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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Little Lady of Lagunitas




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 B‚rard.

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 PŠre Fran‡ois 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.
PŠre Fran‡ois 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
PŠre Fran‡ois 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.

PŠre Fran‡ois becomes a greater comfort to her daily. The graceful
priest brings with him an air of peace into the gaudy palace on
the Elys‚es. 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. PŠre Fran‡ois 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 B‚rard'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 B‚rard 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 B‚rard'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 B‚rard 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 B‚rard'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 B‚rard'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:

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