CHAPTER XXIII
THE CONTRARINESS OF JACQUELINE
"Much adoe there was, God wot; He wold love, and she wold not." _--Ballad of Phillida and Corydon._
Maximiliano I. of Mexico was dead. His dynasty and his Empire were thefrippery of a past time. Yet there was his capital, still holding outagainst the Republic. Leonardo Marquez, the Leopard, spitefully refusedto capitulate. But why he would not, no one knew, neither the starvingCity, nor the patient besieger outside. No one, unless it wasJacqueline. The very day of the triple execution she called on Escobedo,commander in chief at Queretaro. She desired to return to the capital,and she wanted a pass through the Republic's lines there. She mentioned,in case it were any inducement, that the place would fall withintwenty-four hours after her arrival. Jacqueline had difficulty to speakat all. She could not endure the general's monstrous flaps of ears, hisrabbinical beard, his cruel black eyes.
"Maria purisima," he exclaimed, "you cannot mean, senorita, that you,all alone, will deliver the City of Mexico into our hands?"
"It will certainly be an incident of my stay there," she replied.
The hard, Jewish features lighted cunningly. "Then, por Dios, you are aswonderful as I've always heard! But may--may one be allowed a littlecuriosity?"
"I _might_ say," and Jacqueline forthwith said it, "that I havejust had a cipher telegram from Louis Napoleon."
"Which," breathlessly demanded the other, "will interest Marquez, eh?Will disappoint him? Will cause him to surrender?"
"Your Excellency is of course entitled to his own conjectures."
But the commander-in-chief was satisfied. "We must hasten your going byevery means," he declared. "You shall have an escort. You----"
"Then I choose the Gray Troop--because," she added carefully, "they'rethe best."
Now, why, by all that's feminine, was she surprised next morning whenthe Gray Troop gathered round her coach, as though that were acoincidence? At least she arched her brows, and lifted one shoulderpetulantly, and unmistakably showed that she expected a tedious time ofit. The sunburned colonel of the Grays beamed so with happiness too, ashe drew rein to report to her. They met for the first time sinceMaximilian's embarrassing little scene for their express benefit.Driscoll noted her disdain, and it is likely that he only grinned. Hedid that because he knew how helpless he was, and how merciless shecould be. For she was not only beautiful, she was pretty--a demure,sweet, and very pretty girl. Some vague instinct of self-defense guidedhim. His broad smile was exasperating in the last degree, and it was notshe, but the other young woman in the coach, whom he addressed.
"I got some side saddles, Miss Burt," he announced, "and a few extramustangs, whenever anybody gets tired of traveling behind curtains."Curiously enough, both girls wore riding habits. "Oh, by the way," heinquired suddenly, "how's Miss Jack'leen this morning? Is she welland--docile?"
Jacqueline's chin dropped in astonishment. She seized the old canvaswindow flap and jerked it down. But at once she raised it again, andthoughtfully contemplated the trooper.
"I wonder," she mused aloud, in that quaint accenting of the Englishwhich cannot be described, "when is it that you are going to grow up,_ever_?"
"I did start to," Driscoll informed her soberly, "but it got tiresome asall creation, and I reckon I've backslided just since"--a world ofearnestness came into his lowered voice--"well, just since we had thattalk with poor Maximilian."
The old canvas curtain fell for good then, and very abruptly.
A moment later, however, she was avenging her flushed cheeks on Mr.Daniel Boone, who rode at the other side, also sunburned, also effulgentwith happiness.
"If it isn't the _animal disputans_!" she exclaimed. "Look Berthe,and rejoice; our sighing Monsieur le Troubadour!"
Driscoll hovered near a moment, then reluctantly rode ahead of hisbattered dusty warriors. So he and the wilful maid from France began asecond journey together, yet far, far apart. But only after manytorturing hours did his first joy consent to perceive the distancebetween them.
Now and then, though rarely, and never when he hoped for such a thing,she would ride with him. And then he usually stirred up hostilitiesbefore he knew it, and notwithstanding all that was tender and humblewhich he meant to tell her. There was, however, cause enough forsavagery. She made him the least of the troop, though he arranged eachdetail of speed and comfort, laid out tempting noon-day spreads,improvised cheer in the cheerless hostelries, and all with a forethoughtshowing pathetically how his every thought was of her. But if shedivined the inwardness of this, which of course she did, outwardly shecontrived to be oblivious. She thanked him sincerely and simply, thewhile that he craved repayment, as the heart repays. He yearned for onlya chance to speak his mind, and to force hers. But now craftily shewould bring the others flocking round, to decide for her if they did notthink monsieur absurdly mistaken in this or that! The same instant shewould conjure up the most trivial of arguments, and be vastly shockedover the ridiculous contentions which she herself assigned to Driscoll.
