk the grim path of duty.

When he thinks of flinching, there rises on his memory the lonely grave where Peyton laid Maxime Valois to rest on the bloody field of Peachtree Creek, with the stars and bars lying lightly on his gallant breast. And he calmly enters the presence of the once famous siren.

There is a mute entreaty in her eyes, as she motions him to a seat.

Joseph toys nervously with the huge diamond, which is a badge “de rigueur” of his rank and grade as a bonanza king.

“I do not wish to agitate or distress you, madame,” begins Joe, and his voice is very kind.

“I broke out a little on Hardin; all bluff, you know. Just to show him a card. Now will you trust and let me help you? I mean to bring you out all right. I can’t tell you all I know. I am going to fight Hardin on another quarrel. It will be to the death. I can just as well square your little account too, if you will trust me. Will

The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry SavageA Franco-Californian Romance (page 7)