The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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Hardin is keenly watchful of all returning ex-Confederates who might
have been witnesses of Maxime Valois' death. They do not appear.
His possession is unchallenged. His downy couch grows softer daily.

He has received the family papers left by the departing padre. They
are the baptismal papers of the little heiress. The last vouchers.

Hardin, unmoved by fear, untouched by sympathy, never thinks of
the lowly grave before the ramparts of Atlanta. The man lies there,
who appealed to his honor, to protect the orphaned child, but he
is silent in death.

He decides to quietly strip the rancho of its great metallic wealth.
He will hold the land unimproved, to be a showing in future years
should trouble come as to the settlement of the estate.

With the foresight of the advocate, Hardin fears the Valois heirs of
New Orleans. He must build up his defensive works in that quarter.
From several returned "Colonels" and "Majors" he hears of the
death of old Judge Valois.

The line of the family is extinct, save the boy in Paris, who has
been lost sight of. A wandering artist.

A sudden impulse seizes him. He likes not the ominous silence of
Natalie as to important matters.

Selecting one of his law clerks (now an employee of the estate),
he sends him to Paris, amply supplied with funds, to look up the
only scion left of the old family. He charges his agent to spare
neither money nor time in the quest. A full and detailed report of
Madame de Santos' doings and social surroundings is also ordered.

"Mingle in the circles of travelling Americans, spend a little money,
and find out what you can of her private life," are his orders. He
says nothing of the heiress.

In the gay season of 1866, Hardin, still bent on the golden quest
in the hills, reads with some astonishment, the careful "precis"
of his social spy. He writes:

"I have searched Paris all over. The old Confederate circles are
scattered now. They are out of favor at the imperial court. Even
Duke Gwin, the leader of our people, has departed. His Dukedom of
Sonora has gone up with our Confederacy. From one or two attaches
of the old Confederate agency, I learned that the boy Armand Valois
is now sixteen or seventeen years old, if living. He was educated
in one of the best schools here, and is an artist by choice. When
his father died he was left without means. I understand he intended
to make a living by selling sketches or copying pictures. I have
no description of him. There are thousands of young students lost
in this maze. I might walk over him in the Louvre and not know him.
If you wish me to advertise in the journals I might do so."

"Fool," interjects Hardin, as he reads this under the vines at
Lagunitas. "I don't care to look up an heir to Lagunitas. One is
enough."

"Now for Madame de Santos: I have by some effort worked into the
circle of gayety, where I have met her. She is royally beautiful.
I should say about thirty-five. Her position is fixed as an
'elegante." Her turnout in the Bois is in perfect taste. She goes
everywhere, entertains freely, and, if rumor is true, is very
rich. She receives great attention, as they say she is guardian of
a fabulously wealthy young girl at one of the convents here.

"Madame de Santos is very accomplished, and speaks Spanish,
French, and English equally well. I have made some progress in
her acquaintance, but since, by accident, she learned I was from
California she has been quite distant with me. No one knows her
past, here. It is supposed she has lived in Mexico, and perhaps
California. The little feminine 'Monte Cristo' is said to be Spanish
or Mexican. Madame Santos' reputation is absolutely unblemished.
In all the circle of admirers she meets, she favors but one. Count
Ernesto de Villa Rocca, an Italian nobleman, is quite the 'ami de
maison.'

"I have not seen the child, save at a distance. Madame permits no
one to meet her. She only occasionally drives her out, and invariably
alone with herself.

"She visits the convent school regularly. She seems to be a vigilant
wide-awake woman of property. She goes everywhere, opera, balls,
theatres, to the Tuileries. She is popular with women of the best
set, especially the French. She sees very few Americans. She is
supposed to be Southern in her sympathies. Her life seems to be
as clear as a diamond. She has apparently no feminine weaknesses.
If there is a sign of the future, it is that she may become 'Countess
de Villa Rocca.' He is a very fine fellow, has all the Italian
graces, and has been in the 'Guardia Nobile.' He is desperately
devoted to Madame, and to do him justice, is an excellent fellow,
as Italian counts go.

"By the way, I met old Colonel Joe Woods here. He entertained me
in his old way. He showed me the sights. He has become very rich,
and operates in New York, London, and Paris. He is quite a swell
here. He is liberal and jolly. Rather a change from the American
River bar, to the Jockey Club at Paris. He sends you remembrances.

"I shall wait your further orders, and return on telegraph. I
cannot fathom the household mysteries of the Madame. When all Paris
says a woman is 'dead square,' we need not probe deeper. There is
no present sign of her marrying Villa Rocca, but he is the first
favorite."