She grew honestly fond of the other Missouri colonels, with their rangeruniforms, and brawn scarred by weather and battle, and they and themarchioness became great friends. She was a dainty flower among them,but they were prime comrades, and she, the mad-cap tomboy her life long,took to them in the impulse that here were her own kind. Driscoll wasproud to see it, without need of being generous. She gathered Berthe, asa soberer sister, into the merry communion, and she rode with Clay ofCarroll, with Carroll of Clay, with Reub Marmaduke, with Crittenden,with cherubic Old Brothers and Sisters, with Hanks the bugler, and shemocked Meagre Shanks, that disputatious animal, because he tried tomonopolize Berthe and would not dispute at all. She asked themquestions. She asked Harry Collins if his tribe were the same as that ofces Missouriens-la, and the Kansan confessed that the two tribes hadbeen a bit hostile of late, but what with raiding, razing, andmurdering, he guessed they'd laid the foundation for a mutualself-respect, as behooved valiant redskins. So she often got strangeanswers for her inquisitiveness, but she had grown wary amongWesterners, and she usually paid them back. They were a happy party. ButDriscoll wanted a more definite focusing of the joy. And at times,indeed, yielding to temptation herself, she permitted him to lose hisheart deliciously over again. Shadows were lifted now, and she was justa lovable girl, just sweet Jacqueline. And he loved her with the boy'syoung strength of adoration and diffident awe. Precisely in which stateshe made him suffer exquisitely. No one could be more contrary andcapricious than the lovable girl of a moment before. Whereat stormsbrewed within him.
There was one of the rare times when the Missourian and the maid rode upand down the winding white ribbon of a Mexican highway, and for awhileboth were quiet. This once they dared the risk--she did, rather--whichlurks in the silence that requires no words. For him it brought the oldtime, and the rides of that time, when he wondered what was the matterwith him, and she knew all along. And he thought how during the hardwinter in the Michoacan mountains and swamps, he had caught himselfalmost crying aloud, that he wanted her, that he wanted her--wantedagain the subtle comradeship of those silences which require no words.And here, at last, here she was, riding beside him!
He looked at her furtively. She was in profile. He looked again, to besure that it was not memory, but the breathing girl herself. Yes, for afact, it was the girl herself. And here was her own queenly head, hereits regal poise, here the superb line of the neck to the shoulder.Reverence grew on admiration, for as he gazed he beheld her characterrevealed, of lines as stately, as womanly, and withal as flexible, too,before the cheery glow of each moment's life. He stirred, and wasvaguely restive, and perhaps a little frightened also, because of thedeep mystery of something within himself which he could not understand.The classic outline of her features was softened now in the warmth offlesh. Her vivacity was off guard, in the forgetfulness of reverie. Thepure white of the little tip of ear was tinged with pink. Her eyes werelowered to the saddle horn. They were meltin
g. They were almost blue.
"Jack'leen!" He burst out fervently, before he thought, with an arm halflifted toward her.
The drooping lashes raised. The eyes were gray again. She regarded himfor awhile without speaking.
"Why don't you quarrel?" she asked finally.
The spell was broken. Her pounding heart had vent in a nervous laugh ofraillery. She touched her horse with the riding crop in her gauntletedhand. Somehow she would not leave that dumb brute, the horse, in peace.Driscoll's old Demijohn, however, was used to the game by now. Hepointed his ears, and checkmated that last move by bringing his masteronce more to the lady's side.
"You used to," she went on, as though there had been no interruption,"nicely. You were of an interest then. In fact, I reck-_on_--I knowno one that I had rather have quarreled with."
But still he would not, though that "reckon" from her lips was mostalluring. She stole a mischievous glance at his face, but the fixed lookthere made her lift _her_ hand toward _him_. Perhaps, if hehad seen and had spoken then--But he did see.
"Eh bien, since monsieur won't fight, won't, _won't_," she cried,"then it's more fun to----"
Evidently to seek livelier company. For she wheeled the mustang, swervedfrom a grasp at her bridle, and went galloping back to the coach. Hetwisted in his saddle, pushed his sombrero higher on his head, anddubiously watched her flying from him, a lithe, trim figure in snugHungarian jacket, the burnished tendrils fluttering on the nape of herneck, the soft white veil trailing like a fleecy cloud from her black_amazona_ hat. He bent a perplexed gaze to the road. "It's 'way,'way beyond me," he told himself. Then he grew aware of a sense ofwarmth on his forearm. Yes, he remembered. For an instant she had laid ahand on his sleeve, and he had thrilled to the ineffable token ofnestling. He was never immune from her tantalizing contradictions. Hefelt this one yet.
