Chapter XVII: Book TWO: Temptation (4)

With an inarticulate murmur François turned to stare at the closed door behind which lay his friend, who even now was making his peace with the All-High, preparatory to venturing into the Valley of the Shadow. His head falling upon his breast the Creole gazed at the floor, unseeing.

Through the open French window could be seen a Virginia cardinal in a flaming red coat, perched upon the branch of a venerable magnolia, pouring forth a symphony of sound ... a tribute to the glory of life; expressing his thanks to the Omnipotent for the boon of living. The air was heavy with the balmy fragrance of roses and the sweet perfume of oleanders.

Somewhere below could be heard snatches of low conversation. Suddenly came the sounds of prancing hoofs on cobblestones and the indescribable whir of carriage wheels; the equipage slowly coming to a stop. Sounds of renewed conversation. A well-ordered babel of voices.

A step upon the stair. First animated—then faltering. A light step.

Lafitte, engrossed in his thoughts, did not notice, beyond a vague, momentary wonder as to the identity of the person who was invading the upper regions so thoughtlessly. De Moulin, however, looked up sharply, with mild resentment for the intruder.

Suddenly the person stood in the doorway ... and paused.

For a brief moment De Moulin stared at the intruder in astonishment, and then, fiercely brushing his eyes, bowed in the direction of the door and, turning quickly on his heel, vanished through the French window on to the balcony without, disappearing from sight.

Suddenly sensing the presence of a stranger, Jean slowly looked up.

It was Virginia.

For a timeless space they stared at each other.

As she recognized him, she started violently, colored, and her hand uncertainly clutched at her bodice. For another moment there was an embarrassing silence. Pale as death, the Frenchman looked at her, devouring her with his hungry eyes ... his heart wildly thumping against his ribs. It was the first time he had seen her face-to-face for a period of two years. If anything, he thought she was more beautiful than ever. For the moment he forgot the man who lay in the next room—forgot life itself—while his starved soul feasted itself upon her beauty.

Her pallor suddenly returning, she averted her embarrassed eyes and looked quickly toward the closed door across the room. Jean, intercepting the glance, felt his heart sink like lead ... and returned to realities.

He bowed ceremoniously, averting his tell-tale eyes.

She nervously returned a curtsy.

Being a woman, she regained her composure first.

“How is your brother—Captain Lafitte?” she asked, falteringly.

He bit his lip, and for a moment was silent. Her pallor deepened.

“Pierre is at—confessional.” He vaguely marvelled at his own poise.

She looked at the closed door in fascination, not pretending to misunderstand his meaning. He saw her eyes suddenly fill with tears, and, turning his back on her, rapidly walked to the window, to hide the tortured soul that stood revealed in his own.

“I—I cannot begin to express my—my”—she paused, groping for words—“grief and sympathy ... Pierre—your brother is a very dear friend of mine....”

He started at her words, but did not turn.

“I was expecting you to come,” he said, slowly, and did not see her look of surprise at his words. For a moment she was at a loss.

“Perhaps this is an ill-chosen time to say so, sir, but allow me to compliment you for your—bravery!” she said, half shyly. “I, like your brother, owe my life to that same bravery, and can well appreciate its worth....” Virginia paused abruptly, and could have bitten off her tongue, for she suddenly remembered that Pierre was—at confession! The irony of her words! She flushed with embarrassment, but Jean still did not seem to see her.

“I would to God that I were in his place!” he exclaimed, dispassionately.

She did not answer, but unaccountably flushed again. The years seemed to have vanished, as if they had never been.

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, incredulously. “_You_ ask me _that_?”

She nodded uncertainly. He paused.

“Because I have nothing to live for,” bitterly. Jean Lafitte was only human, after all.

Her face expressed her astonishment. He continued speaking, quickly, to hide his embarrassment.

“Do you remember a certain evening two years ago, mademoiselle?” he asked, abruptly.

She did not answer, her face averted.

“It was a moonlight—”

“Don’t!” she pleaded.

He swept on, unheeding.

“—night. Do you, by chance, remember our conversation?”

Virginia was silent.

“Do you remember,” he went on, “what you asked of me?”

“Yes,” slowly.

“And what I answered?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his in fascination.

“Do you remember, mademoiselle,” he swallowed hard, “those—_kisses_?” His eyes were burning—glowing. It seemed to Virginia that she could detect his very soul imprisoned in those magnetic eyes.

She shivered with a strange emotion, and turned scarlet with embarrassment.

“Mr. Lafitte!...” The crimson wave receded and rose again.

