Chapter THE LAST: In Which Our Pirate Walks into a Trap And Hauls Down His Colors

I

“I ’ave news foah you, _mon ami_,” said De Moulin, following his host up the broad steps to the white-columned veranda above. Grymes motioned him to a comfortable chair, and sat down in another near-by.

“I can guess at it,” he answered, smilingly.

“W’at?”

“Your news.”

“Guess away, zen, monsieur.”

“I don’t have to guess—I know.”

“Impossybl’!” with exaggerated doubt.

John Grymes laughed. Before he could answer, however, old Rappahannock, the Grymes butler, made his appearance. As he caught sight of him, the Virginian’s eyes brightened.

“A bottle of that claret, Rappahannock. Bin four!” Grinning widely, the old darky turned, but Grymes, struck by another thought, recalled him. “No, wait! Make us a couple of mint juleps instead, Rappahannock—the kind you make at home!” Rappahannock’s grin became more accentuated and he disappeared into the cool recesses of the hall of the rambling old mansion. The Virginian favored his guest with a broad wink.

“Wait until you taste that julep, De Moulin. There’s not a man in the South that can make it like that old darky of mine can.”

François smiled.

“As for your news,” went on Grymes, fanning himself with his hat, “it’s public property.”

François, startled, looked up quickly. Grymes intercepted the look and laughed.

“It couldn’t but be otherwise, old man. You are referring to the President’s proclamation, of course.”

De Moulin looked blank. The Virginian chuckled with the glee of a man who has found a responsive audience to which he can impart news of which it is ignorant.

“You guess’ wrong,” said the Creole. “My news concerns Jean.”

Grymes chuckled.

“Of course it does! You can’t be thinking of anything else but the proclamation. There’s Lafitte’s revenge against Claiborne. I’ll bet the Governor is as sore as a wet hen!”

“W’at you mean?”

“What do I mean? Lord! Lord! The man doesn’t know! I’m talking about President Madison’s proclamation, of course! Jean Lafitte and his Baratarians are no longer pirates, but officially acknowledged patriots. That’s what I mean! You may not know it, but, after the battle, General Jackson strongly urged Washington to make some recognition of the splendid services rendered by the Baratarians. Now the President has granted them a full pardon. His message ends something like this:

“‘Offenders who have refused to become the associates of the enemy in war upon the most seducing terms of invitation, and who have aided to repel his hostile invasion of the territory of the United States, can no longer be considered as objects of punishment, but as objects of generous forgiveness.’

“Jean Lafitte can hold his head as high as any man in America to-day, François. And, do you know, it was really he and his men who turned the tide at the battle, and who, consequently, saved Louisiana from invasion. Jean Lafitte has made history—and the world knows it! Lafitte, the pirate! Now, it’s ‘Mister Lafitte, patriot.’... How he must be laughing up his sleeve!”

“I know zat all along, _mon ami_. Bud I ’ave ozzer news. Jean eez going to _la belle France_, Mistah Grymes.”

The Virginian sat upright with a jerk, abruptly putting down his hat. Footsteps in the hall of the house were heard approaching, but Grymes was oblivious to anything but this startling intelligence.

“What the devil do you mean?” he asked, in astonishment. The young indigo-planter smiled.

“Joos’ what I say, Jean eez goin’ bac’ to France.”

The Virginian leaned back in his seat limply.

“Well I’ll be damned!” he ejaculated, with emphasis. “I _am_ damned!”

“Poor father!” said a sympathetic voice. And Virginia, a cool vision in white, stepped out upon the spacious veranda.

Both men instantly rose to their feet. François bowed gallantly, and she greeted him cordially.

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Grymes, flushing, “for my er—words, but—”

“But what, father? Of course I’ll forgive you. But I confess I’m curious. What made you say it?” She glanced archly at the young Creole.

“Reason enough,” said her father, brusquely. “De Moulin tells me that Jean Lafitte is going back to France.” He looked at the Creole for confirmation, and so failed to see the strange look that passed across his daughter’s face.

“Why?” asked Virginia, in a voice meant to be casual.

“Yes, why?” said Grymes. He began pacing the porch. “Here I’ve been looking forward to an opportunity to repay him for his hospitality to us—_me_”—hastily—“when I was at Grande Terre, and you tell me that he is going to France.”

“Foah won zing, I s’pose he want a change of scene,” said De Moulin.

“Yes, that’s so. Pierre’s death broke him all up, I know. _There_ was a man for you.”

François de Moulin stared into the distance.

“He was won of ze bes’ man zat evah live’,” he said, soberly, “an’ I am ’appee to be able to say zat I was eez fr’en’.” He turned his head abruptly.

“_Requiescat in pace_,” murmured the Virginian.

