The Red City - A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington

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Title: The Red City - A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington
Author: Mitchell, S. Weir (Silas Weir), 1829-1914
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Red City - A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington" ***

Transcriber's note:

1. Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

2. Text in Gothic Font is enclosed by plus signs (+Gothic+).

3. Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected.
A detailed list appears at the end of this e-text together
with a list of word variations used in the original text.

4. A Table of Contents has been created for this novel for
reference.

5. The [oe] ligature has been replaced by "oe." A list of
words using the [oe] ligature in the original text appears
at the end of this e-text.

THE RED CITY

|-------------------------------------------|
| +Books by+ |
| +Dr. S. Weir Mitchell.+ |
| |
| |
| +Fiction.+ |
| |
| HUGH WYNNE. |
| CONSTANCE TRESCOT. |
| THE YOUTH OF WASHINGTON. |
| CIRCUMSTANCE. |
| THE ADVENTURES OF FRANÇOIS. |
| THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUACK. |
| DR. NORTH AND HIS FRIENDS. |
| IN WAR TIME. |
| ROLAND BLAKE. |
| FAR IN THE FOREST. |
| CHARACTERISTICS. |
| WHEN ALL THE WOODS ARE GREEN. |
| A MADEIRA PARTY. |
| THE RED CITY. |
| |
| |
| +Essays.+ |
| |
| DOCTOR AND PATIENT. |
| WEAR AND TEAR--HINTS FOR THE OVERWORKED. |
| |
| |
| +Poems.+ |
| |
| COLLECTED POEMS. |
| THE WAGER, AND OTHER POEMS. |
|-------------------------------------------|

[Illustration: "She stood still, amazed"]

THE RED CITY

A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington

S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D., LL.D.

With Illustrations by Arthur I. Keller

[Decoration]

New York
The Century Co.
1908

Published October, 1908

WM. D. HOWELLS

IN PAYMENT OF A DEBT LONG OWED
TO A MASTER OF FICTION AND TO
A FRIEND OF MANY YEARS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I 3
CHAPTER II 18
CHAPTER III 38
CHAPTER IV 52
CHAPTER V 64
CHAPTER VI 77
CHAPTER VII 90
CHAPTER VIII 107
CHAPTER IX 132
CHAPTER X 144
CHAPTER XI 159
CHAPTER XII 176
CHAPTER XIII 196
CHAPTER XIV 207
CHAPTER XV 224
CHAPTER XVI 241
CHAPTER XVII 254
CHAPTER XVIII 263
CHAPTER XIX 273
CHAPTER XX 285
CHAPTER XXI 305
CHAPTER XXII 318
CHAPTER XXIII 326
CHAPTER XXIV 341
CHAPTER XXV 347
CHAPTER XXVI 377
CHAPTER XXVII 401
L'envoi 421

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

She stood still, amazed _Frontispiece_

PAGE

As they struck, he called out, "Yvonne!" 13

With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in
front of Ça Ira 69

"Well played!" cried Schmidt--"the jest and the rapier" 113

"Thou canst not shoe my conscience" 153

René struggled in Schmidt's arms, wild with rage 247

She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling
as she considered the effect 289

"I know, I know, but--" 337

"Then I beg to resign my position" 367

"Not to-day, children, not to-day" 409

THE RED CITY

A NOVEL OF THE SECOND ADMINISTRATION OF WASHINGTON

About five in the afternoon on the 23d of May, 1792, the brig _Morning
Star_ of Bristol, John Maynard, master, with a topgallant breeze after
her, ran into Delaware Bay in mid-channel between Cape May and Cape
Henlopen. Here was the only sunshine they had seen in three weeks. The
captain, liking the warmth on his broad back, glanced up approvingly at
mast and rigging. "She's a good one," he said, and noting the ship
powdered white with her salt record of the sea's attentions, he lighted
a pipe and said aloud, "She's salted like Christmas pork." As he spoke,
he cast an approving eye on a young fellow who sat at ease in the lower
rigging, laughing as the brig rolled over and a deluge of water flushed
the deck and made the skipper on the after-hatch lift his feet out of
the way of the wash.

"Hi, there, Wicount," called the captain, "she's enjoying of herself
like a young duck in a pond."

De Courval called out a gay reply, lost, as the ship rolled, in the
rattle of storm-loosened stays and the clatter of flapping sails.

Toward sunset the wind lessened, the sea-born billows fell away, and De
Courval dropped lightly on the deck, and, passing the master, went down
to the cabin.

Near to dusk of this pleasant evening of May the captain anchored off
Lewes, ordered a boat sent ashore, and a nip of rum all round for the
crew. Then, with a glass for himself, he lighted his pipe and sat down
on the cover of the companionway and drew the long breath of the victor
in a six-weeks' fight with the Atlantic in its most vicious mood. For an
hour he sat still, a well-contented man; then, aware of a curly head and
bronzed young face rising out of the companionway beside him, he said,
"You might find that coil of rope comfortable."

The young man, smiling as he sat down, accepted the offer of the
captain's tobacco and said in easy English, with scarce a trace of
accent to betray his French origin: "My mother thanks you, sir, for your
constant care of her. I have no need to repeat my own thanks. We unhappy
_émigrés_ who have worn out the hospitality of England, and no wonder,
find kindness such as yours as pleasant as it is rare. My mother fully
realizes what you have given us amid all your cares for the ship--and--"

"Oh, that's all right, Wicount," broke in the captain. "My time for
needing help and a cheery word may come any day on land or sea. Some one
will pay what seems to you a debt."

"Ah, well, here or hereafter," said the young man, gravely, and putting
out a hand, he wrung the broad, hairy paw of the sailor. "My mother will
come on deck to-morrow and speak for herself. Now she must rest. Is that
our boat?"

"Yes; I sent it ashore a while ago. There will be milk and eggs and
fresh vegetables for madam."

"Thank you," said De Courval. A slight, full feeling in the throat, a
little difficulty in controlling his features, betrayed the long strain
of much recent peril and a sense of practical kindness the more grateful
for memories of bitter days in England and of far-away tragic days in
France. With some effort to suppress emotion, he touched the captain's
knee, saying, "Ah, my mother will enjoy the fresh food." And then, "What
land is that?"

"Lewes, sir, and the sand-dunes. With the flood and a fair wind, we
shall be off Chester by evening to-morrow. No night sailing for me on
this bay, with never a light beyond Henlopen, and that's been there
since '65. I know it all in daytime like I know my hand. Most usually we
bide for the flood. I shall be right sorry to part with you. I've had
time and again--Frenchies; I never took to them greatly,--but you're
about half English. Why, you talk 'most as well as me. Where did you
learn to be so handy with it?" De Courval smiled at this doubtful
compliment.

"When my father was attached to our embassy in London,--that was when I
was a lad,--I went to an English school, and then, too, we were some
months in England, my mother and I, so I speak it fairly well. My mother
never would learn it."

"Fairly well! Guess you do."

Then the talk fell away, and at last the younger man rose and said, "I
shall go to bed early, for I want to be up at dawn to see this great
river."

At morning, with a fair wind and the flood, the _Morning Star_ moved up
the stream, past the spire and houses of Newcastle. De Courval watched
with a glass the green country, good for fruit, and the hedges in place
of fences. He saw the low hills of Delaware, the flat sands of Jersey
far to right, and toward sunset of a cloudless May day heard the clatter
of the anchor chain as they came to off Chester Creek. The mother was
better, and would be glad to take her supper on deck, as the captain
desired. During the day young De Courval asked numberless questions of
mates and men, happy in his mother's revival, and busy with the hopes
and anxieties of a stranger about to accept life in a land altogether
new to him, but troubled with unanswerable doubts as to how his mother
would bear an existence under conditions of which as yet neither he nor
she had any useful knowledge.

When at sunset he brought his mother on deck, she looked about her with
pleasure. The ship rode motionless on a faintly rippled plain of orange
light. They were alone on this great highway to the sea. To the left
near by were the clustered houses on creek and shore where Dutch, Swede,
and English had ruled in turn. There were lads in boats fishing, with
cries of mock fear and laughter over the catch of crabs. It seemed to
her a deliciously abrupt change from the dark cabin and the ship odors
to a pretty, smiling coast, with the smoke pennons of hospitable
welcome inviting to enter and share what God had so freely given.

A white-cloth-covered table was set out on deck with tea-things,
strawberries, and red roses the mate had gathered. As she turned, to
thank the captain who had come aft to meet her, he saw his passenger for
the first time. At Bristol she had come aboard at evening and through a
voyage of storms she had remained in her cabin, too ill to do more than
think of a hapless past and of a future dark with she knew not what new
disasters.

What he saw was a tall, slight woman whose snow-white hair made more
noticeable the nearly complete black of her widow's dress, relieved only
by a white collar, full white wrist ruffles, and a simple silver
chatelaine from which hung a bunch of keys and a small enameled watch.
At present she was sallow and pale, but, except for somewhat too notable
regularity of rather pronounced features, the most observant student of
expression could have seen no more in her face at the moment than an
indefinable stamp of good breeding and perhaps, on larger opportunity,
an unusual incapacity to exhibit emotional states, whether of grief,
joy, or the lighter humors of every-day social relation.

The captain listened with a pleasure he could not have explained as her
voice expressed in beautiful French the happiness of which her face
reported no signal. The son gaily translated or laughed as now and then
she tried at a phrase or two of the little English picked up during her
stay in England.

When they had finished their supper, young De Courval asked if she were
tired and would wish to go below. To his surprise she said: "No, René.
We are to-morrow to be in a new country, and it is well that as far as
may be we settle our accounts with the past."

"Well, mother, what is it? What do you wish?"

"Let us sit down together. Yes, here. I have something to ask. Since you
came back to Normandy in the autumn of 1791 with the news of your
father's murder, I have asked for no particulars."

"No, and I was glad that you did not."

"Later, my son, I was no more willing to hear, and even after our ruin
and flight to England last January, my grief left me no desire to be
doubly pained. But now--now, I have felt that even at much cost I should
hear it all, and then forever, with God's help, put it away with the
past, as you must try to do. His death was the more sad to me because
all his sympathies were with the party bent on ruining our country. Ah,
René, could he have guessed that he who had such hopeful belief in what
those changes would effect should die by the hand of a Jacobin mob! I
wish now to hear the whole story."

"All of it, mother?" He was deeply troubled.

"Yes, all--all without reserve."

She sat back in her chair, gazing up the darkening river, her hands
lying supine on her knees. "Go on, my son, and do not make me question
you."

"Yes, mother." There were things he had been glad to forget and some he
had set himself never to forget. He knew, however, that now, on the
whole, it was better to be frank. He sat still, thinking how best he
could answer her. Understanding the reluctance his silence expressed,
she said, "You will, René?"

"Yes, dear mother"; and so on the deck at fall of night, in an alien
land, the young man told his story of one of the first of the minor
tragedies which, as a Jacobin said, were useless except to give a good
appetite for blood.

It was hard to begin. He had in perfection the memory of things seen,
the visualizing capacity. He waited, thinking how to spare her that
which at her summons was before him in all the distinctness of an hour
of unequaled anguish.

She felt for him and knew the pain she was giving, comprehending him
with a fullness rare to the mother mind. "This is not a time to spare
me," she said, "nor yourself. Go on." She spoke sternly, not turning her
head, but staring up the long stretch of solitary water.

"It shall be as you wish," he returned slowly. "In September of last
year you were in Paris with our cousin, La Rochefoucauld, about our
desperate money straits, when the assembly decreed the seizure of
Avignon from the Pope's vice-legate. This news seemed to make possible
the recovery of rents due us in that city. My father thought it well for
me to go with him--"

"Yes, yes, I know; but go on."

"We found the town in confusion. The Swiss guard of the vice-legate had
gone. A leader of the Jacobin party, Lescuyer, had been murdered that
morning before the altar of the Church of the Cordeliers. That was on
the day we rode in. Of a sudden we were caught in a mob of peasants near
the gate. A Jacobin, Jourdan, led them, and had collected under guard
dozens of scared bourgeois and some women. Before we could draw or even
understand, we were tumbled off our horses and hustled along. On the way
the mob yelled, 'A bas les aristocrates!'

"As they went, others were seized--in fact, every decent-looking man. My
father held me by the wrist, saying: 'Keep cool, René. We are not
Catholics. It is the old trouble.' The crush at the Pope's palace was
awful. We were torn apart. I was knocked down. Men went over me, and I
was rolled off the great outer stair and fell, happily, neglected. An
old woman cried to me to run. I got up and went in after the Jourdan mob
with the people who were crowding in to see what would happen. You
remember the great stairway. I was in among the first and was pushed
forward close to the broad dais. Candles were brought. Jourdan--'_coupe
tête_' they called him--sat in the Pope's chair. The rest sat or stood
on the steps. A young man brought in a table and sat by it. The rest of
the great hall was in darkness, full of a ferocious crowd, men and
women.

"Then Jourdan cried out: 'Silence! This is a court of the people. Fetch
in the aristocrats!' Some threescore of scared men and a dozen women
were huddled together at one side, the women crying. Jourdan waited.
One by one they were seized and set before him. There were wild cries of
'Kill! Kill!' Jourdan nodded, and two men seized them one after another,
and at the door struck. The people in the hall were silent one moment as
if appalled, and the next were frenzied and screaming horrible things.
Near the end my father was set before Jourdan. He said, 'Who are you?'

"My father said, 'I am Citizen Courval, a stranger. I am of the
religion, and here on business.' As he spoke, he looked around him and
saw me. He made no sign."

"Ah," said Madame de Courval, "he did not say Vicomte."

"No. He was fighting for his life, for you, for me."

"Go on."

"His was the only case over which they hesitated even for a moment. One
whom they called Tournal said: 'He is not of Avignon. Let him go.' The
mob in the hall was for a moment quiet. Then the young man at the table,
who seemed to be a mock secretary and wrote the names down, got up and
cried out: 'He is lying. Who knows him?' He was, alas! too well known. A
man far back of me called out, 'He is the Vicomte de Courval.' My father
said: 'It is true. I am the Vicomte de Courval. What then?'

"The secretary shrieked: 'I said he lied. Death! Death to the
_ci-devant!_'

"Jourdan said: 'Citizen Carteaux is right. Take him. We lose time.'

"On this my father turned again and saw me as I cried out, 'Oh, my God!
My father!' In the uproar no one heard me. At the door on the left, it
was, as they struck, he called out--oh, very loud: 'Yvonne! Yvonne! God
keep thee!' Oh, mother, I saw it--I saw it." For a moment he was unable
to go on.

"I got out of the place somehow. When safe amid the thousands in the
square I stood still and got grip of myself. A woman beside me said,
'They threw them down into the Tour de la Glacière.'"

"Ah!" exclaimed the Vicomtesse.

"It was dusk outside when all was over. I waited long, but about nine
they came out. The people scattered. I went after the man Carteaux. He
was all night in cafés, never alone--never once alone. I saw him again,
at morning, near by on horseback; then I lost him. Ah, my God! mother,
why would you make me tell it?"

"Because, René, it is often with you, and because it is not well for a
young man to keep before him unendingly a sorrow of the past. I wanted
you to feel that now I share with you what I can see so often has
possession of you. Do not pity me because I know all. Now you shall see
how bravely I will carry it." She took his hand. "It will be hard, but
wise to put it aside. Pray God, my son, this night to help you not to
forget, but not hurtfully to remember."

He said nothing, but looked up at the darkened heavens under which the
night-hawks were screaming in their circling flight.

"Is there more, my son?"

[Illustration: "As they struck, he called out 'Yvonne!'"]

"Yes, but it is so hopeless. Let us leave it, mother."

"No. I said we must clear our souls. Leave nothing untold. What is it?"

"The man Carteaux! If it had not been for you, I should never have left
France until I found that man."

"I thought as much. Had you told me, I should have stayed, or begged my
bread in England while you were gone."

"I could not leave you then, and now--now the sea lies between me and
him, and the craving that has been with me when I went to sleep and at
waking I must put away. I will try." As he spoke, he took her hand.

A rigid Huguenot, she had it on her lips to speak of the forgiving of
enemies. Generations of belief in the creed of the sword, her love, her
sense of the insult of this death, of a sudden mocked her purpose. She
was stirred as he was by a passion for vengeance. She flung his hand
aside, rose, and walked swiftly about, getting back her self-command by
physical action.

He had risen, but did not follow her. In a few minutes she came back
through the darkness, and setting a hand on each of his shoulders said
quietly: "I am sorry--the man is dead to you--I am sorry you ever knew
his name."

"But I do know it. It is with me, and must ever be until I die. I am to
try to forget--forget! That I cannot. The sea makes him as one dead to
me; but if ever I return to France--"

"Hush! It must be as I have said. If he were within reach do you think I
would talk as I do?"

The young man leaned over and kissed her. This was his last secret. "I
am not fool enough to cry for what fate has swept beyond my reach. Let
us drop it. I did not want to talk of it. We will let the dead past bury
its hatred and think only of that one dear memory, mother. And now will
you not go to bed, so as to be strong for to-morrow?"

"Not yet," she said. "Go and smoke your pipe with that good captain. I
want to be alone." He kissed her forehead and went away.

The river was still; the stars came out one by one, and a great planet
shone distinct on the mirroring plain. Upon the shore near by the young
frogs croaked shrilly. Fireflies flashed over her, but heedless of this
new world she sat thinking of the past, of their wrecked fortunes, of
the ruin which made the great duke, her cousin, counsel emigration, a
step he himself did not take until the Terror came. She recalled her
refusal to let him help them in their flight, and how at last, with a
few thousand livres, they had been counseled to follow the many who had
gone to America.

Then at last she rose, one bitter feeling expressing itself over and
over in her mind in words which were like an echo of ancestral belief,
in the obligation old noblesse imposed, no matter what the cost. An
overmastering thought broke from her into open speech as she cried
aloud: "Ah, my God! why did he not say he was the Vicomte de Courval!
Oh, why--"

"Did you call, mother?" said the son.

"No. I am going to the cabin, René. Good night, my son!"

He laid down the pipe he had learned to use in England and which he
never smoked in her presence; caught up her cashmere shawl, a relic of
better days, and carefully helped her down the companionway.

Then he returned to his pipe and the captain, and to talk of the new
home and of the ship's owner, Mr. Hugh Wynne, and of those strange, good
people who called themselves Friends, and who _tutoyéd_ every one alike.
He was eager to hear about the bitter strife of parties, of the
statesmen in power, of the chances of work, gathering with intelligence
such information as might be of service, until at last it struck eight
bells and the captain declared that he must go to bed.

The young man thanked him and added, "I shall like it, oh, far better
than England."

"I hope so, Wicount; but of this I am sure, men will like you and, by
George, women, too!"

De Courval laughed merrily. "You flatter me, Captain."

"No. Being at sea six weeks with a man is as good as being married, for
the knowing of him--the good and the bad of him."

"And my mother, will she like it?"

"Ah, now, that I cannot tell. Good night."

When in a morning of brilliant sunshine again, with the flood and a
favoring wind, the brig moved up-stream alone on the broad water, Madame
de Courval came on deck for the midday meal. Her son hung over her as
she ate, and saw with gladness the faint pink in her cheeks, and,
well-pleased, translated her questions to the captain as he proudly
pointed out the objects of interest when they neared the city of Penn.
There was the fort at Red Bank where the Hessians failed, and that was
the Swedes' church, and there the single spire of Christ Church rising
high over the red brick city, as madam said, of the color of Amsterdam.

Off the mouth of Dock Creek they came to anchor, the captain advising
them to wait on shipboard until he returned, and to be ready then to go
ashore.

When their simple preparations were completed, De Courval came on deck,
and, climbing the rigging, settled himself in the crosstrees to take
counsel with his pipe, and to be for a time alone and away from the
boat-loads of people eager for letters and for news from France and
England.

The mile-wide river was almost without a sail. A few lazy fishers and
the slowly moving vans of the mill on Wind Mill Island had little to
interest. As he saw it from his perch, the city front was busy and
represented the sudden prosperity which came with the sense of
permanence the administration of Washington seemed to guarantee for the
great bond under which a nation was to grow. There was the town
stretching north and south along the Delaware, and beyond it woodland.
What did it hold for him? The mood of reflection was no rare one for a
man of twenty-five who had lived through months of peril in France, amid
peasants hostile in creed, and who had seen the fortunes of his house
melt away, and at last had aged suddenly into gravity beyond his years
when he beat his way heartsick out of the grim tragedy of Avignon.

His father's people were of the noblesse of the robe, country gentles;
his mother a cousin of the two dukes Rochefoucauld. He drew qualities
from a long line of that remarkable judicature which through all changes
kept sacred and spotless the ermine of the magistrate. From the mother's
race he had spirit, courage, and a reserve of violent passions, the
inheritance of a line of warlike nobles unused to recognize any law but
their own will.

The quiet life of a lesser country gentleman, the absence from court
which pride and lessening means alike enforced, and the puritan training
of a house which held tenaciously to the creed of Calvin, combined to
fit him better to earn his living in a new land than was the case with
the greater nobles who had come to seek what contented their
ambitions--some means of living until they should regain their lost
estates. They drew their hopes from a ruined past. De Courval looked
forward with hope fed by youth, energy, and the simpler life.

It was four o'clock when the captain set them ashore with their boxes on
the slip in front of the warehouse of Mr. Wynne, the ship's owner. He
was absent at Merion, but his porters would care for their baggage, and
a junior clerk would find for them an inn until they could look for a
permanent home. When the captain landed them on the slip, the old clerk,
Mr. Potts, made them welcome, and would have had madam wait in the
warehouse until their affairs had been duly ordered. When her son
translated the invitation, she said: "I like it here. I shall wait for
you. The sun is pleasant." While he was gone, she stood alone, looking
about her at the busy wharf, the many vessels, the floating windmills
anchored on the river, and the long line of red brick warehouses along
the river front.

On his return, De Courval, much troubled, explained that there was not a
hackney-coach to be had, and that she had better wait in the
counting-house until a chaise could be found. Seeing her son's distress,
and learning that an inn could be reached near by, she declared it would
be pleasant to walk and that every minute made her better.

There being no help for it, they set out with the clerk, who had but a
mild interest in this addition to the French who were beginning to fly
from France and the islands, and were taxing heavily the hospitality and
the charity of the city. A barrow-man came on behind, with the baggage
for their immediate needs, now and then crying, "Barrow! Barrow!" when
his way was impeded.

De Courval, at first annoyed that his mother must walk, was silent, but
soon, with unfailing curiosity, began to be interested and amused. When,
reaching Second Street, they crossed the bridge over Dock Creek, they
found as they moved northward a brisk business life, shops, and more
varied costumes than are seen to-day. Here were Quakers, to madam's
amazement; nun-like Quaker women in the monastic seclusion of what later
was irreverently called the "coal-scuttle" bonnet; Germans of the
Palatinate; men of another world in the familiar short-clothes, long,
broidered waistcoat, and low beaver; a few negroes; and the gray-clad
mechanic, with now and then a man from the islands, when suddenly a
murmur of French startled the vicomtesse.

"What a busy life, _maman_," her son said; "not like that dark London,
and no fog, and the sun--like the sun of home."

"We have no home," she replied, and for a moment he was silent. Then,
still intent upon interesting her, he said:

"How strange! There is a sign of a likely black wench and two children
for sale. 'Inquire within and see them. Sold for want of use.' And
lotteries, _maman_. There is one for a canal between the Delaware and
the Schuylkill rivers; and one to improve the Federal City. I wonder
where that is." She paid little attention, and walked on, a tall, dark,
somber woman, looking straight before her, with her thoughts far away.

The many taverns carried names which were echoes from the motherland,
which men, long after the war, were still apt, as Washington wrote, to
call "home." The Sign of the Cock, the Dusty Miller, the Pewter Plate,
and--"Ah, _maman_," he cried, laughing, "The Inn of the Struggler. That
should suit us."

The sullen clerk, stirred at last by the young fellow's gay interest,
his eager questions, and his evident wish to distract and amuse a tired
woman who stumbled over the loose bricks of the sidewalk, declared that
was no place for them. Her tall figure in mourning won an occasional
glance, but no more. It was a day of strange faces and varied costumes.
"And, _maman_," said her son, "the streets are called for trees and the
lanes for berries." Disappointed at two inns of the better class, there
being no vacant rooms, they crossed High Street; the son amused at the
market stands for fruit, fish, and "garden truck, too," the clerk said,
with blacks crying, "Calamus! sweet calamus!" and "Pepper pot, smoking
hot!" or "Hominy! samp! grits! hominy!" Then, of a sudden, as they
paused on the farther corner, madam cried out, "_Mon Dieu!_" and her son
a half-suppressed "_Sacré!_" A heavy landau coming down Second Street
bumped heavily into a deep rut and there was a liberal splash of muddy
water across madam's dark gown and the young man's clothes. In an
instant the owner of the landau had alighted, hat in hand, a middle-aged
man in velvet coat and knee-breeches.

"Madam, I beg a thousand pardons."

"My mother does not speak English, sir. These things happen. It is they
who made the street who should apologize. It is of small moment."

"I thank you for so complete an excuse, sir. You surely cannot be
French. Permit me,"--and he turned to the woman, "_mille pardons_," and
went on in fairly fluent French to say how much he regretted, and would
not madam accept his landau and drive home? She thanked him, but
declined the offer in a voice which had a charm for all who heard it. He
bowed low, not urging his offer, and said, "I am Mr. William Bingham. I
trust to have the pleasure of meeting madam again and, too, this young
gentleman, whose neat excuse for me would betray him if his perfect
French did not. Can I further serve you?"

"No, sir," said De Courval, "except to tell me what inn near by might
suit us. We are but just now landed. My guide seems in doubt. I should
like one close at hand. My mother is, I fear, very tired."

"I think,"--and he turned to the clerk,--"yes, St. Tammany would serve.
It is clean and well kept and near by." He was about to add, "Use my
name," but, concluding not to do so, added: "It is at the corner of
Chancery Lane. This young man will know." Then, with a further word of
courtesy, he drove away, while madam stood for a moment sadly
contemplating the additions to her toilet.

Mr. Bingham, senator for Pennsylvania, reflected with mild curiosity on
the two people he had annoyed, and then murmured: "I was stupid. That is
where the Federal Club meets and the English go. They will never take
those poor French with their baggage in a barrow."

He had at least the outward manners of a day when there was leisure to
be courteous, and, feeling pleased with himself, soon forgot the people
he had unluckily inconvenienced. De Courval went on, ruefully glancing
at his clothes, and far from dreaming that he was some day to be
indebted to the gentleman they had left.

The little party, thus directed, turned into Mulberry Street, or, as men
called it, Arch, and, with his mother, De Courval entered a cleanly
front room under the sign of St. Tammany. There was a barred tap in one
corner, maids in cap and apron moving about, many men seated at tables,
with long pipes called churchwardens, drinking ale or port wine. Some
looked up, and De Courval heard a man say, "More French beggars." He
flushed, bit his lip, and turned to a portly man in a white jacket, who
was, as it seemed, the landlord. The mother shrank from the rude looks
and said a few words in French.

The host turned sharply as she spoke, and De Courval asked if he could
have two rooms. The landlord had none.

"Then may my mother sit down while I inquire without?"

A man rose and offered his chair as he said civilly: "Oeller's Tavern
might suit you. It is the French house--a hotel, they call it. You will
get no welcome here."

"Thank you," said De Courval, hearing comments on their muddy garments
and the damned French. He would have had a dozen quarrels on his hands
had he been alone. His mother had declined the seat, and as he followed
her out, he lingered on the step to speak to his guide. They were at
once forgotten, but he heard behind him scraps of talk, the freely used
oaths of the day, curses of the demagogue Jefferson and the man
Washington, who was neither for one party nor for the other. He listened
with amazement and restrained anger.

He had fallen in with a group of middle-class men, Federalists in name,
clamorous for war with Jacobin France, and angry at their nominal
leader, who stood like a rock against the double storm of opinion which
was eager for him to side with our old ally France or to conciliate
England. It was long before De Courval understood the strife of parties,
felt most in the cities, or knew that back of the mischievous diversity
of opinion in and out of the cabinet was our one safeguard--the belief
of the people in a single man and in his absolute good sense and
integrity. Young De Courval could not have known that the thoughtless
violence of party classed all French together, and as yet did not
realize that the _émigré_ was generally the most deadly foe of the
present rule in France.

Looking anxiously at his mother, they set out again up Mulberry Street,
past the meeting-house of Friends and the simple grave of the great
Franklin, the man too troubled, and the mother too anxious, to heed or
question when they moved by the burial-ground where Royalist and Whig
lay in the peace of death and where, at the other corner, Wetherill with
the free Quakers built the home of a short-lived creed.

Oeller's Tavern--because of its French guests called a hotel--was on
Chestnut Street, west of Fifth, facing the State House. A civil French
servant asked them into a large room on the right of what was known as a
double house. It was neat and clean, and the floor was sanded. Presently
appeared Maxim Oeller. Yes, he had rooms. He hoped the citizen would
like them, and the citizeness. De Courval was not altogether amused. He
had spoken English, saying, however, that he was of France, and the
landlord had used the patois of Alsace. The mother was worn out, and
said wearily: "I can go no farther. It will do. It must do, until we can
find a permanent lodging and one less costly."

Mr. Oeller was civil and madam well pleased. For supper in her room, on
extra payment, were fair rolls and an omelet. De Courval got the mud off
his clothes and at six went down-stairs for his supper.

At table, when he came in, were some twenty people, all men. Only two or
three were of French birth and the young man, who could not conceive of
Jacobin clubs out of France, sat down and began to eat with keen relish
a well-cooked supper.

By and by his neighbors spoke to him. Had he just come over the seas, as
the landlord had reported? What was doing in France? He replied, of
course, in his very pure English. News in London had come of Mirabeau's
death. Much interested, they plied him at once with questions. And the
king had tried to leave Paris, and there had been mobs in the provinces,
bloodshed, and an attack on Vincennes--which was not quite true. Here
were Americans who talked like the Jacobins he had left at home. Their
violence surprised him. Would he like to come to-morrow to the Jacobin
Club? The king was to be dealt with. Between amusement and indignation
the grave young vicomte felt as though he were among madmen. One man
asked if the decree of death to all _émigrés_ had been carried out.
"No," he laughed; "not while they were wise enough to stay away."
Another informed him that Washington and Hamilton were on the way to
create a monarchy. "Yes, Citizen, you are in a land of titles--Your
Excellency, Their Honors of the supreme court in gowns--scarlet gowns."
His discreet silence excited them. "Who are you for? Speak out!"

"I am a stranger here, with as yet no opinions."

"A neutral, by Jove!" shouted one.

At last the young man lost patience and said: "I am not, gentlemen, a
Jacobin. I am of that noblesse which of their own will gave up their
titles. I am--or was--the Vicomte de Courval."

There was an uproar. "We are citizens, we would have you to know. Damn
your titles! We are citizens, not gentlemen."

"That is my opinion," said De Courval, rising. Men hooted at him and
shook fists in his face. "Take care!" he cried, backing away from the
table. In the midst of it came the landlord. "He is a royalist," they
cried; "he must go or we go."

The landlord hurried him out of the room. "Monsieur," he said--"Citizen,
these are fools, but I have my living to think of. You must go. I am
sorry, very sorry."

"I cannot go now," said De Courval. "I shall do so to-morrow at my
leisure." It was so agreed. He talked quietly a while with his mother,
saying nothing of this new trouble, and then, still hot with anger, he
went to his room, astonished at his reception, and anxious that his
mother should find a more peaceful home.

He slept the sleep of the healthy young, rose at early dawn, and was
able to get milk and bread and thus to escape breakfast with the
citizen-boarders, not yet arisen. Before he went out, he glanced at the
book of guests. He had written Vicomte de Courval, with his mother's
name beneath it, La Vicomtesse de Courval, without a thought on so
casual a matter, and now, flushing, he read "Citizen" above his title
with an erasure of de and Vicomte. Over his mother's title was written
the last affectation of the Jacobins, "Citizeness" Courval. It was so
absurd that, the moment's anger passing into mirth, he went out into the
air, laughing and exclaiming: "_Mais qu'ils sont bêtes! Quelle
enfantillage!_ What childishness!" The servant, a man of middle age, who
was sweeping the steps, said in French, "What a fine day, monsieur."

"_Bon jour, Citizen_," returned De Courval, laughing. The man laughed
also, and said, "_Canailles, Monsieur_," with a significant gesture of
contempt. "_Bon jour, Monsieur le Vicomte_," and then, hearing steps
within, resumed his task with: "But one must live. My stomach has the
opinions of my appetite." For a moment he watched the serious face and
well-knit figure of the vicomte as he turned westward, and then went
into the house, remarking, "_Qu'il est beau_"--"What a handsome fellow!"

De Courval passed on. Independence Hall interested him for a moment.
Many people went by him, going to their work, although it was early. He
saw the wretched paving, the few houses high on banks of earth beyond
Sixth Street, and then, as he walked westward on Chestnut Street,
pastures, cows, country, and the fine forest to the north known as the
Governor's Wood. At last, a mile farther, he came upon the bank of a
river flowing slowly by. What it was he did not know. On the farther
shore were farms and all about him a thinner forest. It was as yet
early, and, glad of the lonely freshness, he stood still a little while
among the trees, saw bees go by on early business bent, and heard in the
edge of the wood the love song of a master singer, the cat-bird. Nature
had taken him in hand. He was already happier when, with shock of joy he
realized what she offered. No one was in sight. He undressed in the edge
of the wood and stood a while in the open on the graveled strand, the
tide at full of flood. The morning breeze stirred lightly the pale-green
leaves of spring with shy caress, so that little flashes of warm light
from the level sun-shafts coming through the thin leafage of May flecked
his white skin. He looked up, threw out his arms with the naked man's
instinctive happiness in the moment's sense of freedom from all form of
bondage, ran down the beach, and with a shout of pure barbarian delight
plunged into the river. For an hour he was only a young animal alone
with nature--diving, swimming, splashing the water, singing bits of
love-songs or laughing in pure childlike enjoyment of the use of easy
strength. At last he turned on his back and floated luxuriously. He
pushed back his curly hair, swept the water from his eyes, and saw with
a cry of pleasure that which is seen only from the level of the watery
plain. On the far shore, a red gravel bank, taking the sun, was
reflected a plain of gold on the river's breadth. The quickened wind
rolled the water into little concave mirrors which, dancing on the gold
surface, gathered the clear azure above him in cups of intense indigo
blue. It was new and freshly wonderful. What a sweet world! How good to
be alive!

