“In the will of the Marquis de Ligne, probated yesterday, all of the property, real and personal, is left to his daughter, Constance,” wrote Straws in his paper shortly after the passing of the French nobleman. “The document states this disposition of property is made as ‘an act of atonement and justice to my daughter, whose mother I deserted, taking advantage of the French law to annul my marriage in England.’ The legitimacy of the birth of this, his only child, is thereupon fully acknowledged by the marquis after a lapse of many years and long after the heretofore unrecognized wife had died, deserted and forgotten. Thrown on her own resources, the young child, with no other friend than Manager Barnes, battled with the world; now playing in taverns or barns, like the players of interludes, the strollers of old, or ‘vagabonds’, as the great and mighty Junius, from his lofty plane, termed them. The story of that period of ‘vagrant’ life adds one more chapter 388 to the annals of strolling players which already include such names as Kemble, Siddons and Kean.

“From the Junius category to a public favorite of New Orleans has been no slight transition, and now, to appear in the rÔle of daughter of a marquis and heiress to a considerable estate––truly man––and woman––play many parts in this brief span called life! But in making her sole heir the marquis specifies a condition which will bring regrets to many of the admirers of the actress. He robs her of her birthright from her mother. The will stipulates that the recipient give up her profession, not because it is other than a noble one, but ‘that she may the better devote herself to the duties of her new position and by her beneficence and charity remove the stain left upon an honored name by my second wife, the Duchesse D’Argens’.”

The marquis’ reference to “charity” and “beneficence” was in such ill-accord with his character that it might be suspected an adroit attorney, in drawing up the document, had surreptitiously inserted it. His proud allusion to his honored name and slurring suggestion of the taint put upon it by his second wife demonstrated the marquis was not above the foibles of his kind, overlooking his own light conduct and dwelling on that of his noble helpmate. It was the final taunt, and, as the lady had long since been laid in God’s Acre, where there is only silence divine, it received no answer, and the world was welcome to digest and gorge it and make the most of it.

But although the marquis and his lady had no further interest in subsequent events, growing out of their brief sojourn on earth, the contents of the will afforded a theme of gossip for the living and molded the affairs of one in new shape and manner. On the same day this public exposition appeared, Barnes and the young actress were seated in the law office of Marks and Culver, a room overlooking a court-yard, brightened by statues and urns of flowers. A plaster bust of Justinian gazed benignly through the window at a fountain; a steel engraving of Jeremy Bentham watched the butterflies, and Hobbes and John Austin, austere in portraiture, frowned darkly down upon the flowering garden. While the manager and Constance waited for the attorney to appear, they were discussing, not for the first time, the proviso of the will to which Straws had regretfully alluded.

“Yes,” said Barnes, folding the newspaper which contained Straws’ article and placing it in his pocket; “you should certainly give up the stage. We must think of the disappointments, the possible failure, the slender reward. There was your mother––such an actress!––yet toward the last the people flocked to a younger rival. I have often thought anxiously of your future, for I am old––yes, there is no denying it!––and any day I may leave you, dependent solely upon yourself.”

“Do not speak like that,” she answered, tenderly. “We shall be together many, many years.”

“Always, if I had my way,” he returned, heartily.

“But with this legacy you are superior to the fickle public. In fact, you are now a part of the capricious public, my dear,” he added in a jocular tone, “and may applaud the ‘heavy father,’ myself, or prattle about prevailing styles while the buskined tragedian is strutting below your box. Why turn to a blind bargain? Fame is a jade, only caught after our illusions are gone and she seems not half so sweet as when pursuing her in our dreams!”

But as he spoke, with forced lightness, beneath which, however, the young girl could readily detect the vein of anxiety and regret, she was regarding him with the clear eyes of affection. His face, seamed with many lines and bearing the deeply engraved handwriting of time, spoke plainly of declining years; every lineament was eloquent with vicissitudes endured; and as she discerningly read that varied past of which her own brief career had been a part, there entered her mind a brighter picture of a tranquil life for him at last, where in old age he could exchange uncertainty and activity for security and rest. How could she refuse to do as he desired? How often since fate had wrought this change in her life had she asked herself the question?