“He was a brave man and—a gallant gentleman,” said Virginia, softly, her eyes suddenly moist. She thought of that moonlit night at the dance, when Pierre, a handsome figure in cambric frills and claret-colored damask, had made love to her in the little trellised bower under the magnolias. How long ago that seemed—how far away! She could still see, in her mind’s eye, the sparkling of his eyes as he told her the story of Jean and Lizette ... could still hear the musical inflections of his voice. Poor Pierre! What a great number of things had happened since that time. Now Pierre was peacefully sleeping in the crypt of St. Louis’s, and Jean—

“And Jean Lafitte is just as true a gentleman in every respect!” remarked Grymes, assertively. At his words Virginia started and a slow blush mounted to her cheek. She experienced an uncanny feeling, as if her father had taken the words right out of her own mind.

“The only thing lacking in Lafitte’s make-up,” went on Grymes, thoughtfully, “is his birthplace; meaning no offense. De Moulin,” turning to the Creole, “Lafitte should have been a Virginian!” The others laughed and De Moulin surreptitiously cleared his throat.

“I forgot to say,” he remarked, “zat anozzeh meestery eez aboud to be solv’. Jean heemself tol’ me zat he eez going to Havre, een particular. It seems zat he eez relate’ to Lafitte, ze banker of Havre, whose daughteh eez to be married zis summeh to Prince de la Moskowa. I ’ave also learn zat zees Lafitte of Havre eez an int’mate fren’ of ze Emperor, an’ I would nod be sooprize if Jean neveh comes bac’ heah. _Sans doute_ ... weezout doubt, his relations will mek him remain een France. An’ you rilly gannot blame Jean. He eez reech ... _très riche_, an’ he gan go high een ze service of ze Emperor. Napoleon laks reech men, anniway.”

For a moment Grymes did not make any comment, so surprised was he at this budget of news. As for Virginia, her mind was in a chaos. Jean was going away—perhaps forever. She would never see him again. Although her pride would not let her admit it, even to herself, ever since the day of Pierre’s death she had anxiously waited—waited for the coming of the lover—who never came. Everything had been cleared—yet he did not come.

And here she learned that he was going to France—perhaps never to return. How lonely life would be for her—and how passionately she loved him! She did not trouble to deny this to herself, now. She knew it was only too true. She loved him more than life itself. And she was sure that he loved her—or thought so. Yet—he was going to France! She could feel the hot tears of self-pity and longing well up in her eyes.

Suddenly, so suddenly as to attract the attention of her two companions, she murmured something inaudible and hurriedly disappeared within the house.

The two men stared at her with surprise, and Grymes looked openly troubled.

“To tell you the truth, De Moulin,” he said gravely, “I am rather worried about Virginia. I hope you will excuse her sudden withdrawal.... I suppose she—No, I’ll tell you the truth!”

The Creole looked at him in surprise.

“W’at do you mean, m’sieur?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know exactly what to say, because I really don’t—can’t understand. But the fact is, that Virginia has been behaving rather strangely, here lately. No, I don’t mean that, either. I’m trying to say that for some time she hasn’t appeared to be herself, exactly. She’s not ill, as far as I know, but she eats very little, is unusually quiet, and seems to be worried about something or other. She’s _always_ thinking or brooding, whichever you may prefer. I’ll confess I’m worried.”

For a moment or two the Creole was silent.

“I gan tell you in a word,” said De Moulin, wise philosopher that he was, “Virginia eez een love!” He looked keenly at the other.

“Well, I’ll be—” Grymes caught himself abruptly. Then he swore to himself softly under his breath. Finally he burst into roars of laughter until the tears came. De Moulin merely smiled.

“Of course that’s it!” exclaimed the Virginian, after his mirth had subsided. “Why couldn’t I see that before? All girls in love act that way, strangely enough, I suppose I thought my Jinny different from other girls.”

“She _eez_!” put in François, warmly.

“But who can it be?” asked Grymes, a new idea striking him. Then, “It isn’t _you_, is it?” with genuine interest.

François sniffed.

“I onlee weesh eet were!” he exclaimed, devoutly, shaking his head in sad negation.

“Then, who in the world—” Suddenly the older man stopped and a shadow of real worry passed across his face. When he next spoke, his voice was seriousness itself.

“It can’t be—you don’t think it was—Pierre Lafitte?” A real fear had entered his mind, now. If this were the truth, what suffering must his daughter—the legacy of his long-lost wife—be undergoing! With a painful pang he suddenly remembered that her recent absorption could be traced back to the period, some weeks previously, of Lafitte’s death. His mouth tightened.

But François, understanding his sudden fear, quickly put him at his ease.

“No, eet was not Pierre,” he said, earnestly; “zat I gan sweah to!”

“Then who is it?” demanded the Virginian, vexed in spite of himself.

