He kisses it. The promise is sealed.

In a few hours, Hortense Duval, from the deck of the swift Golden Gate, sees the sunlight fall for the last time, in long years, on San Francisco's sandy hills.

With peculiar adroitness, in defence of her past, for the sake of her future position, she keeps her staterooms; only walking the decks with her maid occasionally at night. No awkward travelling pioneer must recognize her as the lost "Beauty of the El Dorado." A mere pretence of illness is enough.

When safely out of the harbor of Colon, on the French steamer, she is perfectly free. Her passage tickets, made out as Madame de Santos, are her new credentials.

She has left her old life behind her. Keen and self-possessed, with quiet dignity she queens it on the voyage. When the French coast is reached, her perfect mastery of herself proves she has grown into her new position.

Philip Hardin has whispered at the last, "I want you to get rid of your maid in a few months. It is just as well she should be out of the way."

When out of Hardin's influence, reviewing the whole situation, Hortense, in her real character, becomes a little fearful. What if he should drop her? Suppose he denies her identity. He can legally reclaim the "Heiress of Lagunitas." Hortense Duval well knows that Philip Hardin will stop at nothing. As the French coast nears, Hortense mentally resolves NOT to part with Marie Berard. Marie is a valuable witness of the past relations. She is the only safeguard she has against Hardin's manifold schemes. So far there is no "entente cordiale" between mistress and maid. They watch each other.

By hazard, as the children are brought out, ready for the landing, Hortense notices the similarity of dress, the speaking resemblance of the children. Marie Berard, proud of their toilettes, remarks, "Madame, they are almost twins in looks."

Hortense Duval's lightning mind conceives a daring plan. She broods in calm and quiet, as the cars bear her from Havre to Paris. She must act quickly. She knows Hardin may use more ways of gaining information than her own letters. His brain is fertile. His purse, powerful.

Going to an obscure hotel, she procures a carriage. She drives alone to the Convent of the Sacre Coeur. With perfect tranquillity she announces her wishes. The Mother Superior, personally, is charmed with Madame de Santos. A mere mention of her banking references is sufficient. Blest power of gold!

Madame Natalie de Santos is in good humor when she regains her apartment. On the next morning, after a brief visit to her bankers, who receive her "en princesse," she drives alone with her OWN child to the Sacred Heart. While the little one prattles with some engaging Sisters, Hortense calmly registers the nameless child of sin as ISABEL VALOIS, THE HEIRESS OF LAGUNITAS. A year's fees and payments are made. A handsome "outfit allowance" provides all present needs suited to the child's station. Arranging to send the belongings of the heiress to the convent, Hortense Duval buries her past forever in giving to her own child the name and station of the heiress of Lagunitas. To keep a hold on Hardin she will place the other child where that crafty lawyer can never find her. Her bosom swells with pride. Now, at last, she can control the deepest plans of Philip Hardin. But if he should demand their own child? He has no legal power over the nameless one—not even here. Marriage first. After that, the secret. It is a MASTER STROKE.

Hortense Duval thinks only of her own child. She cares nothing for the dead Confederate under the Georgia pines. Gentle Dolores is sleeping in the chapel grounds at Lagunitas. Isabel Valois has not a friend in the world!

But, Marie Berard must be won and controlled. Why not? It is fortune for her to be true to her liberal mistress. Berard knows Paris and has friends. She will see them. If the maid be discharged, Hortense loses her only witness against Hardin; her only safeguard. As Madame de Santos is ushered to her rooms, she decides to act at once, and drop forever her past. But Marie?

Marie Berard wonders at the obscure hotel. Her brain finds no reason for this isolation. "Ah! les modes de Paris." Madame will soon emerge as a lovely vision.

In the years of her service with Hortense Duval, Marie has quietly enriched herself. She knows the day of parting comes in all unlawful connections. Time and fading charms, coldness and the lassitude of habit, eat away the golden chain till it drops off. "On se range enfin."

The "femme de chambre" knows too much to ever think of imposing on Judge Hardin. He is too sly. It is from Madame de Santos the golden stream must flow.

Self-satisfied, Marie Berard smiles in her cat-like way as she thinks of a nice little house in Paris. Its income will support her. She will nurse this situation with care. It is a gold mine.

There is no wonderment in her keen eyes when Madame de Santos returns without the child she took away. A French maid never wonders. But she is astonished when her mistress, calling her, calmly says, pointing to the lonely orphan:

"Marie, I wish you to aid me to get rid of this child. Do you know any one in Paris whom we can trust?"

"Will Madame kindly explain?" the maid gasps, her visions of that snug house becoming more definite.

"Sit down, Marie," the newly christened Madame de Santos commands. "I will trust you. You shall be richly rewarded."

The Frenchwoman's eyes glitter. The golden shower she has longed for, "Auri sacra fames."

"You may trust me perfectly, Madame."

"I wish you to understand me fully. We must act at once. I will see no friends till this girl is out of the way. Then I shall at once arrange my household."

"Does the young lady not go to the convent?" says the astonished servant, a trifle maliciously.

"Certainly not," coldly says Hortense. "My own child shall be the heiress of that fortune. She is already at the Sacred Heart."

Marie Berard's keen eye sees the plot. An exchange of children. The nameless child shall be dowered with millions. Her own future is assured.

"Does any one know of this plan?" the maid eagerly asks.

"Only you and I," is the response.

Ah! Revenge on her stately tyrant lover. The maid dreams of a golden shower. That snug hotel. It is a delicious moment. "What do you wish me to do, Madame?" Marie is now cool.

"Find a place, at once, where the child can be well treated in a 'bourgeois' family. I want you to place her as if she were your own. I wish no one to ever see me or know of me in this matter."

The maid's eyes sparkle. Fortune's wheel turns. "And I shall be—" she pauses.

"You may be suspected to be the mother. No one can learn anything from the child. I wish her to be raised in ignorance."

Madame de Santos is a genius in a quiet way. It is true, the prattling heiress, on the threshold of a new life, speaks only Spanish and a little English. She has forgotten her father. Even now her mother fades from her mind. A few passing months will sweep away all memories of Lagunitas. The children are nearly the same age, and not dissimilar.

"And the Judge?" murmurs the servant.

"I will take care of that," sharply says Hortense.

"Madame, it is a very great responsibility," begins the sly maid, now confidante. There is a strong sharp accent on the "very."

"I will pay you as you never dreamed of being paid." Madame Natalie is cool and quiet. Gold, blessed gold!

"It is well. I am yours for life," says Marie Berard. The two women's eyes meet. They understand one another. Feline, prehensile nerves.

Then, action at once. Hortense hands the woman a package of bank-notes. "Leave here as if for a walk. Take a 'fiacre' on the street, and go to your friends. You tell me you have some discreet ones. Tell them you have a child to take care of. Say no more. They will guess the rest. I want the child to be left to-morrow morning. After your return we can arrange her present needs. The rest you can provide through your friends. I want you to see the child once a week, not oftener. Go."

In ten minutes Marie Berard is rolling away to her advisers. Her letter has already announced her arrival. She knows her Paris. If a French maid has a heart history, hers is a succession of former Parisian scenes.