Her work, it is true, had grown dearer to her than ever; of late she had thrown herself into her task with an ardor and earnestness lifting each portrayal to a higher plane. Is it that only with sorrow comes the fulness of art; that its golden gates are never swung entirely open to the soul bearing no burden?

Closed to ruder buffetings, is it only to the sesame of a sad voice those portals spring magically back? But for his sake she must needs pause on the threshold of attainment, and stifle that ambition which of itself precluded consideration of a calm, uneventful existence. She was young and full of courage, but the pathos of his years smote her heart; something inexplicable had awakened her fears for him; she believed him far from well of late, although he laughed at her apprehensions and protested he had never been better in his life.

Now, reading the anxiety in his face as he watched her, she smiled reassuringly, her glance, full of love, meeting his.

“Everything shall be as you wish,” she said, softly. “You know what is best!”

The manager’s face lighted perceptibly, but before he could answer, the door opened, and Culver, the attorney, entered. With ruddy countenance and youthful bearing, in antithesis to the hair, silvered with white, he was one of those southern gentlemen who grow old gracefully. The law was his taskmaster; he practised from a sense of duty, but ever held that those who rushed to court were likely to repeat the experience of Voltaire, who had twice been ruined: once when he lost a law suit; the second time, when he won one! Nevertheless, people persisted in coming to Culver wantonly welcoming unknown ills.

“Well, Miss Carew,” he now exclaimed, after 392 warmly greeting his visitors, “have you disburdened yourself of prejudice against this estate? Wealth may be a little hardship at first, but soon you won’t mind it.”

“Not a bit!” spoke up Barnes. “It’s as easy to get used to as––poverty, and we’ve had plenty of that!”

“You know the other condition?” she said, half-defiantly, half-sadly. “You are to be with me always.”

“How can you teach an old dog new tricks?” protested Barnes. “How can you make a fine man about town out of a ‘heavy father?’”

“The ‘heavy father’ is my father. I never knew any other. I am glad I never did.”

“Hoity-toity!” he exclaimed scoffingly, but pleased nevertheless.

“You can’t put me off that way,” she said, decisively, with a sudden flash in her eyes he knew too well to cross. “Either you leave the stage, too, or––”

“Of course, my dear, of course––”

“Then it’s all settled you will accept the encumbrance to which you have fallen heir,” resumed Culver. “Even if there had been no will in your favor, the State of Louisiana follows the French law, and the testator can under no circumstances alienate more than half his property, if he leave issue or descendants. Had the old will remained, its provisions could not have been legally carried out.”

“The old will?” said Barnes. “Then there was another will?”

“One made before he was aware of your existence, Miss Carew, in favor of his ward, Ernest Saint-Prosper.”

“Ernest Saint-Prosper!”

Constance’s cheeks flamed crimson, and her quick start of surprise did not escape the observant lawyer. Barnes, too, looked amazed over this unexpected intelligence.

“Saint-Prosper was the marquis’ ward?” he cried.

The attorney transferred his gaze from the expressive features of his fair client to the open countenance of the manager. “Yes,” he said.

“And would have inherited this property but for Constance?”

“Exactly! But you knew him, Mr. Barnes?”

“He was an occupant of the chariot, sir,” replied the manager, with some feeling. “We met in the Shadengo Valley; the company was in sore straits, and––and––to make a long story short!––he joined our band and traversed the continent with us. And so he was the marquis’ ward! It seems almost incredible!”

“Yes,” affirmed Culver; “when General Saint-Prosper, his father, died, Ernest Saint-Prosper, who was then but a boy, became the marquis’ ward and a member of his household.”

“Well, well, how things do come about!” ruminated Barnes. “To think he should have been the prospective heir, and Constance, the real one!”

“Where is he now?” asked the attorney, thoughtfully.

“He has gone to Mexico; enlisted! But how do you know he––”

“Had expectations? The marquis told me about a quarrel they had had; he was a staunch imperialist; the young man as firm a republican! What would be the natural outcome? They parted in bitter anger.”

“And then the marquis made him his heir?” exclaimed the manager, incredulously. “How do you reconcile that?”

The attorney smiled. “Through the oddity of my client! ‘Draw up my will,’ said the marquis to me one day, ‘leaving all my property to this republican young dog. That will cut off the distant relatives who made the sign of the cross behind my back as though I were the evil one. They expect it all; he expects nothing! It will be a rare joke. I leave them my affection––and the privilege of having masses said for my soul.’ The marquis was always of a satirical temperament.”