When ashore he stood in a flood of sunshine, wringing the water from
body and limbs and hair, and at last running up and down the beach until
he was dry and could dress. Then, hat in hand, he walked away, feeling
the wholesome languor of the practised swimmer and gaily singing a song
of home:

"Quand tout renait à l'espérance,
Et que l'hiver fuit loin de nous,
Sous le beau ciel de notre France,
Quand le soleil revient plus doux;
Quand la nature est reverdie,
Quand l'hirondelle est de retour,
J'aime à revoir ma Normandie,
C'est le pays qui m'a donné le jour!"

The cares and doubts and worries of yesterday were gone--washed out of
him, as it were, in nature's baptismal regeneration of mind and body.
All that he himself recognized was a glad sense of the return of
competence and of some self-assurance of capacity to face the new world
of men and things.

He wandered into the wood and said good morning to two men who, as they
told him, were "falling a tree." He gathered flowers, white violets, the
star flower, offered tobacco for their pipes, which they accepted, and
asked them what flower was this. "We call them Quaker ladies." He went
away wondering what poet had so named them. In the town he bought two
rolls and ate them as he walked, like the great Benjamin. About nine
o'clock, returning to the hotel, he threw the flowers in his mother's
lap as he kissed her. He saw to her breakfast, chatted hopefully, and
when, about noon, she insisted on going with him to seek for lodgings,
he was pleased at her revived strength. The landlord regretted that they
must leave, and gave addresses near by. Unluckily, none suited their
wants or their sense of need for rigid economy; and, moreover, the
vicomtesse was more difficult to please than the young man thought quite
reasonable. They were pausing, perplexed, near the southwest corner of
Chestnut and Fifth streets when, having passed two gentlemen standing at
the door of a brick building known as the Philosophical Society, De
Courval said, "I will go back and ask where to apply for information."
He had been struck with the unusual height of one of the speakers, and
with the animation of his face as he spoke, and had caught as he went by
a phrase or two; for the stouter man spoke in a loud, strident voice,
as if at a town meeting. "I hope, Citizen, you liked the last 'Gazette.'
It is time to give men their true labels. Adams is a monarchist and
Hamilton is an aristocrat."

The taller man, a long, lean figure, returned in a more refined voice:
"Yes, yes; it is, I fear, only too true. I hope, Citizen, to live to see
the end of the titles they love, even Mr.; for who is the master of a
freeman?"

"How droll is that, _maman!_" said De Courval, half catching this
singular interchange of sentiment.

"Why, René? What is droll?"

"Oh, nothing." He turned back, and addressing the taller man said:
"Pardon me, sir, but we are strangers in search of some reasonable
lodging-house. May I ask where we could go to find some one to direct
us?"

The gentleman appealed to took off his hat, bowing to the woman, and
then, answering the son, said, "My friend, Citizen Freneau, may know."
The citizen had small interest in the matter. The taller man, suddenly
struck by the woman's grave and moveless face and the patient dignity of
her bearing, began to take an interest in this stranded couple,
considering them with his clear hazel eyes. As he stood uncovered, he
said: "Tell them, Freneau! Your paper must have notices--advertisements.
Where shall they inquire?"

Freneau did not know, but quick to note his companion's interest, said
presently: "Oh, yes, they might learn at the library. They keep there a
list of lodging-houses."

"That will do," said the lean man. Madame, understanding that they were
to be helped by this somber-looking gentleman, said, "_Je vous remercie,
messieurs_."

"My mother thanks you, sir."

Then there was of a sudden cordiality. Most of the few French known to
Freneau were Republicans and shared his extreme opinions. The greater
emigration from the islands and of the beggared nobles was not as yet
what it was to become.

"You are French?" said Freneau.

"Yes, we are French."

"I was myself about to go to the library," said the taller man, and,
being a courteous gentleman gone mad with "gallic fever," added in
imperfect French, "If madame will permit me; it is near by, and I shall
have the honor to show the way."

Then Citizen Freneau of the new "National Gazette," a clerk in the
Department of State, was too abruptly eager to help; but at last saying
"Good-by, Citizen Jefferson," went his way as the statesman, talking his
best French to the handsome woman at his side, went down Chestnut
Street, while De Courval, relieved, followed them and reflected with
interest--for he had learned many things on the voyage--that the tall
man in front must be the former minister to France, the idol of the
Democratic party, and the head of that amazing cabinet of diverse
opinions which the great soldier president had gathered about him. East
of Fourth Street, Mr. Jefferson turned into a court, and presently
stood for a moment on the front step of a two-story brick building known
as Carpenter's Hall, over which a low spire still bore a forgotten
crown. Not less forgotten were Jefferson's democratic manners. He was at
once the highly educated and well-loved Virginian of years ago.

He had made good use of his time, and the woman at his side, well aware
of the value of being agreeable, had in answer to a pleasant question
given her name, and presently had been told by the ex-minister his own
name, with which she was not unfamiliar.

"Here, madame," he said, "the first Congress met. I had the misfortune
not to be of it."

"But later, monsieur--later, you can have had nothing to regret."

"Certainly not to-day," said the Virginian. He paused as a tall,
powerfully built man, coming out with a book in his hand, filled the
doorway.

"Good morning, Mr. Wynne," said Jefferson. "Is the librarian within?"

"Yes; in the library, up-stairs."

Hearing the name of the gentleman who thus replied, the young vicomte
said:

"May I ask, sir, if you are Mr. Hugh Wynne?"

"Yes, I am; and, if I am not mistaken, you are the Vicomte de Courval,
and this, your mother. Ah, madame," he said in French, far other than
that of the secretary, "I missed you at Oeller's, and I am now at your
service. What can I do for you?"

The vicomtesse replied that they had been guided hither by Mr.
Jefferson to find a list of lodging-houses.

"Then let us go and see about it."

"This way, Vicomte," said Jefferson. "It is up-stairs, madame." Ah,
where now were the plain manners of democracy and the scorn of titles? A
low, sweet voice had bewitched him, the charm of perfect French at its
best.

The United States bank was on the first floor, and the clerks looked up
with interest at the secretary and his companions as they passed the
open door. De Courval lingered to talk with Wynne, both in their way
silently amused at the capture by the vicomtesse of the gentleman with
Jacobin principles.

The room up-stairs was surrounded with well-filled book-shelves. Midway,
at a table, sat Zachariah Poulson, librarian, who was at once
introduced, and who received them with the quiet good manners of his
sect. A gentleman standing near the desk looked up from the book in his
hand. While Mr. Poulson went in search of the desired list, Mr. Wynne
said: "Good morning, James. I thought, Mr. Secretary, you knew Mr.
Logan. Permit me to add agreeably to your acquaintance." The two
gentlemen bowed, and Wynne added: "By the way, do you chance to know,
Mr. Secretary, that Mr. Logan is hereditary librarian of the Loganian
Library, and every Logan in turn if he pleases--our only inherited
title."

"Not a very alarming title," said the Quaker gentleman, demurely.

"We can stand that much," said Jefferson, smiling as he turned to
Madame de Courval, while her son, a little aside, waited for the list
and surveyed with interest the Quakers, the statesman, and the merchant
who seemed so friendly.

At this moment came forward a woman of some forty years; rose-red her
cheeks within the Quaker bonnet, and below all was sober gray, with a
slight, pearl-colored silk shawl over her shoulders.

"Good morning, Friend Wynne. Excuse me, Friend Jefferson," she said.
"May I be allowed a moment of thy time, James Logan?" The gentlemen drew
back. She turned to the vicomtesse. "Thou wilt permit me. I must for
home shortly. James Logan, there is a book William Bingham has praised
to my daughter. I would first know if it be fitting for her to read. It
is called, I believe, 'Thomas Jones.'"

Mr. Jefferson's brow rose a little, the hazel eyes confessed some
merriment, and a faint smile went over the face of Hugh Wynne as Logan
said: "I cannot recommend it to thee, Mary Swanwick."

"Thank thee," she said simply. "There is too much reading of vain books
among Friends. I fear I am sometimes a sinner myself; but thy aunt,
Mistress Gainor, Hugh, laughs at me, and spoils the girl with books--too
many for her good, I fear."

"Ah, she taught me worse wickedness than books when I was young," said
Wynne; "but your girl is less easy to lead astray. Oh, a word, Mary,"
and he lowered his voice. "Here are two French people I want you to take
into your house."

"If it is thy wish, Hugh; but although there is room and to spare, we
live, of need, very simply, as thou knowest."

"That is not thy Uncle Langstroth's fault or mine."

"Yes, yes. Thou must know how wilful I am. But Friend Schmidt is only
too generous, and we have what contents me, and should content Margaret,
if it were not for the vain worldliness Gainor Wynne puts into the
child's head. Will they like Friend Schmidt?"

"He will like them, Mary Swanwick. You are a fair French scholar
yourself. Perhaps they may teach you--they are pleasant people." He,
too, had been captured by the sweet French tongue he loved.

"They have some means," he added, "and I shall see about the young man.
He seems more English than French, a staid young fellow. You may make a
Quaker of him, Mary."

"Thou art foolish, Hugh Wynne; but I will take them."

Then the perverted Secretary of State went away. Mrs. Swanwick, still in
search of literature, received an innocent book called "The Haunted
Priory, or the Fortunes of the House of Almy." There were pleasant
introductions, and, to De Courval's satisfaction, their baggage would be
taken in charge, a chaise sent in the afternoon for his mother and
himself, and for terms--well, that might bide awhile until they saw if
all parties were suited. The widow, pleased to oblige her old friend,
had still her reserve of doubt and some thought as to what might be said
by her permanent inmate, Mr. Johann Schmidt.

III

On reaching Mrs. Swanwick's home in the afternoon, the vicomtesse went
at once to her room, where the cleanliness and perfect order met her
tacit approval, and still more the appetizing meal which the hostess
herself brought to the bedside of her tired guest.

Mr. Schmidt, the other boarder, was absent at supper, and the evening
meal went by with little talk beyond what the simple needs of the meal
required. De Courval excused himself early and, after a brief talk with
his mother, was glad of a comfortable bed, where he found himself
thinking with interest of the day's small events and of the thin, ruddy
features, bright, hazel eyes and red hair, of the tall Virginia
statesman, the leader of the party some of whose baser members had given
the young vicomte unpleasant minutes at Oeller's Hotel.

When very early the next day De Courval awakened and looked eastward
from his room in the second story of Mrs. Swanwick's home, he began to
see in what pleasant places his lot was cast. The house, broad and
roomy, had been a country home. Now commerce and the city's growth were
contending for Front Street south of Cedar, but being as yet on the edge
of the town, the spacious Georgian house, standing back from the
street, was still set round with ample gardens, on which just now fell
the first sunshine of the May morning. As De Courval saw, the ground at
the back of the house fell away to the Delaware River. Between him and
the shore were flowers, lilacs in bloom, and many fruit-trees. Among
them, quite near by, below the window, a tall, bareheaded man in
shirt-sleeves was busy gathering a basket of the first roses. He seemed
particular about their arrangement, and while he thus pleased himself,
he talked aloud in a leisurely way, and with a strong voice, now to a
black cat on the wall above him, and now as if to the flowers. De
Courval was much amused by this fresh contribution to the strange
experiences of the last two days. The language of the speaker was also
odd.

As De Courval caught bits of the soliloquy under his window, he thought
of his mother's wonder at this new and surprising country.

What would she write Rochefoucauld d'Entin? She was apt to be on paper,
as never in speech, emotional and tender, finding confession to white
paper easy and some expression of the humorous aspects of life possible,
when, as in writing, there needed no gay comment of laughter. If she
were only here, thought the son. Will she tell the duke how she is
"thou" to these good, plain folk, and of the prim welcomes, and of this
German, who must be the Friend Schmidt they spoke of,--no doubt a
Quaker, and whom he must presently remind of his audience? But for a
little who could resist so comic an opportunity? "Gute Himmel, but you
are beautiful!" said the voice below him. "Oh, not you," he cried to
the cat, "wanton of midnight! I would know if, Madame Red Rose, you are
jealous of the white-bosomed rose maids. If all women were alike fair as
you, there would be wild times, for who would know to choose? Off with
you, Jezebel, daughter of darkness! 'Sh! I love not cats. Go!" and he
cast a pebble at the sleepy grimalkin, which fled in fear. This singular
talk went on, and De Courval was about to make some warning noise when
the gardener, adding a rose to his basket, straightened himself, saying:
"Ach, Himmel! My back! How in the garden Adam must have ached!"

Leaving his basket for a time, he was lost among the trees, to reappear
in a few minutes far below, out on the water in a boat, where he
undressed and went overboard.

"A good example," thought De Courval. Taking a towel, he slipped out
noiselessly through the house where no one was yet astir, and finding a
little bathhouse open below the garden, was soon stripped, and, wading
out, began to swim. By this time the gardener was returning, swimming
well and with the ease of an expert when the two came near one another a
couple of hundred yards from shore.

As they drew together, De Courval called out in alarm: "Look out! Take
care!"

Two small lads in a large Egg Harbor skiff, seeing the swimmer in their
way, made too late an effort to avoid him. A strong west wind was
blowing. The boat was moving fast. De Courval saw the heavy bow strike
the head of the man, who was quite unaware of the nearness of the boat.
He went under. De Courval struck out for the stern of the boat, and in
its wake caught sight of a white body near the surface. He seized it,
and easily got the man's head above water. The boat came about, the boys
scared and awkward. With his left hand, De Courval caught the low
gunwale and with his right held up the man's head. Then he felt the long
body stir. The great, laboring chest coughed out water, and the man,
merely stunned and, as he said later, only quarter drowned, drew deep
breaths and gasped, "Let them pull to shore." The boys put out oars in
haste, and in a few minutes De Courval felt the soft mud as he dropped
his feet and stood beside the German. In a minute the two were on the
beach, the one a young, white figure with the chest muscles at relieving
play; the other a tall, gaunt, bronzed man, shaking and still coughing
as he cast himself on the bordering grass without a word.

"Are you all right?" asked De Courval, anxiously.

For a moment the rescued man made no reply as he lay looking up at the
sky. Then he said: "Yes, or will be presently. This sun is a good doctor
and sends in no bill. Go in and dress. I shall be well presently. My
boat! Ah, the boys bring it. Now my clothes. Do not scold them. It was
an accident."

"That is of the past," he said in a few moments as De Courval rejoined
him, "a contribution to experience. Thank you," and he put out a hand
that told of anything but the usage of toil as he added: "I was
wondering, as I dressed, which is the better for it, the helper or the
helped. Ach, well, it is a good introduction. You are mein Herr de
Courval, and I am Johann Schmidt, at your honorable service now and
ever. Let us go in. I must rest a little before breakfast. I have known
you,"--and he laughed,--"shall we say five years? We will not trouble
the women with it."

"I? Surely not."

"Pardon me. I was thinking of my own tongue, which is apt to gabble,
being the female part of a man's body."

"May I beg of you not to speak of it," urged De Courval, gravely.

"How may I promise for the lady?" laughed Schmidt as they moved through
the fruit-trees. "Ah, here is the basket of roses for the Frau Von
Courval."

A singular person, thought the vicomte, but surely a gentleman.

Madame de Courval, tired of looking for a home, had resolved to give no
trouble to this kindly household and to accept their hours--the
breakfast at seven, the noonday dinner, the supper at six. She was
already dressed when she heard the step outside of her door, and looking
up from her Bible, called "_Entrez_, my son. Ah, roses, roses! Did you
gather them?"

"No; they are for you, with the compliments of our fellow-lodger, a
German, I believe, Mr. Schmidt; another most strange person in this
strange land. He speaks English well, but, _mon Dieu_, of the oddest. A
well-bred man, I am sure; you will like him."

"I do not know, and what matters it? I like very few people, as you
know, René; but the place does appear to be clean and neat. That must
suffice."

He knew well enough that she liked few people. "Are you ready, _maman?_
Shall we go down?"

"Yes, I am ready. This seems to me a haven of rest, René--a haven of
rest, after that cruel sea."

"It so seems to me, _maman_; and these good Quakers. They _tutoyer_
every one--every one. You must try to learn English. I shall give you
lessons, and there is a note from Mr. Wynne, asking me to call at
eleven. And one word more, _maman_--"

"Well, my son?"

"You bade me put aside the past. I shall do so; but you--can not you
also do the same? It will be hard, for you made me make it harder."

"I know--I know, but you are young--I old of heart. Life is before you,
my son. It is behind me. I can not but think of my two lonely little
ones in the graveyard and the quiet of our home life and, my God! of
your father!" To his surprise, she burst into tears. Any such outward
display of emotion was in his experience of her more than merely
unusual. "Go down to breakfast, René. I shall try to live in your life.
You will tell me everything--always. I shall follow you presently. We
must not be late."

"Yes," he said; but he did not tell her of his morning's adventure. Even
had he himself been willing to speak of it, the German would not like
it, and already Schmidt began to exercise over him that influence which
was more or less to affect his life in the years yet to come. As he went
down to the broad hall, he saw a floor thinly strewn with white sand,
settles on both sides, a lantern hanging overhead, and the upper half of
the front door open to let the morning air sweep through to the garden.

A glance to right and left showed on one side a bare, whitewashed front
room, without pictures or mirrors, some colonial chairs with shells
carved on feet and knees, and on a small table a china bowl of roses.
The room to right he guessed at once to be used as a sitting-room by
Schmidt.

The furniture was much as in the other room, but there were shining
brass fire-dogs, silver candlesticks on the mantel, and over it a pair
of foils, two silver-mounted pistols, and a rapier with a gold-inlaid
handle. Under a window was a large secretary with many papers. There
were books in abundance on the chairs and in a corner case. The
claw-toed tables showed pipes, tobacco-jars, wire masks, and a pair of
fencing-gloves. On one side of the hall a tall clock reminded him that
he was some ten minutes late.

The little party was about to sit down at table when he entered. "This
is Friend de Courval," said the widow.

"We have met in the garden," returned Schmidt, quietly.

"Indeed. Thou wilt sit by me, Friend de Courval, and presently thy
mother on my right." As she spoke, Madame de Courval paused at the door
while the hostess and her daughter bent in the silent grace of Friends.
The new-comer took her place with a pleasant word of morning greeting in
her pretty French; an old black woman brought in the breakfast. A
tranquil courtesy prevailed.

"Will thy mother take this or that? Here are eggs my uncle sent from the
country, and shad, which we have fresh from the river, a fish we
esteem."

There was now for a somewhat short time little other talk. The girl of
over sixteen shyly examined the new-comers. The young man approved the
virginal curves of neck and figure, the rebellious profusion of dark
chestnut-tinted hair, the eyes that could hardly have learned their busy
attentiveness in the meeting-house. The gray dress and light gray silk
kerchief seemed devised to set off the roses which came out in wandering
isles of color on her cheeks. Madame's ignorance of English kept her
silent, but she took note of the simple attire of her hostess, the
exquisite neatness of the green apron, then common among Friends, and
the high cap. The habit of the house was to speak only when there was
need. There was no gossip even of the mildest.

"June was out all night," said Mrs. Swanwick. "That is our cat," she
explained to De Courval.

"But she brought in a dead mouse," said the girl, "to excuse herself, I
suppose." Schmidt smiled at the touch of humor, but during their first
meal was more silent than usual.

"I did not tell thee, Margaret," said Mrs. Swanwick, "that William
Westcott was here yesterday at sundown. I have no liking for him. I
said thou wert out."

"But I was only in the garden."

"I did say thou wert out, but not in the garden."

Schmidt smiled again as he set his teaspoon across his cup, the
conventional sign that he wished no more tea.

Then the girl, with fresh animation, asked eagerly: "Oh, mother, I
forgot; am I to have the book Ann Bingham thought delightful, and her
father told thee I should read?"

"I am not so minded," replied the mother, and this seemed to end the
matter. De Courval listened, amused, as again the girl asked cheerfully:

"Aunt Gainor will be here to take me with her to see some china, mother,
at twelve. May I not go?"

"No, not to-day. There is the cider of last fall we must bottle, and I
shall want thy help. The last time," she said, smiling, "thou didst
fetch home a heathen god--green he was, and had goggle eyes. What would
Friend Pennington say to that?"

"But I do not pray to it."

"My child!" said the mother, and then: "If thou didst pray to all Aunt
Gainor's gods, thou wouldst be kept busy. I have my hands full with thee
and Gainor Wynne's fal-lals and thy Uncle Langstroth's follies." She
smiled kindly as she spoke, and again the girl quietly accepted the
denial of her request, while De Courval listened with interest and
amusement.

"I shall go with Miss Wynne," said Schmidt, "and buy you a brigade of
china gods. I will fill the house with them, Margaret." He laughed.

"Thou wilt do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"Well, Nanny would break them pretty soon. Brief would be the lives of
those immortals. But I forgot; I have a book for thee, Pearl."

De Courval looked up. "Yes," he thought; "the Pearl, Marguerite. It does
seem to suit."

"And what is it?" said the mother. "I am a little afraid of thee and thy
books."

"'The Vicar of Wakefield' it is called; not very new, but you will like
it, Pearl."

"I might see it myself first."

"When Pearl and I think it fit for thee," said Schmidt, demurely. "I did
see also in the shop Job Scott's 'The Opening of the Inward Eye, or
Righteousness Revealed.' I would fetch thee that--for thyself."

The hostess laughed. "He is very naughty, Friend de Courval," she said,
"but not as wicked as he seems." Very clearly Schmidt was a privileged
inmate. Madame ate with good appetite, pleased by the attention shown
her, and a little annoyed at being, as it were, socially isolated for
want of English. As she rose she told her son that she had a long letter
she must write to Cousin Rochefoucauld, and would he ask Mr. Wynne how
it might be sent. Then Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come to my room.
There we may smoke, or in the garden, not elsewhere. There is here a
despotism; you will need to be careful."

"Do not believe him," said the Pearl. "Mother would let him smoke in
meeting, if she were overseer."

"Margaret, Margaret, thou art saucy. That comes of being with the
Willing girls and Gainor, who is grown old in sauciness--world's
people!" and her eyebrows went up, so that whether she was quite in
earnest or was the prey of some sudden jack-in-the-box of pure humor, De
Courval did not know. It was all fresh, interesting, and somehow
pleasant. Were all Quakers like these?

He followed Schmidt into his sitting-room, where his host closed the
door. "Sit down," he said. "Not there. These chairs are handsome. I keep
them to look at and for the occasional amendment of slouching manners.
Five minutes will answer. But here are two of my own contrivance,
democratic, vulgar, and comfortable. Ah, do you smoke? Yes, a pipe. I
like that. I should have been disappointed if you were not a user of the
pipe. I am going to talk, to put you in _pays de connaissance_, as you
would say. And now for comments! My acquaintance of five years,--or five
minutes, was it, that I was under water?--may justify the unloading of
my baggage of gossip on a man whom I have benefited by the chance of
doing a good deed, if so it be--or a kind one at least. You shall learn
in a half hour what otherwise might require weeks."

De Courval, amused at the occasional quaintness of the English, which he
was one day to have explained, blew rings of smoke and listened.

"I shall be long, but it will help you and save questions."

"Pray go on, sir. I shall be most thankful."

"_Imprimis_, there is Mrs. Swanwick, born in the Church of England, if
any are born in church--Cyrilla Plumstead. She was brought up in luxury,
which came to an end before they married her to a stiff Quaker man who
departed this life with reasonable kindness, after much discipline of
his wife in ways which sweeten many and sour some. She has held to it
loyally--oh, more or less. That is the setting of our Pearl, a creature
of divine naturalness, waiting until some Quaker Cupid twangs his bow.
Then the kiss-defying bonnet will suffer. By the way, Mrs. Swanwick is a
fair French scholar, but a bit shy with you as yet.

"Soon thou wilt see Josiah Langstroth, uncle of Mrs. Swanwick. Ah,
there's a man that mocks conjecture; for, being a Quaker by pride of
ancestral damnation, he goes to meeting twice a year, swears a little to
ease his soul, toasts George the Third of Sundays, and will surely tell
you how, driven out of the country, he went to London and was presented
to the king and triumphantly kept his hat on his head. He is rich and
would provide for his niece, who will take help from no one. He does at
times offer money, but is ever well pleased when she refuses. As for
Hugh Wynne, I will go with you to see him, a Welsh squire to this day,
like the best of them here. I shall leave you to make him out. He is a
far-away cousin of Margaret's mother.

"It is a fine menagerie. Very soon you will hear of Aunt Gainor
Wynne,--every one calls her aunt; I should not dare to do so,--a sturdy
Federalist lady, with a passion for old china, horses, and matchmaking,
the godmother of Mrs. Swanwick. Take care; she will hate or love you at
sight, and as great a maker of mischief as ever perplexed good sense; as
tender an old woman at times as ever lacked need of onions to fetch
tears; a fine lady when she chooses.

"There, I have done you a service and saved your wits industry. You
listen well. There is a savor of grace in that. It is a virtue of the
smoker. Question me if you like."

Nothing could better have pleased the young man.

"I would know more of this town, sir," and he told of his quest of a
tavern. The German laughed.

"A good lesson--Federalists and ape democrats--wild politics of a nation
in its childhood. Three great men,--Washington, Hamilton, James Wilson,
and perhaps John Adams; well--great merchants, Willings, Bingham, and
Girard; and besides these, Quakers, many of them nobler for a creed
unworkable in a naughty world, with offshoots of 'world's people,' which
saved some fortunes in the war; and, ah, a sect that will die
away,--Free Quakers, high-minded gentlemen who made up for a century of
peace when they elected to draw the sword. I fear I have been tedious."

"No, not at all; you are most kind, sir, and most interesting. I am sure
to like it all. I hope my mother will be contented. We have never of
late years been used to luxuries."

"She can hardly fail to be satisfied; but it is a simple life. There are
only two servants, Cicero, and Nanny, once a slave, now, as Mrs.
Swanwick says, a servant friend--ah, and a stiff Episcopal. She has
never ceased to wonder why her mistress ever became a Quaker. I am much
of her way of thinking. Are you of a mind to walk and see a little of
the city? Later we will call upon Mr. Wynne." As they rose, he added: "I
did not speak of the wrecks of French nobles cast on these shores--only
a few as yet. You will see them by and by. They are various--but in
general perplexed by inheritance of helplessness. Once for all you are
to understand that my room is always and equally yours. Of course you
use the foils. Yes; well, we shall fence in the garden. And now come;
let us go out."

"I forgot, sir. My mother bade me thank you for the roses. She has as
yet no English, or would herself have thanked you."

"But I myself speak French--of a kind. It will serve to amuse madame;
but never will you hear French at its best until Miss Wynne does talk
it."

As they went northward on Front Street, with the broad Delaware to the
right, for as yet no Water Street narrowed the river frontage, the
German said: "I left out of my portrait gallery one Schmidt, but you
will come to know him in time. He has a talent for intimacy. Come, now;
you have known him five years. What do you think of him?"

More and more strange seemed this gentleman to his young companion. He
glanced aside at the tall, strongly built man, with the merry blue eyes,
and, a little embarrassed and somewhat amused, replied with habitual
caution, "I hardly know as yet, but I think I shall like him."

"I like the answer. You will like him, but we may leave him and time to
beget opinion. How dignified these Georgian fronts are, and the stoops!
Once folks sat on them at evening, and gossiped of the miseries of war.
Now there are changed ways and more luxury and a new day--less
simpleness; but not among the good people we have left. No. They are of
the best, and aristocrats, too, though you may not suspect it. The habit
of hospitality in a new land remains. A lady with small means loses no
social place because, like our hostess, she receives guests who pay.
Here will come rich kinsfolk and friends, visitors on even
terms--Whartons, Morrises, Cadwaladers, Logans,--the old, proud Welsh,
grandsons of Welsh, with at times Quaker people and the men in office,
for madame is clever and well liked. I tell her she has a Quaker salon,
which is not my wit, but true."

"I had supposed Friends too rigid for this."

"Oh, there are Quakers and Quakers, and sometimes the overseers feel
called upon to remonstrate; and then there is an unpleasantness, and our
hostess is all of a sudden moved by the spirit to say things, and has
her claws out. And my rose, my rose Pearl, can be prickly, too."

"She does not look like it, sir."

"No? When does a young woman look like what she is or may be? She is a
good girl--as good as God makes them; her wits as yet a bit muzzled by
the custom of Friends. A fair bud--prophetic of what the rose will be."

They wandered on to Arch Street and then westward. "Here," said Schmidt,
as they turned into the open entrance of a graveyard--"here I come at
evening sometimes. Read that. There are sermons in these stones, and
history."

De Courval saw on a gray slab, "Benjamin Franklin and Deborah, his
wife." He took off his hat, saying as he stood: "My father knew him. He
came to Normandy once to see the model farms of our cousin,
Rochefoucauld Liancourt."

"Indeed. I never knew the philosopher, but the duke--I knew the duke
well,--in Paris,--oh, very well, long ago; a high-minded noble. We will
come here again and talk of this great man, under the marble, quiet as
never in life. You must not be late for Wynne. He will not like that."

Turning southward and walking quickly, they came in half an hour to the
busy space in front of Wynne's warehouse. He met them at the door, where
Schmidt, leaving them, said, "I leave you a man, Colonel Wynne."

Wynne said, smiling: "I am no longer a colonel, Vicomte, but a plain
merchant. Have the kindness to follow me, Vicomte," and so passed on
through a room where clerks were busy and into a small, neatly kept
office.

"Sit down, Vicomte. We must have a long talk and come quickly to know
one another. You speak English, I observe, and well, too. And, now, you
have a letter of exchange on me for five thousand livres, or, rather,
two hundred pounds. Better to leave it with me. I can give you interest
at six per cent., and you may draw on me at need. Have you any present
want?"

"No, sir; none--just yet none."

"I am told that you left France for England and have had, pardon me,
much to lament."

"Yes, we have suffered like many others." He was indisposed to be frank
where there was no need to say more.

"What do you purpose to do? A few thousand livres will not go far."

"I do not know. Anything which will help us to live."

"Anything? You may teach French like De Laisne, or fencing like Du
Vallon, or dancing like the Marquis de Beau Castel. I offered him a
clerkship."

"Offer me one," said De Courval. "I write a good hand. I speak and write
English. I can learn, and I will."

Wynne took stock, as he would have said, of the rather serious face, of
the eyes of gray which met his look, of a certain eagerness in the young
man's prompt seizure of a novel opportunity.

"Can you serve under a plain man like my head clerk, run errands, obey
without question--in a word, accept a master?"

"I have had two bitter ones, sir, poverty and misfortune."

"Can you come at eight thirty, sweep out the office, make the fires at
need in winter, with an hour off, at noon, and work till six? Such is
our way here."

The young man flushed. "Is that required?"

"I did it for a year, Vicomte, and used the sword for five years, and
came back to prosper."

De Courval smiled. "I accept, sir; we have never been rich, and I ought
to say that we are not of the greater noblesse. When our fortunes fell
away, I worked with our peasants in the field. I have no false pride,
and my sword is in a box in Mrs. Swanwick's attic. I fancy, sir, that I
shall have no use for it here. Why gentlemen should prefer to teach
French or dancing to good steady work I cannot understand."

"Nor I," said Wynne, beginning to like this grave and decisive young
noble. "Think it over," he said.

"I have done so."

"Very good. You will receive thirty dollars a month--to be increased, I
trust. When will you come?"

"To-morrow--at eight and a half, you said."

"Yes; but to-morrow a little earlier. The junior clerk you replace will
tell you what you are to do, and for the rest Mr. Potts will give you
your orders. A word more: you had better drop your title and be plain
Mr. de Courval. When, as will chance, you go among our friends, it would
be an affectation. Well, then, to-morrow; but,--and you will pardon
me,--to-day we are two gentlemen, equals; to-morrow, here at least, you
are a simple clerk among exact and industrious people, and I the master.
Let us be clear as to this. That is all."

"I think I understand. And now may I ask how I may find the French
minister? There is a letter my mother would send to her cousin, and I am
at a loss, for I fear there are no mails I can trust."

"Jean de Ternant is the French minister, but he will hardly be likely to
oblige a _ci-devant_ vicomte. They talk of a new one. Give it to me; I
will see that it goes by safe hands." With this he rose and added: "Mrs.
Wynne will have the honor to call on the vicomtesse, and we shall be at
her service."

"Thank you," said De Courval, a little overcome by his kindness. "My
mother is in mourning, sir. She will, I fear, be unwilling to visit."

"Then my wife will come again. We may leave two good women to settle
that; and now I must let you go." Then, seeing that De Courval lingered,
he added, "Is there anything else?"

"Only a word of thanks, and may I ask why you are so good to us? I
am--sadly unused to kindness. There was not much of it in England."

Wynne smiled. "I have heard a little about you--some things I
liked--from my correspondents in Bristol and London; and, Vicomte, my
mother was French. When you visit us at Merion you shall see her picture
Stuart made for me from a miniature, and then you will understand why my
heart goes out to all French people. But they are not easy to help,
these unlucky nobles who will neither beg nor do a man's work. Oh, you
will see them, and I, too, more and more, I fear. Good morning."

With this the young man walked thoughtfully away. Hugh Wynne watched him
for a moment, and said to himself, "A good deal of a man, that; Schmidt
is right." And then, having seen much of men in war and peace, "there
must be another side to him, as there was to me. I doubt he is all
meekness. I must say a word to Mary Swanwick," and he remembered certain
comments his wife had made on Margaret's budding beauty. Then he went
in.

The thoughts of the young man were far from women. He went along the
road beside Dock Creek, and stood a moment on the bridge, amused at the
busy throng of which he was now to become a part. On the west side of
Second Street a noisy crowd at a shop door excited his curiosity.

"What is that?" he asked a passing mechanic. "I am a stranger here."

"Oh, that's a vandoo of lottery shares. The odd numbers sell high,
specially the threes. That's what they're after."

"Thank you," said De Courval, and then, as he drew nearer, exclaimed,
"_Mon Dieu!_" The auctioneer was perched on a barrel. Just below him
stood a young Frenchman eagerly bidding on the coveted number 33. Not
until De Courval was beside him was he disillusioned. It was not
Carteaux, nor was the man, on nearer view, very like him. When clear of
the small crowd, De Courval moved away slowly, vexed with himself and
disturbed by one of those abrupt self-revelations which prove to a man
how near he may be to emotional insurrection.

"If it had been he," he murmured, "I should have strangled him, ah,
there at once." He had been imprudent, lacking in intelligence. He felt,
too, how slightly impressed he had been by his mother's desire that he
should dismiss from his life the dark hour of Avignon. More than a
little dissatisfied, he put it all resolutely aside and began to
reconsider the mercantile career before him. He was about to give up the
social creed and ways in which he had been educated. He had never earned
a sou, and was now to become a part of the life of trade, a thing which
at one time would have seemed to him impossible. Would his mother like
it? No; but for that there was no help, and some of it he would keep to
himself. Thirty dollars would pay his own board, and he must draw on
his small reserve until he made more. But there were clothes to get and
he knew not what besides; nor did he altogether like it himself. He had
served in the army two years, and had then been called home, where he
was sorely needed. It would have been strange if, with his training and
traditions, he had felt no repugnance at this prospect of a trader's
life. But it was this or nothing, and having made his choice, he meant
to abide by it. And thus, having settled the matter, he went on his way,
taking in with observant eyes the wonders of this new country.