"So," muses the veteran intriguer Hardin, as he selects a regalia,
"my lady is wary, cautious, and blameless. Danger signals these.
I must watch this Villa Rocca. Is he a 'cavalier servente'? Can he
mean mischief? She would not marry him, I know," he murmurs.

The red danger signal's flash shows to Hardin, Marie Berard standing
by the side of Natalie and the two girls. Villa Rocca is only a
dark shade of the background as yet.

He smiles grimly.

The clicking telegraph key invokes the mysterious cable. For two
days Judge Philip paces his room a restless wolf.

His prophetic mind projects the snares which will bring them all
to his feet. He will buy this soubrette's secrets.

A French maid's greed and Punic faith can be counted on always.

With trembling fingers he tears open the cipher reply from his spy.
He reads with flaming eyes:

"Have seen girl; very knowing. Says she can tell you something
worth one hundred thousand francs. Will not talk now. Money useless
at present. She wants your definite instructions, and says, wait.
Cable me orders."

Hardin peers through the grindstone, and evolves his orders. He
acts with Napoleon's rapidity. His answer reads:

"Let her alone. Tell her to notify Laroyne & Co., 16 Rue Vivienne,
when ready to sell her goods. Wait orders."

Hardin revolves in his busy brain every turn of fortune's wheel.

Has Natalie an intrigue?

Is she already secretly married? Is the heiress of Lagunitas dead?

The labors of his waking hours and the brandy bottle only tell him
of an unfaithful woman's vagaries; a greedy lover's plots, or the
curiosity of the dark-eyed maid, whose avarice is above her fidelity.

Bah! she will tattle. No woman can resist it; they all talk.

But this Italian cur; he must be watched.

The child! Pshaw; she is a girl in frocks. But Villa Rocca is a
needy man of brains and nerve; he must be foiled.

Now, what is her game? Hardin must acknowledge that she is true
to her trust, so far.

The Judge walks over to his telegraph office, for there is a post,
telegraph, and quite a mining settlement now on the Lagunitas
grant.

He sends a cable despatch to Paris to his agent, briefly:

"Stop work. Report acceptable. Come back. Take your time leisurely,
East. Well pleased."

He does not want any misplaced zeal of his spy to alarm Natalie.
As the year 1866 rolls on, the regular reports, business drafts and
details as to Isabel Valois are the burden of the correspondence.
Natalie's heart is silent. Has she one? She has not urged him to
come back; she has not pressed the claims of her child. His agent
returns and amplifies the general reports, but he has no new facts.

The clerk drops into his usual life. He is not curious as to the
Madame. "Some collateral business of the Judge, probably," is his
verdict.

While the stamps rattle away in the Lagunitas quartz mills, Judge
Hardin takes an occasional run to the city by the bay. The legislative
season approaches. Senator Hardin's rooms at the Golden Eagle are
the centre of political power. Railroads are worming their way into
politics. Franchises and charters are everywhere sought. Over the
feasts served by Hardin's colored retainers, he cements friendships
across old party lines.

As Christmas approaches in this year, the Judge receives a letter
from Natalie de Santos which rouses him from his bed of roses. He
steadies his nerves with a glass of the best cognac, as he reads
this fond epistle:

I have waited for you to refer to the future of our child. I will
not waste words. If you wished to make me happy, you would have,
before now, provided for her. I do not speak of myself. You have been
liberal enough to me. I am keeping up the position you indicated.
My child is now old enough to ask meaning questions, to be informed
of her place in the world and to be educated for it. You spoke of
a settlement for her. If anything should happen to me, what would
be her future? Isabel will be of course, in the future, a great
lady. There is nothing absolutely my own. I am dependent on you.
What I asked you, Philip, you have not given me: the name of wife.
It is for her, not for myself, I asked it. I have made myself worthy
of the position I would hold. You know our past. I wish absolutely
now, to know my child's destiny. If you will not do the mother
justice, what will you do for the child? Whose name shall she
bear? What shall she have?

Philip, I beg you to act in these matters and to remember that, if
I once was Hortense Duval, I now am NATALIE DE SANTOS.

Danger signals. Red and flaring they burn before Hardin's steady
eyes. What does she mean? Is her last clause a threat? Woman!
Perfidious woman!

