The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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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 Berard. 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 coupe
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 coupe.

"Mon Dieu!" Josephine screams. "My child! my Louise!" The coupe
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, Pere Francois 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." "Tres 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 Berard 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 cochere,"
the count lifts his hat, as madame reenters her home.

There is a fatal glitter in Natalie's eyes, as she enters alone
her robing room.

When madame is seated in the freedom of a wonderful "robe de
chambre," her face is expectant, yet pleasant. Marie has fulfilled
every duty of the 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 Berard 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 Berard 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 Cafe 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 coupe, 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 Cafe Ney. There are, even here, curious
spies.

Marie's eyes are flashing; her bosom heaves. "Come instantly,
Jules! it is the hour. My coupe 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 coupe. "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 coupe;
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 Berard'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 Pere Francois. 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. Pere Francois 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, Pere Francois
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 proces."

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 dejeuner, 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 Elysees, 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 "flaneur."
Ah! another murder. He enjoys the details.

Pere Francois enters the colonel's rooms, with grave air. While
Vimont frets over his cigar, in the courtyard, the story of Marie
Berard 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 Pere Francois 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 Berard 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 Pere Francois 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 "crepe de Chine," her "prononcee" 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 Detaille. 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. Pere Francois 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 Pere Francois. 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.

Pere Francois thinks of the unavenged murder of the poor maid-servant.
She is now sleeping the last sleep in Pere la Chaise. Paris has its
newer mysteries already, to chase away her memory--only one more
unfortunate.

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