He laughed shortly, painfully.

“Afterwards—you said you were flirting, mademoiselle. But I did not believe you—I could not believe—” She started. “But now I do believe!” he added, bitterly.

Virginia paled, and grasped the back of a chair, to steady herself.

Jean Lafitte bowed to her again, with elaborate courtesy.

“I repeat,” he said, quietly, “that now I do believe. _That_ is why I say that I wish with all my soul that I were on Pierre’s death bed!”

The Virginian girl looked at him with astonishment, amazed at his frankness, his utter lack of self-consciousness.

“You are surprised?” asked Jean. “Don’t be! It is best to remove our masks. I was a fool—a blind fool! But it is too late now for vain regrets. You are right, mademoiselle. I was, and am, naught but a pirate! An outcast from decent society—a pariah! Your choice was wise. I cannot blame you. I merely pity myself—and curse circumstance.” In a sense, his words were meaningless; an incoherent rigmarole.

“What do you mean?” in real astonishment.

“Evidently everyone who comes into intimate contact with me must suffer! Even you and Pierre cannot enjoy happiness ... for the bullet that should have reached me was directed toward him by the malignant fate that watches over Jean Lafitte!”

Virginia stared at him, full of wonderment. As for Jean, he was even more amazed at himself, for his unpremeditated outburst, but, now that he had begun, he resolved to finish his peroration, sparing neither himself nor his companion. He felt that his whole being was in an uproar ... in a chaos of crucifying emotions.

“I confess that I cannot understand your—wild words, Mr. Lafitte,” the girl said with hauteur. “Allow me to believe that they were born of your great—grief. You know not what you say, sir!”

He smiled—a sad smile. A sudden transformation had taken place in him at her voice.

“You are right, mademoiselle. I do _not_ know what I say. Please forget and forgive my words. But I mean what I said. It may interest you to know that I sought death on the field with an ardor with which I have never sought anything else. Life is all wrong, somehow—and I will not try to understand its mysteries. They are not for mortal eyes. But Pierre’s fatal bullet _should_ have reached me, instead of himself—”

Virginia interrupted, vexed at the mystery in his words.

“Why do you repeat that, sir?”

“Why?” he repeated. He could not help thinking that they were both back at the same point in their conversation that they had been at its beginning. “You ask me that?” unconsciously repeating, too, the same words he had used five minutes before. “It is because you and Pierre—”

But he was never to finish his sentence. At this juncture the door of Pierre’s room opened slowly and a portly tonsured priest garbed as a Capuchin came out. As he caught sight of the lady a strange expression flitted across his face, but he said nothing.

The two others looked at the ecclesiastic inquiringly, but he gave them no time to question him.

“My son,” he said, softly, “your brother wishes to speak to you.” He drew closer. “Pierre Dominique Lafitte has made his peace with his Maker,” he continued, “therefore I advise you, _mon fils_, to be as forgiving as your Master has been.” He crossed himself. “Be not hasty in thy judgment,” he went on enigmatically, although in a kindlier tone, “for it is more blessed to forgive than to punish.”

Jean looked at him in bewilderment.

“What do you mean, father?”

The old Capuchin looked at him pityingly.

“You shall know in good time, _Deo volente_.”

He pointed to the closed door.

Without another word or glance toward the girl, Jean Lafitte opened the door—visibly stiffened—and went in.

The heavy door closed behind him. The old Capuchin turned toward the girl, his face grave.

“My daughter—”

II

As Jean stepped over the threshold he unconsciously paused, the sudden transition from sunlight to semi-darkness causing him to blink. All the windows of the room were heavily curtained.

At the upper end of the chamber was a huge canopied bed on a dais. On this lay Pierre Lafitte, the outline of his body thrown into strong relief by the wavering light of the tall candles grouped at his head and feet. On his breast, beneath his crossed hands, lay a crucifix. At the sound of Jean’s entrance the dying man slowly turned his head, and it could be seen that his mustache and imperial, once the proud object of his tender care, had lost their well-groomed air, in the same strange manner that he himself appeared to have lost his former debonair worldliness.

In less than a moment Jean was at his side, tenderly taking one of his brother’s hands in his own.

“How are you feeling, Pierre?”

The other smiled faintly.

“I am at peace—almost.”

“Nonsense! We’ll have you up and about in another week, Pierre. Don’t be so pessimistic.”

Pierre made a weak sign of negation.