Hoofs pounded behind, and Mr. Boone drew up alongside. "She came back,and made me get away from the coach," he announced. "Prob'bly she wantedto cry some; she looked it."
Yet another of her contradictions!
"Then why in the nation," Driscoll demanded, "do you keep hanging roundthat coach for? Look here Shanks, you make me plum' weary. The idea ofyou falling in----"
"No more'n you, you innocent gamboling lamb of an ol' blatherskite." ButDaniel's steel blue eyes had softened to their gentlest. "Say Jack," headded, "she's going back to Paris."
"Don't I know it? Lord A'mighty!"
"Go on, never mind me," said Mr. Boone. "Groan out loud, if you want to.For she sho'ly is, yes, back to Paris. Now Buh'the"--The Troubadour's_r's_ always liquefied dreamily with that name--"Buh'the has beentelling me a few things, and I'm sure reporter enough to scout out therest of the story, and it's just this--Jack, she's fair broken-hearted."
"Miss Burt?"
"No, no, the marchioness. She staked out a campaign over here, and it'spanned out all wrong, and it wasn't her fault either. Poor girl, nowonder she might like to cry a little. She's lavished everything she hadon it too, ancestral chateau, and all that."
"But," said Driscoll quickly "she'll not suffer. There's her title----"
"Title?" exclaimed Daniel. "W'y, she's going to give that up too, nothaving any chateau any more, and she'll trip blithely down among thepeople again, where she says it's more comfortable anyhow. Title? Well,you've suhtinly noticed that she always did take that humorously. Hergrandfather--Buh'the says--was right considerable of a jurist, usedscissors and paste, and helped make a scrap-book called the Napoleoniccode, and Nap the First changed him into a picayunish duke. But wasn'tthe nobility of intellect there already? Sho'ly! Miss Jacqueline,though, likes the father of her grandfather the best. He never wasnoble, technically I mean. His was the nobility of heart, and he'd havescorned to be tagged. He just baked bread, and fed most half of SaintAntoine for nothing at times, while the Dauphin at Versailles wasthrowing cakes to the swans. Howsoever," Mr. Boone added hastily, as sopto his softness for princes, "I reckon that there Dauphin was noble too.Both of 'em fed the hungry mouths that were nearest."
"But," demanded Driscoll, "doesn't her title carry some sort of a--acompensation?"
"Not a red sou. The majorat--that's the male line--died out with herfather, which means that the annuity died out too."
"W'y, Great Scot, she's----"
"She's tired and disheartened, that's what she is, and she's going backto Paris, and you--" Boone paused, and glared at his companion, "--andyou mean to let her!"
Old Demijohn felt a spur kicked against his flank, and he lifted hisfore feet and sped as the wind. It was fully an hour later when MeagreShanks caught up with horse and rider again. Rather, he met them comingback. His conversation was guileless, at first.
"Do you know, Din," he began, "those two girls are only half educated?Yes sir, gastronomically, they are positively illiterate, and it's ashame! W'y, they don't know hot biscuits and molasses. They don't knowbuttermilk. They don't know yams. Nor paw-paws, nor persimmons. Theydon't even know watermelon. Now isn't France a backward place?"
"Don't, Shanks!" Driscoll begged. "You'll have me heading for Missouriin a minute. You didn't, uh, mention peach cobbler?"
"_And_ peach cobbler, big as an acre covered with snow. And justthink, it's roastin' ea'ah time up there now, _now_!" How Daniel'svoice did mellow under a tender sentiment! "And to think," he went on,"of the marchioness living on in such ignorance! It's a thing that'sjust got to be remedied, Jack."
"Then suppose you take her to Missouri," growled his friend, "and let mealone."
"_I_ take _her_? Oh come now, Din, I see I've got to tell yousomething which is--" The Troubadour's accents grew low and fond, andthe other man respected them, with something between a smile and a sighfor his own case. "Which is--well, nobody's noticed it, but the fact isthat Buh'the, that Miss Buh'the----"
"Dan," interrupted Driscoll severely, "you're not going to tell me anysecret. You mean that you weren't mistaken when you mistook her for aqueen."
"That--that's it!" ejaculated Daniel. "Of coh'se," he added soothingly,"the other one is a--a mighty nice girl, but----"
"Oh, _is_ she? But Miss Burt is _the_ one you want to take toMissouri? Well Dan, why don't you?"
"Because," was the doleful reply, "those two are just like orphansisters together, and--well, she won't desert. She _is_ a queen, byGod, sir! Miss Jacqueline might make her, but I haven't got the heart toask it. Now, uh, if--if you would just bring along the other one?"