Hardin tosses on a weary couch several nights before he can frame
a reply. It is not a money question. In his proud position now,
forming alliances daily with the new leaders of the State, he could
not stoop to marry this woman. Never. To give the child a block sum
of money would be only to give the mother more power. To settle an
income on her might be a future stain on his name. Shall he buy
off Natalie de Santos? Does she want money alone? If he did so,
would not Villa Rocca marry her and he then have two blackmailers
on his hands? To whom can he trust Isabel Valois if he breaks with
Natalie? The girl is growing, and may ask leading questions. She
must be kept away. In a few years she not only will be marriageable,
but at eighteen her legal property must be turned over.

And to give up the Lagunitas quartz lead? Hardin's brow is gloomy. He
uses days for a decision. The letter makes him very shaky in his
mind. Is the "ex-Queen of the El Dorado" ready to strike a telling
blow?

He remembers how tiger-like her rage when she drew her dagger over
the hand of "French Charlie." She can strike at need, but what will
be her weapon now?

He sets the devilish enginery of his brain at work. His answer to
Natalie de Santos is brief but final:

"You may trust my honor. I shall provide a fund as soon as I can,
to be invested as you direct, either in your name or the other.
You can impart to the young person what you wish. In the meantime
you should educate her as a lady. If you desire an additional
allowance, write me. I have many burdens, and cannot act freely
now. Trust me yet awhile."

Philip Hardin feels no twinge as he seals this letter. No voice
from the grave can reach him. No proof exists in Natalie de Santos'
hands to verify her story.

As for Lagunitas, and orphan Isabel, he pores over every paper
left by the unsuspicious Padre Francisco. He smiles grimly. It was
a missionary parish. Its records have been all turned over to him.
He quietly destroys the whole mass of papers left at Lagunitas by
the priest. As for the marriage papers of her parents and certificate
of baptism of Isabel, he conceals them, ready for destruction at
a moment's notice.

He will wait till the seven years elapse before filing legal proof
of Maxime Valois' death.

Securing from the papers of the old mansion house, materials, old
in appearance, he quietly writes up a bill of sale of the quartz
lead known as the Lagunitas mine, to secure the forty thousand
dollars advanced by him to Maxime Valois, dated back to 1861. Days
of practice enable him to imitate the signature of Valois. He appends
the manual witness of "Kaintuck" and "Padre Francisco." They are
gone forever; one in the grave, one in a cloister.

This paper he sends quietly to record. It attracts no attention.
"Kaintuck" is dead. Valois sleeps his last sleep. From a lonely cell
in a distant French monastery, Padre Francisco will never hear of
this.

As for Isabel Valois, he has a darker plot than mere theft and
forgery, for the future.

The years to come will strengthen his possession and drown out all
possible gossip.

Natalie de Santos must hang dependent on his bounty. He will not
arm her with weapons against himself. He knows she will not return
to face him in California. His power there is too great. If she
dares to marry any one, her hold on him is lost. She must lie to
hide her past. Hardin smiles, for he counts upon a woman's vanity
and love of luxury. The veteran lawyer sums up the situation to
himself. She is powerless. She dares not talk. Time softens down
all passions. When safe, he will give the child some funds, but
very discreetly.

And to bury the memory of Maxime Valois forever is his task.

Broadening his political influence, Hardin moves on to public
prominence. He knows well he can bribe or buy judge and jury,
suppress facts, and use the golden hammer in his hands, to beat
down any attack. Gold, blessed gold!

The clattering stamps ring out merry music at Lagunitas as the
months sweep by.

CHAPTER XV.

AN OLD PRIEST AND A YOUNG ARTIST.--THE CHANGELINGS.

As a thoroughfare of all nations, nothing excels the matchless
Louvre. Though the fatal year of 1870 summons the legions of France
under the last of the Napoleons to defeat, Paris, queen of cities,
has yet to see its days of fire and flame. The Prussians thunder
at its gates. It is "l'annee terrible. "Dissension and rapine
within. The mad wolves of the Commune are yet to rage over the
bloody paths of the German conqueror.

Yet a ceaseless crowd of strangers, a polyglot procession of all
ages and sexes, pours through these wonderful halls of art.

In the sunny afternoons of the battle year, an old French priest
wanders through these noble galleries. Pale and bowed, Francois
Ribaut dreams away his waning hours among the priceless relics of
the past. These are the hours of release from rosary and breviary.
The ebb and flow of humanity, the labors of the copyists, the
diverse types of passing human nature, all interest the padre.