He made for his mother a neat little tale of how he was to oblige Mr.
Wynne by translating or writing French letters. Yes, the hours were
long, but he was sure he should like it, and Mrs. Swanwick would, she
had said, give him breakfast in time for him to be at his work by half
after eight o'clock; and where was the letter which should be sent, and
Mrs. Wynne would call. The vicomtesse wished for no company, and least
of all for even the most respectable bourgeois society; but she supposed
there was no help for it, and the boarding-house was very well, indeed,
restful, and the people quiet. Would she be expected to say thou to
them? Her son thought not, and after a rather silent noon dinner went
out for a pull on the river with Schmidt, and bobbed for crabs to his
satisfaction, while Schmidt at intervals let fall his queer phrases as
the crabs let go the bait and slid off sideways.

"There is a man comes here to pester Mrs. Swanwick at times. He goes
out of the doors sideways, there, like that fellow in the
water--Monsieur Crab, I call him. He is meek and has claws which are
critical and pinch until madame boils over, and then he gets red like a
crab. That was when Pearl had of Miss Gainor a gold locket and a red
ribbon, and wore it on a day when with Miss Gainor the girl was by evil
luck seen of our Quaker crab.

"But not all are like that. There is one, Israel Morris, who looks like
a man out of those pictures by Vandyke you must have seen, and with the
gentleness of a saint. Were I as good as he, I should like to die, for
fear I could not keep it up. Ah you got a nip. They can bite. It can not
be entirely true--I mean that man's goodness; but it is naturally
performed. The wife is a fair test of humility. I wonder how his virtue
prospers at home."

De Courval listened, again in wonder where had been learned this
English, occasionally rich with odd phrases; for usually Schmidt spoke a
fluent English, but always with some flavor of his own tongue.

The supper amused the young man, who was beginning to be curious and
observant of these interesting and straightforward people. There were at
times long silences. The light give and take of the better chat of the
well-bred at home in France was wanting. His mother could not talk, and
there were no subjects of common interest. He found it dull at first,
being himself just now in a gay humor.

After the meal he ventured to admire the buff-and-gold china in a corner
cupboard, and then two great silver tankards on a sideboard. Mrs.
Swanwick was pleased. "Yes," she said, "they are of Queen Anne's day,
and the arms they carry are of the Plumsteads and Swanwicks."

He called his mother's attention to them. "But," she said, of course in
French, "what have these people to do with arms?"

"Take care," he returned under his breath. "Madame speaks French."

Mrs. Swanwick, who had a fair knowledge of the tongue, quickly caught
her meaning, but said with a ready smile: "Ah, they have had adventures.
When my husband would not pay the war tax, as Friends would not, the
vendue master took away these tankards and sold them. But when the
English came in, Major André bought them. That was when he stole
Benjamin Franklin's picture, and so at last Gainor Wynne, in London,
years after, saw my arms on them in a shop and bought them back, and now
they are Margaret's."

De Courval gaily related the tale to his mother and then went away with
her to her room, she exclaiming on the stair: "The woman has good
manners. She understood me."

The woman and Pearl were meanwhile laughing joyously over the sad lady's
criticism. When once in her bed-room, the vicomtesse said that on the
morrow she would rest in bed. Something, perhaps the voyage and all this
new life, had been too much for her, and she had a little fever. A
tisane, yes, if only she had a tisane, but who would know how to make
one? No, he must tell no one that she was not well.

He left her feeling that here was a new trouble and went down-stairs to
join Schmidt. No doubt she was really tired, but what if it were
something worse? One disaster after another had left him with the belief
that he was marked out by fate for calamitous fortunes.

Schmidt cheered him with his constant hopefulness, and in the morning he
must not fail Mr. Wynne, and at need Schmidt would get a doctor. Then he
interested him with able talk about the stormy politics of the day, and
for a time they smoked in silence. At last, observing his continued
depression, Schmidt said: "Take this to bed with you--At night is
despair, at morning hope--a good word to sleep on. Let the morrow take
care of itself. Bury thy cares in the graveyard of sleep." Then he added
with seriousness rare to him: "You have the lesson of the mid-years of
life yet to learn--to be of all thought the despot. Never is man his own
master till, like the centurion with his soldiers, he can say to joy
come and to grief or anger or anxiety go, and be obeyed of these. You
may think it singular that I, a three-days' acquaintance, talk thus to a
stranger; but the debt is all one way so far, and my excuse is those
five years under water, and, too, that this preacher in his time has
suffered."

Unused till of late to sympathy, and surprised out of the reserve both
of the habit of caste and of his own natural reticence, De Courval felt
again the emotion of a man made, despite himself, to feel how the
influence of honest kindness had ended his power to speak.

In the dim candle-light he looked at the speaker--tall, grave, the eagle
nose, the large mouth, the heavy chin, a face of command, with now a
little watching softness in the eyes.

He felt later the goodness and the wisdom of the German's advice. "I
will try," he said; "but it does seem as if there were little but
trouble in the world," and with this went away to bed.

Then Schmidt found Mrs. Swanwick busy over a book and said: "Madame de
Courval is not well, I fear. Would you kindly see to her?"

"At once," she said, rising.

The young man's anxiety about his mother kept him long awake, and his
sleep was troubled, as at times later, by a dream of Carteaux facing him
with a smile, and by that strange sense of physical impotence which
sometimes haunts the dreamer who feels the need for action and cannot
stir.

When at six in the morning De Courval went down-stairs, he met Mrs.
Swanwick. She turned, and when in the hall said: "I have been with thy
mother all night, and now Margaret is with her, but thou wilt do no harm
to enter. She does not seem to me very ill, but we must have a doctor,
and one who has her language. When after a little sleep she wakens, she
wanders, and then is clear again." Seeing his look of anxiety, she
added, "Be sure that we shall care for her."

He said no word of the pain he felt and scarce more than a word of his
gratitude, but, going up-stairs again, knocked softly at a chamber door.

"Come in," he heard, and entered. A low voice whispered, "She is just
awake," and the slight, gray figure of the girl went by him, the door
gently closing behind her. In the dim light he sat down by his mother's
bed, and taking a hot hand in his, heard her murmur: "_Mon fils_--my
son. Angels--angels! I was a stranger, and they took me in; naked and
they clothed me, yes, yes, with kindness. What name did you say?
Carteaux. Is he dead--Carteaux?"

The young man had a thrill of horror. "Mother," he said, "it is I,
René."

"Ah," she exclaimed, starting up, "I was dreaming. These good people
were with me all night. You must thank them and see that they are well
paid. Do not forget--well paid--and a tisane. If I had but a tisane _de
guimauve!_"

"Yes, yes," he said; "we shall see. Perhaps some lemonade."

"Yes, yes; go at once and order it." She was imperative, and her voice
had lost its sweetness for a time. "I must not be made to wait."

"Very well, _maman_." As he went out, the gray figure passed in, saying,
"She is better this morning, and I am so grieved for thee."

"Thank you," he murmured, and went down-stairs, seeing no one, and out
to a seat in the garden, to think what he should do. Yes, there must be
a doctor. And Carteaux--what a fool he had been to tell her his name!
The name and the cropped hair of the Jacobin, the regular features, by
no means vulgar, the blood-red eyes of greed for murder, he saw again as
in that fatal hour. Whenever any new calamity had fallen upon him, the
shrill murder-counseling voice was with him, heard at times like a note
of discord even in later days of relief from anxiety, or in some gay
moment of mirth. "He was wise," he murmured, remembering the German's
counsel, and resolutely put aside the disturbing thought. At last Nanny,
the black maid, called him to breakfast. He was alone with Schmidt and
Mrs. Swanwick. They discussed quietly what doctor they should call; not
their friend, Dr. Redman, as neither he nor Dr. Rush spoke French.
Schmidt said: "I have sent a note to Mr. Wynne not to expect you. Set
your mind at ease."

There was need of the advice. De Courval felt the helplessness of a
young man in the presence of a woman's illness. He sat still in his
chair at breakfast, hardly hearing the German's efforts to reassure him.

It was near to eight. Nanny had gone up to relieve Margaret, who
presently came in, saying, "Aunt Gainor is without, back from her
morning ride."

There was a heavy footfall in the hall and a clear, resonant voice,
"Mary Swanwick, where are you?"

In the doorway, kept open for the summer air to sweep through, the large
figure of Gainor Wynne appeared in riding skirt and low beaver hat, a
heavy whip in her hand. The years had dealt lightly with the woman, now
far past middle life. There was a mass of hair time had powdered, the
florid face, the high nose of her race, the tall, erect, massive build,
giving to the observant a sense of masculine vigor. On rare occasions
there was also a perplexing realization of infinite feminine tenderness,
and, when she pleased, the ways and manners of an unmistakable
gentlewoman.

As the two men rose, Mrs. Swanwick said quietly, "Aunt Gainor, Madame de
Courval is ill."

"As much as to say, 'Do not roam through the house and shout.'"

"This is Friend de Courval," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"You must pardon me, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "You must pardon a rude
old woman. I am Hugh Wynne's aunt. May I ask about your mother? Is she
very ill? I meant to call on her shortly. I am heartily at your
service."

"I fear she is very ill," he replied.

"Have you a doctor?"

"We were just now thinking whom we should have," said Mrs. Swanwick.
"The vicomtesse speaks no English."

"Yes, yes," said Mistress Wynne; "who shall we have? Not Dr. Rush. He
would bleed her, and his French--la, my cat can meow better French. Ah,
I have it. I will fetch Chovet. We have not spoken for a month,
because--but no matter, he will come."

There was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. "I will send
for him at once, Aunt Gainor," said Mrs. Swanwick.

To De Courval's surprise, it was Margaret who answered. "He will come
the quicker for Aunt Gainor, mother. Every one does as she wants." This
was to De Courval.

"Except you, you demure little Quaker kitten. I must go," and the
masterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followed
by Schmidt and De Courval.

"A chair. I can't mount as I used to." Her black groom brought out a
chair. In a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallion
and clattering up Front Street with perilous indifference to an
ill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-passenger. She struck up Spruce
Street and the unpaved road then called Delaware Fifth Street and so
down Arch. It was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles and
people a-foot. Suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horse
as she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrown
back, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. Within sat a man who
would have served for the English stage presentation of a Frenchman--a
spare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he was
dressed in the height of the most extravagant fashion of a day fond of
color. The conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay between
his legs. At sight of Mistress Wynne he applied the whip and called out
to his horse in a shrill voice, "_Allez_. Get on, Ça Ira!"

The spinster cried to him as they came near: "Stop, stop, Doctor! I want
you. Stop--do you hear me?"

He had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political passage of
arms, and turned to go by her. With a quick movement she threw the big
stallion in front of Ça Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the
doctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. "_Sacré
bleu!_" he cried, "I might have been killed. _Quelle femme!_ What a
woman! And my wig--" It was in the street dust.

"Why did you not stop? Get the man's wig, Tom." The groom, grinning,
dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in his
hand.

[Illustration: "With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in
front of Ça Ira"]

"My wig--give it to me."

"No, don't give it to him." The doctor looked ruefully from the black to
the angry spinster.

"What means this, madame? My wig--"

"I want you to go at once to see a sick woman at Mrs. Swanwick's."

"I will not. I am sent for in haste. In an hour or two I will go, or
this afternoon."

"I don't believe you. You must go now--now. Who is it is ill?" People
paused, astonished and laughing.

"It is Citizen Jefferson. He is ill, very ill."

"I am glad of it. He must wait--this citizen."

"But he has a chill--_un diable_ of a chill."

"If the devil himself had a chill,--Lord, but it would refresh him!--he
would have to wait."

He tried to pass by. She seized the rein of his horse. Her blood was up,
and at such times few men cared to face her.

"You will go," she cried, "and at once, or--there is a tale I heard
about you last year in London from Dr. Abernethy. That highwayman--you
know the story. Your wig I shall keep. It is freshly powdered. Lord,
man, how bald you are!"

He grew pale around his rouge. "You would not, surely."

"Would I not? Come, now, I won't tell--oh, not every one. Be a good
doctor. I have quarreled with Dr. Rush--and come and see me to-morrow. I
have a horrid rheum. And as to Citizen Jefferson, he won't die, more's
the pity."

He knew from the first he must go, and by good luck no one he knew was
in sight to turn him into ridicule for the pleasure of the great
Federalist dames.

"Give him his wig, Tom." The little doctor sadly regarded the dusty wig.
Then he readjusted his head-gear and said he would go.

"Now, that's a good doctor. Come," and she rode off again after him, by
no means inclined to set him free to change his mind.

At Mrs. Swanwick's door, as he got out of his chaise, she said: "This
lady speaks only French. She is the Vicomtesse de Courval. And now, mind
you, Doctor, no citizenesses or any such Jacobin nonsense."

"_A votre service, madame_," he said, and rapped discreetly low, feeling
just at present rather humble and as meek as Ça Ira.

Mistress Wynne waited until the door closed behind him, and then rode
away refreshed. Turning to her black groom, she said, "If you tell, Tom,
I will kill you."

"Yes, missus."

"At all events, he won't bleed her," she reflected, "and he has more
good sense than most of them. That young fellow is a fine figure of a
man. I wonder what kind of clerk Hugh will make of him. I must have him
to dine."

In the hall Dr. Chovet met Schmidt, who knew him, as, in fact, he knew
every one of any importance in the city.

"These are to me friends, Doctor," he said. "I beg of you to come
often," a request to the doctor's liking, as it seemed to carry better
assurance of pay than was the usual experience among his emigrant
countrymen. He was at once a little more civil. He bowed repeatedly, was
much honored, and after asking a few questions of De Courval, went
up-stairs with Mrs. Swanwick, reflecting upon how some day he could
avenge himself on Gainor Wynne.

De Courval, relieved by his presence and a little amused, said, smiling,
"I hope he is a good doctor."

"Yes, he is competent. He manufactures his manners for the moment's
need."

The doctor came down in half an hour, and, speaking French of the best,
said: "Madame has had troubles, I fear, and the long voyage and no
appetite for sea diet--bad, bad. It is only a too great strain on mind
and body. There needs repose and shortly wine,--good Bordeaux
claret,--and soon, in a week or two, to drive out and take the air.
There is no cause for alarm, but it will be long, long."

Schmidt went with him to the door. De Courval sat down. Wine, drives, a
doctor, and for how long? And perhaps additions to the simple diet of
this modest household. Well, he must use some of the small means in
Wynne's hands. And these women, with their cares, their brave
self-denial of all help, how could he ever repay this unlooked-for
kindness?

His mother soon grew better, and, having again seen Mr. Wynne, he felt
that he might shortly take up the work which awaited him.

Meanwhile, the gentle nursing was effective, and went on without
complaint and as a matter of course. Miss Wynne came at odd hours to
inquire or to fetch some luxury, and soon the vicomte must call to see
her.

The days went by, and there were strawberries for madame from Mr.
Langstroth and from Merion, walks for De Courval, or a pull on the water
with Schmidt, and anxiously desired news from France. At last, after a
fortnight or more, well on into June, the doctor insisted on claret, and
De Courval asked of Schmidt where it could be had. The German laughed.
"I might lie to you, and I should at need, but I have already for the
mother's use good Bordeaux in the cellar."

De Courval colored, and, hesitating, asked, "How much am I in your
debt?"

"Six months of the five years. It is I shall be long in debt, I fear. It
cannot be all on one side. The life of a man! What credit hath it in the
account of things? Suppose it had gone the other way, would you
contented bide?"

"Not I," laughed De Courval.

"Let us say, then, I have paid a score of thanks; credit me with
these--one should be prudent. Only in the Bible it is a thank,--one. Be
careful of the coin. Let it rest there. So you go to work to-morrow. It
is well; for you have been anxious of late, and for that exacting work
is no bad remedy."

The next day De Courval found himself before seven-thirty in the
counting-house. "It is hard in winter," said the clerk who was to
instruct him. "Got to make the fires then. Mr. Potts is particular. You
must leave no dust, and here are brooms in the closet." And so, perched
on a high stool, the clerk, well amused, watched his successor, Louis
René, Vicomte de Courval, sweep out the counting-house.

"By George!" said the critic, "you will wear out a broom a day. What a
dust! Sweep it up in the dust-pan. Sprinkle it first with the
watering-pot. Lord, man, don't deluge it! And now a little sand. Don't
build a sea-beach. Throw out the dust on the ash-heap behind the house."
It was done at last.

"Take your coat off next time. The clerks will be here soon, but we have
a few minutes. Come out and I will show you the place. Oh, this is your
desk, quills, paper, and sand, and 'ware old man Potts."

They went on to the broad landing between the warehouse and Dock Creek.
"There are two brigs from Madeira in the creek, partly unloaded."

The great tuns of Madeira wine filled the air with vinous odors, and on
one side, under a shed, were staves and salt fish from the North for
return cargoes, and potatoes, flour, and onions in ropes for the French
islands.

"The ship outside," said the clerk, "is from the Indies with tea and
silks, and for ballast cheap blue Canton china."

The vessels and the thought of far-away seas pleased the young man. The
big ship, it seemed, had been overhauled by a small British privateer.

"But there is no war?"

"No, but they claim to take our goods billed for any French port, and as
many men as they choose to call English."

"And she beat them off?"

"Yes; Mr. Wynne gave the master a silver tankard, and a hundred dollars
for the men."

De Courval was excited and pleased. It was no day of tame, peaceful
commerce. Malayan pirates in the East, insolent English cruisers to be
outsailed, the race home of rival ships for a market, made every voyage
what men fitly called a venture. Commerce had its romance. Strange
things and stranger stories came back from far Indian seas.

After this introduction, he thanked his instructor, and returning to the
counting-house, was gravely welcomed and asked to put in French two long
letters for Martinique and to translate and write out others. He went
away for his noonday meal, and, returning, wrote and copied and
resolutely rewrote, asking what this and that term of commerce meant,
until his back ached when he went home at six. He laughed as he gave his
mother a humorous account of it all, but not of the sweeping.

Then she declared the claret good, and what did it cost? Oh, not much.
He had not the bill as yet.

Despite the disgust he felt at the routine of daily domestic service,
the life of the great merchant's business began more and more to
interest De Courval. The clerks were mere machines, and of Mr. Wynne he
saw little. He went in and laid letters on his desk, answered a question
or two in regard to his mother, and went out with perhaps a message to a
shipmaster fresh from the Indies and eager to pour out in a tongue well
spiced with sea oaths his hatred of England and her ocean bullies.

The mother's recovery was slow, as Chovet had predicted, but at the end
of June, on a Saturday, he told Mistress Wynne she might call on his
patient, and said that in the afternoon the vicomtesse might sit out on
the balcony upon which her room opened.

Madame was beginning to desire a little change of society and was
somewhat curious as to this old spinster of whom René had given a kind,
if rather startling, account. Her own life in England had been lonely
and amid those who afforded her no congenial society, nor as yet was she
in entirely easy and satisfactory relations with the people among whom
she was now thrown. They were to her both new and singular.

The Quaker lady puzzled her inadequate experience--a _dame de pension_,
a boarding-house keeper with perfect tact; with a certain simple
sweetness, as if any common bit of service about the room and the sick
woman's person were a pleasure. The quiet, gentle manners of the Quaker
household, with now and then a flavor of some larger world, were all to
Madame's taste. When, by and by, her hostess talked more and more freely
in her imperfect French, it was unobtrusive and natural, and she found
her own somewhat austere training beginning to yield and her unready
heart to open to kindness so constant, and so beautiful with the evident
joy of self-sacrifice.

During the great war the alliance with France had made the language of
that country the fashion. French officers came and went, and among the
Whig families of position French was even earlier, as in Mary
Plumstead's case, a not very rare accomplishment. But of late she had
had little opportunity to use her knowledge, and with no such courage as
that of Gainor Wynne, had preferred the awkwardness of silence until her
guest's illness obliged her to put aside her shy distrust in the
interest of kindness. She soon found the tongue grow easier, and the
vicomtesse began to try at short English sentences, and was pleased to
amuse herself by correcting Margaret, who had early learned French from
her mother, and with ready intelligence seized gladly on this fresh
chance to improve her knowledge.

One day as Mrs. Swanwick sat beside her guest's couch, she said: "Thy
son told me soon after thy coming that thou art not, like most of the
French, of the Church of Rome." He, it seemed, desired to see a Friends'
meeting, and his mother had expressed her own wish to do the same when
well enough.

"No," said madame; "we are of the religion--Huguenots. There is no
church of my people here, so my son tells me, and no French women among
the emigrants."

"Yes, one or two. That is thy Bible, is it not?" pointing to the book
lying open beside her. "I am reading French when times serve. But I have
never seen a French Bible. May I look at it? I understand thy speech
better every day, and Margaret still better; but I fear my French may be
queer enough to thee."

"It is certainly better than my English," said the vicomtesse, adding,
after a brief pause: "It is the French of a kind heart." The vicomtesse
as she spoke was aware of a breach in her usual reserve of rather formal
thankfulness.

"I thank thee for thy pretty way of saying a pleasant thing," returned
Mrs. Swanwick. "I learned it--thy language--when a girl, and was
foolishly shy of its use before I knew thee so well. Now I shall blunder
on at ease, and Margaret hath the audacity of youth."

"A charming child," said madame, "so gay and so gentle and intelligent."

"Yes, a good girl. Too many care for her--ah, the men! One would wish
to keep our girls children, and she is fast ceasing to be a child."

She turned to the Bible in her hand, open at a dry leaf of ivy. "It has
psalms, I see, here at the end."

"Yes, Clement Marot's. He was burned at the stake for his faith."

"Ah, cruel men! How strange! Here, I see, is a psalm for one about to
die on the scaffold."

"Yes--yes," said the vicomtesse.

"What strange stories it seems to tell! It was, I see, printed long
ago."

"Yes, two years before the massacre of St. Bartholomew."

"And here is one for men about to go into battle for God and their
faith." The hostess looked up. Her guest's face was stern, stirred as
with some deep emotion, her eyes full of tears.

She had been thinking, as she lay still and listened to Mary Swanwick's
comments, of death for a man's personal belief, for his faith, of death
with honor. She was experiencing, of a sudden, that failure of
self-control which is the sure result of bodily weakness; for, with the
remembrance of her husband's murder, she recalled, amid natural feelings
of sorrow, the shame with which she had heard of his failure at once to
declare his rank when facing death. For a moment she lay still. "I shall
be better in a moment," she said.

"Ah, what have I done?" cried Mrs. Swanwick, distressed, as she took the
thin, white hand in hers. "Forgive me."

"You have done nothing--nothing. Some day I shall tell you; not now."
She controlled herself with effectual effort, shocked at her own
weakness, and surprised that it had betrayed her into emotion produced
by the too vivid realization of a terrible past. She never did tell more
of it, but the story came to the Quaker dame on a far-off day and from a
less reserved personage.

At this moment Margaret entered. Few things escaped the watchful eyes
that were blue to-day and gray to-morrow, like the waters of the broad
river that flowed by her home. No sign betrayed her surprise at the
evident tremor of the chin muscles, the quick movement of the
handkerchief from the eyes, tear-laden, the mother's look of sympathy as
she dropped the hand left passive in her grasp. Not in vain had been the
girl's training in the ways of Friends. Elsewhere she was more given to
set free her face to express what she felt, but at home and among those
of the Society of Friends she yielded with the imitativeness of youth to
the not unwholesome discipline of her elders. She quietly announced Aunt
Gainor as waiting below stairs.

"Wilt thou see her?" said Mrs. Swanwick.

"Certainly; I have much to thank her for. And tell my son not to come up
as yet," for, being Saturday, it was a half-holiday from noon, and
having been out for a good walk to stretch his desk-cramped legs, he was
singing in the garden bits of French songs and teasing June or watching
her skilful hunt for grasshoppers. He caroled gaily as he lay in the
shade:

"La fin du jour
Sauve les fleurs et rafraîchit les belles;
Je veux, en galant troubadour,
Célébrer, au nom de l'amour,
Chanter, au nom des fleurs nouvelles
La fin du jour."

The message was given later, and as Mistress Gainor came in to his
mother's room she was a striking figure, with the beaver hat tied under
her chin and the long, dark-green pelisse cast open so as to reveal the
rich silk of her gown. It was not unfit for her age and was in entire
good taste, for as usual she was dressed for her rôle. Even her
goddaughter was slightly surprised, well as she knew her. This was not
the Gainor that Chovet knew, the woman who delighted to excite the too
easily irritated Dr. Rush, or to shock Mrs. Adams, the Vice-President's
wife, with well embroidered gossip about the Willing women and the high
play at Landsdowne, where Mrs. Penn presided, and Shippens, Chews, and
others came. This was another woman.

Margaret, curious, lingered behind Miss Wynne, and stood a moment, a
hand on the door. Miss Wynne came forward, and saying in French which
had amazed two generations, "_Bon jour, madame_," swept the entirely
graceful courtesy of a day when even the legs had fine manners, adding,
as the vicomtesse would have risen, "No, I beg of you."

"The settle is on the balcony," said the hostess, "and Cicero will come
up by and by and carry thee out. Not a step--not a step by thyself,"
she added, gently despotic.

As Miss Wynne passed by, the girl saw her courtesy, and, closing the
door, said to herself, "I think I could do it," and fell to courtesying
on the broad landing. "I should like to do that for Friend Nicholas
Waln," and gaily laughing, she went out and down the garden to deliver
her message to the young vicomte.

Neither man, woman nor the French tongue dismayed Mistress Wynne.
"_C'était un long calembourg_, my son," the vicomtesse said later--"a
long conundrum, a long charade of words to represent _le bon Dieu_ knows
what. Ah, a tonic, truly. I was amused as I am not often." In fact, she
was rarely receptively humorous and never productively so. Now she spoke
slowly, in order to be understood, comprehending the big woman and
knowing her at once for a lady of her own world with no provincial
drawbacks, a woman at her ease, and serenely unconscious of, or
indifferent to, the quality of the astounding tongue in which she spoke.

She talked of London and of the French emigrant nobles in Philadelphia,
of the Marquis de la Garde, who taught dancing; of the Comte du Vallon,
who gave lessons in fencing; of De Malerive, who made ice-cream. Madame,
interested, questioned her until they got upon unhappy France, when she
shifted the talk and spoke of the kindness of Mr. Wynne.

"It will soon be too hot here," said Gainor, "and then I shall have you
at the Hill--Chestnut Hill, and in a week I shall come for you to ride
in my landau,"--there were only four in the city,--"and the vicomte
shall drive with you next Saturday. You may not know that my niece Mrs.
Wynne was of French Quakers from the Midi, and this is why her son loves
your people and has more praise for your son than he himself is like to
hear from my nephew. For my part, when I hate, I let it out, and when I
love or like, I am frank," which was true.

Just then came the old black servant man Cicero, once a slave of James
Logan the first, and so named by the master, folks said, because of
pride in his fine translation of the "De Senectute" of Cicero, which
Franklin printed.

"Cicero will carry thee out," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"Will he, indeed?" said Gainor, seeing a shadow of annoyance come over
the grave face of the sick woman as she said, "I can walk," and rose
unsteadily. The pelisse was off, and before the amazed vicomtesse could
speak, she was in Gainor's strong arms and laid gently down on a lounge
in the outer air.

"_Mon Dieu!_" was all she could say, "but you are as a man for strength.
Thank you."

The roses were below her. The cool air came over them from the river,
and the violet of the eastward sky reflected the glow of the setting
sun. A ship with the tricolor moved up with the flood, a _bonnet rouge_
at the masthead, as was common.

"What flag is that?" asked the vicomtesse. "And that red thing? I do not
see well."

"I do not know," said Gainor, calmly fibbing; and seeing her goddaughter
about to speak, she put a finger on her lips and thrust a hand ignorant
of its strength in the ribs of the hostess as madame, looking down among
the trees on the farther slope, said: "Who is that? How merry they are!"

"Adam and Eve--in the garden," replied Gainor.

"For shame!" murmured Mary Swanwick in English. "It is well she did not
understand thee." Then she added to the vicomtesse: "It is Margaret,
madame, and thy son."

Again gay laughter came up from the distance; the vicomtesse became
thoughtful.

"I have left you lettuce and some fruit," said Miss Wynne, "and may I be
pardoned for taking the place of Cicero?"

"Ah, madame, kindness in any form is easy to pardon." Then Gainor went
away, while Mrs. Swanwick sat down, saying: "Now no more talk. Let me
fan thee a little."

The next day being the first Sunday in July, Schmidt said after
breakfast: "De Courval, you said last night that you would like to go to
church. It shall be Christ Church, if you like--Episcopal they call it."

They set out early, and on Delaware Second Street saw the fine old
church Dr. Kearsley planned, like the best of Christopher Wren's work,
as De Courval at once knew.

"I shall go in. I may not stay," said Schmidt. "I do not like churches.
They seem all too small for me. Men should pray to God out of doors.
Well, it has a certain stately becomingness. It will suit you; but the
Druids knew best."

They found seats near the chancel. Just before the service began, a
black servant in livery entered by a side door. A large man, tall and
erect, in full black velvet, followed. The servant opened a pew; the
tall man sat down, and knelt in prayer; the servant went back to the
door, and seated himself on the floor upon a cushion.

Schmidt whispered, "That is George Washington."

The young man, it is to be feared, paid small attention to the service
or to good Bishop White's sermon. The grave, moveless, ruddy face held
him with the interest of its history. The reverent attention of the
great leader pleased him, with his Huguenot training. At the close the
congregation remained standing until Washington had gone out.

"Come," said Schmidt, and crossing the church they waited at the south
gate until the President passed. He raised his hand in soldierly salute,
and bowing, took off his beaver as he met Mrs. Chew and the
Chief-Justice.

The two men walked away, silent for a time. Then the German said: "You
have seen a great man, a great soldier,--says our Frederick, who ought
to know,--a statesman, too, and baited now by Jefferson's creature
Freneau. It must have pleased the Almighty to have decreed the making of
a man like George Washington."

That the God of Calvin should have pleasure in things made had never
occurred to the young Huguenot, who was already getting lessons which
in days to come would freely modify the effect of the stern tenets which
through habit and education he accepted with small cost of thought. His
mind, however, was of serious type, and inquiry was in the whole world's
atmosphere of his time.

He said, "Herr Schmidt, can a man conceive of God as having enjoyment?"

"If you were God, the all-creative, the eternal power, the inconceivable
master, would you not make for yourself pleasure, when you could make or
mar all things? Does it shock you? Or has the thought of your church the
clipped wings of an eagle that must ever stumble on the earth and yearn
for the free flight of the heavens? Terrible shears are creeds."

De Courval was new to such comments. He felt hindered by all the child
home-rule of habit, and the discipline of limiting beliefs held the more
stringently for the hostile surroundings of neighbors and kinfolks of
the Church of Rome.

The German was of no mind to perplex him. He had some clearly defined
ideas as to what as a gentleman he could or could not do. As to much
else he had no ruling conscience, but a certain kindliness which made
him desire to like and be liked of men, and so now, with something akin
to affection, he was learning to love the grave young noble to whom he
owed a life endowed by nature with great power of varied enjoyment.

"We will talk of these things again," he said. "Once I was speaking of
the making of men, and I said, 'If the father of Shakspere had married
another woman, or his wife a year later, would "Hamlet" ever have been
written?'"

De Courval laughed. "I do not know 'Hamlet.'"

The German looked around at him thoughtfully and said: "Is that indeed
so? It is a sermon on the conduct of life. When once I spoke of this and
how at birth we are fortuned, the king said to me, I think--" and he
broke off his sentence. "You must not take me too seriously, De Courval.
This is mere gossip of the imagination. I have lived too much in France
with the philosophers, who are like Paul's men of Athens."

"I like it," said De Courval, pleased, puzzled, flattered, and immensely
curious concerning the man at his side; but decent manners forbidding
personal questions, he accepted the German's diversion of the talk and
asked, "Who is that across the street?"

"A good soldier, General Wayne, and with him the Secretary of War, Knox.
It is said he is one of the few whom Washington loves. He is a lonely
man, the President, as are the kings of men, on thrones or elsewhere."

"To be loved of that man would be worth while," said his companion. He
was to see him again in an hour of distress for himself and of trouble
and grief for the harassed statesman.

When at home he told his mother he had seen Washington.

"What was he like?"

"I can not say--tall, straight, ruddy, a big nose."

She smiled at his description. "Your father, René, once told me of a
letter Marquis La Fayette had of him the day after he last parted with
Washington. It was something like this: 'When our carriages separated, I
said, I shall never see him again. My heart said Yes. My head said No;
but these things happen. At least I have had my day.' That is not like a
man, René. He must have strong affections."

"Men say not, mother."

VII

The years which followed our long struggle for freedom were busy years
for the mind of man. The philosophers in France were teaching men
strange doctrines, and fashion, ever eager for change, reveled in the
new political philosophy. The stir of unrest was in the air, among the
people, in the talk of the salons.

The Bastille had long since fallen, and already in the provinces murder
and pillage had begun. The terrible example set by Jourdan late in '91
was received in Paris with other than reprobation. He was to return to
Avignon and, strange irony of fate, to be condemned as a moderate and to
die by the guillotine amid the rejoicing of the children of his victims;
but this was to be far away in '94.

The massacres of August, '92, when the king left the Swiss to their
fate, all the lightning and thunder of the gathering storm of war
without and frenzied murder within the tottering kingdom, had not as yet
in this midsummer been heard of in America.

After four years as our minister in Paris, Mr. Jefferson had long ago
come back to add the mischief of a notable intellect to the party which
sincerely believed we were in danger of a monarchy, and was all for
France and for Citizen Equality, who, as Hamilton foresaw, might come
to be the most cruel of tyrants.

The long battle of States' rights had begun in America. The Federalists,
led by Hamilton, were for strong central rule; their opponents, the
Republicans, later to be called Democrats, were gone mad in their
Jacobin clubs of many cities, _bonnet rouge_ at feasts, craze about
titles, with Citizen for Mr., and eagerly expecting a new French
minister.

Washington, a Federalist, smiled grimly at the notion of kingship, and
the creature of no party, with his usual desire for peace, had made up,
of both parties, a cabinet sure to disagree.