So, here was the goal of all of Daniel's manoeuvering!
Driscoll cast a leg over the pommel of his saddle, and faced Boonesquarely. "Shanks," he demanded with tense vehemence, "do you suppose Ineed your woes for a prod? Don't you know how much--Lord A'mighty, howmuch!--I'd like to oblige you? But--she won't let me--even speak.There's, there's something the matter."
Boone's lank jaw fell. "What, I wonder?"
"And don't I wonder too?" Driscoll muttered savagely. "But it's_something_."
From which moment until the end of the journey, and afterward, therewere two men who pondered on what could be the trouble with Jacqueline.But while one pondered gloomily and fiercely and with a semi-comic grinunder the lash, the other let perplexity delve and ferret into themystery. For Mr. Boone had grown aware that an enormous heap ofhappiness for four depended on himself alone.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE JOURNALISTIC SAGACITY OF A DANIEL
"Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears To-day of past Regret and future Fears." _--Omar._
At last Jacqueline stabbed a dot after the word "Finis," and so roundedout her chapter on "Failure." Beyond doubt that tiny punctuation pointsaved many lives. The besiegers were waxing impatient to assault, andwithin the City famine mobs ran the streets, crying, "Corn and wood!Corn and wood!" Those who could fled to the Republican camp. TheAustrians practically mutinied. Starving and dying thousands clamoredfor surrender. Yet the ugly, revolting pigmy who was lieutenant of theEmpire held them back in the terror
of his heartless cruelty.
Then the angel of mercy came. From her Marquez the tyrant learned thathis speculation in treachery had collapsed. Louis Napoleon wanted nomore of that stock. Besides, every French bayonet was needed in France.The rabid Leopard heard, and that night meanly crept away to save hisown loathsome pelt. Bombs had begun to fall into the City, when aMexican general worthier of the name took upon himself the heroic shameof unconditional surrender. The Oaxacans outside marched in, led bytheir young chief, Porfirio Diaz, and they fed the people, and of"traitors" shot only a moderate few.
Renovation became the order of the days that followed. The President ofthe Republic was to be welcomed back to his capital. The stubborn oldpatriot's heart must be gladdened by every contrast to the dreary, rainynight years before when he fled into exile. Mexico would honor herselfin honoring the Benemerito of America. So bunting was spread over everyfacade, along every cornice, green, white, and red, a festival lichen ofmagic growth. Flags cracked and snapped aloft, and lace curtains deckedthe outside of windows. Soldiers put on shoes and canvased their brownhands in white cotton gloves, and military bands rehearsed tirelessly.
Din Driscoll sat on a bench in the shady Zocalo, and contemplated thePalacio Nacional and the Cathedral in process of changing sides fromEmpire to Republic. Innumerable lanterns being hung along their massiveoutlines were for incense to a goddess restored. The Mexican eagle hadprevailed over monarchial griffins, and held her serpent safely in theway of being throttled. The blunt homely visage of Don Benito Juarez,luxuriously framed, looked out from over the Palace entrance. It was ahuge portrait, surrounded by the national standards. Among the emblemsthere was one other, the Stars and Stripes. The gaze of theex-Confederate was fixed. It was fixed steadily on the Stars andStripes. Now and then he felt a rising in his throat, which he haddifficulty to swallow down again.
"Well, Jack?"
Boone stood over him. Driscoll's eyes were oddly troubled as they turnedfrom that flag opposite.
"Sure it's hard," said Boone quietly, "mighty hard, to forgive ourenemies the good they do."
"What enemies?"
"W'y, them," and Daniel pointed to a flag as to a nation. "Yes sir, theYanks have kept faith. Do you see a single one of their uniforms downhere? Do you notice anywheres that Yankee protectorate we werepredicting? No sir, you do not! The Yanks--" But the term was damning toeloquence. Mr. Boone found another. "The _Americans_, I repeat,have hurled back the European invader. They have given Mexico to theMexicans. They have endowed a people with nationality. But they have notgobbled up one solitary foot of territory. Which is finer, grander, thanyour Napoleonic glory! And yet it's selfish, of coh'se it is. But listenhere, there'll never be any Utopia, Altruria, Millennium, or what not,that don't coincide with self-interest. And first among the races of theearth, the Americans have _made_ 'em coincide, and I want to knowright now if the Americans are not the hope of the world!"
The orator paused for breath. He had to. And then surprise the mostlugubrious unexpectedly clouded his lank features. "Darn it, Jack," heexclaimed in alarm, "if I ain't getting Reconstructed, right while I amstanding here!"