De Moulin leaned forward and tapped his arm slowly.

“_Jean Lafitte!_”

For a moment Grymes stared at him with utter disbelief, but the look in the other’s face convinced him. A wave of relief swept over him, and he could not but tell himself that this intelligence pleased him.

“Then why—” said he, and could go no further.

But the astute Creole understood.

“Jean Lafitte—I know—ees mad aboud Virginia—_bud_—”

“But what? You say that she loves him, and _he_ loves _her_—then why don’t they—” he paused—“Er—I’m sure I would have no objections. As I said, I think he is a perfect gentleman, and I believe him to be worthy of her,” magnanimously.

François nodded and smiled. Then, glancing around to assure himself of their security from any possible eavesdroppers, he pulled his chair closer to that of the Virginian and began to talk in a low voice. And talked on. And talked.

Ten minutes later, when Virginia reappeared on the veranda to apologize for her sudden withdrawal—having regained control of herself, and, incidentally, having had a self-communion of relieving tears—she found them, head to head, carrying on what appeared to be a highly interesting conversation. And John Grymes was unashamedly smiling broadly. But she forebore to ask questions.

And a little later, just as De Moulin was leaving, her father turned to Virginia innocently.

“By the way, Virginia, we are having guests to-night for dinner. Just François, here, and Captain Lafitte. We want to bid him farewell before he leaves for France.” He turned back to his departing guest and again bade him good-by ... and, incidentally, temporarily closed his left eye.

II

When Jean and François arrived that evening for dinner, however, although they were intentionally a little late, they found that their hostess was apparently conspicuous by her absence.

“However,” apologized their congenial host, “Virginia will be down any minute, I suppose. You know how women are—always late—and everlastingly adorning themselves.” Jean laughed politely, but could not help wondering why this very simple witticism should cause his host and companion so much mirth.

While waiting in the library Grymes and De Moulin began an apparently interminable discussion of politics, of a particularly boring nature, and both of them skillfully managed to convey to him the idea that they had forgotten Lafitte’s very existence. For a while he looked from one to the other puzzled. Suddenly, as he glanced idly around the room, he became aware of the fact that the old negro butler, Rappahannock, was standing in the door, and was undoubtedly trying to get his attention. He glanced at his companions. They were oblivious of him. Getting up slowly, he sauntered nonchalantly over to the door. Strangely enough, his two companions were seemingly as unaware of the plainly discernible darky as they were of his own actions.

He walked out into the hall—and did not see the smiles and winks of the two in the library. Rappahannock stepped close and whispered.

“Marse Lafitte, dars a pusson would lak tuh mek tawk wif yuh, in de gyarden, suh.”

“Some one wants to speak to _me_—in the garden?”

“Yassuh.”

“Who is it?”

“Hits a—lady.”

“Who is she?” Rappahannock shrugged his shoulders expressively.

Lafitte looked at him with suspicion.

“Did she send for me, herself?”

“Nossuh,” said the clever old darky, well instructed in his part, “she didn’t sen’ me—dat is, she tol’ me not to.... Anyway, suh, ah’m pow’ful shuah dat she wants tuh mek tawk wif yuh. Leastways, ah reckon dat she’s pow’ful anxious, ’cause she done say—Lawd, man! I’se done gone an’ done it!” And turning on his heel, he hurried away down the hall.

For a moment Jean stood still, thinking. He did not for a moment doubt the sincerity of the darky, but was trying to adjust himself to the fact that she had summoned him—clandestinely, as it were! Drawing a deep breath, he silently slipped out of the front door and into the silvery night.

To the left of the long piazza with its lofty Colonial pillars was one end of the garden. Its other extremity was bounded by the Mississippi, its broad surface sparkling like so many diamonds under the playful shafts of moonlight.

At his back was the stately old mansion, half concealed in a grove of ancient magnolias. Before him stretched a curving red-brick path, winding through the length of the garden. On all sides was the balmy fragrance of many flowers—flowers, for the most part, made invisible in the shadow of huge thickets of acacia and pomegranate and orange trees. The mingling scents of odorous jasmine, crimson-hued oleander, and roses of every species, made the air actually heavy with their sweet fragrance as he followed the path slowly.

Straight ahead of him was a long natural aisle formed by two rows of palmettos, which terminated, almost abruptly, at the water’s edge. The night was young—twilight had but just merged into a fragrant evening—and the moon, beginning its lofty climb, could be seen rising, apparently, out of the very waters of the Queen of Rivers; obese, golden, and beautiful.

Somehow, instinctively, he knew he would find her at the end of that aisle at the water’s marge. It was as if the hunted woman had fled as far as was possible, down to the water’s edge—and the hunter, man, was unerringly bringing his long hunt to an end.