To hear the clamor of the Jacobin clubs, a stranger coming among us in
'92 might have believed us ruined. Nevertheless, Hamilton had rescued
our finance, assured a revenue not as yet quite sufficient, founded the
bank, and assumed the State debts. The country was in peril only from
disorders due to excess of prosperity, the podagra of the state. There
was gambling in the new script, lotteries innumerable, and the very
madness of speculation in all manner of enterprises--canals, toll-pike
roads, purchases of whole counties.

Cool heads like Schmidt looked on and profited. The Quaker merchants, no
wise perturbed by the rashness of speculation, accumulated irredeemable
ground rents, and thriving, took far too little interest in the general
party issues, but quietly created the great schools which are of our
best to-day, endowed charities, and were to be heard of later as
fearless Christian gentlemen in a time of death and despair, when men
unafraid in battle shrank from the foe which struck and was never seen.

In the early August days, madame had driven now and then with Mistress
Wynne, and at present was gone, not quite willingly, to stay a while at
the Hill. Mrs. Wynne had called, and her husband, more than once, with a
guarded word or two from his wife as to the manner of usefulness of his
young clerk. "Mind you, Hugh, let it be secretary. Do not hurt the poor
lady's pride." So counseled Darthea, kindly wise, and he obeyed, having
come in time to accept his wife's wisdom in many matters social and
other.

To the Hill farm came to call, on the vicomtesse, the Vicomte de
Noailles, the prosperous partner of William Bingham; and, asked by the
Wynnes, Mrs. Bingham, to be at a later day the acclaimed beauty of
London; her kin, the Willings, with the gift of hereditary good looks;
and the Shippens. The vicomtesse received them all with a certain
surprise at their ceremonious good manners and their tranquil sense of
unquestioned position. She would return no visits as yet, and her son
was busy and, too, like herself, in mourning. In fact, she shrank from
general contact with the prosperous, and dreaded for René this gay world
of pretty young women. _Ciel!_ What might not happen?

On their part, they were curious and kind. Emigrant ladies were rare;
but, as to foreign titles, they were used to them in the war, and now
they were common since a great influx of destitute French had set in,
and not all who came were to their liking.

"There," said the German one evening, kindling a great pipe, "enough of
politics, De Courval; you are of the insatiably curious. We are to dine
to-morrow at the fashionable hour of four with Mistress Wynne and the
maid, my Pearl. It is an occasion of some worthiness. She has come to
town for this feast, one of her freaks. Did ever you see a great
actress?"

"I?" said De Courval. "No, or yes--once, in France, Mademoiselle Mars.
We of the religion do not go to the theater. What actress do you speak
of?"

"Oh, women--all women; but to-morrow on the stage will be Miss Gainor,
become, by pretty courtesy of possibilities declined, Mistress Gainor by
brevet--"

De Courval, delighted, cried: "But your little Quaker lady--is she to
have a rôle? She seems to me very simple."

"Simple! Yes, here, or at meeting, I daresay. Thou shouldest see her
with Friend Waln. Her eyes humbly adore his shoe-buckles--no, his
shoe-ties--when he exhorts her to the preservation of plainness of
attire, and how through deep wading, and a living travail of soul, life
shall be uplifted to good dominion. It is a godly man, no doubt, and a
fine, ripe English he talks; and Arthur Howell, too."

"I must hear them."

"You will hear noble use of the great English speech. But best of all
are the Free Quakers, like Samuel Wetherill, an apostate, says Friend
Pennington with malignant sweetness, but for me a sterling, well-bred
gentle, if ever God made one. Ah, then the maid, all godliness and
grace, will take his hat and cane and, the head a bit aside, make eyes
at him. Ah, fie for shame! And how we purr and purr--actresses, oh, all
of them! There is the making of a Quaker _Juliet_ in that girl."

"One would scarce think it. My mother is _éprise_--oh, quite taken with
Miss Margaret, and now, I think, begins a little to understand this
household, so new and so wonderful to me and to her. But I meant to ask
you something. I have part paid the queer doctor, and the bill, I
suppose, is correct. It is long--"

"And large, no doubt."

"And what with a new gown my mother needs and some clothes I must
have--"

The German interrupted him. "De Courval, may I not help you, to whom I
owe a debt which can never be paid?"

"Oh, no, no. I shall soon have more wages." He grew red as he spoke.

"But why is money such a wonder thing that only some saleable article
shall count against it? I lack hospitality to entertain the thought."

"Would you take it of me?"

"I? Yes. I took my life of you--a poor thing, but mine own."

"I think you had small choice in the matter," laughed René.

"_Der Teufel!_ Very little. Let it be a loan, if you will. Come, now.
You make me unhappy. I lend you five hundred _livres_--a hundred dollars
we call it here. You pay, when you can."

De Courval hesitated. Was there not something ignoble in refusing a
kindness thus offered? Schmidt laughed as he added: "Reverse it. Put it
in this fashion: good master of my fate, let me drown. I would owe no
coin of life to any. To end it, I put to-night in this left-hand drawer
money. Use it freely. Leave a receipt each time, if you like."

"I am so little used to kindness," said De Courval, wavering.

"I know," returned Schmidt--"bittersweet to some men, but should not be
to the more noble nature."

"No, no, not to me. I take it and gladly, but"--and once more he
colored, as he said with a certain shyness--"would you mind calling me
René? I--I should like it."

"And I, too," said the German, as he put a hand of familiar kindliness
on the younger man's knee. "Now that is settled, and you have done me
another favor. I have an errand at Germantown, and shall join you at
Miss Wynne's at four to-morrow. Are there any ships come in? No? There
will be, I fear, evil news from France, and storms, storms that will
roll across the sea and beat, too, on these shores. It will stir here
some foolish echoes, some feeble mockery of what over there cries
murder." De Courval had had too much reason to believe him. "Ach, I am
sleepy. Shall you go to see your mother on Sunday? There is my mare at
your service."

Yes, he had meant to walk, but he would be glad of the horse.

When, on Saturday, Mrs. Swanwick knew that Schmidt had gone to the
country, she said Margaret would walk with the vicomte, and show him
the way. He felt a fresh surprise, a little embarrassment. Young women
were not thus free in France; but as he was the only one thus amazed, he
set out with the Pearl in some wonderment at what his mother would have
said or thought.

They walked up Front Street, and at last along Fifth. She was now, as
Schmidt had said, the other Margaret of whom De Courval had had brief
knowledge at times. A frank, natural, gay good humor was in all her
ways, a gentle desire to please, which was but the innocent coquetry of
a young girl's heart. She stayed a moment as they crossed Walnut Street,
and replying to a question, said: "Yes, that is the jail men called the
Provostry in the war. My grandfather lay in it--oh, very long. We have
his sword in the attic. I would hang it up down-stairs, but Friends
would not approve, thou must know. And that is Independence Hall, but
thou hast seen it."

"Yes. Are you proud of it?"

"Surely. My people shed our blood for what strong men did in that hall.
My uncle and my grandfather came out of the jail to die, oh, both of
them!"

"And of what party are you, Miss Margaret?"

"Of George Washington's," she cried. "But Friends must have no party, or
their women, at least--not even tea-parties," and she laughed.

"I think I am of your party," said De Courval--"George Washington's."

The conventual shelter of the silk bonnet turned toward him as she
said: "Then we agree; but I am not sure that I like people to agree with
me. It spoils talk, Mr. Schmidt says."

"Then I am all for Jefferson," he cried gaily, thinking in his grave way
that this young girl was of a sudden older than her years.

"I am not sure that I like that either," she replied, and so chatting
with easy freedom they came to Miss Wynne's door, opposite the Quakers'
burial-ground, where their dead lay in unmarked graves. A negro servant
in the brown livery of the Wynnes opened the door, and Aunt Gainor
appeared in the hall in more than usual splendor.

"Good day, Vicomte," and to Margaret: "Take off your bonnet, child. How
can any one, man or woman, kiss thee with that thing on thy head? It
might be useful at need, but I do suppose you could take it off on such
occasions."

"For shame, Aunt Gainor!" said the Pearl, flushing and glad of the
bonnet she was in act to remove. Miss Wynne kissed her, whispering,
"Good Lord! you are on the way to be a beauty!"

De Courval, who of course had called long since to thank his hostess,
had so far dined in no one of the more luxuriously appointed homes of
Philadelphia. Here were portraits; much, too much, china, of which he
was no judge; and tables for work that Miss Wynne never did, or for
cards at which she liked high play.

"Mr. Hamilton was to dine here, but was with me just now to be excused."

"He was with my mother an hour this morning," said Margaret, "about
some small affairs we have in New York. He is to be here again on
Saturday sennight to tell mother all about it."

"I am sorry to miss him," said Gainor; "but if I lose a guest I desired,
I am to have one I do not want. Mr. Josiah Langstroth has bidden himself
to dine with me."

"Uncle Josiah? I have not seen him for a month."

"There is a joss in the corner like him, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "If
you look at it, you will need no presentation. I pray you to avoid the
temptation of a look." Of course both young persons regarded, as she
meant they should, the china god on his ebony stand.

"A reincarnation of the bulldog," remarked Gainor, well pleased with her
phrase.

"If," said Margaret to the young man, "thou dost take my aunt or Uncle
Josiah seriously, it will be what they never do one another. They fight,
but never quarrel. My mother thinks this is because then they would stay
apart and have no more the luxury of fighting again, a thing they do
love."

"Are you sure that is thy mother's wisdom, Margaret?" said Gainor. "It
is not like her."

"If I said it was mine, thou wouldst box my ears."

"Did ever one hear the like?"

The young girl occasionally ventured, when with aunt or uncle, upon
these contributions of observation which now and then startle those who,
seeing little change from day to day, are surprised by the sudden
fruitage of developmental growth.

"I shall profit by Miss Swanwick's warning," said De Courval.

Miss Wynne, who kept both houses open, and now would not as usual, on
account of the vicomtesse, fill her country house with guests, had come
to town to dine Mr. Hamilton and to amuse herself with the young man. It
cannot be said, despite her bluff kindness, that De Courval altogether
or unreservedly liked her sudden changes of mood or the quick
transitions which more or less embarrassed and at times puzzled him.
Upon his inquiring for his mother, Miss Wynne replied:

"She is better, much better. You are to come to-morrow. You should come
more often. It is absurd, most absurd, that you are so tied to the legs
of a desk. I shall speak to my nephew."

"I beg of you, madame, to do no such thing. I am a clerk and the
youngest." And then a little ashamed of his shame, he added: "I sweep
out the office and lock up at evening. You would cause Mr. Wynne to
think I had asked you." He spoke with decision.

"It is ridiculous. I shall explain, make it easy."

Then he said, "You will pardon me, who owe you so much, but I shall have
to be beforehand and say I do not wish it."

"I retreat," said Miss Wynne. "I haul down my colors." He was quite sure
that she never would.

"You are again kind, madame," he returned.

"I hear Mr. Schmidt and the joss," she said as she rose, while Margaret,
unobserved, cast a thoughtful glance at the clerk. It was a new type to
her. The gravity, the decisiveness, and the moral courage, although she
may not have so labeled the qualities, appealed to her who had proudly
borne the annoyances of restricted means among friends and kindred who
lived in luxury. She had heard Schmidt say to her mother that this De
Courval was a man on the way to the making of a larger manhood. Even
young as she was, about to be seventeen in September, she had among the
young Friends those she liked and some who were disposed to like her too
well; but this was another kind of man.

When Schmidt entered, followed by Friend Langstroth, De Courval was
struck by the truth of Gainor's reference to the joss. Short, very fat,
a triple chin and pendant cheeks under small eyes, and a bald head--all
were there.

"You are both late. My back of mutton will be overdone. The Vicomte de
Courval--Mr. Langstroth."

"Glad to see thee; meant to come and see thee. I was to give thee this
letter, Friend Schmidt. Mr. Wynne sent it. A messenger came up from
Chester while I was with him at the counting-house. The _Saucy Sisters_
was lying below for the flood."

Schmidt glanced at it, hesitated a moment, and put it in his pocket as
they went in to dinner.

"Any news?" asked Langstroth. "Any news from France?"

"I do not know," said Schmidt. He had no mind to spoil the meal with
what he knew must very likely be evil tidings. "It is from England," he
added. Miss Gainor, understanding him, said: "We were to have had Mr.
Hamilton. I think I told you."

"I saw him at the office of the Secretary of the Treasury," said
Schmidt; "a less capable successor he has in his place. We talked much
about the rage for lotteries, and he would stop them by a law."

"He should let things alone," said Langstroth. "A nice muddle he has
made of it with his bank and his excise."

"And what do you know about it?" said Gainor, tartly.

"Fiddlesticks! I know that a man who cannot manage his own affairs had
better leave larger things alone."

"He has," said Schmidt quietly, "as I see it, that rare double gift, a
genius for government and finance."

"Humph!" growled Langstroth.

Schmidt was silent, and took the Wynne Madeira with honest appreciation,
while the young man ate his dinner, amazed at the display of bad
manners.

Then the girl beside him said in a half-whisper: "Fiddlesticks! Why do
people say that? The violin is hard to play, I hear. Why do men say
fiddlesticks?"

De Courval did not know, and Aunt Gainor asked, "What is that,
Margaret?"

"I was saying that the violin must be hard to play."

"Ah, yes, yes," returned the hostess, puzzled, while Schmidt smiled, and
the talk fell upon mild gossip and the last horse-race--and so on to
more perilous ground.

"About lotteries," said Josiah, "I have bought thee a ticket, Margaret,
number 1792--the lottery for the college of Princeton."

"A nice Quaker you are," said Miss Wynne. "I see they forbid lotteries
in Massachusetts. The overseers of meeting will be after you."

"I should like to see them. A damn pretty business, indeed. Suppose thee
were to win the big prize, child." He spoke the intolerable language
then becoming common among Friends. "Thee could beat Gainor in gowns."

"I should not be let to wear them." Alas! she saw herself in brocades
and lutestring underskirts. The young man ignorantly shared her
distress.

"There is small chance of it, I fear," said Gainor. "A hundred lottery
chances I have bought, and never a cent the richer." And so the talk
went on, Langstroth abusing all parties, Schmidt calmly neutral, the
young people taking small part, and regarding the lottery business as
one of Josiah's annoying jokes--no one in the least believing him.

At last the cloth was off the well-waxed mahogany table, a fresh pair of
decanters set before the hostess, and each guest in turn toasted.

Langstroth had been for a time comfortably unamiable. He had said
abusive things of all parties in turn, and now Schmidt amused himself by
adding more superlative abuse, while Gainor Wynne, enjoying the game,
fed Langstroth with exasperating additions of agreement. The girl,
knowing them all well, silently watched the German's face, his zest in
annoying Josiah unexpressed by even the faintest smile--a perfect
actor. De Courval, with less full understanding of the players, was at
times puzzled, and heard in silence Schmidt siding with Josiah. "It was
most agreeable, my dear," said Mistress Gainor next day to one of her
favorites, Tacy Lennox. "Josiah should of right be a gentleman. He has
invented the worst manners ever you saw, my dear Tacy. He was like a mad
bull, eager for war, and behold--he is fed and petted. Ah, but he was
furious and bedazed. Tacy, I would you had seen it."

It was at last quite too much of a trial for Josiah, who turned from
Gainor to Schmidt, and then to De Courval, with wild opinions, to which
every one in turn agreed, until at last, beginning to suspect that he
was being played with, he selected a subject sure to make his hostess
angry. A look of pugnacious greed for a bone of contest showed on his
bulldog face as he turned to Mistress Wynne. "This Madeira is on its
last legs, Gainor."

"All of us are," laughed Schmidt.

"It is hardly good enough for my toast."

"Indeed," said Gainor; "we shall know when we hear it."

Then Josiah knew that for her to agree with him would this time be
impossible. He smiled. "When I am at home, Gainor, as thee knows, I
drink to our lawful king." He rose to his feet. "Here's to George the
Third."

Gainor was equal to the occasion.

"Wait a little, Josiah. Take away Mr. Langstroth's glass, Cæsar. Go to
the kitchen and fetch one of the glasses I use no more because the
Hessian hogs used them for troughs when they were quartered on me in
the war. Cæsar, a Hessian wine-glass for Mr. Langstroth."

De Courval listened in astonishment, while Schmidt, laughing, cried, "I
will drink to George with pleasure."

"I know," cried Margaret: "to George Washington."

Schmidt laughed. "You are too sharp, Pearl. In a minute, but for your
saucy tongue, I should have trapped our Tory friend. To George the
greater," said Schmidt.

The Quaker turned down his glass. "Not I, indeed."

"I hope the poor man will never hear of it, Josiah," said Miss Wynne as
she rose laughing, and presently Schmidt and the young people went away,
followed shortly after by Langstroth.

For a while Margaret walked on in silence, De Courval and the German
talking. At last she said: "Thou shouldst know that my uncle is not as
bad as he seems. He is really a kind and generous man, but he loves to
contradict my aunt, and no one else can so easily make her angry."

"Ah, Pearl, the Madeira was good," said Schmidt--"too good; or, rather,
the several Madeiras. In the multitude of vinous counselers there is
little wisdom, and the man's ways would tempt an angel to mischief."

Mrs. Swanwick, being alone, had gone out to take supper with a friend,
and as Margaret left them in the hall, Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come
in. I have a great package from Gouverneur Morris, from Paris. You may
as well hear what news there is. I saw your anxiety, but I was of no
mind to have that imitation Quaker discuss the agony of a great nation."

It took two months or more to hear from France, and each week added to
the gathering anxiety with which De Courval awaited news. He was
grateful for the daily labor, with its steady exactions, which forbade
excessive thought of the home land, for no sagacity of his friend or any
forecast that man could make three thousand miles away was competent to
predict the acts of the sinister historic drama on which the curtain was
rising far away in France.

As the German opened the envelop and set aside letter after letter, he
talked on in his disconnected way. "I could like some bad men more than
Josiah Langstroth. He has what he calls opinions, and will say,
'Welladay,'--no, that is my bastard English,--he will say 'Well, at all
events, that is my opinion.' What means 'all events,' Herr René? A kick
would change them. 'T is an event--a kick. And Mistress Wynne is
sometimes not easy to endure. She steps heavily on tender toes, even
when on errands of goodness." The younger man scarce heard these
comments as letter after letter was put aside, until at last he put down
his pipe, and Schmidt said: "I was sorry to keep you, but now this last
letter has it all--all. There is no detail, my friend, but
enough--enough. He writes me all France is in a ferment. This is from
Mr. Morris, whom our mobocrats loathe for an aristocrat. He writes: 'The
King has vetoed two bills, one about the priests and one of less
moment. La Fayette is in disgrace, and wants the surgeon's courage to
let blood. Worst of all, and I write in haste,' he says, 'a mob on June
20th broke into the Tuileries and there, in the OEil de Boeuf, a
butcher mocked the King to his face as Monsieur Veto. The King laughed,
it is said, and set their damned bonnet on his head, and drew his sword,
and cried "_Vive la nation!_" The war goes ill or well as you please;
ill for all, I fear. Dillon was murdered by his own regiment after a
retreat.'"

"I knew him in the army," said De Courval. "I was young then. But the
king--has he no courage? Are they all mad?"

"No. He has not the courage of action. He has the courage to endure, if
that is to be so nominated. The other is needed just now. That is
all--all."

"And too much."

"Yes. Come, let us go out and fence a bit in the garden, and sweat out
too much Madeira. Come, there is still light enough."

VIII

Through the quiet of a Sunday morning, De Courval rode slowly up Fifth
Street, and into a land of farms and woodland, to spend a quiet day
alone with his mother, Miss Wynne, not altogether to the young man's
regret, having to remain in town over Monday. As he came to the scenes
where Schmidt, in their walks of Sundays, had explained to him
Washington's well-laid plan of the Germantown battle, he began at last
to escape for a time the too sad reflection which haunted his hours of
leisure in the renewed interest of a young soldier who had known only
the army life, but never actual war. He bent low in the saddle, hat off
to a group on the lawn at Cliveden, the once war-battered home of the
Chews, and was soon after kissing his mother on the porch of the Hill
farm.

There was disquieting news to tell of France, and he soon learned that
despite the heat and mosquitos she preferred the tranquillity of the
widow's home to the luxury of Miss Wynne's house. She was as usual
calmly decided, and he did not urge her to stay longer. She would return
to the city on Thursday. They talked of money matters, with reticence on
his part in regard to Schmidt's kindness and good counsels, and
concerning the satisfaction Mr. Wynne had expressed with regard to his
secretary.

"It may be good training for thee, my son," she said and then, after a
pause, "I begin to comprehend these people," and, pleased with her
progress, made little ventures in English to let him see how well she
was learning to speak. An habitual respect made him refrain from
critical corrections, but he looked up in open astonishment when she
said rather abruptly: "The girl in her gray gowns is on the way to
become one of the women about whom men go wild. Neither are you very
ugly, my son. Have a care; but a word from me should suffice."

"Oh, mother," he exclaimed, "do not misunderstand me!"

"My son, I know you are not as some of the light-minded cousins we knew
in France; but a word of warning does no harm, even if it be not
needed."

"I think you may be at ease, _maman_. You amaze me when you call her
beautiful. A pleasant little maid she seems to me, and not always the
same, and at times gay,--oh, when away from her mother,--and
intelligent, too. But beautiful--oh, hardly. _Soyez tranquille, maman._"

"I did not say she was beautiful. I said she was good-looking; or that
at least was what I meant. Certainly she is unlike our too ignorant
demoiselles; but contrast with the familiar may have its peril. It is
quite another type from our young women at home, and attractive enough
in its way--in its bourgeois way."

He smiled. "I am quite too busy to concern myself with young women." In
fact he had begun to find interest in a little study of this new type.
"Yes, quite too busy."

"That is as well." But she was not at ease. On the whole, she thought it
would be proper now for him to go to Mrs. Bingham's and to the
President's receptions. Miss Wynne would see that he had the entrée. He
was too occupied, he said once more, and his clothes were quite unfit.
Neither was he inclined yet awhile. And so he rode away to town with
several things to think about, and on Thursday the vicomtesse made clear
to the well-pleased Mrs. Swanwick that she was glad of the quiet and the
English lessons and the crisp talk of Schmidt, who spoke French, but not
fluently, and concerning whom she was mildly jealous and, for her,
curious. "Schmidt, my son? No; a name disguised. He is a gentleman to
his finger-ends, but surely a strange one."

"It is enough, _maman_, that he is my friend. Often I, too, am curious;
but--ah, well, I wonder why he likes me; but he does, and I am glad of
it."

"You wonder. I do not," and she smiled.

"Ah, the vain _maman!_" he cried. It was very rare that she praised him,
and she was by long habit given to no demonstrations of affection.

Two weeks ran on in the quiet routine of the Quaker home and the
increasing work of the great shipping merchant. De Courval was more and
more used by Wynne in matters other than copying letters in French.
Sometimes, too, he was trusted with business affairs demanding judgment,
and although Wynne spoke no word of praise, neither was there any word
of censure, and he watched the clerk with interest and growing regard.
Twice he sent him to New York, and once on an errand to Baltimore,
where he successfully collected some long-standing debts. A new clerk
had come, and De Courval, to his relief, was no longer expected to sweep
out the counting-house.

By degrees Wynne fully realized that he had found a helper of unusual
capacity, and more and more, as the great and varied business attracted
De Courval, he was taken into Wynne's confidence, and saw the ships come
and go, and longed to share the peril and see the wonders of the ocean.
There were great tuns of wine from Madeira on the pier or in the
cellars. Gentlemen came to taste it, men with historic names--General
Wayne, Colonel Lear for the President, and Mr. Justice Yeates. De
Courval was bade to knock out bungs and dip in tasting vials. Also Miss
Wynne came to refill her cellar, but took small notice of him. He was
out of favor for a season, and her nephew had laughed at her
remonstrances.

"A thoroughbred put to the work of a farm-horse!"

"Nonsense, Aunt Gainor! Let him alone. You can not spoil him, as you did
me. There is stuff in the fellow worth a dozen of my clerks. At six they
are gone. If there is work to do, he stays till nine. What that man
wants, he will get. What he sets himself to do, he does. Let him alone."

"A miserably paid clerk," she cried. "He deserves no better. I wash my
hands of him."

"There is soap in the closet," he laughed.

She went away angry, and saw the young noble talking with a ruddy
gentleman whose taste in wine has made his name familiar at the
dining-tables of the last hundred years. Major Butler was asking the
vicomte to dine, and promising a perilous education in the vintages of
Madeira.

When the major had gone, Mr. Wynne sent for his clerk. To be opposed was
apt to stiffen his Welsh obstinacy. "Your wages are to be now, sir, two
hundred and fifty livres,--fifty dollars a month,--and you are doing
well, very well; but the clerks are not to know, except Mr. Potts." He
owed this unusual advance to Miss Wynne, but probably the master was as
little aware of what had caused it as was the irate spinster. De Courval
thanked him quietly, knowing perfectly well that he had fairly earned
what was so pleasantly given.

It was now the Saturday sennight mentioned by Margaret as the day when
Mr. Hamilton was to come to settle certain small business matters with
Mrs. Swanwick. Some wit, or jealous dame, as Schmidt had said, called
Mrs. Swanwick's the Quaker salon; and, in fact, men of all types of
opinion came hither. Friends there were, the less strict, and at times
some, like Waln, to protest in their frank way against the too frequent
company of world's people, and to go away disarmed by gentle firmness.
Mrs. Swanwick's love of books and her keen interest in every new thing,
and now the opening mind and good looks of Margaret, together with the
thoughtful neutrality of Schmidt, captured men, young and old, who were
apt to come especially on a Saturday afternoon, when there was leisure
even for busy statesmen. Hither came Aaron Burr--the woman-hawk, Aunt
Gainor called him, with his dark, fateful face; Pickering, in after days
of the War Department; Wolcott, to be the scarce adequate successor of
Hamilton; Logan, and gay cousins--not often more than one or two at a
time--with, rarely, the Master of the Rolls and Robert Morris, and Mr.
Justice Chew--in fact, what was best in the social life of the city.

Mr. Hamilton was shut up with Mrs. Swanwick in the withdrawing-room,
busy. It was now too late to expect visitors--five o'clock of a summer
afternoon. The vicomtesse avoided this interesting society, and at last
René ceased to urge her to share what he himself found so agreeable.
Margaret sat entranced in the "Castle of Otranto," hardly hearing the
_click, click_, of the fencing-foils on the grass plot not far away.
Birds were in the air; a woodpecker was busy on a dead tree; bees, head
down, were accumulating honey for the hive at the foot of the garden;
and a breeze from the river was blowing through the hall and out at the
hospitably open front door--a peaceful scene, with still the ring and
clash of the foils and De Courval's merry laughter.

"A hit, a palpable hit!" said a voice behind Margaret as she rose.

"Thou art dead for a ducat--dead, Friend de Courval."

"Ah," said Schmidt, "a critic. Does it look easy, Mr. de Forest?"

[Illustration: "'Well played!' cried Schmidt--'the jest and the
rapier'"]

"I am a man of peace, how shouldst I know? but the game looks easy." He
threw up his head and stretched out his hand. "Let me look at the
thing."

"Then take off your coat and put on a mask. But I shall not hurt you;
there is no need for the mask."

He was quietly amused, and if only Nicholas Waln would come; for now the
Quaker gentleman had put aside hat and coat, and in plainest gray
homespun faced him, a stalwart, soldierly figure.

"How does thee hold it, Friend Schmidt? Ah, so?"

In a moment the German knew that he was crossing blades with a master of
the small sword. Margaret and De Courval looked on merrily exchanging
gay glances.

"Dead," cried De Forest, as he struck fair over the German's heart, "and
a damn good hit!"

"Well played!" cried Schmidt--"the jest and the rapier. Another
bout--no!" To his surprise he saw the Quaker gentleman's face change as
he hastily put on his coat.

"Thank thee," he said to De Courval as the young man handed him his hat,
and without other words than "I bid thee good day. I shall not bide this
afternoon," went into the hall and out of the farther door, passing with
bowed head and without a word a gentleman who entered.

Schmidt showed little of the astonishment easily read on De Courval's
face, who, however, said nothing, having been taught to be chary of
comments on his elders; and now taking up his foil again, fell on
guard.

"A man haunted by his past," said Schmidt, as was in fact explained at
breakfast next day, when Mrs. Swanwick, being questioned, said: "Yes. He
was a colonel in the war, and of reckless courage. Later he returned to
Friends, and now and then has lapses in his language and his ways, and
is filled with remorse."

"The call of the sword was too much for him," said Schmidt. "I can
comprehend that. But he had a minute of the joy of battle."

"And then," said the Pearl, "he had a war with himself."

"The maid is beginning to think," said Schmidt to himself. But this was
all on the next day.

As the tall man came out on the porch, Margaret said: "My mother is
occupied. Friend Schmidt, thou knowest Friend Jefferson; and this is our
new lodger," and she said boldly, "the Vicomte de Courval."

"Ah," exclaimed Jefferson, "we have met before. And madame is well, I
trust?"

"Yes; but at this hour she rests. We owe you, sir, our thanks for the
good chance of finding what has been to us most truly a home."

Margaret looked up pleased, she did not fully know why. And so he did
really like them and their quiet home?

Presently Schmidt said to Jefferson: "There is sad news from France, Mr.
Secretary."

"Good news, Citizen; altogether good. What if men die that a people may
live? Men die in war. What is the difference? Titles will go, a king be
swept on to the dust-heap of history." A hot answer was on the lips of
the young noble. He turned, vexed at the loss of his chance as Alexander
Hamilton and Mrs. Swanwick joined them. Jefferson ceased to speak to
Schmidt, and the two statesmen met with the formal courtesy of bitter
hatred. Jefferson could see no good in the brilliant finance of the man
who now talked with courteous ease to one or another. The new-comer was
slight of figure, bright-eyed, with the deep line so rarely seen where
the nose meets the forehead, and above all graceful, as few men are. The
face was less mobile than that of Jefferson, who resembled to a strange
degree the great actor of his name, a resemblance only to be explained
by some common English ancestry in an untraceable past. He had been to a
bad school in France as minister, and perhaps had by this time forgotten
the day when he desired his agent in London to find for him a coat of
arms.

Presently, after a talk with Mrs. Swanwick, Jefferson, ill-pleased to
meet Hamilton, was of a mind to go. Quite aware that he meant to leave a
little sting, he said: "I must be gone. Good-by"; and to Hamilton: "You
have heard, no doubt, the good news from France--Citizen?"

"I have heard of needless murder and of a weak, ill-served, kindly king
insulted by a mob of ruffians."

Jefferson's thin face grew yet more somber; but what reply the secretary
might have made was put aside by the cheerful coming of a man in plain,
but not Quaker clothes, a republican Jacobin of the maddest, as was seen
by his interchange of "Citizen" with Jefferson, and the warm welcome he
received. Thus reinforced, Jefferson lingered where Mrs. Swanwick and
Margaret were busy with the hot chocolate, which Hamilton, from youthful
habit, liked. At a word from their hostess, De Courval took a basket,
and presently brought from the garden slope peaches such as any back
yard among us grew in my childhood--yellow clingstones and open hearts.
The widow ministered to the other statesman, who liked peaches and was
not to be neglected even for her favorite Hamilton, now busily
discussing with Schmidt the news sent by Gouverneur Morris.

The new-comer had paid no least attention to his hostess, but sat down
at the table and fingered the jumbles, apees, and cake known as
"lovers'-knots" of Nanny's make, until he discovered one to his fancy.
Mrs. Swanwick gave no obvious sign of annoyance, but smilingly stirred
the chocolate, while Margaret quietly removed the dish of cakes and gave
the guest a slice of sweetened bread known as "Dutch loaf."

"There are fewer currants in the cake than there were last week,"
remarked the astronomer, for, as Schmidt said in an aside to De Courval
and Hamilton, as they watched the great eat like lesser folk: "This is
the famous astronomer, David Rittenhouse. He divides his thoughts
between the heavens and his diet; and what else there is of him is
Jacobin."

"I wish," said Hamilton, "that heaven equally engaged the rest of his
party. May not I have my chocolate, Mrs. Swanwick?"

"Certainly; and might I be noticed a little?" said Mrs. Swanwick to
Rittenhouse. The absent-minded philosopher looked up and said:

"I forgot. Pardon me, Citess."

Hamilton laughed merrily. "Is that the last invention?"

"It sounds like the name of some wild little animal," said the Pearl.

"Neat, that, Margaret," said Hamilton; "and might I, too, have a peach?
Mr. Jefferson has emptied the basket."

Margaret rose, and with De Courval went down the garden, a fair
presentment of the sexes, seen and approved by Hamilton, while Jefferson
said gaily:

"The transit of Venus, Rittenhouse," for it was that observation which
had given this star-gazer fame and recognition abroad.

"My compliments, sir," said Schmidt. "I regret not to have said it."

Jefferson bowed. He was at his best, for neither manners nor wit were
wanting in his social hour. The astronomer, without comment, went on
eating sweet bread. They drank chocolate and chatted idly of the new
luxury--ice-cream, which Monsieur de Malerive made for a living, and
sold on the mall we now call Independence Square. They talked, too, of
the sad influx of people from San Domingo; the widow, attentive,
intellectually sympathetic, a pleasant portrait of what the silver-clad
Pearl would be in days to come; she, the girl, leaning against a pillar
of the porch, a gray figure silently watchful, curious, behind her for
background the velvets of the rival statesmen, the long broidered
waistcoats, the ribbon-tied queues, and the two strongly contrasted
faces. Perhaps only Schmidt recognized the grace and power of the group
on the porch.

The warm August evening was near its close, and a dark storm, which hung
threateningly over the Jersey shore, broke up the party. Warned by
rolling thunder, the three men went away in peaceful talk.

"The hate they have buried in their bellies," said Schmidt; "but, René,
they are of the peerage, say what they may. Equality! _Der gute Himmel!_
All men equal--and why not all women, too! He left that out. Equal
before the law, perhaps--not his slaves; before God, no--nor man. Does
he think Hamilton his equal? He does not love the gentleman entirely.
But these two are, as fate, inevitable withal, rulers of men. I have
seen the labeled creatures of other lands--kings, ministers. These men
you saw here are the growth of a virgin soil--_Ach!_ 'There were giants
in those days,' men will say." Mrs. Swanwick listened quietly,
considering what was said, not always as quick as Margaret to understand
the German. He spoke further of the never-pleased Virginian, and then
the widow, who had kindness for all and respect for what she called
experienced opinion, avoiding to be herself the critic and hiding behind
a quotation, said, "'There be many that say, Who will shew us any
good?'"

"Fine Bible wisdom," said Schmidt.

By and by when she had gone away with Margaret about household matters,
Schmidt said to De Courval: "That is one of the beautiful flowers of the
formal garden of Fox and Penn. The creed suits the temperament--a
garden rose; but my Pearl--_Ach!_ a wild rose, creed and creature not
matched; nor ever will be."