Madame Natalie de Santos closes the doors. While her emissary is gone she examines the child thoroughly. Not a single blemish or peculiar mark on the girl, save a crossed scar on her left arm, between the wrist and elbow. Some surgical operation of trifling nature has left a mark in its healing, which will be visible for many years.

Making careful mental note, the impatient woman awaits her servant's return.

Seated, she watches the orphan child trifling with her playthings. Hortense Duval feels no twinge of conscience. Her own child shall be lifted far beyond the storms of fate. If Hardin acts rightly, all is well. If he attempts to betray her, all the better. She will guard the heiress of Mariposa with her life. She shall become a "bourgeoise."

Should Hardin die before he marries her, the base-born child is then sure of the millions. She will make her a woman of the world. When the great property is safely hers, then she can trust HER OWN daughter.

As to the poor orphan, buried in Paris, educated as a "bourgeoise," she will never see her face, save perhaps, as a passing stranger. The child can be happy in the solid comforts of a middle-class family. It is good enough for her.

And Marie Berard. She needs her, at all cost, as a protection, the only bulwark against any dark scheme of Hardin's. Her tool, and her one witness.

Ten years in the mansion on the hills of San Francisco have given her an insight into Philip Hardin's desperate moves on the chessboard of life. Love, faith, truth, she dares not expect. A lack of fatherly tenderness to the child he has wronged; his refusal to put a wedding ring on her own finger, tell her the truth. She knows her hold is slight. But NOW the very millions of Lagunitas shall fight against him. Move for move in the play. Blow for blow, if it comes to a violent rupture.

Hortensc Duval might lose her hold on cold Philip Hardin. The scheming beauty smiles when she thinks how true Marie Berard will be to the new Madame de Santos. A thorough adventuress, she can count on her fellow-conspirator. Two smart women, with a solid golden bond, united against a distant, aging man.

Marie returns, her business-like manner showing no change. "I have found the family," she says. "They will take the child at once."

In the evening every arrangement is made for an early departure. It is a rare day's work.

Marie Berard conducts the friendless child to its new home, in the morning hours. The luggage and belongings are despatched. All is over. Safe at last.

Free to move, as soon as the maid returns, Hortense at once leaves her modest quarters. The bills are all paid. Their belongings are packed as for departure. To the Hotel Meurice, by a roundabout route, mistress and maid repair. Hortense Duval is no more. A new social birth.

Madame de Santos, in superb apartments, proceeds to arrange her entree into future social greatness. A modern miracle.

No one has seen the children together in Paris. On the steamer not a suspicion was raised. Natalie de Santos breathes freely. A few days of preparation makes Madame "au fait" in the newest fashions. Her notes, cartes de visite, dazzling "batterie de toilette," and every belonging bear crest, monogram, and initial of the new-born Senora Natalie.

Securely lodged in an aristocratic apartment, Madame de Santos receives her bankers, and the members of the Southern circle, to whom the Judge has given her the freemasonry of his influence. Madame de Santos is now a social fact, soon to find her old life a waning memory. The glittering splendors of the court gaieties are her everyday enjoyments.

Keenly watching all Californians, protected by her former retirement, her foreign appearance and glamour of wealth impose on all. She soon almost forgets herself and that dark past before the days of the El Dorado. She is at last secure within wealth's impregnable ramparts, and defies adverse fate.

An apartment on the Champs Elysees is judiciously chosen by her bankers. Marie Berard, with her useful allies, aids in the selection of the exquisite adornment. Her own treasures aid in the "ensemble."

The servants, the equipage of perfect appointment, all her surroundings bespeak the innate refinement of the woman who has for long years pleased even the exacting Hardin.

Natalie de Santos has not neglected to properly report by telegraph and mail to the guardian of the person and future millions of Col. Valois' only child.

Her attitude toward society is quiet, dignified, without haste or ostentation. A beautiful woman, talented, free, rich, and "a la mode," can easily reach the social pleasures of that gaudy set who now throng the Tuileries.

There is not a care on Natalie de Santos' mind. Her own child is visited, with a growing secret pleasure. She thrives in the hands of the gentle ladies of the Sacred Heart.

Regularly, Marie Berard brings reports of the other child, whose existence is important for the present.

Madame de Santos, discreetly veiled, finds time to observe the location and movements of the orphan. Marie Berard's selection has been excellent.

"Louise Moreau" is the new name of the changeling heiress, now daily becoming more contented in her new home.

Aristide Dauvray has a happy household. A master decorative workman, only lacking a touch of genius to be a sculptor, his pride is in his artistic handiwork. His happiness in his good wife Josephine. His heart centres in his talented boy.

To educate his only son Raoul, to be able to develop his marked talent as an artist, has been Aristide's one ambition. The proposition to take the girl, and the liberal payments promised, assure the artistic future of Raoul. Marie Berard has appreciated that the life of this orphan child is the measure of her own golden fortunes. Good Josephine becomes attached to the shy, sweet little wanderer, who forgets, day by day, in the new life of Cinderella, her babyish glimpses of any other land.

Natalie de Santos is safe. Pressing her silken couch, she rests in splendor. Her letters from Hardin are clear, yet not always satisfactory. Years of daily observance have taught her to read his character. As letter after letter arrives she cons them all together. Not a word of personal tenderness. Not an expression which would betray any of their secrets. With no address or signature, they are full only in directions. He is called for a length of time to Lagunitas, to put the estate in "general order."

Removed from the sway of Hardin, Natalie relies upon herself. Her buoyant wings bear her on in society. Recognized as an opponent of the North, she meets those lingering Southern sympathizers who have little side coteries yet in glittering Paris.

Adulation of her beauty and sparkling wit fires her genius. Her French is classic. The sealed book of her youth gives no hint of where her fine idiom came from. Merrily Marie Berard recounts to the luxurious social star the efforts of sly dames and soft-voiced messieurs to fathom the "De Santos'" past.

Marie Berard is irreproachable; never presuming. She can wait.

Madame Natalie's stormy past has taught her to trust no one. It is her rule from the first that no one shall see Isabel Valois, the pet of the Sacred Heart Convent, but herself. Little remains in a month or two, with either child, of its cradle memories. The months spent by the two girls in mastering a new language are final extinguishers of the past.

Without undue affectation of piety, Madame de Santos gives liberally. The good nuns strive to fit the young heiress for her dazzling future.

Keenly curious of the dangers of the situation, Natalie writes Hardin that she has sent her own child away to a country institution, to prevent awkward inquiry. As months roll on, drawn in by the whirlpool of pleasure, Natalie de Santos' letters become brief. They are only statements of affairs to her absent "financial agent."

Hardin's letters are acknowledgments of satisfactory news, and directions regarding the education of the child. He does not refer to the future of the woman who ruled his home so long. No tenderness for his own child appears. He is engrossed in BUSINESS, and she in PLEASURE. Avarice is the gentlemanly passion of his later years. "Royal days of every pleasure" for the brilliant woman; she, ambitious and self-reliant, lives only for the happy moments.

And yet, as Natalie de Santos sweeps from palace ball or the opera, she frames plans as to the future control of Hardin. To keep the child he fears, where his agency can reach her, is her aim. To place the child he would ignore, where millions will surround her, is her ambition. With Marie Berard as friend, confidante, agent, and spy, she can keep these two children apart. Hortense Duval and Natalie Santos can defy the world.