“So it seems,” commented the manager. “But he changed his mind and his will again?”

“After he met Miss Carew.”

“Met me!” exclaimed Constance, aroused from a maze of reflection.

“Near the cathedral! He walked and talked with you.”

“That poor old man––”

“And then came here, acknowledged you as his daughter, and drew up the final document.”

“That accounts for a call I had from him!” cried Barnes, telling the story of the marquis’ visit. “Strange, I did not suspect something of the truth at the time,” he concluded, “for his manner was certainly unusual.”

A perplexed light shone in the girl’s eyes; she clasped and unclasped her hands quickly, turning to the lawyer.

“Their quarrel was only a political difference?” she asked at length.

“Yes,” said the other, slowly. “Saint-Prosper refused to support the fugitive king. Throughout the parliamentary government, the restoration under Louis XVIII, and the reign of King Charles X, the marquis had ever a devout faith in the divine right of monarchs. He annulled his marriage in England with your mother to marry the Duchesse D’Argens, a relative of the royal princess. But Charles abdicated and the duchesse died. All this, however, is painful to you, Miss Carew?”

“Only such as relates to my mother,” she replied in a clear tone. “I suppose I should feel grateful for this fortune, but I am afraid I do not. Please go on.”

Culver leaned back in his chair, his glance bent upon a discolored statue of Psyche in the court-yard. “Had the marquis attended to his garden, like Candide, 396 or your humble servant, and eschewed the company of kings he might have been as care-free as he was wretched. His monarchs were knocked down like nine-pins. Louis XVIII was a man of straw; Charles X, a feather-top, and Louis Philippe, a toy ruler. The marquis’ domestic life was as unblest as his political career. The frail duchesse left him a progeny of scandals. These, the only offspring of the iniquitous dame, were piquantly dressed in the journals for public parade. Fancy, then, his delight in disinheriting his wife’s relatives, and leaving you, his daughter, his fortune and his name!”

“His name?” she repeated, sadly. With averted face she watched the fountain in the garden. “If he had given it to my mother,” she continued, “but now––I do not care for it. Her name is all I want.” Her voice trembled and she exclaimed passionately: “I should rather Mr. Saint-Prosper would keep the property and I––my work! After denying my mother and deserting her, how can I accept anything from him?”

“Under the new will,” said Culver, “the estate does not revert to Mr. Saint-Prosper in any event. But you might divide it with him?” he added, suddenly.

“How could I do that?” she asked, without looking up.

“Marry him!” laughed the attorney.

But the jest met with scant response, his fair client remaining motionless as a statue, while Barnes gazed at her furtively. Culver’s smile gradually faded; uncertain 397 how to proceed, realizing his humor had somehow miscarried, he was not sorry when the manager arose, saying:

“Well, my dear, it is time we were at the theater.”

“Won’t you accept this nosegay from my garden, Miss Carew?” urged the lawyer in a propitiatory tone as they were leaving.

And the attorney not only accompanied them to the door, but down-stairs to the street, where he stood for a moment watching them drive down the thoroughfare. Then he slowly returned, breathing heavily––invidious contradiction of his youthful assumption!––and shaking his head, as he mounted to his room.

“Culver, you certainly put your foot in it that time!” he muttered. “How she froze at my suggestion! Has there been some passage of arms between them? Apparently! But here am I, pondering over romances with all this legal business staring me in the face!” His glance swept a chaos of declarations, bills, affidavits and claims. “Confound the musty old courthouse and the bustling Yankee lawyers who set such a disturbing pace! There is no longer gentlemanly leisure in New Orleans.”

He seated himself with a sigh before a neglected brief. In the distance the towers of the cathedral could be seen, reminding the attorney of the adjacent halls of justice in the scraggy-looking square, with its turmoil, its beggars, and apple women in the lobbies; its ancient, offensive smell, its rickety stairs, 398 its labyrinth of passages and its Babel of tongues. Above him, however, the plaster bust of Justinian, out of those blank, sightless eyes, continued the contemplation of the garden as though turning from the complex jurisprudence of the ancients and moderns to the simple existence of butterflies and flowers.