"_Talked_ yourself into it," Driscoll observed scornfully. "ButDan, you can just put the South along with your Americans. The Frenchlaughed at the North alone, but later, when--Well, just maybe it's agood thing we did get licked."
Mr. Boone gasped. Sparks of indignation darted from his steel blue eyes.The recoil needed a full minute to spend itself. Then a greater horrorappalled him, a horror of himself. "The Lawd help me," he burst forth,"but you're right, Din Driscoll! You are! It _was_ for the best.But don't you ever think I'm going to admit it again, to nary a livingmortal soul, myself included. W'y, it would, it would knock my editorialusefulness--all _to_ smash. There," he added, "that's decided,we're going back. The colonels want their mamas. They've been men longenough, and they're plum' homesick. All the old grudges up there must beabout paid off by now, so's an ex-Reb can live in Missouri without trainrobbing. _Libertas et natale solum_--It's our surrender, _at_last."
Driscoll rose abruptly. "Lay down your pen, Shanks," he said. "You'reonly trying to convert the converted. Of course I'm going too. Thatthere flag, being down here, did it. And don't you suppose _I've_had letters from home too?"
Meagre Shanks jumped with relief. He straightened throughout his sparelength. As the smell of battle to the war charger, the pungent odor ofprinter's ink wet on galley proofs assailed his nostrils. There werevisions, of double-leaded, unterrified thunderbolts crashing from theold Gutenberg, back in Booneville.
"Missouri," he breathed in fire, "Missouri will sho'ly stay Democratic."
Both men glowed. They were buoyant, happy. But these two could not sosoon be quit of the enervating Land of Roses. A pair of countenancesfell together. Daniel voiced their mutual thought.
"And Miss Jacqueline?" he queried boldly, with the air of meaning topersist, no matter what happened.
Driscoll showed weariness, anger.
"And Miss Burt?" he parried.
"She won't desert, I told you once."
"You mean that she's going to Paris too? I say, Shanks, they're leavingto-morrow."
Shanks knew that much, quite well enough.
"Have you _tried_ to stop her?" he demanded sternly.
Driscoll only looked disgusted.
"But have you--_asked_ her?"
Driscoll's head jerked a nod, of wrath ascending.
The inquisitor wisely swerved. What her answer had been was, to say theleast, palpable. But her reason for it was _the_ question withDaniel.
"Is it," he pursued, "is it because she hasn't any dot? You know, Jack,that in France, when a young lady----"
"No, it's not that. I know it's not."
"Oh ho," said Daniel, "so you've been guessing too! And how many guessesdid she give you? No, let me try just a few more. It ain't because,because she's an aristocrat?"
"But I _want_ an aristocrat," cried the young Missourian, "one toher finger tips, enough of one to be above aristocracy. And _she_is."
"Then," said his friend in despair, "it's because she don't, just simplydon't care for you?"
"You're a long time finding that out."
"What! You don't mean----"
"Fact," said Driscoll. "Even I guessed it at last. I told her I had beenreckoning that she----"
"Cared, yes?"
Driscoll made a wry face. "And she said I mustn't jump at conclusions, Imight scare 'em."
The Troubadour chuckled heartlessly. Neither was Driscoll's sense ofhumor entirely gone.
"'Oh, awful goddess! ever dreadful maid!'" Mr. Boone quoted.
"She's sure a wonder," the other owned gloomily.
"And you are a blind dunce, Jack."
"Don't talk axioms at me," said Driscoll, with a warning light in hiseye. "I don't need 'em."
"Well, now," drawled Mr. Boone, "I can't help it if I associate with youany longer, so I'll just mosey round to the flower market. As they leaveto-morrow, they'll be wanting some violets."
And he went, and Din Driscoll sat down again and hated him.
Daniel wended his way slowly, an attenuated ranger in gray mid carriagesand blanketed forms. "Sho'", he mused, "that girl's heart is fairbleeding for him, can't _I_ see! Her eye-lashes, they're_wet_, every now _and_ then. And whatever the matter with heris, it's nothing. But nothing is the very darndest thing to overcome ina girl. There's got to be strong measures. It's got to be _jolted_out of her. _Archimagnifico, there's_ the point!"
Mr. Boone drew out a black cigar, and mangled it between his teeth. Hepondered and pondered, absent-mindedly kicking at natives he bumpedinto. "Kidnap 'em!" he cried at length. "N-o," he reflected, "they go inthe public stage, and what with the escort, somebody'd get hurt. Wedon't want any dead men at this wedding. Old Brothers and Sisters wouldbalk anyhow, and our ecclesiastical officiator is the boy we _do_need. Now what the everlasting----"
He meant what salutary jolt he _could_ invent, barring holdups,
butin the same breath he meant also a most startling scene which revealeditself as he turned the corner.