“The sands of my life are running out, _mon frère_,” he whispered, weakly; “it is useless to blind yourself to the truth. Don’t weep, brother mine, for it hurts me—it _hurts_!” A groan escaped him.

Jean dashed away the moisture from his eyes.

“It is but the smoke from these candles that makes my eyes smart,” he lied. For a few moments he was silent, head bent, as he awkwardly patted the hand of his dying brother. The latter felt a burning drop on his hand.

“Grieve not, Jean. I am to die ... it is written. I feel no fear; on the contrary, I am happy. I shall soon be with our sainted _maman_.”

Jean gripped the coverlets fiercely.

“Oh, that we could have gone together! Pierre, _mon_ Pierre, I cannot let you go alone—I cannot—I cannot!” he sobbed, “into the cold—into the unknown.... You were made for the light, _mon frère_, for the sunshine—”

“Hush, Jean! I go willingly. And my stay in Purgatory shall be bearable, for above I shall always see our sainted _maman_—waiting, waiting.”

Jean buried his face in the bedclothes to hide his anguish, and his brother caressed his hair. What greater bitterness could come to man than that he should watch a dear one die—pass away from sight and hearing—before one’s eyes! The crushing heart-ache of it! The stars shine on—the sun goes on its accustomed way—yet, how can they?

Again Jean was a child—a boy—a youth. But always the younger brother—the youth whose hero Pierre had been. With the rapidity of lightning a swift succession of scenes passed through his mind—incidents from his boyhood days, youthful memories.... And always there had been Pierre—brother Pierre. Father, mother, and brother, all in one! His father Jean could not remember, and his mother but dimly, but there had _always_ been Pierre! Pierre with his understanding sympathy; Pierre with his ever-ready aid; Pierre with his helpful advice; Pierre with his unstinted love! Jean groaned aloud. Again he was the little boy, fearful of shadows, and Pierre was his knight-defender....

The ghostly sands of the infinite hour glass trickled ceaselessly, inexorably. But his thoughts sped on.

Unconsciously he prayed aloud, while Pierre listened, and slow tears welled up in his eyes and over. At the foot of the bed grinned the figure of Death, but at the head smilingly wept a beautiful woman with the dark eyes of Jean—

Then, together, they repeated a prayer in unison—a prayer that they had together nightly made in the far-off days of Jean’s boyhood. Strangely enough, it was neither their “Ave Marias,” nor any other prayer used exclusively by those of their faith. It was a prayer used by countless faiths—a universal plea to the one existing Deity. What matter if His prophet be Moses, Christ, Mohammed, or Confucius?

“Our Father, Who Art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven....”

As they chanted on, Jean’s voice grew louder—so loud, indeed, as to be heard in the next room. When he began the next stanza, though he knew it not, the old Capuchin and Virginia were both on their knees, repeating it with him. And Virginia was sobbing....

“Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us;
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil,
For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory,
Forever and ever. Amen.”

The prayer was not particularly appropriate, but it soothed them.

When the two brothers had finished they were both silent for a long while, each busy with his own thoughts, and both unashamedly weeping. But weeping as only brave men weep—men who are not ashamed of their tears. The simple little prayer had brought a slight relief to both of them.

“Jean,” said the dying man, at length, “I have a confession to make—and dread it.” He shuddered.

The younger Lafitte tenderly kissed his brother’s hand by way of answer. His heart was too full to allow him to speak.

“_Mon frère_,” said Pierre Dominique, haltingly, “I have done you a great wrong....”

“_C’est impossible!_ Forget it, _mon_ Pierre!”

“_Oublier je ne puis._ I cannot forget, _mon frère_.” His voice gathered. “Jean, my brother, I have done you a great wrong—deceived you—lied to you, God forgive me!”

Jean trembled violently, suddenly sick with a premonition of what was to come. Unconsciously, as if to physically ward off the impending disclosure, he extended his palm.

Pierre, however, once having gained the necessary courage, was not to be put off. There was a semi-hysterical note in his voice.

“I lied to you—lied to you....”

Strangely enough, Jean did not ask for particulars—he merely stared at the dying man, fascinated. Pierre Dominique half raised himself on his elbow; his face was suddenly rendered grotesque—strange—by a curious chiaroscuro—a blending of light and shade—caused by the uneven flame of the burning tapers.

“Do you remember, Jean ... at the Rodriquez Canal ... that morning?” The look in the other’s face suddenly convinced him that Jean remembered—painfully, “I said—I said that Virginia Grymes loved me—that I knew it.” His words were coming in gasps, “Well ... I lied to you!” He sank back on the pillows, choking for lack of breath.