Distrust of Hardin always burns in her breast. Will he dare to attempt her life; to cut off her income; to betray her? When the work of years is reflected in her own child's graces and charms, will the man now aging ever give its mother the name of wife? Her fears belie her hopes.

She must guard her own child, and conceal the other. He may live and work out his schemes. If he acts well, she will be ready to meet him. If not, the same.

But she has sworn in her heart of hearts, the orphan shall live. If necessary to produce her, she alone knows her hiding place. If fortune favors, the properties shall descend to her own child.

The year 1865 opens with the maddest gaieties. Though France is drained of men and treasure for a foolish war in Mexico, glittering streets, rich salons, mad merry-makings and imperial splendor do not warn gay Lutetia she is tottering toward the dawning war-days of gloom. The French are drunk with pleasure.

Marie Berard has now a nice little fund of ringing napoleons securely invested, and that hoard is growing monthly. Natalie de Santos gives freely, amply. The maid bides her time for a great demand. She can wait.

A rare feminine genius is Natalie de Santos. The steady self-poise of her nature prevents even a breath of scandal. Frank, daring, and open in her pleasures, she individualizes no swain, she encourages no one sighing lover. Her name needs no defence save the open record of her social life. A solid, undisturbed position grows around her. The dear-bought knowledge of her youth enables her to read the vapid men and women around her.

As keen-eyed as a hawk, Madame Natalie watches the scholar of the Sacred Heart. She takes good care, also, to verify the substantial comfort and fair education of little Louise Moreau.

With silent lips she moves among the new associates of her later days. Madame de Santos' position moves toward impregnability, as the months roll on. A "lionne" at last.



CHAPTER XIV.

A MARIPOSA BONANZA.—NATALIE DE SANTOS BORN IN PARIS.—THE QUEEN OF THE EL DORADO JOINS THE GALLIC "FOUR HUNDRED."



Philip Hardin's days are busy after the steamer bears away his "Ex-Queen of the El Dorado." There are his tangled finances to arrange; giant speculations to follow up. The Lagunitas affairs are pressing. That hidden mine!

Hardin sets his house in order. The establishment is reduced. He has, now, peace for his schemes. No petticoat rule now. No prying eyes. As the winter rain howls among his trees, he realizes that the crash of the Confederacy will bring back clouds of stragglers from the ruin yet to come. He must take legal possession of Lagunitas. He has a good reason. Its hidden gold will give him power.

His public life is only cut off for a time. Gold is potent; yes, omnipotent! He can bide his time. He must find that mine. He has now two points to carry in his game. To rid himself of the padre is easy, in time. To disembarrass himself of old "Kaintuck" is another thing.

His face grows bitter as he thinks of the boundless wealth to be reached in Lagunitas's glittering quartz beds. The property must remain in his care.

If the heiress were to die, the public administrator might take it. He knows he is not popular. His disloyalty is too well known. Besides, Valois' death is not yet officially proven. He has kept his counsel. No one has seen the will. But the returning wave of Confederates may bring news. The dead colonel was of too great local fame to drop unheeded into his grave.

His carefully prepared papers make him the representative of Colonel Valois. He is legal guardian of the child. He will try and induce "Kaintuck" to quit the rancho. Then he will be able to open the mines. If the Confederacy totters to its fall, with the control of that wealth he may yet hold the highest place on the coast.

Dreaming over his cigar, he knows that legislatures can be bought, governors approached, and high positions gained, by the adroit use of gold. Bribery is of all times and places.

Telegraphing to "Kaintuck" to meet him near Stockton, at the station, with a travelling carriage, the Judge revolves plans to rid himself of this relic of the Valois regime.

His stay at Lagunitas will be for some weeks. He has now several agents ready to open up the mines.

A liberal use of the income of Lagunitas has buoyed up his sinking credit. But his stock-gambling has been desperately unlucky. Hardin revolves in his mind the displacement of old "Kaintuck." The stage sweeps down the San Joaquin to the station, where his team awaits him. An unwonted commotion greets him there. His arrival is opportune. In the room which is the office, bar, and billiard-room of the little hostelry, poor old "Kaintuck" lies dying, when the Judge dismounts. It is the hand of fate.

During the hours of waiting, a certain freedom, induced by copious draughts of fiery Bourbon, caused the old foreman to injudiciously "Hurrah for Jeff Davis." He gave free vent to his peculiar Southern opinions.

A sudden quarrel with a stranger results in a quick resort to weapons. Benumbed with age and whiskey, the old trapper is shot while tugging at his heavy "Colt."

Before the smoke cleared away the stranger was far away. Dashing off, he spurred his horse at full speed into the chaparral. No one dared, no one cared, to follow a desperate man riding for his life.

Hardin orders every attention to the sufferer. Old "Kaintuck" is going out alone on the dark river.

Hardin, steeled to scenes like this, by an exciting life, blesses this opportune relief. "Kaintuck" is off his hands forever. Before the Judge leaves, a rude examination by a justice precedes the simple obsequies of the dead ranger.

One more red mound by the wayside. A few pencilled words on a shingle mark the grave, soon to be trampled down by the feet of cattle and horses. So, one by one, many of the old pioneers leave the theatre of their aimless lives.

The Judge, happy at heart, bears a grave face. He drives into Lagunitas. Its fields looked never so fair. Seated in the mansion house, with every luxury spread out before him, his delighted eye rests on the diamond lake gleaming in the bosom of the fair landscape. It already seems his own.

He settles in his easy-chair with an air of conscious lordship. Padre Francisco, studiously polite, answers every deft question. He bears himself with the self-possession of a man merely doing his duty.

Does the priest know of the hidden gold mines? No. A few desultory questions prove this. "Kaintuck's" lips are sealed forever in death. The secret is safe.

Padre Francisco does not delay his request to be allowed to depart. As he sips his ripe Mission claret, he tells Judge Hardin of the desire of years to return to France. There are now no duties here to hold him longer. He desires to give the Judge such family papers as are yet in his charge. He would like practical advice as to his departure. For he has grown into his quiet retreat and fears the outer world.

With due gravity the lawyer agrees in the change. He requests the padre to permit him to write his San Francisco agent of the arrival of the retiring missionary.

"If you will allow me," he says, "my agent shall furnish your passage to Paris and arrange for all your wants."

Padre Francisco bows. It is, after all, only his due.

"When will you wish to leave?" queries Hardin.

"To-morrow, Judge. My little affairs are in readiness."

During the evening the light of the good priest glimmers late in the lonely little sacristy. The chapel bell tolls the last vespers, for long years, at Lagunitas.

All the precious family papers are accepted by the Judge when the padre makes ready for his departure. The priest, with faltering voice, says early mass, with a few attendants. Delivering up the keys of the sacristy, chapel, and his home to the Judge, he quietly shares the noonday meal.

If there is sadness in his heart his placid face shows it not. He sits in the lonely room replete with memories of the past.

He is gone for a half hour, after the wily Judge lights his cigar, to contemplate the rich domain which shall be his, from the porch of the old home. When the priest returns, it is from the graves of the loved dead. He has plucked the few flowers blooming there. They are in his hand.