"I have had a delightful afternoon," said René, unable or indisposed to
follow the German's lead. "Supper will be late. You promised me the new
book."

"Yes; Smith's 'Wealth of Nations,' not easy reading, but worth while."

Thereafter the busy days ran on into weeks, and in October of this
tragic 1792 came the appalling news of the murdered Swiss,
self-sacrificed for no country and no large principle beyond the pledge
of an oath to a foreign king. More horrible was the massacre of the
priests in the garden of the Carmelites.

To René's relief, these unlooked-for riots of murder seemed to affect
his mother less than he had feared might be the case. "My husband's
death was, my son, a prophecy of what was to come." To her it was all
personal. For him it was far more, and the German alone understood the
double anguish of a man in whom contended a puzzled horror at deaths
without apparent reason, of murders of women like the Princesse de
Lamballe,--an orgy of obscene insult,--and a wild anger at the march of
the Duke of Brunswick upon Paris. It was his country, after all, and he
left his mother feeling disappointed that she did not share his hostile
feeling in regard to the _émigrés_ in the German army.

The wonderful autumn colors of October and November came and passed, a
new wonder to the young man; his mother, to all seeming contented,
spending her evenings with him over English lessons, or French books out
of Logan's excellent library, or busy with never-finished embroidery. On
Sundays they went to Gloria Dei, the modest little church of the Swedes.
There to-day, amid the roar of trade and shipyards, in the churchyard
the birds sing over the grave of their historian, Wilson, and worn
epitaphs relate the love and griefs of a people whose blood is claimed
with pride by the historic families of Pennsylvania.

During these months, Aunt Gainor was long absent in Boston on a visit, a
little to the relief of the vicomtesse. Schmidt, too, was away in New
York, to the regret of René, who had come more and more to feel
wholesomely his influence and increasing attachment. The money help had
set him at ease, and he could now laugh when, on counting the coin in
the drawer, he found it undiminished. He had remonstrated in vain. The
German smiled. "A year more, and I shall be out of debt." Had René not
heard of the widow's cruse? "I must be honest. 'T is my time. The
grateful bee in my bonnet does but improve the shining hour of
opportunity. What was there to do but laugh?" And René at last laughed.

December came with snow and gray skies, and the great business De
Courval had grown to feel his own felt the gathering storm caused by the
decree of freedom to white and black in the French islands. The great
shipmasters, Clark, Willing, Girard, the free-thinking merchant, and
Wynne, were all looking as bleak as the weather, and prudently ceased
to make their usual sea-ventures before the ice formed, while at the
coffee-houses the war between England and France, more and more near,
threatened new perils to the commerce of the sea.

On January 27, 1793, being Saturday, while De Courval, Wolcott, and
Gilbert Stuart, the artist, sat chatting with Hamilton in the
dining-room and drinking the widow's chocolate, the painter was begging
leave to make a picture of Margaret, and asking them to come and see the
portrait of Mrs. Jackson, one of the three charming sisters of Mr.
Bingham.

"No, there must be no portrait. It is against the way of Friends," said
the mother. "I should hear of it from Friend Waln and others, too."

What more there was, René did not learn. The painter was urgent. Stuart
did paint her long afterward, in glorious splendor of brocade, beautiful
with powder and nature's rouge. But now came Nanny, the black maid, and
waited while Margaret shyly won a little talk with Hamilton, who loved
the girl. "I have been thinking," she said, "of Friend Jefferson. Why,
sir, do they have any titles at all, even Citizen? I think a number
would be still more simple." She was furnishing an elder with another of
the unlooked-for bits of humor which attest the florescence of a mind
gathering sense of the comic as the years run on and the fairy
godmother, Nature, has her way.

"Good heaven, child! if Mr. Jefferson had his will with your numeration,
I should be zero, and he the angel of arithmetic alone knows what."

"What is it, Nanny!" said the mother.

"Massa Wynne want to see Massa Courval--right away in the front room."

De Courval, wondering what had happened, and why he was wanted in haste,
found Wynne in Schmidt's sitting-room. "Close the door," said the
master, "and sit down. I have much to say to you, and little time. There
is great disturbance in San Domingo. I have debts due me there, and, by
ill chance, a cargo probably to be there soon--the _George Washington_,
as you may remember. You made out the bill of lading in French."

"I recall it, sir."

"The debts may go for hopeless. The cargo is lost if landed. Port au
Prince and Cap Français are in terror, the planters flying to the towns,
the plantations in ruins. The decree of freedom for the black has roused
the devil among the slaves, and the low-class whites are ruling the
towns." He paused to think, and then added: "I send out to-morrow with
the flood my fastest ship, the schooner _Marie_, without cargo, mind
you. Will you go, nominally as supercargo? You are more thoughtful than
your years would imply. You are twenty-seven, I think you said. What you
are worth in danger--and there will be much--I do not know. There may be
questions involving grave decisions, involving courageous action, not
merely what every gentleman has--mere personal fearlessness. I am plain,
I trust."

De Courval was silent.

"If you get there first, I save a large loss. Once ashore, the cargo
will be seized, and not a cent paid for it. It is to take or leave, Mr.
de Courval; I shall not blame you if you say no. But if you do say no, I
must go. The loss may be serious."

Here was a chance to repay much kindness, and the threat of danger
stirred the young man's blood. "How long should I be absent?"

"I do not know. The ship may have gone to Martinique, also. There were
goods for both islands."

"There is but one question, sir--my mother. She has no one else. And may
I talk to Mr. Schmidt?"

"To no one better, if he were here. He is not, and I cannot wait. I
shall call for your answer at nine to-night. The tide serves at 6 A.M. I
ought to say that your perfect English and as perfect French enable you
to pass for being of one nation or the other. Best to be an American.
And De Courval? No; that is too plainly French."

"I am Louis René. Why not Mr. Lewis, sir, at need?"

"Good! Excellent! I shall write my instructions with care. They will be
full; but much must be left to you and the master."

"Captain Biddle, I suppose."

"Yes. A resolute old sea-dog, but who will obey because I order it. Good
night. At nine--I must know at nine."

De Courval lost no time. His mother was alone, as usual avoiding the
Saturday visitors.

"Oh," he said to himself as he stood outside of her door, "you must let
me go."

He paused before he knocked. Gratitude, interest, awakened eagerness for
perilous adventure, called him to this voyage. He had then, as on later
occasions one source of indecision--the mother. If she said no, he must
stay; but would she? He knocked gently, and in a moment was standing at
her side.

She set aside her embroidery-frame. "What is wrong?" she said. "I do not
want to hear any more evil news--or at least, no details. Who else is
dead of those we cared for?"

"No one, mother. Mr. Wynne wishes me to sail for him at dawn to-morrow
for San Domingo. I may be in time to save him much money."

"Well," she said coldly, "what else?" Her face, always grave, became
stern. "And so, to save a trader's money, I am to be left alone."

"Mother, it seems hard for you to understand these people; and there is
another side to it. I have been treated with kindness for which there
seems to me small reason. Twice my wages have been raised, and this
offer is a compliment, as well as a chance to oblige a man I like."

"Wages!" she cried. "Do not imagine me deceived by these good-natured
bourgeois, nor by your desire to spare me. Secretary, indeed! Do they
fancy me a fool? You are a clerk."

"I am," he said; "but that is not now of importance. He has said that he
must go or I must go."

"Then let him go. You must not disobey me, René."

"Mother," he said, "these people have, God knows why, found us a home,
and covered us with obligations never possible to be repaid. Here at
last comes a chance--and you know our old French saying."

"Yes, yes, I know. But any clerk could go. It is--oh, my son!--that I
should miss you day and night."

"Any clerk could not go, _maman_. It asks this thing--a man not afraid.
No timid clerk can go. Do not you see, _maman?_"

"He will think you afraid if you stay?"

"Oh, mother, do understand this man better! He is a gentleman--of--of as
good a race as ours, a soldier of distinction in the war. He will not
think me afraid; but others may."

"Is there danger, my son?"

"Yes. To be honest, very great danger. The blacks are free. The lower
whites rule the seaports. It is to be more terrible than the riot of
murder at home."

He had remained standing while he talked. For half a minute the dark
figure and unchanging face bent over the embroidery-frame without a word
of reply. Then rising, she set a hand on each of his shoulders and said,
"You must go, René." Centuries of the training and creed of a race of
warlike men could not have failed to defeat love-born anxiety, and the
dread of loss, in a woman through whom had passed into the making of a
man certain ancestral qualities. "You must go," she repeated.

"Thank you, mother. I was afraid--"

"Of what?" she cried. "That I should be afraid for a man of my blood to
risk life where duty calls him?"

"No, mother; I was afraid that you might not see it all as I do."

"If, René, this were but a peaceful errand of months away, I should have
said no. The debts, all--all might have stood. I should have been
ashamed, but obstinate, my son. We will not discuss it. You must go. And
is it for long?" The clear, sweet voice broke a little. "Is it for very
long?"

"I do not know."

"Ah, well. I do not want to see you in the morning. When you are ready
to-night, you will say good-by."

"Yes, mother. And now I must pack my bag." And he left her.

That was strange, he thought. What would have made some women say no
decided her to say go. He smiled proudly. "It was like her," he
murmured.

When at eight that night he came to say good-by, she kissed him and said
only, "Write to me when you can." At nine Hugh Wynne had the answer he
confidently expected.

At dusk of day, the old black Cicero tramped after De Courval through
the snow, as full of thought he went on, his camlet cloak about him, and
under it the sword he had left in the Quaker's attic. He had told Mrs.
Swanwick and left a letter for Schmidt, taking, after some hesitation,
fifty dollars out of the drawer.

At daybreak, on the slip, Mr. Wynne waited with the captain. "Here,"
said the merchant, "are your instructions. Use your good sense. You have
it. Have no fear of assuming responsibility. Captain Biddle, in case of
doubt, trust Mr. Lewis to decide any question involving money."

"Oh, that is his name--Lewis."

"Yes; Mr. Lewis will show you my instructions." Then taking De Courval
aside, "You said no word of pay."

"No, sir."

"Very good. Some men would have bargained. I shall see that your salary
while absent, eighty dollars a month, is put in Mary Swanwick's hands
for your mother."

"Thank you. That leaves me at ease."

"Ah, here is some of my own Maryland tobacco and a pipe the Germans call
meerschaum; and one word more: you have infinitely obliged me and my
wife. God bless you! Good-by! _Bon voyage!_ Your boat is ready, and
Captain Biddle is impatient to be gone."

In a few minutes the _Marie_, wing-and-wing, was flying down the
Delaware with the first of the ebb, the skim of ice crackling at her bow
and a fair wind after her. They were like enough to carry the ebb-tide
with them to the capes or even to outsail it.

De Courval stood on the quarter-deck, in the clear, sharp wintry air,
while the sun rose over Jersey and deepened the prevalent reds which had
so struck his mother when in May, nine months before, they first saw the
city. Now he recalled his sad memories of France, their unhappy poverty
in England until their old notary in Paris contrived to send them the
few thousand livres with which they had come to Pennsylvania with the
hopes which so often deceived the emigrant, and then God had found for
them friends. He saw as he thought of them, the German, who held to him
some relation of affectionate nearness which was more than friendship
and seemed like such as comes, though rarely, when the ties of blood are
drawn closer by respect, service, and love. He had ceased to think of
the mystery which puzzled many and of which Hamilton and Mr. Justice
Wilson were believed to know more than any others. Being of the
religion, he had said to Schmidt in a quiet, natural way that their
coming together was providential, and the German had said: "Why not? It
was provided." Then he saw Gainor Wynne, so sturdy and full of insistent
kindness; the strong, decisive nephew; the Quaker homes; all these
amazing people; and, somehow with a distinctness no other figure had,
the Pearl in the sunlight of an August evening.

The name Margaret fits well--ah--yes. To sing to her the old French
verse--there in the garden above the river--well, that would be
pleasant--and to hear how it would sound he must try it, being in a
happy mood.

The captain turned to listen, for first he whistled the air and then
sang:

LE BLASON DE LA MARGUERITE

En Avril où naquit amour,
J'entrai dans son jardin un jour,
Où la beauté d'une fleurette
Me plut sur celles que j'y vis.
Ce ne fut pas la pâquerette,
L'oeillet, la rose, ni le lys:
Ce fut la belle Marguerite,
Qu'au coeur j'aurai toujours écrite.

He laughed. That would hardly do--"_au coeur écrite_"; but then, it is
only a song.

"Well sung," said the captain, not ignorant of French. "Do you sing that
to the lady who is written in your heart?"

"Always," laughed De Courval--"always."

It is well for us to follow the fortunes of some of those who were in De
Courval's mind as the _Marie_ lost sight of the steeple of Christ
Church.

Mrs. Swanwick, born in the creed and customs of the Church of England,
was by many ties of kindred allied to the Masters, Willings, Morrises,
and to that good Whig rector, the Rev. Richard Peters. She had conformed
with some doubts to the creed of John Swanwick, her dead husband, but
was of no mind to separate her daughter altogether from the gay cousins
whose ways her simpler tastes in no wise always approved.

It was also black Nanny's opinion that the girl should see the gayer
world, and she expressed herself on this matter to her mistress with the
freedom of an old servant. She could neither read nor even tell the
time, and never left the house or garden, except for church or the
funeral of some relative. Just now, a week after the vicomte had gone,
she was busy in the kitchen when Mrs. Swanwick came in.

"Were there many at thy cousin's burial?" asked the mistress.

"Yes, there was; but this goin' out don't agree with me. I ain't young
enough to enjoy it." Then she said abruptly: "Miss Margaret she's pinin'
like. She ain't no Quaker--no more than me."

Mrs. Swanwick smiled, and Nanny went on peeling potatoes.

"I don't go with Friends--I'm church people, and I likes the real
quality."

"Yes, I know, Nanny." She had heard all this many times.

"I heard the Governor askin' you--"

"Yes, yes. I think she may go, Nanny."

"She'll go, and some time she'll stay," said Nanny.

"Indeed? Well--I shall see," said the mistress.

"Potatoes ain't what they used to be, and neither is folks."

Now and then, with more doubt as Margaret grew and matured, her mother
permitted her to stay for a day at Belmont, or at Cliveden with the
Chews, but more readily with Darthea Wynne. Just now an occasional
visitor, Mr. John Penn, the Proprietary, had come with his wife to ask
the girl to dine at Landsdowne. It would be a quiet party. She could
come with Mr. Schmidt, who, like Nanny, seeing the girl of late somewhat
less gay than usual and indisposed to the young Quaker kinsfolk, with
whom she had little in common, urged the mother to consent. She yielded
reluctantly. "Ann," said the gentleman in the ruby-colored coat, "would
take care of her." This Ann, the daughter of the Chief Justice Allen,
was a friend of Mary Swanwick's youth. There was advice given, and some
warnings, which the pleased girl, it is to be feared, thought little of
as, wrapped in furs, Schmidt drove her in his sleigh over the float
bridge at the middle ferry, and at last along the Monument Road from
the Lancaster Pike to the front of the Italian villa John Penn built
where now in the park stands the Horticultural Hall.

The sky was clear, the sun brilliant. There were far-away glimpses of
the river, and on the terrace to meet them, at three o'clock, a group of
gay young cousins, who came out with Mrs. Byrd of Westover, the hostess,
Ann Penn, very splendid in gown and powder, with Mr. Peters, their
neighbor, of late made a judge, and the Governor in purple velvet
short-clothes and gold buckles. He put out in welcome a lace-ruffled
hand, of which he was said to be proud. A hood, and over it a calash for
shelter from cold, had replaced the girl's Quaker bonnet, and now it was
cast back, and the frost-red cheeks were kissed, and the profuse
compliments of the day paid to the really charming face of Margaret,
whom nature had set off with color and whom stern decrees of usage had
clad for contrast in relieving gray silks.

There was whispering among those madcap cousins as they hurried her away
to Ann Greenleaf's room, a niece of Mrs. Penn, "to set thy hair in order
for dinner, thou darling Quaker." She was used to their ways, and went
merry with the rest up the great stairway whence William Penn, in the
serene beauty of his youth, looked down at the noisy party, now bent
upon a prank altogether in the fashion of their day.

As Margaret entered the room, she saw Miss Ann Greenleaf being trussed
up in stays by a black maid.

"Why, dear, is the room so dark?" asked Margaret; for the curtains were
drawn, and there were candles on the mantel and in sconces.

"The better to see how we shall look--in the evening," replied Miss
Willing.

Gowns, silken hose, high, red-heeled shoes, and powder-puffs lay about
on bed and chairs.

"We have a little secret," cried Miss Willing, "and we will never tell,
dear."

"Never!" cried they.

"We want to dress thee just for to see how thou wouldst look in the gown
of decent Christians."

"I could never think of it."

"Come, girls," cried Miss Willing, "let us dress her just once."

"Oh, but just for a half-hour," they said, and gathered around her,
laughing, urgent.

Nice Christians these! She would not. Mother would not like it, and--ah,
me, she was not unwilling to see herself once in the long cheval-glass.
She had had naughty dreams of brocade and powder. Despite her
resistance, they had off the prim Quaker dress, and blushing,
half-angry, half-pleased, she was in slim attire, saying: "Thou really
must not. My stockings, oh, not my stockings! Oh, Molly Greenleaf, how
can I? It is dreadful--please not." But the silk stockings were on, and
the garters, with compliments my modest pen declines to preserve. There
was enough of the maiden neck in view above the undervest, and very
splendid length of brocade gown, with lace of the best, and a petticoat,
pearl-tinted, "Because, dear, we are all Quakers," they cried. "And do
keep still, or the powder will be all over thee. What color, girls! Can
it be real? I must kiss thee to see if it be rouge."

"For shame!" cried Margaret, between tears and laughter.

"Now a fan--and patches, Molly Greenleaf! No. The old women wear them;
but gloves, crumpled down at the elbow. So!" She had given up at last.

It was only for a frolic half-hour. "Go now and see thyself." Two of the
merriest seized lighted candles, for the room was made dark by the drawn
curtains, and stood on each side of the long cheval-glass, a pretty
picture, with Margaret before the mirror, shy and blushing. "Great
heavens! you are a wonder! Isn't she, oh, isn't she, the sweetest
thing!"

The Quaker maiden looked down at the rich brocade and then looked up,
and knew that she was beautiful. She stood still, amazed at the
revelation, and the gods who give us uncalled-for thoughts set in her
mind for a moment the figure of the young vicomte. She colored, and
cried, laughing, as she turned away from the glass: "You have had your
way with me, and now--undress me, girls, please. I should scarce know
how."

"Oh, the sweet, innocent thing!" cried they. "But wait a little. Now thy
hair--so--and so, and a bit more powder. La, but you are dangerous!
Where are thy Quaker gown and stockings? Where can they be! Molly
Greenleaf, what have you done with them? And, oh, Cinderella, the
slippers fit to a charm." No one knew where had gone the gown, the
shoes, the shawl, the rest of the simple garb. "The fairy godmother has
done it," cried Miss Cadwalader. "What shall we do?" cried Betty Morris.
The gong, a new fashion, rang for dinner. The girl was angry.

"This passes the limit of a jest," she cried. "Go down? I? No. I will
die first." They implored, laughing; but she refused, saying, "I sit
here till I have my gown," and would speak no more.

At this minute came Mrs. Penn. "What is all this noise, young women?
Good Lord! Margaret Swanwick! So this is what these minxes have been at
all the morning?"

"I have been tricked," said Margaret, "and--and I will never forgive
them--never."

"But come down to dinner, my dear. You will have your revenge when the
men see you. There, the Governor dislikes to wait. He has sent up to say
dinner is ready."

"I want my gown," said the Pearl, "and I will not go down." Only anger
kept her from tears.

"But the Governor must see you. Come, no one will know, and, bless me!
but you are a beauty!"

"Isn't she?" they cried in chorus. A glance at the mirror and a
triumphant sense of victorious capacities to charm swept over the
hesitating girl. Life of late had been as gray as her garb.

"Come, dear. You really must. You are making too much, quite too much,
of a bit of innocent fun. If you wait to dress, I shall have to explain
it all, and the Governor will say you lack courage; and must I say I
left you in tears? And the mutton, my dear child--think of the mutton!"

"I am not in tears, and I hate you all, every one of you; but I will
go."

Her head was up, as fan in hand she went down in front of the cousins,
now mildly penitent, Mrs. Penn at her side. "Did they think to show off
an awkward Quaker cousin, these thoughtless kittens? Give them a lesson,
my dear."

"I mean to," said Margaret, her eyes flashing.

The men were about the fire in the great drawing-room, one little girl
just slipping out, the future wife of Henry Baring. The party was
large--young Mr. Rawle and General Wayne and the Peters from Belmont
near by.

The men turned to bow as Mrs. Penn stepped aside, and left to view a
startling vision of innocence and youth and loveliness. The girl swept a
curtsey, the practice when dreams of the world were teasing her had not
been in vain. Then she rose and moved into the room. For a moment there
was silence. Except Schmidt, no one knew her. The Governor, bowing,
cried, "By George! Margaret, you beat them all! What fairies have
metamorphosed you?"

"We, we," cried the chorus. The men paid her compliments after the
downright fashion of their set. She was gay, quick to reply, amazingly
at ease. Schmidt watched her, comprehending as no one else did the
sudden revelation to the young woman of the power and charm of her
beauty and the primal joy of unused weapons. To the younger men she was
a little reserved and quiet, to the elder men all grace and sweetness,
to the trickster cousins, disconcertingly cool.

"Where on earth did she learn it all?" said Mrs. Byrd, as she went out
to dinner with Mr. Penn.

"Heaven knows. But it was a saucy trick and she will pay for it, I fear,
at home."

"Will she tell?" said Morris, the master of the rolls, as he followed
behind them with Mrs. Wayne.

"Yes," said Mrs. Byrd, "she will tell; but whether or not, the town will
ring with it, in a day or two. A pity, too, for the child is brought up
in the straightest way of Friends. None of Madame Logan's fine gowns and
half-way naughtiness for her."

At dinner Margaret quietly amused Mr. Morris with Schmidt's terror of
June, the cat, and with Mr. Jefferson's bout with Hamilton, and the tale
of the sad lapse of De Forest, which greatly pleased General Wayne, her
right-hand neighbor. When they left the men to their Madeira, she
insisted on changing her dress. A not duly penitent bevy of maids
assisted, and by and by it was a demure Quaker moth who replaced the gay
butterfly and in the drawing-room helped Madame Penn to make tea. They
paid her fair compliments, and she smiled, saying: "I, dear Mrs.
Penn--was I here? Thou must be mistaken. That was Grandmama Plumstead
thou didst have here. Oh, a hundred years ago."

"Ask her to come again," said Mrs. Penn.

"And to stay," said Mrs. Wayne; "a charming creature."

"The maid is clever," said Mrs. Masters.

Meanwhile the wine went round on the coasters over the mahogany table in
the dining-room, and men talked of France, and grew hot with wine and
more politics than pleased their host, who had no definite opinions, or,
if any, a sincere doubt as to the quality of a too aged Madeira.

He gave a toast: "The ladies and our Quaker Venus." They drank it
standing.

"This wine needs fining," said his reverence, the rector of Christ
Church. They discussed it seriously.

Mr. Rawle cried, "A toast: George Washington and the Federal party."

"No politics, gentlemen," said Penn; "but I will drink the first half of
it--His Excellency."

* * * * *

Mr. Langstroth on this day rode to town, and there learned that Margaret
was at Landsdowne, and also a surprising piece of news with which he did
not regale Mary Swanwick.

Full of what he had heard, Mr. Langstroth, being now on horseback and on
his way to Gray Pines, his home, was suddenly minded to see his
great-niece. Therefore he rode up the avenue at Landsdowne, and hitching
his horse, learned that the men were still over their wine. "I will go
in," he said, well pleased.

"Ah," said Penn, rising, "you are just in time for the punch." He hated
the man and all his positive ways, but, the more for that, was
courteous, if rather formal. "A glass for Mr. Langstroth. Your health,
sir; your very good health."

"It is not good," said the new-comer.

"But the wine I trust is," said the Governor.

"It might supply goodness," Langstroth replied, "if it were not a bit
pricked." It was a tender subject, and his host, feeling grossly
wronged, was silent.

"Any fresh news?" said the attorney-general.

"Yes, sir; yes. The Princeton College lottery was drawn this morning,
and guess who drew a prize?"

"Not I"--"Nor I," they cried. "Who was it? Not you?"

"I! No such luck."

"Who, then?"

"Well, I bought ten chances in the fall, and one for my great-niece,
Margaret Swanwick. Her mother did not like it. Friends are all for
putting an end to lotteries."

"And she won?"

"She did. I chose for luck the number of her age and the last two
figures of the year--1792. That took it."

"How much? How much?" they shouted, the wine and rum punch having done
their work. "How much?"

"Eight thousand, nine hundred, and thirty-four dollars, as I'm a
sinner."

"The girl may have gay gowns now," cried one.

"Let us go out, and tell her," said the Governor, as men still called
him; and upon this, having had wine and rum more than was well, they
went laughing into the drawing-room.

"Oh, news! news!" cried one and another.

Mrs. Penn looked annoyed. "What is it?" she asked.

"Ho, ho! Fine news!" said Langstroth. "Margaret has the great prize in
the Princeton lottery--eight thousand and more. It was drawn this
morning."

"What luck!" cried the ladies. "And you are not jesting?"

"No. It is true. I bought it for her," roared Langstroth, triumphant.
"Think of that, Margaret--eight thousand and--"

"For me--mine!" said the girl, rising as she spoke. "Don't speak to me,
Cousin Penn. I have had too much to-day. I am troubled. I must go." No,
she did not want to discuss it. She must go home. "May I not go, Friend
Schmidt? If this is a joke, uncle, it is not to my taste. I must go."

"Certainly. The sleigh is at the door."

Langstroth was angry. He had had no thanks, not a word. There was some
embarrassment, but the women must need felicitate the unwilling winner.
She made short answers.

"The puss has her claws out," murmured Mrs. Byrd, as she heard in reply
to her congratulations: "I think it is a misfortune--a--a--what will my
mother say? I must go." She was a child again. Mrs. Penn, understanding
the girl, went out with her, saying kind things, and helping her to put
on her over-wrap.

"Damn the fool!" said her uncle, who had followed her into the hall, and
to whom she would not speak.

The gentlemen were silent, not knowing how to sympathize with a
misfortune so peculiar. Schmidt, tranquil and undisturbed, made the
usual formal adieus and followed her out of the room. He tucked in the
furs with kindly care, and through the early evening dusk they drove
away across the snow, the girl silent, the man respectful of her mood.

It was after dark when Schmidt left Margaret at her home. As he was
about to drive away to the stable, he said, "Those are wild girls, but,
my dear child, you were so very pretty, I for one almost forgave them."

"Oh, was I?" she cried, shyly pleased and a little comforted. "But the
lottery prize; I shall hear about that, and so will my mother, too. I
never gave it a thought when uncle spoke of it long ago."

"It is a small matter, Pearl. We will talk about it later. Now go in and
quit thinking of it. It is shrewd weather, and nipping."

Margaret knew very well that she had good cause to be uneasy. Friends
had been of late much exercised over the evil of lotteries, and half of
Langstroth's satisfaction in this form of gambling was due to his love
of opposition and his desire to annoy the society of which he still
called himself a member. Although, to his anger, he had long ago been
disowned, he still went to meeting once or twice a year. He had had no
such sacrificial conscience in the war as made Clement Biddle and
Wetherill "apostates," as Friends called them. He was by birthright a
member of the society, and stood for King George, and would pay no war
tax. But when the vendue-master took his old plate and chairs, he went
privately and bought them back; and so, having thus paid for the joy of
apparent opposition, drank to the king in private, and made himself
merry over the men who sturdily accepting loss for conscience's sake,
sat at meals on their kitchen chairs, silently unresistant, but, if
human, a little sorrowful concerning the silver which came over with
Penn and was their only material reminder of the Welsh homes their
fathers had left that they might worship God in their own simple way.

The one person Langstroth loved was his great-niece, of whose attachment
to the German he was jealous with that keen jealousy known to those who
are capable of but one single love. He had meant to annoy her mother;
and, with no least idea that he would win a prize for her child, was now
vexed at Margaret's want of gratitude, and well pleased with the fuss
there would be when the news got out and Friends came to hear of it.

When Pearl threw herself into the mother's arms and broke into tears,
sobbing out the double story, for a moment Mrs. Swanwick was silent.

"My dear," she said at last, "why didst thou let them dress thee?"

"I--I could not help it, and--and--I liked it, mother. Thou didst like
it once," she added, with a look of piteous appeal. "Don't scold me,
mother. Thou must have liked it once."

"I, dear? Yes, I liked it. But--scold thee? Do I ever scold thee? 'T is
but a small matter. It will be the talk of a week, and Gainor Wynne will
laugh, and soon it will be forgotten. The lottery is more serious."

"But I did not do it."

"No."

"They will blame thee, mother, I know--when it was all my uncle's doing.
Let them talk to him."

The widow smiled. "Nothing would please him better; but--they have long
since given up Josiah for a lost sheep--"

"Black, mother?" She was a trifle relieved at the thought of an
interview between Friend Howell, the gentlest of the gentle, and Josiah.

"Brown, not black," said the mother, smiling. "It will someway get
settled, my child. Now go early to bed and leave it to thy elders. I
shall talk of it to Friend Schmidt."

"Yes, mother." Her confidence in the German gentleman, now for five
years their guest, was boundless.

"And say thy prayers with a quiet heart. Thou hast done no wrong. Good
night, my child. Ask if Friend de Courval wants anything. Since her son
went away, she has been troubled, as who would not be. Another's real
cause for distress should make us feel how small a matter is this of
ours." She kissed her again, and the girl went slowly up-stairs,
murmuring: "He went away and never so much as said good-by to me. I do
not think it was civil."

Meanwhile the mother sat still, with only the click, click of the
knitting-needles, which somehow seemed always to assist her to think.
She had steadily refused help in money from Uncle Josiah, and now,
being as angry as was within the possibilities of a temper radiant with
the sunshine of good humor, she rejoiced that she owed Josiah nothing.

"He shall have a piece of my mind," she said aloud, and indeed a large
slice would have been a sweetening addition to his crabbed sourness.
"Ah, me!" she added, "I must not think of the money; but how easy it
would make things!" Not even Schmidt had been permitted to pay more than
a reasonable board. No, she would not repine; and now madame,
reluctantly accepting her son's increased wages, had insisted that his
room be kept vacant and paid for, and was not to be gainsaid about the
needed fur-lined roquelaure she bought for her hostess and the extra pay
for small luxuries.

"May God forgive me that I have been unthankful for His goodness," said
Mary Swanwick, and so saying she rose and putting aside her thoughts
with her knitting, sat down to read a little in the book she had taken
from the library, to Friend Poulson's dismay. "Thou wilt not like it,
Mary Swanwick." In a minute of mischief young Mr. Willing had told her
of a book he had lately read--a French book, amusing and witty. He had
left her wishing he could see her when she read it, but self-advised to
stay away for a time.

She sat down with anticipative satisfaction. "What hard French!" she
thought. "I must ask help of madame," as she often called her, Friend
Courval being, as she saw plainly, too familiar to her guest. As she
read, smiling at the immortal wit and humor of a day long passed,
suddenly she shut the book with a quick movement, and set it aside.
"What manner of man was this Rabelais? Friend Poulson should have been
more plain with me; and as for Master Willing, I shall write to him,
too, a bit of my mind." But she never did, and only said aloud: "If I
give away any more pieces of my mind, I shall have none left," and
turned, as her diary records, to the "Pilgrim's Progress," of which she
remarked, "an old book by one John Bunyan, much read by Friends and
generally approved, ridiculed by many, but not by me. It seems to me
good, pious wit, and not obscene like the other. I fear I sin sometimes
in being too curious about books." Thus having put on paper her
reflections, she went to bed, having in mind a vague and naughty desire
to have seen Margaret in the foolish garb of worldly folk.

Margaret, ashamed, would go nowhere for a week, and did more than the
needed housework, to Nanny's disgust, whose remembrances were of days of
luxury and small need for "quality folks" to dust rooms. The work over,
when tired of her labor, Margaret sat out in the winter sunshine in the
fur-lined roquelaure, madame's extravagant gift, and, enraptured, read
"The Mysteries of Udolpho," or closing the book, sailed with the
_Marie_, and wondered what San Domingo was like.

Meanwhile the town, very gay just now with dinners Mr. John Adams
thought so excessive, and with sleigh-riding parties to Belmont and
Cliveden, rang with wild statements of the dressing scene and the
lottery. Very comic it was to the young bucks, and, "Pray, Mrs. Byrd,
did the garters fit?" "Fie, for shame!" "And no stays, we hear," wives
told their husbands, and once in the London Coffee-house, in front of
which, long ago, Congo slaves were sold and where now men discussed
things social, commercial, and political, Schmidt had called a man to
stern account and exacted an apology. The gay girls told their Quaker
cousins, and at last Friends were of a mind to talk to Mary Swanwick,
especially of the lottery.

Before graver measures were taken, it was advisable that one should
undertake to learn the truth, for it was felt not to be desirable to
discipline by formal measures so blameless a member where clearly there
had been much exaggeration of statement.

Ten days after the dinner at Landsdowne, John Pemberton was met in the
hall of the Swanwick house by Mr. Schmidt, both women being out. The
German at once guessed the errand of this most kindly of Quaker gentles,
and said, "Mr. Pemberton, you are come, I suppose, to speak for Friends
of the gossip about these, my own friends. Pray be seated. They are
out."

"But my errand is not to thee, who art not of the Society of Friends."

"I am of the society of these friends. I know why you are come. Talk to
me."

"I am advised in spirit that it may be as well to do so. Thou art a just
man. I shall speak."

On this he sat down. It was a singular figure the German saw. The broad,
white beaver hat, which the Quaker gentleman kept on his head, was
turned up in front and at the back over abundant gray hair. A great
eagle nose overhanging a sharp chin, brought near to it by the toothless
jaws of age, gave to the side face a queer look of rapacity,
contradicted by the refinement and serene kindliness of the full face
now turned upon the German.

"Friend Schmidt," he said, "our young friend, we are told, has been
unwise and exhibited herself among those of the world in unseemly
attire. There are those of us who, like Friend Logan, are setting a bad
example in their attire to the young. I may not better state how we feel
than in the words of William Penn: 'Choose thy clothes by thine own eye,
not by another's; the more simple and plain they are the better; neither
unshapely nor fantastical, and for use and decency, not for pride.' I
think my memory serves me."