A deafening crash of musketry was the first thing, and he looked up. Hehad come into a small plaza before a church, and against the church'sblank wall a scene was taking place before an awe-stricken throng. Heunderstood. Another proscribed "traitor" had just been caught; andexecuted, naturally. But no, not executed! For as the officer of theshooting squad approached to give the stroke of mercy, the prostratevictim raised himself by one hand and knocked aside the pistol at hishead. Then he laughed in the officer's face, the most diabolical andunearthly mirth any there had ever heard. There was not a stain of bloodon him. He had dropped in the breath of eternity before the bulletsspattered past. But his uplifted face, with chin tilted back, wasswollen, black, distorted, corded by pulsing veins, and one of theeyes--a crossed eye--bulged round and purple out of its socket, and_gleamed_. The demon of pain was tearing at the man's tissue oflife, but by grip of will unspeakable the agony in that grimace changedto a smile.
"Yes, poison! Vitriol!" he chattered at them hideously. "Adios,imbeciles. It's my last--jest!"
Whereat he fell, writhing as the acid burned to his soul. Before theastounded officer could shoot, he had grown entirely quiet.
Boone strained and pushed against the crowd until he reached the spot.The cadaver was in tight charro garb of raw leather. His sombrero laynear, on which was worked a Roman sword, meaning "Woe to the conquered!"Boone turned inquiringly to the officer. The man, who was pallid,touched his thumb to his cap, recognizing the uniform of the Grays.
"You should know him, mi coronel," he explained. "His name was Tiburcio.He deserted from the Imperialistas at Queretaro, but afterward he joinedthe plot for Maximilian's escape. We had his description, and I foundhim. He wanted to take me to Marquez and Fischer, whom we would alsolike to find. He said that he risked himself here, to spy on them, andthat he knew where they had fled, the Leopard disguised in the padre'scloak. But of course I paid no attention. I did not delay even to tiehis hands. As Your Mercy observes, I had the honor to do my duty, atonce."
"I see," replied Boone dryly. "Lawd, this _is_ a jolt!"
Then he got himself away from there.
"A jolt," he muttered to himself again. "But shucks, it can't--Yes, itcan," he decided fervently, "it can be used. We've got to have somethingterrifying, and poor cock-eyed Don Tibby won't care. He'd appreciate it.And anyhow, I don't seem to be able to stir up inspirations to-day, andthis is the only thing."
He was as pallid as the shooting squad he had just left.
"No matter," he reflected, "I'll need just this ghastly state of mind.But here, goodness gracious, I've got to be in a sweat," with which hebegan to run, a lank knight in gray dented armor.
"Worse luck," his thought pounded along with him, "this here's the firsttime I've ever faked. And it's a heap the hottest story I've everhandled, too. Our little Parisienne will get a frisson all right, allright, and such a one she'll not be wanting any of again very soon.Dixie Land, I mustn't smoke, I'm to be too excited."
He came into the Zocalo, and drew up before Driscoll, who was stillthere and still ruminating.
"Listen here," Boone panted, "here's your cue.--In ten minutes--to thesecond--arrive--knock at her door--appear!"
"With violets?" inquired Driscoll.
"Oh shut up!--Quit, don't stop me, I'm getting cooled off!--Only do whatI say.--In just ten minutes--that is--if you want the girl."
And Daniel was off again, "with high and haughty steps" towering along.
"That Meagre Shanks, there, isn't a fool," Driscoll mentally recorded,and he took out his watch.
The two girls were stopping at a hotel in Plateros Street, forJacqueline had returned to find her beautiful residence, salon and all,ruthlessly dismantled, looted, robbed by Marquez while she was inQueretaro, which was a manner of levying contributions not unfamiliar tothe Lieutenant of the Empire.
In the balcony room of their hotel suite the two girls strove valiantly.Crisp gowns and dainty allied mysteries lay spread over the upholstery.They were vanishing into cavernous trunks, with crushing indifference ifJacqueline seized on a garment, but gently when Berthe rescued it, whichshe always did. Through the double glass doors of the balcony the streetsounds below rose to their ears, clarion notes and vivas, hurrying feetand prancing hoofs, and the National hymn a few blocks away in theZocalo.
Suddenly a grim apparition loomed before the glass doors on the balcony.Berthe half screamed, in dismay clutching at ruffles and laces to hidethem, when into the sweet-scented confusion strode Mr. Daniel Boone. Hewas the grim apparition. Jacqueline withheld her opinion, but she hadone. The intruder's spurs were iconoclastic of carpeting, his abruptpresence of feminine sensibilities. But the lean, perspiring face droveaway all thought of the conventions. Jacqueline snatched up a fleecybank of petticoats, making room for him on the sofa. Daniel staredvacantly. The two girls looked very pretty. They were just flurriedenough, and they wore white lawn, with sleeves short to the elbow. Hisfingers groped, and soon they closed over a small, instinctive hand. Hekept hold upon that hand for strength, at the same time collapsing onthe sofa.