His eyes are moist with the silent tears of one who mourns the useless work of long years. They have been full of sadness, separation, spiritual defeat, and untimely death. Even Judge Hardin, merciless as he is, feels compassion for this lonely man. He has asked nothing of him. The situation is delicate.

"Can I do anything for you, Father Francisco?" says Hardin, with some real feeling. He is a gentleman "in modo." The priest may be penniless. He must not go empty-handed.

"Nothing, thank you, save to accept my adieux and my fondest blessing for the little Isabel."

He hands Judge Hardin the address of the religious house to which he will retire in Paris.

"I will deliver to your agent the other papers and certificates of the family. They are stored for safety at the Mission Dolores church."

"My agent will have orders to do everything you wish," remarks the Judge, as the carriage drives up for the priest.

Hardin arises, with a sudden impulse. The modest pride of this grave old French gentleman will not be rudely intruded on. He must not, he shall not, go away entirely empty-handed. The lawyer returns with an envelope, and hands it to the padre.

"From the colonel," he says. "It is an order for ten thousand dollars upon his San Francisco bankers."

"I will be taken care of by those who sent me here," simply remarks the padre.

Hardin flushes.

"You can use it, father, in France, for the poor, for the friendless; you will find some worthy objects."

The priest bows gravely, and presses the hand of the lawyer. With one loving look around the old plaza, the sweeping forest arches, and the rolling billows of green, he leaves the lonely lake gleaming amid its wooded shores. Its beauty is untouched by the twenty long years since first he wandered by its shores. A Paradise in a forest. His few communicants have said adieu. There is nothing to follow him but the incense-breathing murmurs of the forest branches, from fragrant pine and stately redwood, sighing, "Go, in God's name."

Their wind-wafted voices speak to him of the happy past. The quiet, saddened, patient padre trusts himself as freely to his unknown future, as a child in its mother's cradling arms. In his simple creed, "God is everywhere."

So Francois Ribaut goes in peace to spend a few quiet days at the Mission Dolores church. He will then follow the wild ocean waves back to his beloved France. "Apres vingt ans." A month sees him nearing the beloved shores.

Walking the deck, he thinks often of that orphan child in Europe. He remembers, strangely, that the Judge had neglected to give him any clew to her present dwelling. Ah! he can write. Yes, but will he be answered? Perhaps. But Judge Hardin is a cunning old lawyer.

Disembarrassed of the grave priest, Hardin at once sends orders for his prospectors. A new man appears to superintend the grant.

It is with grim satisfaction he reflects that the hand of fate has removed every obstacle to his control. His fiery energy is shown by the rapidity with which hundreds of men swarm on ditch and flume. They are working at mill and giant water-wheels. They are delving and tracing the fat brown quartz, gold laden, from between the streaks of rifted basalt and porphyry.

There is no one to spy, none to hinder now. Before the straggling veterans of Lee and Johnston wander back to the golden West, the quartz mine of Lagunitas yields fabulous returns.

The legacy of "Kaintuck" was wonderful. The golden bars, run out roughly at the mine, represented to Hardin the anchor of his tottering credit. They are the basis of a great fortune, and the means of political prestige.

When the crash came, when the Southern flags were furled in the awful silence of defeat and despair, the wily lawyer, safe in Lagunitas, was crowning his golden fortunes.

Penniless, broken in pride and war-worn, the survivors of the men whom he urged into the toils of secession, returned sadly home, scattering aimlessly over the West. Fools of fortune.

Philip Hardin, satisfied with the absence of the infant heiress, coldly stood aloof from the ruin of his friends.

As the months ran on, accumulating his private deposits, Judge Hardin, engrossed in his affairs, grew indifferent even to the fate of the woman he had so long cherished. His unacknowledged child is naught to him.

It was easy to keep the general income and expenses of the ranch nearly even in amount.

But the MINE was a daily temptation to the only man who knew its real ownership. It must be his at any cost. Time must show the way. He must have a title.

Hardin looked far into the future. His very isolation and inaction was a proof of no overt treason. With the power of this wealth he might, when a few years rolled away, reach lofty civic honors. Young at sixty, as public men are considered, he wonders, looking over the superb estate, if a high political marriage would not reopen his career. In entertaining royally at San Francisco and Sacramento, with solid and substantial claims in society, he may yet be able to place his name first in the annals of the coast. A senator. Why not? Ambition and avarice.

With prophetic insight, he knows that sectional rancor will not long exist in California. Not really, in the war, a divided community, a debatable land, there will be thousands of able, hardy men, used to excitement, spreading over the West. It is a land of easy and liberal opinion. Business and the mine's affairs cause him to visit San Francisco frequently. He reaches out for all men as his friends. Seated in his silent parlors, walking moodily through the beautiful rooms, haunted with memories of the splendid "anonyma" whose reign is yet visible, he dreams of his wasted past, his lonely future. Can he repair it? Enveloped in smoke wreaths, from his portico he surveys the thousand twinkling city lights below. He is careless of the future movements of his Parisian goddess.

It cost Philip Hardin no heart-wrench to part with voluptuous Hortense Duval. Partners in a crime, the stain of "French Charlie's" blood crimsoned their guilty past. An analytical, cold, all-mastering mind, he had never listened to the heart. He supposed Hortense to be as chilly in nature as himself. Yet she writes but seldom. Taught by his profession to dread silence from a woman, he casually corresponds with several trusted friends of the Confederate colony in France. What is her mystery? Madame Natalie de Santos is now a personage. The replies tell him of her real progress in the glittering ranks of the capital, and her singularly steady life. As the months roll on, he becomes a little anxious. She is far too cool and self-contained to suit him. He wishes women to lean on him and to work his will. Does she intend to establish a thorough position abroad, and claim some future rights? Has she views of a settlement? Who knows?

Hardin sees too late, that in the control of both children, and her knowledge of his past, she is now independent of his mere daily influence. The millions of Lagunitas mine cannot be hidden. If he recalls the heiress, will "Natalie de Santos" be as easily controlled as "Hortense Duval"?

And his own child, what of her? Hardin dares not tie himself up by acknowledging her claims. If he gives a large sum to the girl, it will give his "sultana" a powerful weapon for the future.

Is she watching him through spies? She betrays no anxiety to know anything, save what he imparts. He dare not go to Paris, for fear of some public scandal and a rupture. He must confirm his position there. What new friends has she there?

Ah! He will wait and make a final settlement of a handsome fortune on the child. He will provide a future fixed income for this new social star, now, at any rate, dependent on her obedience. Reports, in due form, accompany the occasional communications forwarded from the "Sacred Heart" as to the heiress. This must all be left to time.

With a deep interest, Hardin sees the cessation of all hostilities, the death of Lincoln, the disbandment, in peace, of the great Union armies.

Bayonets glitter no more upon the crested Southern heights. The embers of the watchfires are cold, gray ashes now. The lonely bivouac of the dead is the last holding of the foughten fields.

