Little Nobody. Alex. McVeigh Miller
dances are done.
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
"'There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near,"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear,"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."'"
The man and the woman looked at each other behind his back. Remond wore a significant scowl; madame a jealous sneer. It faded into a smile as he whirled around on the music-stool and faced her with a look of feigned adoration.
"Last night was so heavenly in the garden—let us go out again," he said, almost consumed by impatience.
Time was going fast, and it lacked little more than an hour to midnight. He chafed at the thought that Carmontelle was waiting with the carriage, impatient, and wondering at the strange delay.
"We will go into the garden," assented Mme. Lorraine. "Ah, you cold-looking Yankee, you can be as sentimental as a Southerner. Monsieur Remond, will you accompany us?"
"Pardon; I will go home. I have no fancy for love among the roses," with a covert sneer. "Madame, monsieur, bon soir."
He bowed and was gone. Van Zandt drew a long breath of dismay.
What if he should stumble upon Carmontelle and the carriage waiting at the end of the square under cover of the night?
It was impossible to follow. Mme. Lorraine's white hand clasping his arm, drew him out into the garden, with its sweet odors, its silence, and dew.
His heart leaped with expectancy.
"I shall find her here asleep among the flowers, forgetful of the dangers that encompass her young life."
He declared to Mme. Lorraine that he did not want to miss a single beauty of the romantic old garden, and dragged her remorselessly all over its length and breadth. Perhaps she guessed his intent, but she made no sign. She was bright, amiable, animated, all that a woman can be who hopes to charm a man.
He scarcely heeded her, so frantically was he looking everywhere for a crouching white form that he could not find. There came to him suddenly a horrified remembrance of her pathetic words:
"There is still the river!"
A bell somewhere in the distance chimed the half hour in silvery tones. Only thirty minutes more to midnight!
With some incoherent excuse he tore himself away from her, and dashing wildly out into the street, ran against Pierre Carmontelle for the second time that night.
"I have waited for hours, and was just coming to seek you. What does this mean?" he exclaimed, hoarsely.
A whispered explanation forced a smothered oath from his lips.
"Be calm. There is but one way left us. We will conceal ourselves near the door and wrest her from them when they bring her out," said Eliot Van Zandt.
CHAPTER VII
But no place of concealment presented itself. The broad pavement showed a long, unbroken space of moonlit stone, save where one tall tree reared its stately height outside the curb-stone, and flung long, weird shadows across the front of madame's house.
Carmontelle looked up and down the street, and shook his head.
"I can see no hiding-place but the tree," he said.
"We need none better, unless you are too stout to scale it," Van Zandt answered, coolly, turning a questioning glance upon the rather corpulent form of his good-looking companion.
"You will see," laughed the Southerner, softly.
He glanced up and down the street, and seeing no one in sight, made a bound toward the tree, flung out his arms, and scaled it with admirable agility, finding a very comfortable seat among its low-growing branches. Van Zandt followed his example with boyish ease, and they were soon seated close to each other on the boughs of the big tree, almost as comfortable as if they had been lounging on the satin couches of madame's recherché salon. It was delightful up there among the cool green leaves, with the fresh wind blowing the perfume of madame's flowers into their faces.
"I feel like a boy again," said the journalist, gayly.
"Softly; we are opposite the windows of madame's chamber, I think," cautioned Carmontelle.
"She will not come up yet; she will wait in the salon for Remond. It is but a few minutes to midnight."
A step approached, and they held their breath in excessive caution.
It passed on—only a guardian of the peace pacing his beat serenely, his brass buttons shining in the moonlight.
Van Zandt whispered:
"I am not sure but we should have invoked the aid of the law in our trouble."
But Pierre Carmontelle shook his head.
"The law is too slow sometimes," he said. "We will place the little girl in some safe refuge first, then, if Madame Lorraine attempts to make trouble, we will resort to legal measures. I am not apprehensive of trouble on that score, however, for madame really has no legal right to the girl. Has she not declared scores of times that her maid died, and left the child upon her hands, and that, only for pity's sake, she would have sent her off to an orphan asylum?"
Steps and voices came along the pavement—two roystering lads, fresh from some festal scene, their steps unsteady with wine. They passed out of sight noisily recounting their triumph to each other. Then the echo of wheels in the distance, "low on the sand, loud on the stone."
"Are you armed?" whispered the Louisianian, nervously.
"No."
The cold steel of a pistol pressed his hand.
"Take that; I brought two," whispered Carmontelle. "We may need them. One of us must stand at bay, while the other seizes and bears away the girl."
"It shall be I. I will cover your flight," Van Zandt said, quietly.
Under his calm exterior was seething a tempest of wrath and indignation that made him clutch the weapon in a resolute grasp. He had pure and fair young sisters at home. The thought of them made him feel more strongly for madame's forlorn victim.
Their hearts leaped into their throats as Remond's close carriage dashed into sight, whirled up to madame's door, and stopped.
The door swung open, and Remond, muffled up to the ears, sprung out and went up to the house.
Its portals opened as if by magic, with a swish of silken robes in the hall. Madame herself had silently admitted her co-conspirator.
Most fortunately the back of the carriage was toward the tree, and the driver's attention was concentrated upon his restive horses.
Silently as shadows the two men slid down from their novel hiding-place, tiptoed across the pavement, and took up their grim station on either side the closed door.
Not a moment too soon!
At that very instant the door unclosed, and Remond appeared upon the threshold bearing in his arms a slight, inert figure wrapped in a long, dark cloak. Madame, still in her diamonds, roses, and silvery drapery, appeared behind him just in time to see a powerful form swoop down upon Remond, wrest his prize from him, and make off with wonderful celerity, considering the weight of the girlish form in his arms.
She fell back with a cry of dismay.
"Diable! Spies!"
Remond had recoiled on the instant with a fierce oath hissed in his beard—only an instant; then he dashed forward in mad pursuit,