"I shall not argue with you, sir, but being in part an eye-witness, I
shall relate what did occur," and he told very simply of the rude jest,
and of the girl's embarrassment as he had heard it from the mother.

"I see," said Pemberton. "Too much has been made of it. She will hear no
more of it from Friends, and it may be a lesson. Wilt thou greet her
with affectionate remembrance from an old man and repeat what I have
said?"

"I will do so."

"But there is a matter more serious. We are told that she bought a
lottery-ticket, and has won a great prize. This we hear from Josiah
Langstroth."

"Did he say this--that she bought a ticket?"

"We are so advised."

"Then he lied. He bought it in her name, without asking her."

"Art thou sure? Thy language is strong."

"Yes, I am sure."

"And what will Mary Swanwick do with this money won in evil ways?"

"I do not know."

"It is well that she should be counseled."

"Do you not think, sir, as a man of sense and a gentleman and more, that
it may be well to leave a high-minded woman to dispose of this matter?
If she goes wrong, will it not then be time to interfere? There is not a
ha'-penny of greed in her. Let her alone."

The Quaker sat still a moment, his lean figure bent over his staff.
"Thou art right," he said, looking up. "The matter shall rest, unless
worse come of it."

"Why not see Mr. Langstroth about it?" said the German, mischievously
inclined. "He is of Friends, I presume."

"He is not," said Pemberton. "He talked in the war of going forth from
us with Wetherill, but he hath not the courage of a house-fly. His
doings are without conscience, and now he is set in his ways. He hath
been temperately dealt with long ago and in vain. An obstinate man; when
he sets his foot down thou hast to dig it up to move him. I shall not
open the matter with Josiah Langstroth. I have been led to speak
harshly. Farewell."

When Mrs. Swanwick heard of this and had talked of it to Margaret, the
Pearl said, "We will not take the money, and uncle cannot; and it may
go." Her decisiveness both pleased and astonished the mother. It was a
maturing woman who thus anticipated Schmidt's advice and her own, and
here for a little while the matter lay at rest.

Not all Friends, however, were either aware of what Pemberton had
learned or were fully satisfied, so that one day Daniel Offley,
blacksmith, a noisy preacher in meetings and sometimes advised of elders
to sit down, resolved to set at rest alike his conscience and his
curiosity. Therefore, on a February afternoon, being the 22d, and
already honored as the birthday of Washington, he found Margaret alone,
as luck would have it. To this unusual house, as I have said, came not
only statesmen, philosophers, and the rich. Hither, too, came the poor
for help, the lesser Quakers, women and men, for counsel or a little
sober gossip. All were welcome, and Offley was not unfamiliar with the
ways of the house.

He found Margaret alone, and sitting down, began at once and harshly to
question her in a loud voice concerning the story of her worldly vanity,
and asked why she could thus have erred.

The girl had had too much of it. Her conscience was clear, and
Pemberton, whom she loved and respected, had been satisfied, as Schmidt
had told them. She grew red, and rising, said: "I have listened to thee;
but now I say to thee, Daniel Offley, that it is none of thy business.
Go home and shoe thy horses."

He was not thus to be put down. "This is only to add bad temper to thy
other faults. As a Friend and for many of the Society, I would know what
thee has done with thee devil wages of the lottery."

[Illustration: "'Thou canst not shoe my conscience'"]

She looked at him a moment. The big, ruddy face struck her as comical.
Her too often repressed sense of humor helped her, and crying, "Thou
canst not shoe my conscience, Daniel Offley," she fled away up-stairs,
her laughter ringing through the house, a little hysterical, perhaps,
and first cousin to tears. The amazed preacher, left to his meditations,
was shocked into taking off his beaver and saying strong words out of a
far away past.

She was angry beyond the common, for Schmidt had said it was all of it
unwise and meddlesome, nor was the mother better pleased than he when
she came to hear of Offley's visit. "I am but half a Friend," she
confessed to Schmidt, not liking altogether even the gentler inquiries
of John Pemberton.

When on the next Sunday Madame de Courval was about to set out for the
Swedes' church, Mrs. Swanwick said, "It is time to go to meeting, my
child."

"I am not going, mother."

"But thou didst not go last First Day."

"No. I cannot, mother. May I go with madame?"

"Why not?" said Schmidt, looking up from his book. And so the Pearl went
to Gloria Dei.

"They have lost a good Quaker by their impertinence," said Schmidt to
himself. "She will never again go to meeting." And, despite much gentle
urging and much persuasive kindness, this came at last to be her custom,
although she still wore unchanged her simple Quaker garb. Madame at
least was pleased, but also at times thoughtful of the future when the
young vicomte would walk between them down Swanson Street to church.

There was, of course, as yet no news of the _Marie_, and many bets on
the result of the bold venture were made in the coffee-houses, for now,
in March of the year '93, the story of the king's death and of war
between France and England began further to embitter party strife and
alarm the owners of ships. If the vicomtesse was anxious, she said no
word of what she felt. Outside of the quiet home where she sat over her
embroidery there was an increase of political excitement, with much
abuse, and in the gazettes wild articles over classic signatures. With
Jacobin France for exemplars, the half-crazed Republicans wore tricolor
cockades, and the _bonnet rouge_ passed from head to head at noisy
feasts when "Ça Ira" and the "Marseillaise" were sung. Many persons were
for war with England, but the wiser of both parties were for the
declaration of neutrality, proclaimed of late amid the fury of extreme
party sentiment. The new French minister eagerly looked for by the
republicans was soon to come and to add to the embarrassment of the
Government whatever of mischief insolent folly could devise.

Meanwhile the hearts of two women were on the sea, and the ship-owners
were increasingly worried; for now goods for French ports would be
seized on the ocean and sailors claimed as English at the will of any
British captain.

Amid all this rancor of party and increase of anxiety as to whether
America was to be at war or peace, the small incident of a girl's change
of church was soon forgotten. It was not a rare occurrence, and only
remarkable because, as Schmidt said to Gainor Wynne somewhat later, it
proved what a convincing preacher is anger.

Mistress Wynne had come home from Boston after a week's travel, and
being tired, went to bed and decided to have a doctor, with Chovet for
choice, because Rush had little gossip. She was amply fed with it,
including the talk about the change of dress and the lottery. So good
was the effect that, on the doctor's departure, she threw his pills out
of the window, and putting on pattens, took her cane and went away
through the slush to see Margaret. On the way many things passed through
her mind, but most of all she remembered the spiritual struggles of her
own young days, when she, too, had broken with Friends.

And now when she met Margaret in the hall, it was not the girl who wept
most, as Gainor cried to Schmidt to go and not mock at two women in
tears no man could understand.

"Ah," cried Schmidt, obediently disappearing, "he who shall explicate
the tears of women shall be crowned by the seraphs." Thus he saw Gainor
in her tender mood, such as made her to be forgiven much else of men and
of angels. She comforted the girl, and over the sad story of the stays
and garters she laughed--not then, but in very luxury of unfettered
mirth on her homeward way.

He who got the largest satisfaction out of poor Margaret's troubles was
Josiah Langstroth, as he reflected how for the first time in his life he
had made Mary Swanwick angry, had stirred up Friends, and at last had
left the Presbyterian ministers of the trustees of Princeton College in
a hopeless quandary. If the owner of the prize in their lottery would
not take it, to whom did it belong? And so at last it was left in Miss
Swanwick's name in the new bank Hamilton had founded, to await a use of
which as yet no man dreamed.

When De Courval lost sight of the red city, and while the unusual warmth
of the winter weather was favoring their escape from the ice adrift on
the bay, the young man reflected that above all things it was wise to be
on good terms with his captain.

Accordingly, he said: "It is fit, sir, that you should advise me as to
Mr. Wynne's instructions. Have the kindness to read them. I have not
done so."

Much gratified, the captain took the paper. "Hum!" he exclaimed, "to
reach Port au Prince in time to prevent unloading of the _George
Washington_. To get her out and send her home with her cargo." He
paused. "We may be in time to overhaul and stop her; but if she has
arrived, to carry her out from under the guns of the fort is quite
another matter. 'To avoid the British cruisers.' Well, yes, we are only
in ballast,"--he looked up with pride at the raking masts and
well-trimmed sails,--"the ship does not float can catch the _Marie_.
'Free to do as seems best if we are stopped by privateers.' Ah, he knows
well enough what I should do."

"He seems to have provided for that," said De Courval, glancing at the
carronades and the long Tom in the bow such as many a peaceful ship
prudently carried.

The captain grinned. "That is like Hugh Wynne. But these island fools
rely on us for diet. They will be starving, and if the _George
Washington_ reach the island before we do, they will lose no time, and,
I guess, pay in worthless bills on France, or not at all. However, we
shall see." This ended the conversation.

They had the usual varied luck of the sea; but the master carried sail,
to the alarm of his mates, and seeing none of the dreaded cruisers,
overtook a French merchant ship and learned with certainty of the
outbreak of war between France and Great Britain, a fresh embarrassment,
as they well knew.

At sundown on February the 15th, the lookout on the crosstrees saw the
mountains of San Domingo back of the city of Port au Prince, and running
in under shelter of one of the many islands which protect the bay, the
captain and the supercargo took counsel as to what they should do.

"If," said De Courval, "I could get ashore as a French sailor at night,
and learn something of how things stand, we might be helped."

The captain feared risks neither for himself nor for another, and at
last said: "I can run you in at dark, land you on a spit of sand below
the town, and wait for you."

Thus it was that in sailor garb, a tricolor cockade in his hat, De
Courval left the boat at eight at night and began with caution to
approach the town. The brilliant moon of a clear tropic night gave
sufficient light, and following the shore, he soon came upon the
warehouses and docks, where he hoped to learn what ships were in the
harbor. Soon, however, he was halted by sentries, and being refused
permission to pass, turned away from the water-front. Passing among rude
cabins and seeing almost no one, he came out at last on a wide,
well-built avenue and into a scene of sorrowful misery. Although the new
commissioners of the republic had put down the insurrection of the
slaves with appalling slaughter, their broken bands were still busy with
the torch and the sword, so that the cities were filled with refugees of
the plantation class--men and women who were quite helpless and knew not
where to turn for shelter or for the bread of the day.

De Courval had been quite unprepared for the wretchedness he now saw.
Indistinct in the moon-made shadows, or better seen where the light lay,
were huddled groups of women and children, with here and there near by a
man made helpless by years of the ownership of man. Children were
crying, while women tried in vain to comfort them. Others were silent or
wildly bewailing their fate. To all seeming, indifferent to the
oft-repeated appeals of misery, went by officials, army officers,
smoking cigarettes, drunken sailors, and such women as a seaport
educates to baseness. Half of the town had been for months in ashes. The
congestion of the remainder was more and more felt as refugees from
ruined plantations came hither, hungry and footsore, to seek food where
was little and charity where was none.

Unable to do more than pity, the young vicomte went his way with care
along a street strangely crowded with all manner of people, himself on
the lookout for a café where he might find seamen. Presently he found
what he sought, and easily fell into sea-talk with a group of sailors.
He learned only that the town was without the usual supplies of food
from the States; that the troops lived on fish, bananas, and yams, and
that General Esbarbé had ruthlessly put down the negro insurrection.
Only one ship had come in of late. The outbreak of war between England
and France had, in fact, for a time put an end to our valuable trade
with the islands. Learning nothing of value, he paid his score and stood
a moment in the doorway, the drunken revel of idle sailors behind him
and before him the helpless wretchedness of men and women to whom want
had been hitherto unknown. He must seek elsewhere for what he wished to
learn. As he hesitated, two men in white linen went by with a woman.
They were laughing and talking loudly, apparently indifferent to the
pitiable groups on door-steps or on the sidewalks.

"Let us go to the Cocoanut," said the woman. One of the men said "Yes."
They went on, singing a light drinking song. No one seemed to care for
any one else: officials, sailors, soldiers, destitute planters seemed
all to be in a state of detachment, all kindly human ties of man to man
broken. In fact, for a year the island had been so gorged with tragedy
that it no longer caused remark.

De Courval followed the men and women, presuming that they were going to
a café. If he learned nothing there, he would go back to the ship.

Pushing carelessly by a group of refugees on the outside of the
"Cocoanut," the party went in, and one, an official, as he seemed to be,
sat down at a table with the woman. De Courval, following, took the
nearest table, while the other companion of the woman went to the
counter to give an order. The woman sat still, humming a coarse Creole
love-song, and the vicomte looked about him. The room was dimly lighted,
and quite half of it was occupied by the same kind of unhappy people who
lay about on the streets, and may have paid for leave to sit in the
café. The unrestrained, noisy grief of these well-dressed women amazed
the young man, used to the courage and self-control of the women of his
own class. The few tables near by were occupied by small parties of
officers, in no way interested in the wretchedness about them. A servant
came to De Courval. What would he have? Fried fish there was, and baked
yams, but no other dish. He asked for wine, paid for it, and began to be
of a sudden curious about the party almost within touch. The woman was a
handsome quadroon. Pinned in her high masses of black hair were a dozen
of the large fireflies of the tropics, a common ornament of a certain
class of women. From moment to moment their flashing lanterns strangely
illuminated her hair and face. As he watched her in wonder, the man who
had gone to the counter came back and sat down, facing the crowd.

"Those _sacrés enfants_," he said, "they should be turned out; one can
hardly hear a word for the bawling. I shall be glad to leave--"

"When do you go, Commissioner?" said the woman.

"In a day or two. I am to return to France as soon as possible and make
our report."

De Courval was startled by the voice, and stared at the speaker. The
face was no longer clean-shaven, and now wore the mustache, a recent
Jacobin fashion. The high-arched eyebrows of the man of the Midi, the
sharp voice, decided him. It was Carteaux. For a moment René had the
slight vertigo of a man to whose intense passion is forbidden the relief
of physical action. The scene at Avignon was before him, and instantly,
too, the sense of need to be careful of himself, and to think solely of
his errand. He swallowed his wine in haste, and sat still, losing no
word of the talk, as the other man said:

"They will unload the American ship to-morrow, I suppose."

"Yes," said Carteaux; "and pay in good republican _assignats_ and
promises. Then I shall sail on her to Philadelphia, and go thence to
France. Our work here is over."

De Courval had heard enough. If the ship went to the States, there he
would find his enemy. To let him go, thus unpunished, when so near, was
obviously all that he could do. He rose and went out. In a few minutes
he had left the town behind him and was running along the beach,
relieved by rapid action. He hailed the boat, lying in wait off the
shore, and had, as he stood, the thought that with his father's murderer
within reach, duty had denied him the privilege of retributive justice.
It was like the dreams with which at times he was troubled--when he saw
Carteaux smiling and was himself unable to move. Looking back, as the
boat ran on to the beach, he saw a red glow far away, and over it the
pall of smoke where hundreds of plantations were burning, with
everywhere, as he had heard, ruin, massacre, and ruthless executions of
the revolted slaves set free. Such of the upper class as could leave had
departed, and long since Blanchelande, ex-governor, had been sent to
France, to be remembered only as the first victim of the guillotine.

The captain, uneasy, hurried De Courval into the boat, for he had been
gone two hours. There was a light, but increasing wind off shore to help
them and before them a mile's pull. As they rowed to the ship, the
captain heard De Courval's news. "We must make sure it is our ship,"
said the captain. "I could row in and see. I should know that old tub a
hundred yards away--yes, sir, even in the night."

"The town, Captain, is in confusion--full of planters, men, women, and
children lying about the streets. There is pretty surely a guard on
board that ship. Why not beat in closer without lights, and then, with
all the men you can spare, find the ship, and if it is ours, take her
out?"

"If we can. A good idea. It might be done."

"It is the only way. It must be done. Give me the mate and ten men."

"What! Give you my men, and sit down and wait for you? No, sir. I shall
go with you." He was of a breed which has served the country well on sea
and land, and whose burial-places are battle-fields and oceans.

It was soon decided to wait to attack until the town was asleep. In the
interval De Courval, in case of accident, wrote to his mother and to
Schmidt, but with no word of Carteaux. Then for a while he sat still,
reflecting with very mingled feelings that success in carrying the ship
would again cut him off from all chance of meeting Carteaux. It did seem
to him a malignant fate; but at last dismissing it, he buckled on his
sword, took up his pistols, and went on deck.

At midnight the three boats set out with muffled oars, and after a hard
pull against an off-shore wind, through the warm tropic night, they
approached the town.

The captain whistled softly, and the boats came together.

"Speak low," he said to De Courval. "It is the _George Washington_ and
no mistake. They are wide-awake, by ill luck, and singing."

"Yes, I hear them."

"But they are not on deck. There are lights in the cabin." The "Ça Ira"
rang out in bits across the water. The young noble heard it with the
anguish it always awakened; for unfailingly it gave back to memory the
man he longed to meet, and the blood-dabbled mob which came out of the
hall at Avignon shouting this Jacobin song.

The captain said: "We will board her on this side, all together. She is
low in the water. Pull in with your boat and secure the watch forward
and I will shut the after hatches and companionway. Look out for the
forecastle. If her own men are on board, they will be there."

De Courval's heart alone told him of the excitement he felt; but he was
cool, tranquil, and of the temperament which rises to fullest competence
in an hour of danger. A minute later he was on deck, and moving forward
in the silence of the night, came upon the watch. "Hush!" he said; "no
noise. Two to each man. They are asleep. There--choke hard and gag.
Here, cut up this rope; a good gag." In a moment three scared sailors
awoke from dreams of their Breton homes, and were trussed with sailor
skill.

"Now, then," he said in French, "a pistol ball for the man who moves.
Stay by them, you Jones, and come, the rest of you. Rouse the crew in
the forecastle, mate. Call to them. If the answer is in French, let no
man up. Don't shoot, if you can help it."

He turned quickly, and, followed by four men, ran aft, hearing wild
cries and oaths. A man looking out of a port-hole had seen two boats and
the glint of muskets. As the captain swung over the rail, half a dozen
men ran up on deck shouting an alarm. The captain struck with the butt
of his pistol. A man fell. De Courval grappled with a burly sailor, and
falling, rose as the mate hit the guard on the head with a
marline-spike. Then an officer fired, and a sailor went down wounded. It
was savage enough, but brief, for the American crew and captain
released, were now running aft from the forecastle, and the French were
tumbled into the companionway and the hatches battened down in haste,
but no man killed.

"Get up sail!" cried the captain. "An ax to the cable; she is moored to
a buoy. Tumble into the boats, some of you! Get a rope out ahead, and
pull her bow round. Now, then, put out the lights, and hurry, too!" As
he gave his orders, and men were away up the rigging, shot after shot
from the cabin windows drew, as was meant, the attention of the town.
Lights were seen moving on the pier, the sound of oars was heard. There
was the red flare of signals on shore; cries and oaths came from below
and from the shore not far away.

It was too late. The heavy ship, as the cable parted, swung round. The
wind being off the land, sail after sail filled, and picking up his
boats in haste, the captain stood by the helm, the ship slowly gathering
way, while cannon-shots from the batteries fell harmless in her wake.

"Darn the old sea-barrel!" the captain cried. Two boats were after them.
"Down! All of you, down!" A dozen musket-balls rattled over them. "Give
them a dose, boys!"

"No, no!" cried De Courval. "Shoot over them! Over! Ah, good! Well
done!" For at the reply the boats ceased rowing, and, save for a few
spent bullets, the affair was ended. The brig, moving more quickly, soon
left their pursuers, and guided by lights on the _Marie_, they presently
joined her.

"Now, then," said the captain, "get out a boat!" When one by one the
disgusted guard came on deck and in the darkness were put in the boat,
their officer asked in French who had been their captors.

De Courval, on hearing this, replied, "His Majesty's schooner _St.
George_, privateer of Bristol."

"But, _mon Dieu_," cried the bewildered man, "this ship is American. It
is piracy."

"No, monsieur; she was carrying provisions to a French port." The
persistent claim of England, known as the "provision order," was well in
force, and was to make trouble enough before it was abandoned.

The officer, furious, said: "You speak too well our tongue. Ah, if I had
you on shore!"

De Courval laughed. "Adieu, Citizen." The boat put off for the port, and
the two ships made all sail.

By and by the captain called to De Courval to come to the cabin. "Well,
Mr. Lewis,--if that is to be your name,--we are only at the beginning of
our troubles. These seas will swarm with ships of war and English
privateers, and we must stay by this old tub. If she is caught, they
will go over the manifest and take all they want out of her, and men,
too, damn 'em."

"I see," said De Courval. "Is there anything to do but take our chance
on the sea?"

"I shall run north and get away from the islands out of their cruising
grounds."

"What if we run over to Martinique? How long would it take?"

"Three days and a half as we sail, or as that old cask does. But what
for?"

"I heard that things are not so bad there. We might sell the old tub's
cargo."

"Sell it? They would take it."

"Perhaps. But we might lie off the port if there is no blockade
and--well, negotiate. Once rid of the cargo, she would sail better."

"Yes; but Mr. Wynne has said nothing of this. It is only to risk what we
have won. I won't risk it."

"I am sorry," said De Courval, "but now I mean to try it. Kindly run
your eye over these instructions. This is a matter of business only."

The captain reddened angrily as he said, "And I am to obey a boy like
you?"

"Yes, sir."

The master knew Hugh Wynne well, and after a pause said grimly: "Very
good. It is out of the frying-pan into the fire." He hated it, but there
was the order, and obedience to those over him and from those under him
was part of his sailor creed.

In four days, about dawn, delayed by the slower ship, they were off the
port of St. Pierre. The harbor was empty, and there was no blockade as
yet.

"And now," said the captain, "what to do? You are the master, it seems.
Run in, I suppose?"

"No, wait a little, Captain. If, when I say what I want done, it seems
to you unreasonable, I shall give it up. Get a bit nearer; beat about;
hoist our own flag. They will want to understand, and will send a boat
out. Then we shall see."

"I can do that, but every hour is full of risk." Still he obeyed,
beginning to comprehend his supercargo and to like the audacity of the
game.

Near to six o'clock the bait was taken. A boat put out and drew near
with caution. The captain began to enjoy it. "A nibble," he said.

"Give me a boat," said De Courval. "They will not come nearer. There
are but five men. I must risk it. Let the men go armed." In ten minutes
he was beside the Frenchmen, and seeing a young man in uniform at the
tiller, he said in French: "I am from that brig. She is loaded with
provisions for this port or San Domingo, late from the States."

"Very well. You are welcome. Run in. The vicomte will take all, and pay
well. _Foi d'honneur_, monsieur; it is all as I say. You are French?"

"Yes; an _émigré_."

"We like not that, but I will go on board and talk it over."

When on the _Marie_ they went to the cabin with the captains of the two
American ships. "And now let us talk," said De Courval. "Who commands
here for the republic?"

"Citizen Rochambeau; a good Jacobin, too."

De Courval was startled. "A cousin of my mother--the vicomte--a
Jacobin!"

"Is monsieur for our side?" asked the officer.

"No; I am for the king."

"King, monsieur! The king was guillotined on January 21."

"_Mon Dieu!_"

"May I ask your name, monsieur?"

"I am the Vicomte de Courval, at your service."

"By St. Denis! I know; you are of Normandy, of the religion, like
ourselves. I am the Comte de Lourmel."

"And with the Jacobins?"

"Yes. I have an eminent affection for my head. When I can, my brother
and I will get away."

"Then we may talk plainly as two gentlemen."

"Assuredly."

"I do not trust that vicomte of yours--a far-away cousin of my mother, I
regret to say."

"Nor would I trust him. He wished the town illuminated on account of the
king's death."

"It seems incredible. Poor Louis! But now, to our business. Any hour may
bring a British cruiser. This cargo is worth in peace twenty thousand
dollars. Now it is worth thirty-two thousand,--salt beef, potatoes,
pork, onions, salt fish, and some forty casks of Madeira. Ordinarily we
should take home coffee and sugar, but now it is to be paid for in louis
d'or or in gold joes, here--here on board, monsieur."

"But the cargo?"

"The sea is quiet. When the money is on deck, we will run in nearer, and
you must lighter the cargo out. I will give you one day, and only one.
There is no other way. We are well armed, as you see, and will stand no
Jacobin tricks. Tell the vicomte Sans Culottes I am his cousin, De
Courval. Stay, I shall write a note. It is to take on my terms, and at
once, or to refuse."

"He will take it. Money is plenty; but one cannot eat louis d'ors. How
long do you give us?"

"Two hours to go and return; and, monsieur, I am trusting you."

"We will play no tricks." And so presently the boat pushed off and was
away at speed.

"And now what is all that damned parley-vouing? It was too fast for me,"
said the captain; but on hearing, he said it would work. He would hover
round the _George Washington_ with cannon loaded and men armed. Within
the time set the officer came back with another boat. "I have the
money," he said. "The vicomte swore well and long, and would much desire
your company on shore." De Courval laughed. "I grieve to disappoint
him."

"The lighters are on the way," said De Lourmel--"a dozen; and upon my
honor, there will be no attempt at capture."

The ship ran in nearer while the gold was counted, and then with all
possible haste the cargo, partly a deck-load, was lightered away, the
wind being scarcely more than a breeze. By seven at night the vessel was
cleared, for half of the _Marie's_ men had helped. A small barrel of
wine was put in the count's boat, and a glad cheer rang out as all sail
was set.

Then at last the captain came over to where De Courval, leaning against
the rail, allowed himself the first pipe of the busiest day of his life;
for no man of the crew had worked harder.

"I want to say you were right, young man, and I shall be glad to say so
at home. I came darn near to not doing it."

"Why, without you, sir," said De Courval, "I should have been helpless.
The cutting out was yours, and this time we divide honors and hold our
tongues."

"Not I," said the master; nor did he, being as honest as any of his race
of sea-dogs.

The lumbering old brig did fairly well. After three stormy weeks, in
mid-March off the Jersey coast they came in sight of a corvette flying
the tricolor. The captain said things not to be put on record, and
signaled his clumsy consort far astern to put to sea. "An Englishman all
over," said the captain. Then he sailed straight for the corvette with
the flag he loved flying. There was a smart gale from the east, and a
heavy sea running. Of a sudden, as if alarmed, the Stars and Stripes
came down, a tricolor went up, and the _Marie_ turned tail for the
Jersey coast. De Courval watched the game with interest. The captain
enjoyed it, as men who gamble on sea chances enjoy their risks, and
said, laughing, "I wonder does that man know the coast? He's a morsel
reckless."

The corvette went about and followed. "Halloa! He's going to talk!" A
cannon flash was followed by a ball, which struck the rail.

"Not bad," said the captain, and turning, saw De Courval on the deck.
"Are you hit, man?" he cried.

"Not badly." But the blood was running freely down his stocking as he
staggered to his feet.

"Get him below!"

"No, no!" cried De Courval. The mate ripped open his breeches. "A bad
splinter wound, sir, and an ugly bruise." In spite of his protests, they
carried him to the cabin and did some rude sea surgery. Another sharp
fragment had cut open his cheek, but what Dr. Rush would have called
"diachylon plaster" sufficed for this, and in great pain he lay and
listened, still for a time losing blood very freely. The corvette veered
and let go a broadside while the captain looked up at the rigging
anxiously. "Too much sea on," he said. "I will lay his damn ribs on
Absecom Beach, if he holds on."

Apparently the corvette knew better, and manoeuvered in hope to catch
a too wary foe, now flying along the shallow coast in perilous waters.
At nightfall the corvette gave up a dangerous chase, got about, and was
off to sea. At morning the English war-ship caught the brig, being
clever enough to lie off the capes. The captain of the _George
Washington_ wisely lacked knowledge of her consort the schooner, and the
Englishman took out of his ship five men, declaring them Britons,
although they spoke sound, nasal Cape Cod American.

XII

An express-rider from Chester had ridden through the night to carry to
Mr. Wynne at Merion the news of his ships' return and a brief note from
the captain to say that all had gone well.

Though weaker than he was willing to believe, De Courval was able with
some help to get on deck and was welcomed by Wynne, who saw with sudden
anxiety the young man's pallor; for although neither wound was serious,
he had lost blood enough to satisfy even the great Dr. Rush, and limped
uneasily as he went to the rail to meet the ship-owner.

"Are you hurt?" asked Wynne.

"Not badly. We had a little bout with a British corvette. Captain Biddle
will tell you, sir. St. Denis! but it was fun while it lasted; and the
cutting out, too."

"I envy you," said Wynne, with swift remembrance of the market-place in
Germantown, the glow of battle in his gray Welsh eyes.

De Courval's face lighted up at the thought of it. "But now," he
said--"now I must see my mother--oh, at once."

"The tide is at full flood. A boat shall drop you at the foot of the
garden. Can you walk up from the shore, or shall I send you a chaise?"

"I can walk, sir." He was too eager to consider his weakness, and
strong hands helping him into and out of the boat, in a few minutes, for
the distance was small, he was set ashore at the foot of the garden, now
bare and leafless. He dismissed the men with thanks, and declared he
required no further help. With much-needed care he limped up the slope,
too aware of pain and of an increase of weakness that surprised him, but
nevertheless with a sense of exhilaration at the thought of coming
home--yes, home--after having done what he well knew would please his
mother. No other thought was in his mind.

Of a sudden he heard voices, and, looking up, saw Mrs. Swanwick and
Margaret. Gay, excited, and happy, he stumbled forward as they came, the
girl crying out: "The vicomte, mother!"

"Ah, but it is good to see you!" he said as he took the widow's hand and
kissed it, and then the girl's, who flushed hot as he rose unsteadily.
Seeing her confusion, he said: "Pardon me. It is our way at home, and I
am so, so very glad to get back to you all!"

"But--thou art lame!" cried the widow, troubled.

"And his face--he is hurt, mother!"

"Yes, yes; but it is of no moment. We had a one-sided battle at sea."
Then he reeled, recovering himself with effort. "My mother is well?"

"Yes. Lean on me. Put a hand on my arm," said Mrs. Swanwick. "Ah, but
the mother will be glad!" And thus, the Pearl walking behind, they went
into the house. "Tell madame he is here, Margaret." The young woman went
by them and up-stairs to the vicomtesse's bedroom, breathless as she
entered in haste.

The vicomtesse said sharply: "Always knock, child."

"I forgot. He is come. He is here. I--we are so glad for thee."

"My son?" She rose.

"Yes, yes." Margaret fled away. It was not for other eyes; she knew
that. The vicomtesse met him on the landing, caught him in her arms,
kissed him, held him off at arm's-length, and cried. "Are you ill,
René?"

"No, no; a little hurt, not badly. I have lost blood," and then,
tottering, added faintly, "a wound, a wound," and sank to the floor. She
called loudly in alarm, and Schmidt, coming in haste from his room and
lifting him, carried him to his bedchamber. He had overestimated his
strength and his power of endurance.

Mother and hostess took possession of him. Nanny hurried with the
warming-pan for the bed; and reviving, he laughed as they came and went,
acknowledged the welcome comfort of lavender-scented sheets and drank
eagerly the milk-punch they brought.

Within an hour Schmidt had the little French surgeon at his bedside, and
soon René's face and torn thigh were fitly dressed. There was to be
quiet, and only madame or Mrs. Swanwick, and a little laudanum and no
starvation. They guarded him well, and, as he said, "fiercely," and,
yes, in a week he might see people. "Not Mistress Wynne," said the
doctor; "a tornado, that woman: but Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Wynne." He was
impatient enough as he lay abed and ate greedily wonderful dishes from
Darthea Wynne; and there, from the only greenhouse in the town, were
flowers, with Mrs. Robert Morris's compliments, and books, the latest,
from Mistress Gainor, "for the hero, please," for by now the town was
astir with Captain Biddle's story. The German wrote for him notes of
thanks, but as yet would not talk. He could wait to hear of his voyage.

He was on a settle one morning alone with Schmidt. There came a discreet
knock at the door. "Come in," called Schmidt, and Margaret entered,
saying: "These are the first. I gathered them myself at Uncle Josiah's,"
from which it may be understood that Josiah had made his peace.

"I found them on the Wissahickon. Smell of them," she said as she set
her bowl of fragrant trailing-arbutus before him, coloring a little, and
adding: "Mother said I must not stay. We are glad thou art better."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the young man. The air of spring, the
youth of the year, was in the room. As the door closed behind Margaret,
Schmidt asked: "René, did you ever see the Quaker lady?--the flower, I
mean."

"Yes, once. And now again. How she grows!"

"Yes, she does grow," said Schmidt. "I have noticed that at her age
young women grow." While he spoke, Mr. Wynne came in, a grave, reserved,
sturdy man, in whom some of the unemotional serenity of his Quaker
ancestry became more notable as he went on into middle life.

Schmidt excused himself, and Wynne sat down, saying: "You seem quite
yourself, Vicomte. I have heard the whole story from Captain Biddle. You
have made one more friend, and a good one. You will be amused to learn
that the French party is overjoyed because of your having victualed the
starving Jacobins. The Federals are as well pleased, and all the
ship-owners at the baffling of the corvette. No, don't speak; let me
finish. The merchants at the coffee-house have voted both of you
tankards, and five hundred dollars for the crew, and what the women will
say or do the Lord knows. You will have need to keep your head cool
among them all."

"Ah, Mr. Wynne, if my head was not turned by what you said to me when we
parted, it is safe enough."

"My opinion has been fully justified; but now for business. Both ships
are in. You have made an unlooked-for gain for me. Your share--oh, I
shall take care of the captain, too--your share will be two thousand
dollars. It is now in the bank with what is left of your deposit with
me. I can take you again as my clerk or Stephen Girard will send you as
supercargo to China. For the present I have said my say."

"I thank you, sir. It is too much, far too much. I shall go back to my
work with you."

"And I shall be glad to have you. But I fear it may not be for life--as
I should wish."

"No, Mr. Wynne. Some day this confusion in France must end, and then or
before, though no Jacobin, I would be in the army."

"I thought as much," said Wynne. "Come back now to me, and in the fall
or sooner something better may turn up; but for a month or two take a
holiday. Your wages will go on. Now, do not protest. You need the rest,
and you have earned it." With this he added: "And come out to Merion. My
wife wants to thank you; and madame must come, too. Have you heard that
we are to have a new French minister in April?"

"Indeed? I suppose he will have a great welcome from the Republicans."

"Very likely," said Wynne.

It was more from loss of blood that René had suffered than from the
gravity of the wound. His recovery was rapid, and he was soon released
from the tyranny which woman loves to establish about the
sickness-fettered man. The vicomtesse had some vague regret when he
asserted his independence, for again he had been a child, and her care
of him a novel interest in a life of stringent beliefs, some prejudices,
and very few positive sources of pleasure. The son at this time came to
know her limitations better and to recognize with clearer vision how
narrow must always have been a life of small occupations behind which
lay, as yet unassailed, the pride of race and the more personal creed of
the obligations of a caste which no one, except Mistress Wynne, ventured
to describe to Schmidt as needing social spectacles. "A provincial
lady," she said; "a lady, but of the provinces." The German smiled,
which was often his only comment upon her shrewd insight and unguarded
talk.