While the South and East is a graveyard or in mourning, strange to say, only a general relief is felt in the West. The great issue easily drops out of sight. There are here no local questions, no neighborhood hatreds, no appealing graves. Happy California! happy, but inglorious. The railway approaches completion. A great activity of scientific mining, enterprises of scope and local development, urge the Western communities to action. The bonanza of Lagunitas gives Judge Hardin even greater local prominence. He establishes his residence at the old home in the Sierras.

With no trusted associates, he splits and divides the funds from the mine, placing them in varied depositories. He refrains from an undue appearance of wealth or improvement at the rancho itself. No one knows the aggregates, the net returns, save himself. Cunning old robber.

To identify himself with the interior and southern part of the State, he enters the higher body of the Legislature. His great experience and unflagging hospitalities make him at once a leader.

Identified with State and mining interests, he engages public attention. He ignores all contention, and drops the question of the Rebellion. A hearty welcome from one and all, proves that his commanding talents are recognized.

There are no relatives, no claims, no meddlesome legatees to question the disposition of Colonel Valois' estate. His trusteeship is well known, and his own influence is pre-eminent in the obscure District Court having control of the legal formalities.

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.

Hell seems to have vomited forth its scum. Uncanny beings lurk at the corners. Wild with cognac and absinthe, the unruly mob commits every wanton act which unbridled wickedness can suggest. Good men are powerless, and women exposed to every insult. Public trade is suspended. Robbery and official pillage increase. The creatures of a day give way quickly to each other. Gallant Rossell, who passed the Prussian lines to serve France, indignantly sheathes his sword. He is neither a Nero nor a mountebank.

Alas, for the talented youth! a death volley from his old engineer troops awaits him at the Buttes de Chaumont. To die the dishonored death of a felon, a deserter!

Alas, for France: bright of face and hard of heart! Tigress queen, devouring your noblest children.

While Thiers proclaims the law, he draws around him the wreck of a great army. A bloody victory over demented brethren hangs awful laurels on the French sword: De Gallifet, Vinoy, Ducrot, L'Admirault, Cissey, D'Aurelle de Palladines, Besson and Charrette surround the unlucky veteran, Marshal McMahon, Duc de Magenta. General Le Flo, the Minister of War, hurls this great army against the two hundred and fifty-two battalions of National Guards within the walls of Paris. These fools have a thousand cannon.

Down in the Bois de Boulogne, the fighting pickets pour hissing lead into the bosoms of brothers. From the heights where the brutal Prussian soldiery grinned over the blackened ruins of the ill-starred Empress Eugenie's palace of St. Cloud, the cannon of the Versaillese rain shot and shell on the walls of defenceless Paris.

Pere Francois is a blessing in these sad and weary days. Clad "en bourgeois," he smuggles in food and supplies. He cheers the half-distracted Josephine. Armand Valois keeps the modest little maiden Louise, fluttering about the home studio which he shares with Raoul. Their casts and models, poor scanty treasures, make their modest sanctum a wonder to the girl. Her life's romance unfolds. Art and dawning love move her placid soul. The days of wrangling wear away. An occasional smuggled note from Raoul bids them be of cheer. Once or twice, the face of Marie Berard is seen at the door for a moment.

Thrusting a packet of notes in Josephine's hand, she bids her guard the child and keep her within her safe shelter.

The disjointed masses of Communists wind out on April 3d of the terrible year of '71, to storm the fortified heights held by the Nationalists.

Only a day before, at Courbevoie, their bayonets have crossed in fight. Mont Valerien now showers shells into Paris. Bergeret, Duval, and Eudes lead huge masses of bloodthirsty children of the red flag, into a battle where quickening war appalls the timid Louise. It makes her cling close to Armand. The human family seems changed into a pack of ravening wolves. Pouring back, defeated and dismayed, the Communists rage in the streets. The grim fortress of Mont Valerien has scourged the horde of Bergeret. Duval's column flees; its defeated leader is promptly shot by the merciless Vinoy. Fierce De Gallifet rages on the field—his troopers sabring the socialists without quarter.

Flourens' dishonored body lies, riddled with bullets, on a dung heap at St. Cloud.

Eudes steals away, to sneak out and hide his "loot" in foreign lands. Red is the bloody flail with which McMahon thrashes out Communism.

The prisoned family, joined by Pere Francois, now a fugitive, day by day shudder at the bedlam antics and reign of blood around them.

Saintly Archbishop Darboy dies under the bullets of the Communists. His pale face appeals to God for mercy.

Vengeance is yet to come. The clergy are now hunted in the streets! Plunder and rapine reign! Orgies and wild wassail hold a mocking sway in the courts of death. Unsexed women, liberated thieves, and bloodthirsty tramps prey on the unwary, the wounded, or the feeble. On April 3Oth, the great fort of Issy falls into the hands of the government. Blazing shells rain, in the murky night air, down on Paris. Continuous fighting from April 2d until May 21st makes the regions of Auteuil, Neuilly, and Point du Jour a wasted ruin.

Frenzied fiends drag down the Colonne Vendome where the great Corsican in bronze gazed on a scene of wanton madness never equalled. Not even when drunken Nero mocked at the devastation of the imperial city by the Tiber, were these horrors rivalled.

Down the beautiful green slopes into the Bois de Boulogne, the snaky lines of sap and trench bring the octopus daily nearer to the doomed modern Babylon. Flash of rifle gun and crack of musketry re-echo in the great park. It is now shorn of its lovely trees, where man and maid so lately held the trysts of love. A bloody dew rains on devoted Paris.

A fateful Sunday is that twenty-first of May when the red-mouthed cannon roar from dawn till dark. At eventide, the grim regulars bayonet the last defenders of the redoubts at the Point du Jour gates. The city is open to McMahon.

The lodgment once made, a two nights' bombardment adds to the horrors of this living hell.

On the twenty-third, Montmartre's bloody shambles show how merciless are the stormers. Dombrowski lies dead beside his useless guns. All hope is lost. Murder and pillage reign in Paris.

Behind their doors, barricaded with the heavier furniture, the family of Aristide Dauvray invoke the mercy of God. They are led by Pere Francois, who thinks the awful Day of Judgment may be near. Humanity has passed its limits. Fiends and furies are the men and women, who, crazed with drink, swarm the blood-stained streets.

In their lines, far outside, the stolid Prussians joke over their beer, as they learn of the wholesale murder finishing red Bellona's banquet. "The French are all crazy." They laugh.

The twenty-fourth of May arrives. Paris is aflame. Battle unceasing, storm of shell, rattle of rifles, and cannon balls skipping down the Champs Elysees mark this fatal day. A deep tide of human blood flows from the Madeleine steps to the Seine. The river is now filled with bodies. Columns of troops, with heavy tramp and ringing platoon volleys, disperse the rallying squads of rebels, or storm barricade after barricade. Squadrons of cavalry whirl along, and cut down both innocent and guilty.

After three awful days more, the six thousand bodies lying among the tombs of Pere la Chaise tell that the last stronghold of the Commune has been stormed. Belleville and Buttes de Chaumont are piled with hundreds of corpses. The grim sergeants' squads are hunting from house to house, bayoneting skulking fugitives, or promptly shooting any persons found armed.

The noise of battle slowly sinks away. Flames and smoke soar to the skies: the burnt offering now; the blood offering is nearly over.