"Now, if you please," said Jacqueline calmly, "what----"
"O Lawd!" Boone gulped, fighting for breath. "It don't mattermuch--maybe--to you all, but--O Lawd, I got to tell somebody!"
"Tell us, tell us!" cried she of the captured hand.
Daniel had sufficient presence of mind to retain it.
"You know that--that poor devil Tiburcio?" he gasped.
"Yes, yes!" But what anti-climax was here?
"Well, he--he's dead. I saw him.--Lawd!"
"Oh!" It was a little cry of relief.
"But some were--were killed--taking him." Boone noted Jacqueline'sintake of breath, her first tremor of alarm. "He fought like a--awildcat. He had a knife--and a machete--and a pistol--and----"
"_Who_ was killed? Monsieur--Oh, mon Dieu, what _can_ you haveto tell me?"
Daniel almost repented, there was that in her gray eyes.
"Among them was my--" He nerved himself to it, some way--"my bestfriend, that peerless----"
"Who?" Her command was imperious, her white teeth were set.
"Din Driscoll!"
The man blurted it out like a whipped schoolboy. He could not look up.He could only feel that she stood there, stricken, suffering.
"Where is he?"
He could not believe that this was her voice. It was hardened, tearless,without emotion.
"Monsieur--where is he?"
The girl at his side sprang up with a sharp cry to her who questioned.Then he raised his eyes. Jacqueline was unaware of the sobbing girl whoclung to her. Her face was changed to marble, her body as rigid.
"Take me to him," she spoke again, still with that deathly authority ofthe grave.
The man stammered before what he had done. The great beads stood out onhis forehead. "You would not--you must not--you----"
"He is mine," she said simply. "Wait, I shall be ready, at once." Shepassed into an inner room, the portieres falling after her.
"She's--she's getting on her hat," Boone muttered inanely. "Buh'the,she's got to be stopped! She's--God, why don't he come? It's shuah tenminutes. It's--What's that?"
Someone had knocked. In the instant Boone had the hall door ajar.
"Round to the balcony window, hurry!" he whispered.
Then he turned, caught Berthe by the hand, and drew her quickly out intothe hall. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the portieresrustle, but he dared not look back.
Jacqueline stepped into the room, and her hat was upon her head. It wasof straw, with a drooping brim. She had thrown a long cloak over herthin dress. There was ice in her veins on this tropical June day. Shepaused, for she saw that the room was deserted. But no--there was ashadow between her and the balcony door. She stared at it, and her eyesgrew big. The cloak slipped to the floor, and her fingers worked in thetapestry behind her. She fluttered wea
kly, like a wounded dove on theground. Her knees trembled under her. And the man there? He was gazingabout him in a puzzled way, for the glare outside still blinded him.Then he saw. He reached her, and caught her as she sank. He felt twosoft arms, but icy cold, drop as lead around his neck. The white form heheld was rigid, and he thought of shrouds and the chilled death sweat.With savage despair he crushed her to him. After a time her body slowlybegan to relax.
"Oh, oh, my lad, my lad!" he heard her crying faintly, in a kind ofhysteria.
He touched her hair dazedly, with unutterable tenderness.
"There, there--sweetheart!"
The word came, though he had never used it before.
Blood awoke, and coursed, sluggishly at first, through her being, untilher heart tripped and throbbed and pounded against his own. Her head layon his breast, the hat hanging by its ribbons over her back, and withthe pulsing life the head and her whole body nestled closer. The softarms grew warm against his neck, and tightened fiercely, to hold andkeep him. Gently he forced up her chin, and her eyes, wet with hottesttears, opened under his. He bent and kissed the long lashes. But a smallmoist hand flattened against his brow and pushed back his head, and sheraised on tiptoe. He understood, and--their lips met.
"Tu sais," she murmured deliriously--nothing but her own dear Frenchwould answer now--"tu sais, que--oh, mon coeur, que je--que je_t'aime_!"
The oddest contrasts fall over life's most sacred moments. The tone ofher words thrilled him, set every fibre tingling, yet he thought of dryconjugations and declensions, conned over and over again in school, andhe was conscious of vague wonderment that those things really, actually,had a meaning. Meaning? He believed now that no words in English couldtell so much. He did not have to understand them. They bore the fleshand blood, the passion and the soul, of a woman who told him that sheloved him.