The vicomtesse settled down again to her life of books, church, and
refusals to go anywhere except to Darthea at Merion, where she relaxed
and grew tender among the children. She would have her son go among
gayer people, and being free for a time he went as bidden, and was made
much of at the town houses of the gay set. But as he would not play loo
for money, and grew weary at last of the rôle of Othello and of
relating, much against his will, his adventures to a variety of
attentive Desdemonas who asked questions about his life in France, of
which he had no mind to speak, he soon returned to the more wholesome
company of Schmidt and the tranquil society of the widow's house.

Schmidt, with increasing attachment and growing intimacy of relation,
began again the daily bouts with the foils, the long pulls on the river,
and the talks at night when the house was quiet in sleep.

The grave young Huguenot was rather tired of being made to pass as a
hero, and sternly refused the dinners of the Jacobin clubs, declining to
claim for himself the credit of relieving the Jacobin vicomte, his
kinsman.

The more certain news of war between France and Great Britain had long
since reached Philadelphia, and when, one afternoon in April, Mr.
Alexander Hamilton, just come from a visit to New York, appeared at the
widow's, he said to Schmidt that Citizen Genêt, the French minister, had
reached Charleston in the _Ambuscade_, a frigate. He had brought
commissions for privateers, and had already sent out two, the _Citizen
Genêt_ and the _Sans Culottes_, to wage war on English commerce. The
Secretary of State, Jefferson, had protested against the French consul's
condemning prizes, but the republican Jacobins, gone mad with joy, took
sides against their leader, and mocked at the President's proclamation
of neutrality. Such was his news. Mr. Hamilton was depressed and had
lost his usual gaiety. It was all bad, very bad. The man's heart ached
for the difficulties of his friend, the harassed President.

Meanwhile imitative folly set the Jacobin fashions of long pantaloons
and high boots for good republicans. The young men took to growing
mustachios. Tricolor cockades appeared in the streets, while the red cap
on barbers' poles and over tavern signs served, with news of the
massacres in France, to keep in De Courval's mind the thought of his
father's fate. In the meantime, amid feasts and clamorous acclaim, Genêt
came slowly north with his staff of secretaries.

Schmidt saw at this time how depressed his young friend had become and
felt that in part at least it was due to want of steady occupation.
Trying to distract him one evening, he said: "Let us go to the fencing
school of the Comte du Vallon. I have long meant to ask you. It is late,
but the _émigrés_ go thither on a Friday. It will amuse you, and you
want something I cannot teach. Your defense is slow, your attack too
unguarded."

"But," said De Courval, "I cannot afford lessons at a dollar. It is very
well for Morris and Lloyd."

Schmidt laughed. "I let the comte have the rooms free. The house is
mine. Yes, I know, you avoid the _émigrés_; but why? Oh, yes, I know you
have been busy, and they are not all to your taste, nor to mine; but you
will meet our bookseller De Méry and De Noailles, whom you know, and you
will like Du Vallon."

It was nine o'clock when, hearing foils ringing and laughter, they went
up-stairs in an old warehouse on the north side of Dunker's Court, and
entered presently a large room amid a dozen of what were plainly French
gentlemen, who were fencing in pairs and as merry as if no heads of
friends and kindred were day by day falling on the guillotine. Schmidt
knew them all and had helped many. They welcomed him warmly.

"_Bonjour, monsieur._ We amuse ourselves well, and forget a little,"
said Du Vallon. "Ah, the Vicomte de Courval! Enchanted to see you here.
Allow me to present Monsieur de Malerive. He is making a fortune with
the ice-cream, but he condescends to give us a lesson now and then.
Gentlemen, the Vicomte de Courval." The foils were lowered and men
bowed. Scarce any knew him, but several came forward and said pleasant
things, while, as they left to return to their fencing, Schmidt made his
brief comments. "That is the Chevalier Pontgibaud, René,--the slight
man,--a good soldier in the American war. The Vicomte de Noailles is a
partner of Bingham."

"Indeed!" said René. "He is in trade, as I am--a Noailles!"

"Yes; may you be as lucky. He has made a fortune, they say."

"Take a turn with the marquis," said Du Vallon. The marquis taught
fencing. De Courval replied, "With pleasure," and the clatter of foils
began again, while Du Vallon and Schmidt fell apart into quiet talk.

"The young man is a clerk and I hear has won credit and money. _Bon
chien, bonne chasse._ Do you know his story? Ah, my sad Avignon! La
Rochefoucauld told me they killed his father; but of course you know all
about it."

"No, I have heard but little," said Schmidt. "I know only that his
father was murdered. Des Aguilliers told me that; but as De Courval has
not, does not, speak of it, I presume him to have his reasons. Pray let
us leave it here."

"As you please, _mon ami_." But Du Vallon thought the German strangely
lacking in curiosity.

The time passed pleasantly. De Courval did better with Tiernay, who
taught French to the young women and was in the shabby splendor of
clothes which, like their owner, had seen better days.

They went away late. Yes, he was to have lessons from Du Vallon, who had
courteously criticized his defense as weak. But the remedy had answered
the German's purpose. Here was something to learn which as yet the young
man did badly. The lessons went on, and Schmidt at times carried him
away into the country with fowling-pieces, and they came home loaded
with wood pigeons; and once, to De Courval's joy, from the Welsh hills
with a bear on the back of their chaise and rattles for Pearl from what
De Courval called the _serpent à sonnettes_--"a nice Jacobin snake,
_Mademoiselle_." And so the quiet life went on in the Quaker house with
books, walks, and the round of simple duties, while the young man
regained his former vigor.

The spring came in with flowers and blossoms in the garden, and, on the
21st of May, Citizen Genêt was to arrive in this year of '93. The French
frigate _Ambuscade_, lying in the river and hearing from Chester in due
season, was to warn the republicans with her guns of the coming of the
minister.

"Come," said Schmidt, as the casements shook with the signal of three
cannon. "Pearl said she would like to see it, and the farce will be
good. We are going to be amused; and why not?"

"Will Friend de Courval go with us?" asked Margaret. Walks with the
young woman were somehow of late not so easily had. Her mother had
constantly for her some interfering duties. He was glad to go.

At the signal-guns, thousands of patriots gathered in front of the State
House, and in what then was called the Mall, to the south of it. Schmidt
and the young people paused on the skirts of the noisy crowd, where were
many full of liquor and singing the "Marseillaise" with drunken
variations of the tune. "A sight to please the devil of laughter," said
Schmidt. "There are saints for the virtues, why not devils for men's
follies? The mischief mill for the grinding out of French Jacobins from
Yankee grain will not run long. Let us go on around the Mall and get
before these foolish folk. Ah, to insult this perfect day of May with
drunkenness! Is there not enough of gladness in the upspring of things
that men must crave the flattery of drink?" He was in one of those moods
when he was not always, as he said, understandable, and when his English
took on queer ways.

Pausing before the gray jail at the corner of Delaware, Sixth Street,
and Walnut, they saw the poor debtors within thrust out between the bars
of the windows long rods with bags at the end to solicit alms. Schmidt
emptied his pockets of shillings, and they went on, the girl in horror
at the blasphemies of those who got no coin. Said Schmidt: "Our friend
Wynne lay there in the war for months. Ask Madam Darthea for the tale,
De Courval. 'T is pretty, and worth the ear of attention. When I rule
the world there will be no prisons. I knew them once too well."

So rare were these glimpses of a life they knew not of that both young
people, surprised, turned to look at him.

"Wert thou in jail, sir?" said the Pearl.

"Did I say so? Life is a jail, my good Margaret; we are all prisoners."
The girl understood, and asked no more. Crossing the Potter's Field, now
Washington Square, they leaped over the brook that ran through it from
the northwest.

"Here below us lie the dead prisoners of your war, Pearl. The jail was
safe, but now they are free. God rest their souls! There's room for
more." Scarcely was there room in that summer of '93. Passing the
Bettering House on Spruce Street Road, and so on and out to the
Schuylkill, they crossed the floating bridge, and from the deep cutting
where Gray's Lane descended to the river, climbed the slope, and sat
down and waited.

Very soon across the river thousands of men gathered and a few women.
The bridge was lined with people and some collected on the bank and in
the lane below them, on the west side of the stream.

Hauterive, the French consul at New York, and Mr. Duponceau and
Alexander Dallas of the Democratic Club, stood near the water on the
west end of the bridge, waiting to welcome Genêt. "I like it very well,"
said Schmidt; "but the play will not run long."

"Oh, they are coming!" cried Margaret. This was interesting. She was
curious, excited and with her bonnet off, as De Courval saw,
bright-eyed, eager, and with isles of color mysteriously passing over
her face, like rose clouds at evening.

A group of horsemen appeared on the top of the hill above them, one in
front. "Genêt, I suppose," said De Courval. A good-looking man, florid,
smiling, the tricolor on the hat in his hand, he bowed to right and
left, and honored with a special salute mademoiselle, near-by on the
bank. He had the triumphant air of a very self-conscious conqueror.
Cheers greeted him. "_Vive la république!_ D----George Washington!
Hurrah for Citizen Genêt!" with waving of French flags. He stopped below
them in the lane. A boy in the long pantaloons of protest, with the red
cap of the republic on his head, was lifted up to present a bouquet of
three colors made of paper flowers. Citizen Genêt gave him the
fraternal kiss of liberty, and again the crowd cheered. "Are these
people crazy?" asked the Quaker maiden, used to Friends' control of
emotion.

"Mad? Yes, a little." Genêt had paused at the bridge. Mr. Dallas was
making him welcome to the capital. David Rittenhouse stood by, silent in
adoration, his attention divided between Genêt and a big bun, for he had
missed his dinner.

"It is all real," said the German. "The bun doth equally well convince.
Oh, David, didst thou but dream how comic thou art!" Meanwhile De
Courval by turns considered the fair face and the crowd, too tragically
reminded to be, like Schmidt, altogether amused.

But surely here indeed was comedy, and for many of this careless
multitude a sad ending of politics in the near summer months.

The crowd at the water's-edge closed around Genêt, while the group of
four or five men on horseback who followed him came to a halt on the
roadway just below where were seated Schmidt and his companions. The
riders looked around them, laughing. Then one spoke to a young
secretary, and the man thus addressed, turning, took off his hat and
bowed low to the Quaker maid.

"_Mon Dieu!_" cried De Courval, springing up as the attachés moved on.
"_C'est Carteaux!_ It is he!"

Schmidt heard him; the girl to the left of Schmidt less plainly. "What
is it?" she cried to De Courval. His face as she saw it was of a sudden
white, the eyes wide open, staring, the jaw set, the hands half-open,
the figure as of a wild creature about to leap on its prey. "Take care!"
said Schmidt. "Take care! Keep quiet!" He laid a strong hand on De
Courval's shoulder. "Come away! People are looking at you."

"Yes, yes." He straightened, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Art thou ill?" asked Margaret.

"No, no. I am glad--glad as never before. Let us go. It will keep. It
will keep." She looked at him with wonder. They climbed the bank and
went up the hill across the Woodlands, Andrew Hamilton's estate, and
homeward by the middle ferry at High Street, no one speaking.

The girl, troubled and apprehensive, walked on, getting now and then
from the bonnet's seclusion a quick side glance at a face a little
flushed and wearing a look of unwonted satisfaction. Schmidt was as
silent as his companions. Comedy again, he thought, and as ever behind
it the shadow tragedy. "If I were that man, I should be afraid--a
secretary of this accursed envoy. I must know more. Ah, here is the
other man behind the every-day De Courval."

De Courval went in and up-stairs to his room and at the five-o'clock
supper showed no sign of the storm which had swept over him. After the
meal he followed his mother, and as usual read aloud to her a chapter of
the French Bible. Then at dusk he pulled out on the river, and, finding
refreshment in a cold plunge, rowed to shore, returning in full control
of the power to consider with Schmidt, as now he knew he must do, a
situation not so simple as it seemed when he set eyes on his enemy.

"I have been waiting for you, René. I guess enough to know this for a
very grave matter. You will want to tell me."

"I have often wanted to talk to you, but, as you may or may not know, it
was also too painful to discuss until the need came; but now it has
come."

"You will talk to me, René, or not, as seems the better to you."

"I shall speak, and frankly; but, sir, wait a little."

Without replying further, the German took up a book and read. The young
man let fall his head on his hands, his elbows on a table. He had tried
to forget, but now again with closed eyes and, with that doubtful gift
of visual recall already mentioned he saw the great, dimly lighted hall
at Avignon, the blood-stained murderers, the face of his father, his
vain appeal. The tears rained through his fingers. He seemed to hear
again: "Yvonne! Yvonne!" and at last to see, with definiteness sharpened
by the morning's scene, the sudden look of ferocity in a young man's
face--a man not much older than himself. He had thought to hear from it
a plea for mercy. Ah, and to-day he had seen it gay with laughter. One
day it would not laugh. He wiped away tears as he rose. The German
gentleman caught him to his broad breast. "What is it, my son? Ah, I
would that you were my son! Let us have it out--all of it. I, too, have
had my share of sorrow. Let me hear, and tell it quietly. Then we can
talk."

Thus it came about that with a sense of relief René told his story of
failing fortunes, of their château in ruins, and of how, on his return
from Avignon, he had found his mother in a friendly farm refuge. He
told, too, with entire self-command of the tragedy in the papal city,
his vain pursuit of Carteaux, their flight to England, and how on the
voyage his mother had wrung from him the whole account of his father's
death.

"Does she know his name?" asked Schmidt.

"Carteaux? Yes. I should not have told it, but I did. She would have me
tell it."

"And that is all." For a little while the German, lighting his pipe,
walked up and down the room without a word. Then at last, sitting down,
he said: "René, what do you mean to do?"

"Kill him."

"Yes, of course," said Schmidt, coolly; "but--let us think a little. Do
you mean to shoot him as one would a mad dog?"

"Certainly; and why not?"

"You ask 'Why not?' Suppose you succeed? Of course you would have to
fly, leave your mother alone; or, to be honest with you, if you were
arrested, the death of this dog would be, as men would look at it, the
murder of an official of the French legation. You know the intensity of
party feeling here. You would be as sure to die by the gallows as any
common criminal; and--there again is the mother to make a man hesitate."

"That is all true; but what can I do, sir? Must I sit down and wait?"

"For the present, yes. Opinion will change. Time is the magician of
opportunities. The man will be here long. Wait. Go back to your work.
Say nothing. There are, of course, the ordinary ways--a quarrel, a
duel--"

"Yes, yes; anything--something--"

"Anything--something, yes; but what thing? You must not act rashly.
Leave it to me to think over; and promise me to do nothing rash--to do
nothing in fact just yet."

De Courval saw only too clearly that his friend was wiser than he. After
a moment of silence he said: "I give you my word, sir. And how can I
thank you?"

"By not thanking me, not a rare form of thanks. Now go to bed."

When alone, Schmidt said to himself: "Some day he will lose his head,
and then the tiger will leap. It was clear from what I saw, and who
could sit quiet and give it up? Not I. A duel? If this man I have
learned to love had Du Vallon's wrist of steel or mine, it would be easy
to know what to do. Ah, if one could know that rascal's fence--or if
I--no; the boy would never forgive me; and to cheat a man out of a just
vengeance were as bad as to cheat him of a woman's love." As for killing
a man with whom he had no personal quarrel, the German, unreproached by
conscience, considered the matter entirely in his relation to De
Courval. And here, as he sat in thought, even a duel troubled him, and
it was sure to come; for soon or late, in the limited society of the
city, these two men would meet. He was deeply disturbed. An accident to
De Courval was possible; well, perhaps his death. He foresaw even this
as possible, since duels in that time were not the serio-comic
encounters of the French duel of to-day.

As Schmidt sat in self-counsel as to what was advisable he felt with
curious joy that his affection for the young noble was disturbing his
judgment of what as a gentleman he would have advised. The situation
was, as he saw, of terrible significance. A large experience of men and
events failed to assist him to see his way.

No less bewildered and even more deeply troubled, De Courval lay awake,
and, as the hours went by, thought and thought the thing over from every
point of view. Had he met Carteaux that morning alone, away from men, he
knew that he would have throttled the slighter man with his strong young
hands, glad of the joy of brute contact and of personal infliction of
the death penalty with no more merciful weapon than his own strength. He
thrilled at the idea; but Schmidt, coldly reasonable, had brought him
down to the level of common-sense appreciation of unregarded
difficulties. His mother! He knew her now far better than ever. His
mother would say, "Go, my son." She would send him out to take his
chances with this man, as for centuries the women of her race had sent
their men to battle. He was more tender for her than she would be for
herself. His indecision, the product of a larger duty to her lonely,
helpless life, increased by what Schmidt had urged, left him without a
helpful thought, while ever and ever in the darkness he felt, as his
friend had felt, that in some moment of opportune chance he should lose
for her and himself all thought of consequences.

Perhaps of those who saw the episode of sudden passionate anger in
Gray's Lane none was more puzzled and none more curious than Margaret
Swanwick. Anything as abrupt and violent as De Courval's irritation was
rare in her life of tranquil experiences, and nothing she had seen of
him prepared her for this outbreak. Of late, it is to be confessed, De
Courval had been a frequent guest of her thoughts, and what concerned
him began greatly to concern her. Something forbade her to ask of
Schmidt an explanation of what she had seen. Usually she was more frank
with him than with any one else, and why now, she thought, should she
not question him? But then, as if relieved by the decision, she
concluded that it was not her business, and put aside the curiosity, but
not completely the anxiety which lay behind it.

If she told her mother and asked of her what De Courval's behavior might
have meant, she was sure that her eagerness would be reproved by a
phrase which Mrs. Swanwick used on fitting occasions--"Thou shalt not
covet thy neighbor's secrets." Many things were to happen before the
girl would come to understand why, in the quiet of a May morning, a
rather reserved gentleman had of a sudden looked like a wild animal.

XIII

A cheering crowd escorted Genêt to Oeller's Hotel. A few days later
Washington received the minister, De Ternant's successor, with a coldly
formal speech, and the envoy came away in wrath; for had he not seen in
the parlor of the President, medallions of decapitated Citizen Capet and
his family? His insolent demands for money owing to France, but not yet
due, and for a new and more liberal compact, are matters of history.
There were wild claims for the right of French consuls to condemn prizes
without intermediation of our courts, and yet more and more absurd
requests and specious arguments, to which Jefferson replied with
decision, but with more tenderness than pleased the Federalists.

When the privateer _Citizen Genêt_ anchored off Market Street wharf, two
enlisted Americans on board were arrested, and the cabinet, being of one
opinion, the President ordered the privateer to leave. Genêt appealed to
the Secretary of State for delay and against this inconceivable wrong to
a sister republic, and as the cabinet remained firm, and the democrats
raged, the town was for days on the verge of riot and bloodshed.

On the 27th of May, while on an errand for Mr. Wynne, about four in the
afternoon, De Courval saw the crowd going into Oeller's Hotel for a
great dinner in honor of Genêt. On the steps stood a man waving the
tricolor. It was Carteaux. "_Mon Dieu!_" murmured De Courval, "shall I
get used to it?" His errand took him past the house of the
Vice-President, John Adams. Servants and friends were carrying in
muskets. A noisy mob hooted and drifted away to Oeller's. There had been
threats of destroying the house, and Adams meant to be ready. The young
man went on deep in thought. In front of the Senate House he bowed to
Edmund Randolph, an occasional visitor at the Quaker salon and now
Attorney-General at the age of thirty-eight.

Returning, De Courval met Stephen Girard, who stopped him. Short,
sallow, a little bald, and still slight of build, he was watching with a
look of amusement the noisy mob in front of the hotel. "_Ah, bonjour,
monsieur._ And you would not go as my supercargo. It is open for the
asking." He spoke French of course. "These yonder are children, but they
are not as serious as they think themselves. Come this afternoon to my
farm on the neck and eat of my strawberries. There will be the French
consul-general and the secretary Carteaux. No politics, mind you. My
heart is with the revolutionary government at home, but my politics in
America are here," and he struck his breeches' pocket. "I am not for
war, _monsieur_."

De Courval excused himself, and went away murmuring: "Again, again! It
must end. I must make it end. Ah, mother, mother!"

Schmidt, troubled by the young man's gloom and loss of spirits, did all
he could, but characteristically made no effort to reopen a subject on
which he had as yet reached no other decision than the counsel of delay.

The mother questioned her son. It was nothing. He was not quite well,
and the heat of July was great. The German was yet more disturbed when
one evening after the fencing lesson Du Vallon said: "I had here to-day
two of the staff of that _sacré_ Citizen Genêt. There is already talk of
his recall for insolence to the President. _Le bon Dieu_ be praised!"

"Why, Marquis, do you permit these cattle to come here?"

"One must live, Monsieur Schmidt."

"Perhaps."

"One of them is a pleasure to fence with--a Monsieur Carteaux, a meager
Jacobin. I could not touch him."

"I should like to, with the buttons off the foils," said Schmidt.

"I also. That does make a difference."

Schmidt went away thoughtful. The next afternoon, feeling the moist
heat, the vicomtesse went to Darthea at Merion. The two men fenced as
usual, while mother and daughter sat in shadow on the porch, and a
faint, cool air came up from the river.

"_Ach, du lieber Himmel!_ but it is hot!" cried the German, casting down
his foil. "You are doing better. Let us go and cool off in the river.
Come."

They went down the garden, picking the ripe plums as they went. "What
is wrong with you, René? You promised me."

"It is the heat. Miss Margaret looks ill. No one could endure it, and in
the counting-house it is dreadful, and with no work to distract me."

"The Pearl goes again to Gray Court to-morrow," said the German.

"Indeed."

"Yes. I shall miss her, but it is as well. And, you, René--it is not the
heat. Why do you put me off with such excuses?"

"Well, no. It is of course that villain," and he told of Girard and the
invitation.

"René, a day will come when you will meet that man, and then the thing
will somehow end. You cannot go on suffering as you are doing."

"I know; but a devil of indecision pursues me."

"An angel, perhaps."

"Oh, yes. Pity me. My mother stands like a wall I may not pass between
me and him. It is horrible to think that she--she is protecting my
father's murderer. If I told her, by Heaven! she would bid me go and
kill him. You do not know her. She would do it; but, then, who knows
what might chance? If I die, she is alone, friendless. I fear to risk
it. _Mon Dieu_, sir, I am afraid!"

"And yet some day you will have to put an end to all this doubt. Comfort
yourself with this: Fate, which plays with us will take you in hand. Let
it go just now."

"I will try to. I will. If I were as these good Quakers--ah, me, I
should sit down,"--and he smiled,--"and thee and thou Providence, and
be quiet in the armor of meek unresistance."

"They do kill flies," said the German.

"Ah, I wish then they would attend to the mosquitos," cried De Courval,
laughing.

"As to non-resistance, friend, it hath its limitations. Did I tell thee
of Daniel Offley? My Pearl told me," and he related the defeat of the
blacksmith.

"Insolent," said René.

"No; the man believed that he had a mission. I should like to have his
conscience for a week or two, to see how it feels; and, as for
non-resistance, canst thou keep a secret?"

"I? Why not? What is it?" He was curious. As they talked, standing
beside the river, René watched the flat stones he threw ricochet on the
water.

"Once on a time, as they say in Madame Swanwick's book of sixty-five
tales, by Nancy Skyrin, a man, one Schmidt, came into the dining-room
and sat down quietly to read at an open window for the sake of the
breeze from the river. It might have been on Second Day. It chanced to
be the same time a Quaker man who hath of late come often sat without on
the step of the porch, a proper lad, and young, very neat in gray. Near
by sat a maid. Up from the river came the little god who is of all
religions and did tempt the young man. The man within lost interest in
his book."

Then René gave up the game of skip-stone, and, turning, said, "_Mon
Dieu_, you did not listen?"

"Did he not? He had listened to the talk in the book, and wherefore not
to them? It amused him more. For a little the maid did not seem greatly
displeased."

"She did not seem displeased?"

"No. And then--and then that Friend who was perverted into a lover would
_brusquer_ matters, as you say, and did make a venture, being tempted by
the little devil called Cupid. The man who listened did not see it, but
it does seem probable she was kissed, because thereupon was heard a
resounding smack, and feeling that here had been a flagrant departure
from non-resistance, the man within, having been satisfactorily
indiscreet, fell to reading again and the Quaker went away doubly
wounded. Dost thou like my story, Friend de Courval?"

"No, I do not." He was flushing, angry.

"I told you I had no conscience."

"Upon my word, I believe you. Why did you not kick him?"

"I leave you the privilege."

"Come. I hate your story,"--and laughing, despite his wrath,--"your
conscience needs a bath."

"Perhaps." And they went down to the boat, the German still laughing.

"What amuses you?"

"Nothing. Nothing amuses one as much as nothing. I should have been a
diplomatist at the court of Love." And to himself: "Is it well for these
children? Here is another tangle, and if--if anything should go amiss
here are three sad hearts. D----the Jacobin cur! I ought to kill him.
That would settle things."

For many days De Courval saw nothing of his enemy. Schmidt, who owned
many houses and mortgages and good irredeemable ground rents, was busy.

Despite the fear of foreign war and the rage of parties, the city was
prosperous and the increase of chariots, coaches, and chaises so great
as to cause remark. House rents rose, the rich of the gay set drank,
danced, gambled, and ran horses on the road we still call Race Street.
Wages were high. All the wide land felt confidence, and speculation went
on, for the poor in lotteries, for the rich in impossible canals never
to see water.

On August 6 of this fatal year '93, Uncle Josiah came to fetch the Pearl
away for a visit, and, glad as usual to be the bearer of bad news, told
Schmidt that a malignant fever had killed a child of Dr. Hodge and three
more. It had come from the _Sans Culottes_, privateer, or because of
damaged coffee fetched from he knew not where.

The day after, Dr. Redman, President of the College of Physicians, was
of opinion that this was the old disease of 1762--the yellow plague.
Schmidt listened in alarm. Before the end of August three hundred were
dead, almost every new case being fatal. On August 20, Schmidt was gone
for a day. On his return at evening he said: "I have rented a house on
the hill above the Falls of Schuylkill. We move out to-morrow. I know
this plague. _El vomito_ they call it in the West Indies."

Mrs. Swanwick protested.

"No," he said; "I must have my way. You have cared for me in sickness
and health these five years. Now it is my turn. This disease will pass
along the water-front. You are not safe an hour." She gave way to his
wishes as usual, and next day they were pleasantly housed in the
country.

Business ceased as if by agreement, and the richer families, if not
already in the country, began to flee. The doom of a vast desertion and
of multiplying deaths fell on the gay and prosperous city. By September
10 every country farm was crowded with fugitives, and tents received
thousands along the Schuylkill and beyond it. Sooner or later some
twenty-three thousand escaped, and whole families camped in the open air
and in all weather. More would have gone from the city, but the shops
were shut, money ceased to circulate, and even the middle class lacked
means to flee. Moreover, there was no refuge open, since all the towns
near by refused to receive even those who could afford to leave. Hence
many stayed who would gladly have gone.

Madame de Courval was at Merion, and Margaret had now rejoined her
mother, brought over by her uncle. He had ventured into the city and
seen Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, on business. He would talk no
business. "Terrible time," said Josiah--"terrible! Not a man will do
business." Did he feel for these dying and the dead? Schmidt doubted it,
and questioned him quietly. The doctors were not agreed, and Rush bled
every one. He, Josiah, was not going back. Half a dozen notes he held
had been protested; a terrible calamity, but fine for debtors; a neat
excuse.

Mr. Wynne had closed his counting-house, and was absent on the Ohio,
and De Courval was left to brood; for now the French legation had gone
to the country, the cabinet fled to Germantown, and the President long
before to Mount Vernon for his summer rest.

The day after Josiah's visit, Schmidt left a letter on Mrs. Swanwick's
table, and rode away to town without other farewell.

"Look at that, my friend," said the widow to René, and burst into tears.
He read and re-read the letter:

DEAR MADAM: The city has no nurses, and help is needed, and
money. I have a note from Girard. He has what Wetherill once
described as the courage of the penny, not the cowardice of the
dollar. I go to help him, for how long I know not, and to do what
I can. My love to my friend René. I shall open your house. I have
taken the key. I shall write when I can. I leave in my desk
money. Use it. I owe what no money can ever repay.

I am, as always, your obedient, humble servant,

_J. S._

There was consternation in the home and at Merion, where he was a
favorite, and at the Hill, which Gainor had filled with guests; but day
after day went by without news. No one would carry letters. Few would
even open those from the city. The flying men and women told frightful
stories. And now it was September. Two weeks had gone by without a word
from Schmidt. The "National Gazette" was at an end, and the slanderer
Freneau gone. Only one newspaper still appeared, and the flight went on:
all fled who could.

At length De Courval could bear it no longer. He had no horse, and set
off afoot to see his mother at Merion, saying nothing of his intention
to Mrs. Swanwick. He learned that Wynne was still on the Ohio; ignorant
of the extent of the calamity at home.

"Mother," he said, "again I must go into danger. Mr. Schmidt has gone to
the city to care for the sick. For two weeks we have been without news
of him. I can bear it no longer. I must go and see what has become of
him."

"Well, and why, my son, should you risk your life for a man of whom you
know nothing? When before you said it was a call of duty I bade you go.
Now I will not."

"Mother, for a time we lived on that man's generous bounty."

"What!" she cried.

"Yes. It was made possible for me because I had the good fortune to save
him from drowning. I did not tell you."

"No, of course not."

He told briefly the story of his rescue of the German.

"If he is well, I must know it. He is more than merely my friend. If he
is ill, I must care for him. If he is dead--oh, dear mother, I must go!"

"I forbid it absolutely. If you go, it is against my will."

He saw that she meant it. It was vain to protest. He rose.

"I have no time to lose, mother. Pray for me."

"That I do always, but I shall not forgive you; no--yes, kiss me. I did
not mean that; but think of my life, of yours, what it owes me. You will
not go, my son."

"Yes, I am going. I should be base, a coward, ungrateful, if I did not
go. Good-by, mother. Let them know at Mrs. Swanwick's."

He was gone. She sat still a little while, and then rising, she looked
out and saw him go down the garden path, a knapsack on his back.

"His father would never have left me. Ah, but he is my son--all of him.
He was right to go, and I was weak, but, my God, life is very hard!" For
a moment she looked after his retreating figure, and then, fearless,
quiet, and self-contained, took up again the never-finished embroidery.

XIV

In the summer of 1793, the city of Penn numbered forty-five thousand
souls, and lay in the form of an irregularly bounded triangle, the apex
being about seven squares, as we say, west of the Delaware. From this it
spread eastward, widening until the base, thinly builded with shops,
homes, and warehouses, extended along the Delaware River a distance of
about two miles from Callowhill Street to Cedar. It was on the parts
nearest to the river that the death-cloud lay.

De Courval had walked from the Falls of Schuylkill late in the morning,
and, after having been ferried across the Schuylkill, passed by forest
and farm roads over a familiar, rolling country, and arrived at Merion,
in the Welsh barony, where he parted from his mother. To this distance
he was now to add the seven miles which would bring him to the city.

He soon reached the Lancaster road, and after securing a bowl of bread
and milk, for which he paid the exorbitant price of two shillings at a
farm-house, he lay down in the woods and, lighting his meerschaum pipe,
rested during the early afternoon, glad of shelter from the moist heat
of the September day.

He had much to think about. His mother he dismissed, smiling. If, after
what he had said, he had not obeyed the call of duty and gratitude, he
knew full well that she would have been surprised, despite her protests
and the terror with which his errand filled her. He, too, felt it, for
it is the form which peril takes rather than equality of risk which
makes disease appal many a man for whom war has the charm which awakens
the lust of contest, and not such alarm as the presence of the unseen
foe which gives no quarter. He dismissed his fears with a silent appeal
for strength and support.

He thought then of his enemy. Where was he? This pestilence, the
inexplicable act of an all-powerful God, had for a time been set as a
barrier between him and his foe. If either he or Carteaux died of it,
there was an end of all the indecisions that affection had put in his
way. He had a moral shock at the idea that he was unwilling to believe
it well that the will of God should lose him the fierce joy of a
personal vengeance. How remote seemed such a feeling from the religious
calm of the Quaker home! And then a rosy face, a slight, gray-clad
figure, came before him with the clearness of visual perception which
was one of his mental peculiarities. The sense of difference of rank
which his mother had never lost, and would never lose, he had long since
put aside. Margaret's refinement, her young beauty, her gay sweetness,
her variety of charm, he recalled as he lay; nor against these was there
for him any available guard of common sense, that foe of imprudent love,
to sum up the other side with the arithmetic of worldly wisdom. He rose,
disturbed a little at the consciousness of a power beginning to get
beyond his control, and went on his way down the long, dusty road,
refreshed by the fair angel company of Love and Longing.

Very soon he was recalled from his dreams. As he came within a mile of
the city, he saw tents as for an army, camp-fires, people cooking, men,
women, and children lying about by the roadside and in the orchards or
the woods. Two hungry-looking mechanics begged help of him. He gave them
each a shilling and went on. The nearer shore of the quiet Schuylkill
was lined with tents. Over the middle-ferry floating bridge came
endlessly all manner of vehicles packed with scared people, the
continuous drift from town of all who could afford to fly, a pitiful
sight in the closing day. Beyond the river were more tents and
half-starved families.

At dusk, as he went eastward on Market Street, there were fewer people,
and beyond Sixth Street almost none. The taverns were closed. Commerce
was at an end. Turning south, he crossed the bridge over Dock Creek at
Second Street and was soon in a part of the city where death and horror
had left only those whom disease, want of means, or some stringent need,
forbade to leave their homes. Twenty-four thousand then or later fled
the town. A gallant few who could have gone, stayed from a sense of
duty.

Exposure at night was said to be fatal, so that all who could were shut
up indoors, or came out in fear only to feed with pitch and fence
palings the fires kindled in the streets which were supposed to give
protection, but were forbidden later. A canopy of rank tar-smoke hung
over the town and a dull, ruddy glow from these many fires. Grass grew
in the roadway of the once busy street, and strange silence reigned
where men were used to move amid the noises of trade. As he walked on
deep in thought, a woman ran out of a house, crying: "They are dead! All
are dead!" She stopped him. "Is my baby dead, too?"