Thirty superb palaces of the municipality are in flames. Under Notre Dame's sacred roof, blackened brands and flooded petroleum tell of the human fiends' visit.

The superb ruins of the Tuileries show what imperial France has been. Its flaming debris runs with streams of gold, silver, and melted crystal.

Banks, museums, and palaces have been despoiled. Boys and old crones trade costly jewels in the streets for bread and rum. The firing parties are sick of carnage.

Killing in cold blood ceases now, from sheer mechanical fatigue.

On the twenty-eighth, a loud knocking on the door of the house brings Aristide Dauvray to the door. A brief parley. The obstructions are cleared. Raoul is clasped in his father's arms. Safe at last. Grim, bloody, powder-stained, with tattered clothes, he is yet unwounded. A steady sergeant and half-dozen men are quickly posted as a guard. They can breathe once more. This help is sadly needed. In a darkened room above, little Louise Moreau lies in pain and silence.

Grave-faced Pere Francois is the skilful nurse and physician. A shell fragment, bursting through a window, has torn her tender, childish body.

Raoul rapidly makes Armand and his father known to the nearest "poste de garde." He obtains protection for them. His own troops are ordered to escort drafts of the swarming prisoners to the Orangery at Versailles. Already several thousands of men, women, and children, of all grades, are penned within the storied walls. Here the princesses of France sported, before that other great blood frenzy, the Revolution, seized on the Parisians.

With a brief rest, he tears himself away from a mother's arms, and departs for the closing duties of the second siege of Paris. The drawing in of the human prey completes the work.

Safe at last! Thank God! The family are able to look out to the light of the sun again. They see the glittering stars of night shine calmly down on the slaughter house, the charnel of "Paris incendie." The silence is brooding. It seems unfamiliar after months of siege, and battle's awful music.

In a few days the benumbed survivors crawl around the streets. Open gates enable provisions to reach the half-famished dwellers within the walls. Over patched bridges, the railways pour the longed-for supplies into Paris. Fair France is fruitful, even in her year of God's awful vengeance upon the rotten empire of "Napoleon the Little."

Pere Francois lingers by the bedside of the suffering girl. She moans and tosses in the fever of her wound. Her mind is wandering.

A slender, girlish arm wanders out of the coverlid often. She lies, with flushed cheeks and eyes strangely bright.

Tenderly replacing the innocent's little hands under the counterpane, Francois Ribaut starts with sudden surprise.

He fastens his gaze eagerly on the poor girl's left arm.

Can there be two scars like this?

The sign of the cross.

He is amazed. The little Spanish girl, from whose baby arm he extracted a giant poisonous thorn, bore a mark like this,—a record of his own surgery.

At far Lagunitas, he had said, playfully to Dolores Valois:

"Your little one will never forget the cross; she will bear it forever."

For the incision left a deep mark on baby Isabel Valois' arm.

The old priest is strangely stirred. He has a lightning flash of suspicion. This girl has no history; no family; no name. Who is she?

Yet she is watched, cared for, and, even in the hours of danger, money is provided for her. Ah, he will protect this poor lamb. But it is sheer madness to dream of her being his lost one. True, her age is that of the missing darling. He kneels by the bed of the wounded innocent, and softly quavers a little old Spanish hymn. It is a memory of his Californian days.

Great God! her lips are moving; her right hand feebly marks his words, and as he bends over the sufferer, he hears "Santa Maria, Madre de Dios."

Francois Ribaut falls on his knees in prayer. This nameless waif, in her delirium, is faltering words of the cradle hymns, the baby lispings of the heiress of Lagunitas.

A light from heaven shines upon the old priest's brow.

Is it, indeed, the heiress!

He can hear his own heart beat.

The wearied, hunted priest feels the breezes from the singing pines once more on his fevered brow. Again he sees the soft dark eyes of Dolores as they close in death, beautiful as the last glances of an expiring gazelle. Her dying gaze is fixed on the crucifix in his hand.

"I will watch over this poor lonely child," murmurs the old man, as he throws himself on his knees, imploring the protection of the Virgin Mother mild.

Sitting by the little sufferer, softly speaking the language of her babyhood, the padre hears word after word, uttered by the girl in the "patois" of Alta California.

And now he vows himself to a patient vigil over this defenceless one. Silence, discretion, prudence. He is yet a priest.

He will track out this mysterious guardian.

In a week or so, a normal condition is re-established in conquered Paris. Though the yellowstone houses are pitted with the scourge of ball and mitraille, the streets are safe. Humanity's wrecks are cleared away. Huge, smoking ruins tell of the mad barbarity of the floods of released criminals. The gashed and torn beauties of the Bois de Boulogne; battered fortifications, ruined temples of Justice, Art, and Commerce, and the blood-splashed corridors of the Madeleine are still eloquent of anarchy.

The reign of blood is over at last, for, in heaps of shattered humanity, the corses of the last Communists are lying in awful silence in the desecrated marble wilderness of Pere la Chaise.

The heights of Montmartre area Golgotha. Trade slowly opens its doors. The curious foreigner pokes, a human raven, over the scenes of carnage. Disjointed household organizations rearrange themselves. The railway trains once more run regularly. Laughter, clinking of glasses, and smirking loiterers on the boulevards testify that thoughtless, heartless Paris is itself once more. "Vive la bagatelle."

Francois Ribaut at last regains his home of religious seclusion. Louise is convalescent, and needs rest and quiet. There is no want of money in the Dauvray household. The liberal douceurs of Louise Moreau's mysterious guardian, furnish all present needs.

"Thank God!" cries Pere Frangois, when he remembers that he has the fund intact, which he received from the haughty Hardin.

He can follow the quest of justice. He has the means to trace the clouded history of this child of mystery. A nameless girl who speaks only French, yet in her wandering dreams recalls the Spanish cradle-hymns of lost Isabel.

Already the energy of the vivacious French is applied to the care of what is left, and the repair of the damages of the reign of demons. The rebuilding of their loved "altars of Mammon" begins. The foreign colony, disturbed like a flock of gulls on a lonely rock, flutters back as soon as the battle blast is over. Aristide Dauvray finds instant promotion in his calling. The hiding Communists are hunted down and swell the vast crowd of wretches in the Orangery.

Already, all tribunals are busy. Deportation or death awaits the leaders of the revolt.

Raoul Dauvray, whose regiment is returned from its fortnight's guard duty at Versailles, is permitted to revisit his family. Peace now signed—the peace of disgrace—enables the decimated Garde Mobile to be disbanded. In a few weeks, he will be a sculptor again. A soldier no more. France needs him no longer in the field.

By the family Lares and Penates the young soldier tells of the awful sights of Versailles. The thousand captured cannon of the Communists, splashed with human blood, the wanton ruin of the lovely grounds of the Bois, dear to the Parisian heart, and all the strange scenes of the gleaning of the fields of death show how the touch of anarchy has seared the heart of France. Raoul's adventures are a nightly recital.

"I had one strange adventure," says the handsome soldier, knocking the ashes from his cigar. "I was on guard with my company in command of the main gate of the Orangery, the night after the crushing of these devils at Montmartre. The field officer of the day was away. Among other prisoners brought over, to be turned into that wild human menagerie, was a beautiful woman, richly dressed. She was arrested in a carriage, escaping from the lines with a young girl. Their driver was also arrested. He was detained as a witness.