“You—lied—to—me!” repeated Jean, in a daze. He was as if stunned—suddenly struck treacherously from behind. “You are—mad! You cannot have lied!” he murmured.

Pierre weakly grasped his hand, his face working.

“I lied, Jean—lied ...” he choked.

“You did not know!” cried Jean, desperately, trying to make his brother’s load lighter, even though he felt himself mortally stricken.

“I knew,” mechanically said the other, “and I have suffered the tortures of the damned, Jean ... the tortures that I shall soon suffer in Purgatory! I knew you loved Virginia ... and I knew she loved—loves you. And I was jealous and lied!

“Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me, Jean? I loved Virginia Grymes as I’ve loved no other woman on earth—except little _maman_! Can’t you realize?”

Jean looked up, his face a picture of suffering—misery.

“Forgive you? Gladly, my brother. I understand—too well. I too, have loved her—and I understand. Put your mind at ease, _mon_ Pierre. There is naught to forgive.”

“I have made you suffer.”

“For a short time. But it was nothing. Now I am happy.” There was a radiance in his face. Pierre Dominique saw it and sighed. Oh, Life, Life! But Death, grinning hideously at the footboard, stepped nearer—and sneered.

“Then I am happy. And can die happy, Jean....” But his face belied his avowed happiness.

“Yes, _mon frère_.”

“You will marry Virginia....”

“If she will have me!” humbly. Pierre smiled. The expression on his face was simply indescribable: envy—regret—longing—bitterness....

“Never fear. She has always loved you and still does. But, as I said, you two will marry. I know it. And you should appreciate her worth, _mon_ Jean. A good woman is man’s greatest blessing. As François—good old François—says, we cannot do without them—nor should we. Man born of woman is brought up by woman—trained by woman—and, as he is given life by woman, could not live without her. Virginia is representative of all that is best in womanhood. Cherish her—if not for your own sake, for—mine....” He trembled.

“And Jean....”

“_Oui, mon frère._” The pathos of his voice!

“If there should be a son—and there must be, for you must perpetuate the race of Lafitte ... if there should be a son, I say—will you name him—‘Pierre’—and tell him of the uncle whom—he—never—knew?”

The tears were coursing down Jean’s lean cheeks.

“Yes, my brother ... by the living God, I _swear_ it!... If we shall be blessed with a son, he shall be Pierre Dominique Lafitte, and I only hope that he’ll be as brave—and good—and noble—as his uncle!” He sobbed again. Farcical this scene may seem, but these two were in sober earnest. All men are—when in the shadow of the inexorable Angel of Death—the divine messenger of finality.

For a long minute there was silence. Then:

“Jean....”

“_Oui, mon frère._”

“You’ve always looked like the little _maman_.... I am about to go to her.... Kiss me, Jean....” He was now too weak to even turn his head ... a strange light shone in the dying man’s face. Jean, leaning over tenderly, reverently kissed his brother on the lips.... “Good-by, _mon_—Jean....” His eyes were glazing.

“No—no!” cried Jean, suddenly alarmed. “Don’t leave me. Pierre!” He sobbed wildly ... a taper flickered....

As if by a superhuman effort of the will, Pierre aroused himself temporarily from his semi-coma.

“That—is—not—the—Lafitte—way, Jean,” he whispered. “Tell—me—good-by!” Already, step by step, he could see that grinning specter at the foot of the canopied bed advancing, his sable wings horribly unfolding, his bony hand beckoning with horrible insistence.

Jean suddenly straightened, and he grasped his brother’s hand tightly. He, too, had caught sight of the inexorable march of the specter and realized the futility of resistance.

“_Au revoir, mon frère!_” firmly.

“Till we meet again,” not “good-by”!

Pierre Dominique Lafitte smiled, weakly.

The sable specter was almost upon him, but he cared not, for there, above him in a shaft of golden light, hovered the figure of a woman ... and her eyes were like those of Jean....

“Little _maman_ ...” murmured Pierre contentedly, shuddered, and closed his eyes.

With a great cry Jean sank to his knees, convulsively kissing his brother’s hand ... calling....

The door was pushed open. He was conscious of a crowd surging into the closed candle-lit room. The air was stifling—strangling. His head was light, his feet were slipping away into nothingness. The face of his dead brother was growing indistinct before his very eyes....

Suddenly silence. Then, “_Chapeux bas!_” exclaimed a voice.

“Hats off!” indeed....

Pierre Dominique had entered the Valley of the Shadow.