He has waited in vain for responses to his frequent letters
to Judge Hardin. Perhaps the Judge is dead. Death's sickle swings
unceasingly. The little heiress may have returned to her western
native land. He waits and marvels. He finally sends a last letter
through the clergy at Mission Dolores. To this he receives a response
that they are told the young lady has returned to America and is
being educated in the Eastern States.

With a sigh Francois Ribaut abandons all hopes of seeing once more
the child he had baptized, the orphaned daughter of his friend.
She is now far from him. He feels assured he will never cross the
wild Atlantic again.

Worn and weary, waiting the approach of old age, he yet participates,
with a true Frenchman's patriotism, in the sorrows of "l'annee
terrible." Nothing brightens the future! Human nature itself seems
giving way.

All is disaster. Jacques Bonhomme's blood waters in vain his native
fields. Oh, for the great Napoleon! Alas, for the days of 1805!

As he wanders among the pictures he makes friendly acquaintance
with rising artist and humble imitator. The old padre is everywhere
welcome. His very smile is a benediction.

He pauses one day at the easel of a young man who is copying a
Murillo Madonna. Intent upon his work, the artist politely answers,
and resumes his task. Spirited and artistic in execution, the copy
betokens a rare talent.

Day after day, on his visits, the padre sees the glowing canvas
nearing completion. He is strangely attracted to the resolute young
artist.

Dark-eyed and graceful, the young painter is on the threshold
of manhood. With seemingly few friends or acquaintances, he works
unremittingly. Padre Francisco learns that he is a self-supporting
art-student. He avows frankly that art copying brings him both his
living and further education.

Francois Ribaut is anxious to know why this ardent youth toils,
when his fellows are in the field fighting the invaders. He is
astonished when the young man tells him he is an American.

"You are a Frenchman in your language and bearing," says the priest
doubtfully.

The young artist laughs.

"I was educated here, mon pere, but I was born in Louisiana. My
name is Armand Valois."

The old priest's eyes glisten.

"I knew an American named Valois, in California. He was a Louisianan
also."

The youth drops his brush. His eyes search the padre's face. "His
name?" he eagerly asks.

"He was called Maxime Valois," says the priest, Sadly. "He went
into the Southern war and was killed."

The artist springs from his seat. Leading the priest to a recessed
window-seat, he says, quietly:

"Mon pere, tell me of him. He was my cousin, and the last of my
family. I am now the only Valois."

Padre Francisco overstays his hour of relaxation. For the artist
learns of the heroic death of his gallant kinsman, and all the
chronicles of Lagunitas.

"But you must come to me. I must see you often and tell you more,"
concludes the good old priest. He gives Armand his residence,
a religious establishment near Notre Dame, where he can spend his
days under the shadows of the great mystery-haunted fane.

Armand tells the priest his slender history.

Left penniless by his aged father's death, the whirlwind of
the Southern war swept away the last of his property. Old family
friends, scattered and poor, cannot help him. He has been his own
master for years. His simple annals are soon finished. He tells
of his heart comrade, Raoul Dauvray (his senior a few years), now
fighting in the Army of the Loire. The priest learns that the
young American remained, to be a son in the household, while Raoul,
a fellow art-student of past years, has drawn his sword for France.

Agitated by the discovery, Padre Francisco promises to visit the
young man soon. It seems all so strange. A new romance! Truly the
world is small after all. Is it destiny or chance?

In a few weeks, Francois Ribaut is the beloved of that little circle,
where Josephine Dauvray is the household ruler. Priest and youth
are friends by the memory of the dead soldier of the Confederacy.
Armand writes to New Orleans and obtains full details of the death,
in the hour of victory, of the gallant Californian. His correspondent
says, briefly, "Colonel Henry Peyton, who succeeded your relative
in command of the regiment, left here after the war, for Mexico
or South America. He has never been heard from. He is the one man
who could give you the fullest details of the last days of your
kinsman--if he still lives."

Thundering war rolls nearer the gates of Paris. The horrible days
of approaching siege and present danger, added to the gloom of the
national humiliation, make the little household a sad one. Padre
Francisco finds a handsome invalid officer one day at the artist's
home. Raoul Dauvray, severely wounded, is destined to months of
inaction. There is a brother's bond between the two younger men.
Padre Francisco lends his presence to cheer the invalid. Father and
mother are busied with growing cares, for the siege closes in.

The public galleries are now all closed. The days of "decheance"
are over. France is struggling out of the hands of tyranny under
the invaders' scourge into the nameless horrors of the Commune.