"She had not been searched, but was sent over for special examination. She was in agony. I tried to pacify her. She declared she was an American, and begged me to send at once for the officers of the American Legation. It was very late. The best I could do was to give her a room and put a trusty sergeant in charge. I sent a messenger instantly to the American Legation with a letter. She was in mortal terror of her life. She showed me a portmanteau, with magnificent jewels and valuables. I calmed her terrified child. The lady insisted I should take charge of her jewels and papers. I said:

"'Madame, I do not know you.'

"She cried, 'A French officer is always a gentleman.'

"In the morning before I marched off guard, a carriage with a foreign gentleman and one of the attaches of the United States Embassy, came with a special order from General Le Flo for her release. She had told me she was trying to get out of Paris with her child, who had been in a convent. It was situated in the midst of the fighting and had been cut off. Passing many fearful risks, she was finally arrested as 'suspicious.'

"She persists in saying I saved her life. She would have been robbed, truly, in that mad whirl of human devils penned up there under the chassepots of the guards on the walls. Oh! it was horrible."

The young soldier paused.

"She thanked me, and was gracious enough not to offer me a reward. I am bidden to call on her in a few days, as soon as we are tranquil, and receive her thanks.

"I have never seen such beauty in woman," continues the officer.

"A Venus in form; a daughter of the South, in complexion,—and her thrilling eyes!"

Gentle Louise murmurs, "And the young lady?"

"A Peri not out of the gates of Paradise," cries the enthusiastic artist.

"What is she? who is she?" cried the circle. Even Pere Francois lifted his head in curiosity. Raoul threw two cards on the table. A dainty coronet with the words,

{Madame Natalie de Santos, 97 Champs Elysees.}

appeared on one; the other read,

{Le Comte Ernesto Villa Rocca, Jockey Club.}

"And you are going to call?" said Armand.

"Certainly," replies Raoul. "I told the lady I was an artist. She wishes to give me a commission for a bust of herself. I hope she will; I want to be again at my work. I am tired of all this brutality."

That looked-for day comes. France struggles to her feet, and loads the Teuton with gold. He retires sullenly to where he shows his grim cannons, domineering the lovely valleys of Alsace and the fruitful fields of Lorraine.

Louise Moreau is well now. The visits of her responsible guardian are resumed. Adroit as a priest can be, Pere Francois cannot run down this visitor. Too sly to call in others, too proud to use a hireling, in patience the priest bides his time.

Not a word yet to the fair girl, who goes singing now around the house. A few questions prove to Francois Ribaut that the girl has no settled memory of her past. He speaks, in her presence, the language of the Spaniard. No sign of understanding. He describes his old home in the hills of Mariposa. The placid child never raises her head from her sewing.

Is he mistaken? No; on her pretty arm, the crucial star still lingers.

"How did you get that mark, my child?" he asks placidly.

"I know not, mon pere; it has been there since I can remember."

The girl drops her eyes. She knows there is a break in her history. The earliest thing she can remember of her childhood is sailing—sailing on sapphire seas, past sculptured hills. Long days spent, gazing on the lonely sea-bird's flight.

The priest realizes there is a well-guarded secret. The regular visitor does not speak TO the child, but OF her.

Pere Francois has given Josephine his orders, but there is no tripping in the cold business-like actions of the woman who pays.

Pere Francois is determined to take both the young men into his confidence. He will prevent any removal of this child, without the legal responsibility of some one. If they should take the alarm? How could he stop them? The law! But how and why?

Raoul Dauvray is in high spirits. After his regiment is disbanded, he is not slow to call at the splendid residence on the Champs Elysees. In truth, he goes frequently.

The splendors of that lovely home, "Madame de Santos'" gracious reception, and a royal offer for his artistic skill, cause him to feel that she is indeed a good fairy.

A modelling room in the splendid residence is assigned him. Count Villa Rocca, who has all an Italian's love of the arts, lingers near Natalie de Santos, with ill-concealed jealousy of the young sculptor. To be handsome, smooth, talented, jealous—all this is Villa Rocca's "metier." He is a true Italian.



CHAPTER XVI.

NEARING EACH OTHER.—THE VALOIS HEIRS.



Paris is a human hive. Thousands labor to restore its beauty. The stream of life ebbs and flows once more on the boulevards. The galleries reopen. Armand labors in the Louvre. He finished the velvet-eyed Madonna, copied after Murillo's magic hand. He chafes under Raoul's laurels. The boy would be a man. Every day the sculptor tells of the home of the wealthy Spaniard. The girl is at her convent again. Raoul meets Madame Natalie "en ami de maison."

He tells of Count Villa Rocca's wooing. Marriage may crown the devotion of the courtly lover.

The bust in marble is a success. Raoul is in the flush of glory. His patroness directs him to idealize for her "Helen of Troy."

Armand selects as his next copy, a grand inspiration of womanly beauty. He, too, must pluck a laurel wreath.

Under the stress of emulation, his fingers tremble in nervous ardor. He has chosen a subject which has myriad worshippers.

Day by day, admirers recognize the true spirit of the masterpiece.

Throngs surround the painter, who strains his artistic heart.

A voice startles him, as the last touches are being laid on:

"Young man, will you sell this here picture?"

"That depends," rejoins Armand. His use of the vernacular charms the stranger.

"Have you set a price?" cries the visitor, in rough Western English.

"I have not as yet," the copyist answers.

He surveys the speaker, a man of fifty years, whose dress and manner speak of prosperity in efflorescent form.

The diamond pin, huge watch-chain, rich jewelled buttons, and gold-headed cane, prove him an American Croesus.

"Well, when it's done, you bring it to my hotel. Everyone knows me. I will give you what you want for it. It's way up; better than the original," says the Argonaut, with a leer at its loveliness.

He drops his card on the moist canvas. The nettled artist reads,

{{Colonel Joseph Woods, California. Grand Hotel.}}

on the imposing pasteboard.

The good-humored Woods nods.

"Yes sir, that's me. Every one in London, Paris, and New York, knows Joe Woods.

"Good at the bank," he chuckles.

"What's your name?" he says abruptly.

Armand rises bowing, and handing his card to the stranger:

"Armand Valois."

Woods whistles a resounding call. The "flaneurs" start in astonishment.

"Say; you speak English. By heavens! you look like him. Did you ever know a Colonel Valois, of California?" He gazes at the boy eagerly.

"I never met him, sir, but he was the last of my family. He was killed in the Southern war."

"Look here, young man, you pack up them there paint-brushes, and send that picture down to my rooms. You've got to dine with me to-night, my boy. I'll give you a dinner to open your eyes."

The painter really opens his eyes in amazement.

"You knew my relative in California?"

"We dug this gold together," the stranger almost shouts, as he taps his huge watch-chain. "We were old pardners," he says, with a moistened eye.

There was a huskiness in the man's voice; not born of the mellow cognac he loved.

No; Joe Woods was far away then, in the days of his sturdy youth. He was swinging the pick once more on the bars of the American River, and listening to its music rippling along under the giant pines of California.

The young painter's form brought back to "Honest Joe" the unreturning brave, the chum of his happiest days.