With a hesitant gentleness which bespoke the deep and reverent awe inhis yearning, he pressed her head back against its resting place. A mancan do without words of any kind. She grew very quiet there. The tensequivering ceased, and she crept closer, and at last she sighed,purringly, contentedly.
But of course there was more which she simply had to say. And this time,when she raised her eyes, they were calm and earnest, and her beautifulforehead was white and very grave. "Do you know, dear," she said, "Ishould not care to live, I would not have lived, if what he saidwere--were--" But the eyes filled with tears, and angry with herself,she planted her fists against him to be free, and as impulsively crying,"Oh, my--my own dear lad!" she flung her arms about his neck again. "Oh,oh," she moaned, "he said that you were dead!"
For the first time it dawned on Driscoll that all this must have had acause, and for the first time since entering the room he rememberedBoone.
"_He_ told you--He----"
But Driscoll did not finish. Putting her from him he sprang to the doorand flung it open. There he waited. Boone was outside, and Boone walkedexpectantly in. Without a word Driscoll raised his fist, drew it back,his cruel arm muscled to kill. Jacqueline saw his anger for her,terrible in murder. She threw herself upon him, got hold of the knottedfist, got it to her lips. Another woman, too, had darted between him andthe other man, and she faced him. The gentle Berthe was become a littletigress.
"Not that, not that!" It was Jacqueline's voice. "Listen, mon cheri,I--I thank him. Au contraire, I do! And--and you must, too!"
Driscoll stared at all three, first at one, then at another. Hefloundered, stupefied. Here was this loving girl, clinging to him asthough he might vanish, and he had left her that morning a disdainfulbeauty. Then here was this Meagre Shanks with his mysterious tenminutes, and here was this dumfounding product of those ten minutes.Driscoll put forth an open hand.
"Dan," he muttered incoherently, "you're a--a wonder, too!"
Boone clenched the proffered hand in his own. "I never once thought,Jack," he said earnestly, contritely, "never once, that she cared soever-_lastingly_ much."
"Well," said Driscoll, "don't do it again."
"Not unless," ventured Boone, "not unless she should ever want a littleantidote for ennui. By the way, mademoiselle, do you thank me for thequaver of emotion, for the frisson?"
"Frisson?" she repeated scornfully, with loathing. For once she had beenunaware of the prized knife-like tremor. In the fear of losing one dearshe had lost consciousness of self. She had _lived_ the tremor, theagony, and it was too dreadful, "No, monsieur," she said, "I want nomore of art. I--I want to _live_!"
"You needed something, though," said Berthe, "to make you find it out."
Driscoll looked curiously at the two girls.
"Yes, J-Jack'leen"--how quaintly awkward he was, trying her old tomboynickname without the "Miss!"--"Yes, what was the matter with you,anyhow?"
"Parbleu, I forgot!" cried Jacqueline in dismay. "I was not to havemonsieur, no!" And Jacqueline's chin, tilting back with elaboratehauteur, was meant to indicate that she was in her first mind about it.
Berthe laughed outright, and softly clapped her hands.
"Sho'," declared Mr. Boone, "the matter was nothing, nothing _at_all!"
But before feminine caprices and scruples it is wiser to bow low intothe dust. Jacqueline turned on the editorial personage with vastindignation. "You leave the room, Seigneur Troubadour," she commanded,"and Berthe, you march with him. Haste, both of you!"
They went, meekly. Their attempt to hide content over the dismissaltogether was extreme, but transparent.
"What was it?" Driscoll insisted, when he and Jacqueline were alone oncemore.
"You mean," she exclaimed, "that you are going to quarrel--now?"
"Jack'leen, what was it?"
"I reck-on," she observed demurely, "that the animal disputans was--wasright, after all. It was nothing, I--reck-on."
He noted mockery, defiance. There was much too much independence afterher late surrender. He went up to her and deliberately reassumed themastery. He held her, by force. "Mon chevalier," she murmured softly. Soshe confessed his strength.
"Tell me," he said.
"And you did not guess? You--Oh, how I hated you! How I never wanted tosee you, never again! Not after, not after--Mon Dieu, you were twoexasperating idiots, you and poor Prince Max! He virtually _threw_me into your arms. But I, monsieur, am not a person to be thrown. Thatis, unless--unless I do it myself, which--I did, helas!"
The trooper's grip tightened on her arms. "Then you," he said earnestly,"would have let me lose you?"
She laughed merrily at him.
"And would not you have followed after me?"
"W'y, little girl, I reckon I certainly would of."
"Don't," she gasped. "Let me come--closer. Oh dear, how can the bon Dieulet people be so happy--s-o happy!"
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