It is impossible to get away, and unsafe to stay. The streets are
filled with the mad unrest of the seething population. By the side
of the young officer of the Garde Mobile, Francois Ribaut ministers
and speeds the recovery of the chafing warrior. Thunder of guns
and rattle of musketry nearer, daily, bring fresh alarms. Armand
Valois has thrown away the palette and is at last on the ramparts
with his brother artists, fighting for France. The boy has no
country, for his blood is as true to the Lost Cause as the gallant
cousin who laid down his life at Atlanta. He can fight for France,
for he feels he has no other country now. It has been his foster-mother.

Bright and helpful, demure and neat-handed, is the little nurse,
who is the life of the household. Padre Francisco already loves
the child. "Louise Moreau" is a pretty, quiet little maiden of
twelve. Good Josephine Dauvray has told the priest of the coming
of the child. He listens to the whole story. He sighs to think
of some dark intrigue, behind the mask of this poor child's humble
history. He gravely warns Josephine to tell him all the details of
this strange affair. The motherly care and protection of Josephine
has rendered the shy child happy. She knows no home but her little
nest with the Dauvrays. Her education is suited to her modest station
in life. The substantial payments and furtive visits of the woman
who is responsible for her, tell the priest there is here a mystery
to probe.

Josephine casts down her eyes when Pere Francois asks her sternly
if she has not traced the woman who is the only link between her
charge and the past. Interest against duty.

"I have followed her, mon pere, but I do not know her home. She
comes irregularly, sometimes on foot, sometimes in a carriage. I have
always lost all traces. She must have friends here, but I cannot
find them, for she was sent to us by others to give this child a
home."

"This must be looked into," murmurs the priest.

He interrogates the soldier and also Armand when he returns from
the lines, as the siege drags slowly on. They know nothing save
the fact of the child's being friendless. It may be right; it may
be wrong. "Voila tout." It's the way of Paris.

The priest is much disturbed in mind. Since his conversations with
Armand Valois he feels a vague unrest in his heart as to the young
artist's rights in Lagunitas. Does none of that great estate go to
Armand? Is this equitable? There must be some share of the domain,
which would legally descend to him. In the days of the convalescence
of Raoul Dauvray, the two friends of the soldier-artist, now waiting
the orders for the great attack, commune as to his rights. It would
not be well to disturb him with false hopes.

The gentle old priest tells Raoul the whole story of Lagunitas.

"Mon pere," says the sculptor, "I think there is something wrong
with the affairs of that estate. This great Judge may wish you
out of the way. He may wish to keep Armand out of his rights. He
is deceiving you. It would be well, when brighter days come, that
Armand should go to the western land and see this man."

"But he is poor," Raoul sighs, "and he cannot go."

"If he writes to the 'avocat,' the man will be on his guard."

Pere Francois takes many a pinch of snuff. He ponders from day to
day. When the fatal days of the surrender of Paris come, Armand
returns saddened and war-worn, but safe. The victorious columns
of the great German "imperator" march under the Arc de Triomphe.
Their bayonets shine in the Bois de Boulogne. Thundering cannon at
Versailles bellow a salute to the new-crowned Emperor of Germany.

The days of the long siege have been dreadful. Privation, the
streams of wounded, and the dull boom of the guns of the forts are
sad witnesses of the ruin of war.

When to the siege and the shame of surrender, the awful scenes
of the Commune are added, each day has a new trial. Raoul is well
enough to be out, now. The two young men guard the household.
Aristide Dauvray is gloomily helpless at his fireside. Armand
busies himself in painting and sketching. Pere Francois' visits are
furtive, for the priest's frock is a poor safeguard now. Already
the blood of the two murdered French generals, Lecomte and
Clement-Thomas, cries to heaven for vengeance against rash mutiny.

Raoul Dauvray foresees the downfall of the socialistic mob. After
consultation, he decides to take a place where he can protect the
little household when the walls are stormed. He escapes by night
to the lines of the Versaillese.

For, maddened Paris is now fighting all France. In his capacity of
officer, he can at once insure the personal safety of his friends
when the city is taken.

The red flag floats on the Hotel de Ville. The very streets
are unsafe. Starvation faces the circle around Aristide Dauvray's
hearth. Mad adventurers, foolish dreamers, vain "bourgeois"
generals, head the Communists. Dombrowski, Cluseret, Flourens, the
human tigers Ferre and Lullier, Duval, Bergeret, and Eudes, stalk
in the stolen robes of power. Gloomy nights close sad and dreary
days. From Issy and Vanvres huge shells curve their airy flight,
to carry havoc from French guns into French ranks.

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