Armand murmurs, "Are you sure you wish this picture?"

"Dead sure, young man. You let me run this thing. Now, I won't take 'no.' You just get a carriage, and get this all down to my hotel. You can finish it there. I've got to go down to my bank, and you be there to meet me. You'll have a good dinner; you bet you will. God! what a man Valois was. Dead and gone, poor fellow!

"Now, I'm off! don't you linger now."

He strides to his carriage, followed by a crowd of "valets de place." All know Joe Woods, the big-souled mining magnate. He always leaves a golden trail.

Armand imagines the fairy of good luck has set him dreaming. No; it is all true.

He packs up his kit, and sends for a coupe. Giving orders as to the picture, he repairs to the home of the Dauvrays for his toilet. He tells Pere Francois of his good fortune.

"Joe Woods, did you say," murmurs the priest. "He was a friend of Valois. He is rich. Tell him I remember him. He knows who I am. I would like to see him."

There is a strange light in Francois Ribaut's eye. Here is a friend; perhaps, an ally. He must think, must think.

The old priest taps his snuff-box uneasily.

In a "cabinet particulier" of the Grand Hotel restaurant, Woods pours out to the young man, stories of days of toil and danger; lynching scenes, gambling rows, "shooting scrapes," and all kaleidoscopic scenes of the "flush days of the Sacramento Valley."

Armand learns his cousin's life in California. He imparts to the Colonel, now joyous over his "becassine aux truffes" and Chambertin, the meagre details he has of the death of the man who fell in the intoxicating hour of victory on fierce Hood's fiercest field.

Colonel Joe Woods drains his glass in silence.

"My boy," he suddenly says, "Valois left an enormous estate; don't you come in anywhere?"

"I never knew of his will," replies Armand. "I want you, Colonel, to meet my old friend Pere Francois, who was the priest at this Lagunitas. He tells me, a Judge Hardin has charge of all the property."

Joe Woods drops the knife with which he is cutting the tip of his imperial cigar.

"By Heavens! If that old wolf has got his claws on it, it's a long fight. I'll see your Padre. I knew him. Now, my boy," says Colonel Joe, "I've got no wife, and no children," he adds proudly.

"I'll take you over to California with me, and we'll see old Hardin. I'm no lawyer, but you ought to hear of the whole details. We'll round him up. Let's go up to my room and look at your picture."

Throwing the waiter a douceur worthy of his financial grade, the new friends retire to the Colonel's rooms.

Here the spoils of the jeweler, the atelier, and studio, are strangely mingled. Joe Woods buys anything he likes. A decanter of Bourbon, a box of the very primest Havanas, and a business-like revolver, lying on the table, indicate his free and easy ways.

Letters in heaps prove that "mon brave Colonel Woods" is even known to the pretty free-lances who fight under the rosy banner of Venus Victrix.

In hearty terms, the Californian vents his enthusiasm.

"By the way, my boy, I forgot something." He dashes off a check and hands it to the young painter.

"Tell me where to send for a man to frame this picture in good shape," he simply says.

He looks uneasily at the young man, whose senses fail him when he sees that the check is for five thousand francs.

"Is that all right?" he says cheerfully, nudging Armand in the ribs. "Cash on delivery, you know. I want another by and by. I'll pick out a picture I want copied. I'm going to build me a bachelor ranch on Nob Hill: Ophir Villa." He grins over some pet "deal" in his favorite Comstock. Dulcet memories.

For Colonel Joe Woods is a man of "the Golden Days of the Pacific." He too has "arrived."

The boy murmurs his thanks. "Now look here, I've got to run over to the Cafe Anglais, and see some men from the West. You give me your house number. I'll come in and see the padre to-morrow evening.

"Stay; you had better come and fetch me. Take dinner with me to-morrow, and we'll drive down in a hack."

The Colonel slips his pistol in its pocket, winks, takes a pull at the cocktail of the American, old Kentucky's silver stream, and grasps his gold-headed club. He is ready now to meet friend or foe.

Joy in his heart, good humor on his face, jingling a few "twenties," which he carries from habit, he grasps a handful of cigars, and pushes the happy boy out of the open door.

"Oh! never mind that; I've got a French fellow sleeping around here somewhere," he cries, as Armand signals the sanctum is unlocked. "He always turns up if any one but HIMSELF tries to steal anything. He's got a patent on that," laughs the "Croesus of the American River."

Armand paints no stroke the next day. He confers with Pere Francois. He is paralyzed when the cashier of the "Credit Lyonnais" hands him five crisp one-thousand-franc notes. Colonel Joe Woods' check is of international potency. It is not, then, a mere dream.

When the jovial Colonel is introduced to the family circle he is at home in ten minutes. His good nature carries off easily his halting French. He falls into sudden friendship with the young soldier-sculptor. He compliments Madame Josephine. He pleases the modest Louise, and is at home at once with Padre Francisco.

After a friendly chat, he says resolutely:

"Now, padre, you and I want to have a talk over our young friend here. Let us go up to his room a little."

Seated in the boy's studio, Woods shows the practical sense which carried him to the front in the struggle for wealth.

"I tell you what I'll do," he says. "I'm going out to the coast in a month or so. I'll look this up a little. If I want our young friend here, I'll send you a cable, and you can start him out to me. My banker will rig him out in good style. Just as well he comes under another name. See? Padre, you take a ride with me to-morrow. We will talk it all over."

The Californian's questions and sagacity charm the padre. He is now smoking one of those blessed "Imperiales." An innocent pleasure.

They rise to join the circle below. A thought animates the priest.

Yes, he will confer with the clear-headed man and tell him of the child below, whose pathway is unguarded by a parent's love.

Around the frugal board Colonel Joe enters into the family spirit. He insists on having Raoul come to him for a conference about his portraiture in marble.

"I have just finished a bust of Madame de Santos, the beautiful Mexican lady," remarks Raoul.

Colonel Joe bounds from his chair. "By hokey, young man, you are a bonanza. Do you know her well?" he eagerly asks.

The sculptor tells how he saved her from the bedlam horrors of the Orangery.

The miner whistles. "Well, you control the stock, I should say. Now, she's the very woman, Gwin, and Erlanger, and old Slidell, and a whole lot told me about. I want you to take me up there," he says.

"I will see Madame de Santos to-morrow," remarks Raoul, diplomatically.

"Tell her I'm a friend of her Southern friends. They're scattered now. Most of them busted," says Wood calmly. "I must see her. See here, padre; we'll do the thing in style. You go and call with me, and keep me straight." The priest assents.

In gayest mood the Colonel bids Raoul come to him for this most fashionable call. Claiming the padre for breakfast and the ride of the morrow, he rattles off to his rooms, leaving an astounded circle.

Golden claims to their friendly gratitude bound them together.

Colonel Joe has the "dejeuner a deux" in his rooms. He says, "More homelike, padre, you know," ushering the priest to the table. Under the influence of Chablis, the Californians become intimate.

Raoul arrives with news that Madame de Santos will be pleased to have the gentlemen call next day in the afternoon. After an arrangement about the bust, the horses, champing before the doors, bear the elders to the Bois, now beginning to abandon its battle-field appearance.