Slowly he walked down the path, his eyes fixed on that magnificent moon; and the intoxication of the glorious night permeated his every sense. At last he reached its end—and there, as his intuition had told him, he saw her. She was standing in the center of the little glade, clad all in shimmery, silvery white; leaning with one arm on an old stone sun-dial, staring at the soaring moon.

For a long moment he stood still, feasting his eyes and soul on the picture of her exquisite loveliness. Then he stepped out of the shadow into the drenching moonlight.

With a low cry, as she caught sight of him, she half turned as if to run. Then, changing her mind, apparently, she drew herself up to her full height and remained standing—motionless—silent.

He suddenly felt that he had to say something—and had nothing to say.

“Virginia—mademoiselle—I am here,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.

For a moment she did not answer.

“Really?” she said, rather scornfully.

He felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. And then it was that he suddenly realized that she had never sent for him—never would have. He suddenly remembered the strange actions of Grymes, François, and old Rappahannock, and a great fury welled up within him. He half turned on his heel, with an apology on his lips, when another thought struck—and overwhelmed him. Jean Lafitte was a great believer in Fate. Was this not Fate—this strangely contrived meeting? He would make the most of it—to justify himself. Then he would take himself out of her life forever.

“Miss Grymes, I have something to tell you—something to explain.”

She did not answer, but remained motionless, her eyes fixed on him. He could not know that _she_ was in a crucible of emotion—that she was fighting fiercely for control of herself.

“Miss Grymes—once, on just such a night as this, you asked me to do something, for your sake—and I refused. You asked me to drop my piratical life—for I _was_ a pirate—and for reasons you know—I refused. But I wish to tell you this, mademoiselle, that, in consequence of what later took place”—he faltered—“I almost betrayed my comrades, because—I loved you. I loved you then, and since, and now. And I shall love you, ma’mselle, till the end of time.” She started perceptibly but made no answer.

“But, because I wished to protect my men, who trusted me, I refused, and you told me—that you but flirted with me. Later, when I became, of my own volition, a patriot, I was able to go to you, but I did not. For I believe that you really did not flirt.”

Still she was silent. Jean rushed on.

“And still later, when I was convinced that you did not flirt”—she started again—“in honor I could not go to you, for I believed ... was led to believe ... that you loved—Pierre.”

She half turned from him.

“I know. Father Chambertin told me.” So low was her voice that he could hardly hear her. A meandering breeze fitfully wandered thru the garden, rustling thru the bushes in gentle reproof.

“Still,” he went on, hurriedly, “when I learned that this person—had not told the truth—it made no difference. For I still did not know whether or not you were—flirting—and so, after much thought, I have come to the conclusion that you _were_—and I have decided to sail for France—to-morrow. Of course, this cannot interest you, but I merely wished to let you know—that when a _man_ loves once—really loves—he can never again love another in the same way. And no doubt it will interest you to know that I have always loved you, ma’mselle, and always—will. But—ma’mselle will, in the future, no longer be troubled with the odium of my presence!”

Then, turning, he began to go back toward the house, but suddenly stopped, for she was speaking.

“Captain—Lafitte,” she was saying, “you have forgotten one thing in your elaborate plan. What of me, sir?”

He stared at her.

“What of _you_, ma’mselle?”

“Yes. Aren’t you taking too much for granted, sir?”

He trembled ... his brain was whirling.

“What do you mean?”

“For the sake of argument, sir, answer me this. You say that you learned that Pierre—that this person—had lied. Yet, how could you know that _I_ was not—lying—that night—at Grande Terre?”

He thought this over for a brief moment, puzzled.

“But how could I know?”

“Then why didn’t you—ask—sir?” Very low. Why _were_ men so dull-witted? But he did not answer—he was stupefied.

She stamped her foot—and he suddenly saw that she was both laughing and crying—together. He stared at her wonderingly.

“Why don’t you ask me—sir?”

And then he knew.

“Virginia!” He stepped uncertainly toward her.

“Yes—Jean.” How unutterably sweet his name sounded on her lips!

“You _weren’t_ telling the truth!”

But it was altogether unnecessary for her to answer this, for they were already in each other’s arms....

The breeze grumbled in the trees. It had all been such a meaningless performance—to the breeze.

* * * * *

John Grymes and François de Moulin, arm in arm, came down the garden walk, and they were laughing and talking—in low voices. Suddenly rounding a curve, they stopped, and the Virginian, excitedly clutching his companion’s arm, pointed toward the foot of the winding path.

There, silhouetted in the moonlight against the bright silver of the river, were two figures, unmistakably in a close embrace.

The head of the man bent downward for an equally unmistakable purpose. But although the lovers were ignorant of the presence of intruders, their friend and ally, the Lady in the Moon, was not—for she indignantly proved her friendship again by retiring forthwith into a quilted bed of clouds....

FINIS

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