"I--I do not know," he said, looking at the wasted, yellow face of the
child in her arms. She left it on the pavement, and ran away screaming.
He had never in his life touched the dead; but now, though with
repugnance, he picked up the little body and laid it on a door-step. Was
it really dead? he asked himself. He stood a minute looking at the
corpse; then he touched it. It was unnaturally hot, as are the dead of
this fever. Not seeing well in the dusk, and feeling a strange
responsibility, he laid a hand on the child's heart. It was still. He
moved away swiftly through the gathering gloom of deserted streets. On
Front Street, near Lombard, a man, seeing him approach, ran from him
across the way. A little farther, the sense of solitude and loneliness
grew complete as the night closed dark about him. He had been long on
his way.

A half-naked man ran out of an alley and, standing before him, cried:
"The plague is come upon us because they have numbered the people.
Death! death! you will die for this sin." The young man, thus halted,
stood appalled and then turned to look after the wild prophet of
disaster, who ran up Lombard Street, his sinister cries lost as he
disappeared in the gloom. René recalled that somewhere in the Bible he
had read of how a plague had come on the Israelites for having numbered
the people. Long afterward he learned that a census of Philadelphia had
been taken in 1792. He stood still a moment in the gloom, amid the
silence of the deserted city and then of a sudden moved rapidly onward.

He had reached the far edge of the town, his mind upon Schmidt, when he
saw to his surprise by the glow of a dying fire a familiar form. "Mr.
Girard!" he cried, in pleased surprise; for in the country little was as
yet known of the disregard of death with which this man and many more
were quietly nursing the sick and keeping order in a town where, except
the comparatively immune negroes, few aided, and where the empty homes
were being plundered. The quick thought passed through René's mind that
he had heard this man called an atheist by Daniel Offley.

He said to Girard: "Ah, Monsieur, have you seen Monsieur Schmidt?"

"Not for three days. He has been busy as the best. There is one man who
knows not fear. Where is he, Vicomte?"

"We do not know. We have heard nothing since he left us two weeks ago.
But he meant to live in Mrs. Swanwick's house."

"Let us go and see," said Girard; and with the man who already counted
his wealth in millions René hurried on. At the house they entered
easily, for the door was open, and went up-stairs.

In Schmidt's room, guided by his delirious cries, they found him.
Girard struck a light from his steel and flint, and presently they had
candles lighted, and saw the yellow face, and the horrors of the
_vomito_, in the disordered room.

"_Mon Dieu!_ but this is sad!" said Girard. "Ah, the brave gentleman!
You will stay? I shall send you milk and food at once. Give him water
freely, and the milk. Bathe him. Are you afraid?"

"I--yes; but I came for this, and I am here to stay."

"I shall send you a doctor; but they are of little use."

"Is there any precaution to take?"

"Yes. Live simply. Smoke your pipe--I believe in that. You can get
cooler water by hanging out in the air demijohns and bottles wrapped in
wet linen--a West-Indian way, and the well water is cold. I shall come
back to-morrow." And so advising, he left him.

De Courval set the room in order, and lighted his pipe, after obeying
Girard's suggestions. At intervals he sponged the hot body of the man
who was retching in agony of pain, babbling and crying out about courts
and princes and a woman--ever of a woman dead and of some prison life.
De Courval heard his delirious revelations with wonder and a pained
sense of learning the secrets of a friend.

In an hour came Dr. Rush, with his quiet manner and thin, intellectual
face. Like most of those of his profession, the death of some of whom in
this battle with disease a tablet in the College of Physicians records
to-day, he failed of no duty to rich or poor. But for those who
disputed his views of practice he had only the most virulent abuse. A
firm friend, an unpardoning hater, and in some ways far ahead of his
time, was the man who now sat down as he said: "I must bleed him at
once. Calomel and blood-letting are the only safety, sir. I bled Dr.
Griffith seventy-five ounces to-day. He will get well." The doctor bled
everybody, and over and over.

His voice seemed to rouse Schmidt. He cried out: "Take away that horse
leech. He will kill me." He fought them both and tore the bandage from
his arm. The doctor at last gave up, unused to resistance. "Give him the
calomel powders."

"Out with your drugs!" cried the sick man, striking at him in fury, and
then falling back in delirium again, yellow and flushed. The doctor left
in disgust, with his neat wrist ruffles torn. On the stair he said: "He
will die, but I shall call to-morrow. He will be dead, I fear."

"Is he gone?" gasped Schmidt, when, returning, René sat down by his
bedside.

"Yes, sir; but he will come again."

"I do not want him. I want air--air." As he spoke, he rose on his elbow
and looked about him. "I knew you would come. I should never have sent
for you. _Mein Gott!_" he cried hoarsely, looking at the room and the
bedclothes. "Horrible!" His natural refinement was shocked at what he
saw. "_Ach!_ to die like a wallowing pig is a torture of disgust! An
insult, this disease and torment." Then wandering again: "I pray you,
sir, to hold me excused."

The distracted young man never forgot that night. The German at dawn,
crying, "Air, air!" got up, and despite all De Courval could do
staggered out to the upper porch and lay uncovered on a mattress upon
which De Courval dragged him. The milk and food came, and at six o'clock
Stephen Girard.

"I have been up all night," he said; "but here is a black to help you."

To De Courval's delight, it was old Cicero, who, lured by high wages
given to the negro, whom even the pest passed by, had left the widow's
service.

"Now," said Girard, "here is help. Pay him well. Our friend will die, I
fear; and, sir, you are a brave man, but do not sit here all day."

De Courval, in despair at his verdict, thanked him. But the friend was
not to die. Cicero proved faithful, and cooked and nursed and René, as
the hours of misery went on, began to hope. The fever lessened in a day
or two, but Schmidt still lay on the porch, speechless, yellow and
wasted, swearing furiously at any effort to get him back to bed. As the
days ran on he grew quiet and rejoiced to feel the cool breeze from the
river and had a smile for René and a brief word of cheer for Girard, who
came hither daily, heroically uncomplaining, spending his strength
lavishly and his money with less indifference. Schmidt, back again in
the world of human interests, listened to his talk with René, himself
for the most part silent.

Twice a day, when thus in a measure relieved, as the flood served, De
Courval rowed out on the river, and came back refreshed by his swim. He
sent comforting notes by Cicero to his mother and to Mrs. Swanwick, and
a message of remembrance to Margaret, and was careful to add that he had
"fumed" the letters with sulphur, that things were better with Schmidt,
and he himself was well. Cicero came back with glad replies and fruit
and milk and lettuce and fresh eggs and what not, while day after day
three women prayed at morning and night for those whom in their
different ways they loved.

One afternoon Dr. Rush came again and said it was amazing, but it would
have been still better if he had been let to bleed him, telling how he
had bled Dr. Mease six times in five days, and now he was safe. But here
he considered that he would be no further needed. Schmidt had listened
civilly to the doctor with the mild, tired, blue eyes and delicate
features; feeling, with the inflowing tide of vigor, a return of his
normal satisfaction in the study of man, he began, to De Courval's joy,
to amuse himself.

"Do you bleed the Quakers, too?" he asked.

"Why not?" said the doctor, puzzled.

"Have they as much blood as other people? You look to be worn out. Pray
do not go. Sit down. Cicero shall give you some chocolate."

The doctor liked few things better than a chance to talk. He sat down
again as desired, saying: "Yes, I am tired; but though I had only three
hours' sleep last night, I am still, through the divine Goodness, in
perfect health. Yesterday was a triumph for mercury, jalap, and
bleeding. They saved at least a hundred lives."

"Are the doctors all of your way of thinking?"

"No, sir. I have to combat prejudice and falsehood. Sir, they are
murderers."

"Sad, very sad!" remarked Schmidt.

"I have one satisfaction. I grieve for the blindness of men, but I
nourish a belief that my labor is acceptable to Heaven. Malice and
slander are my portion on earth; but my opponents will have their reward
hereafter."

"Most comforting!" murmured Schmidt. "But what a satisfaction to be sure
you are right!"

"Yes, to know, sir, that I am right and these my enemies wrong, does
console me; and, too, to feel that I am humbly following in the
footsteps of my Master. But I must go. The chocolate is good. My thanks.
If you relapse, let me know, and the lancet will save you. Good-by."

When René returned, having attended the doctor to the door, Schmidt was
smiling.

"Ah, my son," he said, "only in the Old Testament will you find a man
like that--malice and piety, with a belief in himself no man, no reason,
can disturb."

"Yes, I heard him with wonder."

"He has done me good, but now I am tired. He has gone--he said so--to
visit Miss Gainor, at the Hill. I should like to hear her talk to him."

An attack of gout had not improved that lady's temper, and she cruelly
mocked at the great doctor's complaints of his colleagues. When she
heard of De Courval, and how at last he would not agree to have Schmidt
held for the doctor to bleed him she said he was a fine fellow; and to
the doctor's statement that he was a fool, she retorted: "You have
changed your religion twice, I do hear. When you are born again, try to
be born a fool."

The doctor, enraged, would have gone at once, but the gout was in solid
possession, and the threat to send for Dr. Chovet held him. He laughed,
outwardly at least, and did not go. The next day he, too, was in the
grip of the fever, and was bled to his satisfaction, recovering later to
resume his gallant work.

And now that, after another week, Schmidt, a ghastly frame of a man,
began to eat, but still would not talk, De Courval, who had never left
him except for his swim or to walk in the garden, leaving Cicero in
charge, went out into the streets to find a shop and that rare article,
tobacco.

It was now well on into this fatal September. The deaths were three
hundred a week. The sick no man counted, but probably half of those
attacked died. At night in his vigils, De Courval heard negroes, with
push-carts or dragging chaises, cry: "Bring out your dead! Bring out
your dead!" The bodies were let down from upper windows by ropes or left
outside of the doorways until the death-cart came and took them away.

It was about noon when René left the house. As he neared the center of
the city, there were more people in the streets than he expected to see;
but all wore a look of anxiety and avoided one another, walking in the
middle of the roadway. No one shook hands with friend or kinsman. Many
smoked; most of them wore collars of tarred rope, or chewed garlic, or
held to their faces vials of "vinegar of the four thieves" once popular
in the plague. He twice saw men, stricken as they walked, creep away
like animals, beseeching help from those who fled in dismay. Every hour
had its sickening tragedy.

As he stood on Second Street looking at a man chalking the doors of
infected houses, a lightly clad young woman ran forth screaming. He
stopped her. "What is it? Can I help you?" A great impulse of desire to
aid came over him, a feeling of pitiful self-appeal to the manhood of
his courage.

"Let me go! My husband has it. I won't stay! I am too young to die."

A deadly fear fell upon the young Huguenot. "I, too, am young, and may
die," he murmured; but he went in and up-stairs. He saw an old man,
yellow and convulsed; but being powerless to help him, he went out to
find some one.

On the bridge over Dock Creek he met Daniel Offley. He did not esteem
him greatly, but he said, "I want to know how I can help a man I have
just left."

The two men who disliked each other had then and there their lesson. "I
will go with thee." They found the old man dead. As they came out,
Offley said, "Come with me, if thee is minded to aid thy fellows," and
they went on, talking of the agony of the doomed city.

Hearses and push-carts went by in rows, heavy with naked corpses in the
tainted air. Very few well-dressed people were seen. Fashion and wealth
had gone, panic-stricken, and good grass crops could have been cut in
the desolate streets near the Delaware.

Now and then some scared man, walking in the roadway, for few, as I
said, used the sidewalk, would turn, shocked at hearing the Quaker's
loud voice; for, as was noticed, persons who met, spoke softly and low,
as if feeling the nearness of the unseen dead in the houses. While De
Courval waited, Offley went into several alleys on their way, and came
out more quiet.

"I have business here," said Offley, as he led the way over the south
side of the Potter's Field we now call Washington Square. He paused to
pay two black men who were digging wide pits for the fast-coming dead
cast down from the death-carts. A Catholic priest and a Lutheran
clergyman were busy, wearily saying brief prayers over the dead.

Offley looked on, for a minute silent. "The priest is of Rome," he said,
"one Keating--a good man; the other a Lutheran."

"Strange fellowship!" thought De Courval.

They left them to this endless task, and went on, Daniel talking in his
oppressively loud voice of the number of the deaths. The imminence of
peril affected the spirits of most men, but not Offley. De Courval,
failing to answer a question, he said: "What troubles thee, young man?
Is thee afeared?"

"A man should be--and at first I was; but now I am thinking of the
Papist and Lutheran--working together. That gives one to think, as we
say in French."

"I see not why," said Offley. "But we must hasten, or the health
committee will be gone."

In a few minutes they were at the State House. Daniel led him through
the hall and up-stairs. In the council-room of Penn was seated a group
of notable men.

"Here," said Offley in his great voice, "is a young man of a will to
help us."

Girard rose. "This, gentlemen, is my countryman, the Vicomte de
Courval."

Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, made him welcome.

"Sit down," he said. "We shall presently be free to direct you."

De Courval took the offered seat and looked with interest at the men
before him.

There were Carey, the future historian of the plague; Samuel Wetherill,
the Free Quaker; Henry de Forrest, whom he had met; Thomas Savory;
Thomas Wistar; Thomas Scattergood; Jonathan Seargeant; and others. Most
of them, being Friends, sat wearing their white beaver hats. Tranquil
and fearless, they were quietly disposing of a task from which some of
the overseers of the poor had fled. Six of those present were very soon
to join the four thousand who died before November. When the meeting was
over Girard said to De Courval: "Peter Helm and I are to take charge of
the hospital on Bush Hill. Are you willing to help us? It is perilous; I
ought to tell you that."

"Yes, I will go," said René; "I have now time, and I want to be of some
use."

"We thank you," said Matthew Clarkson. "Help is sorely needed."

"Come with me," said Girard. "My chaise is here. Help is scarce. Too
many who should be of us have fled." As they went out, he added: "I owe
this city much, as some day it will know. You are going to a scene of
ungoverned riot, of drunken negro nurses; but it is to be changed, and
soon, too."

James Hamilton's former country seat on Bush Hill was crowded with the
dying and the dead; but there were two devoted doctors, and soon there
was better order and discipline.

De Courval went daily across the doomed city to his loathsome task,
walking thither after his breakfast. He helped to feed and nurse the
sick, aided in keeping the beds decent, and in handling the many who
died, until at nightfall, faint and despairing, he wandered back to his
home. Only once Schmidt asked a question, and hearing his sad story, was
silent, except to say: "I thought as much. God guard you, my son!"

One day, returning, he saw at evening on Front Street a man seated on a
door-step. He stopped, and the man looked up. It was the blacksmith
Offley.

"I am stricken," he said. "Will thee help me?"

"Surely I will." De Courval assisted him into the house and to bed. He
had sent his family away. "I have shod my last horse, I fear. Fetch me
Dr. Hutchinson."

"He died to-day."

"Then another--Dr. Hodge; but my wife must not know. She would come.
Ask Friend Pennington to visit me. I did not approve of thee, young man.
I ask thee pardon; I was mistaken. Go, and be quick."

"I shall find some one." He did not tell him that both Pennington and
the physician were dead.

De Courval was able to secure the needed help, but the next afternoon
when he returned, the blacksmith was in a hearse at the door. De Courval
walked away thoughtful. Even those he knew avoided him, and he observed,
what many noticed, that every one looked sallow and their eyes yellow. A
strange thing it seemed.

And so, with letters well guarded, that none he loved might guess his
work, September passed, and the German was at last able to be in the
garden, but strangely feeble, still silent, and now asking for books. A
great longing was on the young man to see those he loved; but October,
which saw two thousand perish, came and went, and it was well on into
the cooler November before the pest-house was closed and De Courval set
free, happy in a vast and helpful experience, but utterly worn out and
finding his last week's walks to the hospital far too great an exertion.
What his body had lost for a time, his character had gained in an
exercised charity for the sick, for the poor, and for the opinions of
men on whom he had previously looked with small respect.

A better and wiser man on the 20th of November drove out with Schmidt to
the home of the Wynnes at Merion, where Schmidt left him to the tender
care of two women, who took despotic possession.

"At last!" cried the mother, and with tears most rare to her she held
the worn and wasted figure in her arms. "_Mon Dieu!_" she cried, as for
the first time she heard of what he had done. For only to her was
confession of heroic conduct possible. "And I--I would have kept you
from God's service. I am proud of you as never before." All the long
afternoon they talked, and Mr. Wynne, just come back, and Darthea would
have him to stay for a few days.

At bedtime, as they sat alone, Hugh said to his wife, "I was sure of
that young man."

"Is he not a little like you?" asked Darthea.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "Do you think every good man like me? I grieve
that I was absent."

"And I do not."

The weeks before Mrs. Swanwick's household returned to the city were for
De Courval of the happiest. He was gathering again his former strength
in the matchless weather of our late autumnal days. To take advantage of
the re-awakened commerce and to return to work was, as Wynne urged,
unwise for a month or more. The American politics of that stormy time
were to the young noble of small moment, and the Terror, proclaimed in
France in September on Barras's motion, followed by the queen's death,
made all hope of change in his own land for the present out of the
question.

With the passing of the plague, Genêt and his staff had come back; but
for René to think of what he eagerly desired was only to be reminded of
his own physical feebleness.

Meanwhile Genêt's insolent demands went on, and the insulted cabinet was
soon about to ask for his recall, when, as Schmidt hoped, Carteaux would
also leave the country. The enthusiasm for the French republic was at
first in no wise lessened by Genêt's conduct, although his threat to
appeal to the country against Washington called out at last a storm of
indignation which no one of the minister's violations of law and of the
courtesies of life had yet occasioned. At first it was held to be an
invention of "black-hearted Anglican aristocrats," but when it came out
in print, Genêt was at once alarmed at the mischief he had made. He had
seriously injured his Republican allies,--in fact, nearly ruined the
party, said Madison,--for at no time in our history was Washington more
venerated. The Democratic leaders begged men not to blame the newly
founded republic, "so gloriously cemented with the blood of
aristocrats," for the language of its insane envoy. The Federalists
would have been entirely pleased, save that neither England nor France
was dealing wisely with our commerce, now ruined by the exactions of
privateers and ships of war. Both parties wailed over this intolerable
union of insult and injury; but always the President stood for peace,
and, contemplating a treaty with England, was well aware how hopeless
would be a contest on sea or land with the countries which, recklessly
indifferent to international law, were ever tempting us to active
measures of resentment. For De Courval the situation had, as it seemed,
no personal interest. There has been some need, however, to remind my
readers of events which were not without influence upon the fortunes of
those with whom this story is concerned.

Schmidt was earnestly desirous that they should still remain in the
country, and this for many reasons. De Courval and he would be the
better for the cool autumn weather, and both were quickly gathering
strength. Madame de Courval had rejoined them. The city was in mourning.
Whole families had been swept away. There were houses which no one
owned, unclaimed estates, and men missing of whose deaths there was no
record, while every day or two the little family of refugees heard of
those dead among the middle class or of poor acquaintances of whose
fates they had hitherto learned nothing. Neither Schmidt nor René would
talk of the horrors they had seen, and the subject was by tacit
agreement altogether avoided.

Meanwhile they rode, walked, and fished in the Schuylkill. Schmidt went
now and then to town on business, and soon, the fear of the plague quite
at an end, party strife was resumed, and the game of politics began
anew, while the city forgot the heroic few who had served it so well,
and whom to-day history also has forgotten and no stone commemorates.

One afternoon Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come, let us have a longer
walk!"

Margaret, eager to join them, would not ask it, and saw them go down the
garden path toward the river. "Bring me some goldenrod, please," she
called.

"Yes, with pleasure," cried De Courval at the gate, as he turned to look
back, "if there be any left."

"Then asters," she called.

"A fair picture," said Schmidt, "the mother and daughter, the bud and
the rose. You know the bluets folks hereabouts call the Quaker
ladies,--oh, I spoke of this before,--pretty, but it sufficeth not. Some
sweet vanity did contrive those Quaker garments."

It was in fact a fair picture. The girl stood, a gray figure in soft
Eastern stuffs brought home by our ships. One arm was about the mother's
waist, and with the other she caught back the hair a playful breeze blew
forward to caress the changeful roses of her cheek.

"I must get me a net, mother, such as the President wore one First Day
at Christ Church."

"Thou must have been piously attending to thy prayers," returned Mrs.
Swanwick, smiling.

"Oh, but how could I help seeing?"

"It is to keep the powder off his velvet coat, my dear. When thou art
powdered again, we must have a net."

"Oh, mother!" It was still a sore subject.

"I should like to have seen thee, child."

"Oh, the naughty mother! I shall tell of thee. Ah, here is a pin in
sight. Let me hide it, mother."

The woman seen from the gate near-by was some forty-five years old, her
hair a trifle gray under the high cap, the face just now merry, the gown
of fine, gray linen cut to have shown the neck but for the soft, silken
shawl crossed on the bosom and secured behind by a tie at the waist. A
pin held it in place where it crossed, and other pins on the shoulders.
The gown had elbow sleeves, and she wore long, openwork thread glove
mitts; for she was expecting Mistress Wynne and Josiah and was pleased
in her own way to be at her best.

Schmidt, lingering, said: "It is the pins. They must needs be hid in the
folds not to be seen. Ah, vanity has many disguises. It is only to be
neat, thou seest, René, and not seem to be solicitous concerning
appearances." Few things escaped the German.

They walked away, and as they went saw Mistress Gainor Wynne go by in
her landau with Langstroth. "That is queer to be seen--the damsel in her
seventies and uncle bulldog Josiah. He had a permanent ground rent on
her hill estate as lasting as time, a matter of some ten pounds. They
have enjoyed to fight over it for years. But just now there is peace.
Oh, she told me I was to hold my tongue. She drove to Gray Court, and
what she did to the man I know not; but the rent is redeemed, and they
are bent on mischief, the pair of them. As I was not to speak of it, I
did not; but if you tell never shall I be forgiven." He threw his long
bulk on the grass and laughed great laughter.

"But what is it?" said René.

"_Guter Himmel_, man! the innocent pair are gone to persuade the Pearl
and the sweet mother shell--she that made it--to take that lottery
prize. I would I could see them."

"But she will never, never do it," said René.

"No; for she has already done it."

"What, truly? _Vraiment!_"

"Yes. Is there not a god of laughter to whom I may pray? I have used up
my stock of it. When Cicero came in one day, he fetched a letter to
Stephen Girard from my Pearl. She had won her mother to consent, and
Girard arranged it all, and, lo! the great prize of money is gone long
ago to help the poor and the sick. Now the ministers of Princeton
College may pray in peace. Laugh, young man!"

But he did not. "And she thought to do that?"

"Yes; but as yet none know. They will soon, I fear."

"But she took it, after all. What will Friends say?"

"She was read out of meeting long ago, disowned, and I do advise them to
be careful how they talk to Madame of the girl. There is a not mild
maternal tigress caged somewhere inside of the gentlewoman. 'Ware claws,
if you are wise, Friend Waln!" De Courval laughed, and they went on
their way again, for a long time silent.

At Flat Rock, above the swiftly flowing Schuylkill, they sat down, and
Schmidt, saying, "At last the pipe tastes good," began to talk in the
strain of joyous excitement which for him the beautiful in nature always
evoked, when for a time his language became singular. "Ah, René, it is
worth while to cross the ocean to see King Autumn die thus gloriously.
How peaceful is the time! They call this pause when regret doth make the
great Reaper linger pitiful--they call it the Indian summer."

"And we, the summer of St. Martin."

"And we, in my homeland, have no name for it, or, rather, _Spätsommer_;
but it is not as here. See how the loitering leaves, red and gold, rock
in mid-air. A serene expectancy is in the lingering hours. It is as
still as a dream of prayer that awaiteth answer. Listen, René, how the
breeze is stirring the spruces, and hark, it is--ah, yes--the Angelus of
evening."

His contemplative ways were familiar, and just now suited the young
man's mood. "A pretty carpet," he said, "and what a gay fleet of colors
on the water!"

"Yes, yes. There is no sorrow for me in the autumn here, but after comes
the winter." His mood of a sudden changed. "Let us talk of another
world, René--the world of men. I want to ask of you a question; nay,
many questions." His tone changed as he spoke. "I may embarrass you."

De Courval knew by this time that on one subject this might very well be
the case. He said, however, "I do not know of anything, sir, which you
may not freely ask me."

He was more at ease when Schmidt said, "We are in the strange position
of being two men one of whom twice owes his life to the other."

"Ah, but you forget to consider what unending kindness I too owe--I, a
stranger in a strange land; nor what your example, your society, have
been to me."

"Thank you, René; I could gather more of good from you than you from
me."

"Oh, sir!"

"Yes, yes; but all that I have said is but to lead up to the wide
obligation to be frank with me."

"I shall be."

"When I was ill I babbled. I was sometimes half-conscious, and was as
one man helplessly watching another on the rack telling about him things
he had no mind to hear spoken."

"You wandered much, sir."

"Then did I speak of a woman?"

"Yes; and of courts and battles."

"Did I speak of--did I use my own name, my title? Of course you know
that I am not Herr Schmidt."

"Yes; many have said that."

"You heard my name, my title?"

"Yes; I heard them."

For a minute there was silence. Then Schmidt said: "There are reasons
why it must be a secret--perhaps for years or always. I am Graf von
Ehrenstein; but I am more than that--much more and few even in Germany
know me by that name. And I did say so?"

"Yes, sir."

"It must die in your memory, my son, as the priests say of what is heard
in confession."

This statement, which made clear a good deal of what De Courval had
heard in the German's delirium, was less singular to him than it would
have seemed to-day. More than one mysterious titled person of importance
came to the city under an assumed name, and went away leaving no one the
wiser.

"It is well," continued Schmidt, "that you, who are become so dear to
me, should know my story. I shall make it brief."

"Soon after my marriage, a man of such position as sometimes permits men
to insult with impunity spoke of my wife so as to cause me to demand an
apology. He fell back on his higher rank, and in my anger I struck him
on the parade-ground at Potsdam while he was reviewing his regiment. A
lesser man than I would have lost his life for what I did. I was sent to
the fortress of Spandau, where for two years I had the freedom of the
fortress, but was rarely allowed to hear from my wife or to write. Books
I did have, as I desired, and there I learned my queer English from my
only English books, Shakespeare and the Bible."

"Ah, now I understand," said De Courval; "but it is not Shakespeare you
talk. Thanks to you, I know him."

"No, not quite; who could? After two years my father's interest obtained
my freedom at the cost of my exile. My wife had died in giving birth to
a still-born child. My father, an old man, provided me with small means,
which I now do not need, nor longer accept, since he gave grudgingly,
because I had done that which for him was almost unpardonable. I went to
England and France, and then came hither to breathe a freer air, and, as
you know, have prospered, and am, for America, rich. You cannot know the
disgust in regard to arbitrary injustice with which I left my own land.
I felt that to use a title in this country would be valueless, and
subject me to comment and to inquiry I wished to avoid. You have earned
the right to know my story, as I know yours. Mr. Alexander Hamilton and
my business adviser, Mr. Justice Wilson, alone know my name and title,
and, I may add, Mr. Gouverneur Morris. I shall say to the two former
that you share this knowledge. They alone know why it is reasonable and,
indeed, may have been prudent that, until my return home, I remain
unknown. It is needless to go farther into the matter with you. This
simple life is to my taste, but I may some day have to go back to my own
land--I devoutly trust never. We shall not again open a too painful
subject."

De Courval said, "I have much to thank you for, but for nothing as for
this confidence."

"Yet a word, René. For some men--some young men--to know what now you
know of me, would disturb the intimacy of their relation. I would have
it continue simple. So let it be, my son. Come, let us go. How still the
woods are! There is here a quiet that hath the quality of a gentle
confessor who hears and will never tell. Listen to that owl!"

As they drew near to the house the German said: "_Ach_, I forgot. In
December I suppose we must go to the city. You are not as yet fit for
steady work; but if I can arrange it with Wynne, why not let me use you?
I have more to do here and in New York than I like. Now, do not be
foolish about it. There are rents to gather in, journeys to make. Let me
give you five hundred _livres_ a month. You will have time to ride,
read, and see the country. I shall talk to Hugh Wynne about the matter."
Thus, after some discussion and some protest, it was arranged, the young
man feeling himself in such relation to the older friend as made this
adjustment altogether agreeable and a glad release from a return to the
routine of the counting-house.

Too often the thought of Carteaux haunted him, while he wondered how
many in France were thus attended. When in after years he saw go by men
who had been the lesser agents in the massacres, or those who had
brought the innocent to the guillotine, he wondered at the impunity with
which all save Marat had escaped the personal vengeance of those who
mourned, and, mourning, did nothing. Even during the Terror, when death
seemed for so many a thing to face smiling, the man who daily sent to
the guillotine in Paris or the provinces uncounted thousands, walked the
streets unguarded, and no one, vengeful, struck. In fact, the Terror
seemed to paralyze even the will of the most reckless. Not so felt the
young noble. He hungered for the hour of relief, let it bring what it
might.

The simple and wholesome life of the Quaker household had done much to
satisfy the vicomtesse, whose life had never of late years been one of
great luxury, and as she slowly learned English, she came to recognize
the qualities of refinement and self-sacrifice which, with unusual
intelligence, made Mrs. Swanwick acceptably interesting. It became her
custom at last to be more down-stairs, and to sit with her embroidery
and talk while the knitting-needles clicked and the ball of wool hanging
by its silver hoop from the Quaker lady's waist grew smaller. Sometimes
they read aloud, French or English, or, with her rare smile, the
vicomtesse would insist on sharing some small household duty. The serene
atmosphere of the household, and what Schmidt called the gray religion
of Friends, suited the Huguenot lady. As concerned her son, she was less
at ease, and again, with some anxiety, she had spoken to him of his too
evident pleasure in the society of Margaret, feeling strongly that two
such young and attractive people might fall easily into relations which
could end only in disappointment for one or both. The girl's mother was
no less disturbed, and Schmidt, as observant, but in no wise troubled,
looked on and, seeing, smiled, somewhat dreading for René the inevitable
result of a return to town and an encounter with his enemy.

Genêt had at last been recalled, in December, but, as Du Vallon told
Schmidt, Carteaux was to hold his place as chargé d'affaires to Fauchet,
the new minister, expected to arrive in February, 1794.

On the day following the revelations made by Schmidt, and just after
breakfast, Margaret went out into the wood near by to gather autumn
leaves. Seeing her disappear among the trees, De Courval presently
followed her. Far in the woods he came upon her seated at the foot of a
great tulip-tree. The basket at her side was full of club moss and gaily
tinted toadstools. The red and yellow leaves of maple and oak, falling
on her hair and her gray gown, made, as it seemed to him, a pleasant
picture.

De Courval threw himself at her feet on the ground covered with autumn's
lavished colors.

"We have nothing like this in France. How wonderful it is!"

"Yes," she said; "it is finer than ever I saw it." Then, not looking up,
she added, after a pause, the hands he watched still busy: "Why didst
thou not bring me any goldenrod last evening? I asked thee."

"I saw none."

"Ah, but there is still plenty, or at least there are asters. I think
thou must have been gathering _pensées_, as thy mother calls them;
pansies, we say."

"Yes, thoughts, thoughts," he returned with sudden gravity--"_pensées_."

"They must have been of my cousin Shippen or of Fanny Cadwalader, only
she is always laughing." This young woman, who still lives in all her
beauty on Stuart's canvas, was to end her life in England.

"Oh, neither, neither," he said gaily, "not I. Guess better."

"Then a quiet Quaker girl like--ah--like, perhaps, Deborah Wharton."

He shook his head.

"No? Thou art hard to please," she said. "Well, I shall give them
up--thy _pensées_. They must have been freaked with jet; for how serious
thou art!"

"What is that--freaked with jet?"

She laughed merrily. "Oh, what ignorance! That is Milton,
Monsieur--'Lycidas.'" She was gently proud of superior learning.

"Ah, I must ask Mr. Schmidt of it. I have much to learn."

"I would," and her hands went on with their industry of selecting the
more brilliantly colored leaves. "I have given thee something to think
of. Tell me, now, what were the thoughts of jet in thy _pensées_--the
dark thoughts."

"I cannot tell thee. Some day thou wilt know, and that may be too soon,
too soon"; for he thought: "If I kill that man, what will they think of
revenge, of the guilt of blood, these gentle Quaker people?" Aloud he
said: "You cannot think these thoughts of mine, and I am glad you
cannot."

He was startled as she returned quickly, without looking up from her
work: "How dost thou know what I think? It is something that will
happen," and, the white hands moving with needless quickness among the
gaily tinted leaves, she added: "I do not like change, or new things, or
mysteries. Does Madame, thy mother, think to leave us? My mother would
miss her."

"And you? Would not you a little?"

"Yes, of course; and so would friend Schmidt. There, my basket will hold
no more. How pretty they are! But thou hast not answered me."

"We are not thinking of any such change."

"Well, so far that is good news. But I am still curious. Mr. Schmidt did
once say the autumn has no answers. I think thou art like it." She rose
as she spoke.

"Ah, but the spring may make reply in its time--in its time. Let me
carry thy basket, Miss Margaret." She gave it to him with the woman's
liking to be needlessly helped.

"I am very gay with red and gold," she cried, and shook the leaves from
her hair and gown. "It is worse than the brocade and the sea-green
petticoat my wicked cousins put on me." She could laugh at it now.

"But what would Friends say to the way the fine milliner, Nature, has
decked thee, Mademoiselle? They would forgive thee, I think. Mr. Schmidt
says the red and gold lie thick on the unnamed graves at Fourth and
Mulberry streets, and no Quaker doth protest with a broom."

"He speaks in a strange way sometimes. I often wonder where he learned
it."

"Why dost thou not ask him?"

"I should not dare. He might not like it."

"But thou art, it seems, more free to question some other people."

"Oh, but that is different; and, Monsieur," she said demurely, "thou
must not say thou and thee to me. Thy mother says it is not proper."

He laughed. "If I am thou for thee, were it not courteous to speak to
thee in thy own tongue?"

She colored, remembering the lesson and her own shrewd guess at the
lady's meaning, and how, as she was led to infer, to _tutoyer_, to say
thou, inferred a certain degree of intimacy. "It is not fitting here
except among Friends."

"And why not? In France we do it."

"Yes, sometimes, I have so heard." But to explain further was far from
her intention. "It sounds foolish here, in people who are not of
Friends. I said so--"

"But are we not friends?"

"I said Friends with a big F, Monsieur."

"I make my apologies,"--he laughed with a formal bow,--"but one easily
catches habits of talk."

"Indeed, I am in earnest, and thou must mend thy habits. Friend
Marguerite Swanwick desires to be excused of the Vicomte de Courval,"
and, smiling, she swept the courtesy of reply to his bow as the autumn
leaves fell from the gathered skirts.

"As long as thou art thou, it will be hard to obey," he said, and she
making no reply, they wandered homeward through level shafts of
sunlight, while fluttering overhead on wings of red and gold, the cupids
of the forest enjoyed the sport, and the young man murmured: "Thou and
thee," dreaming of a walk with her in his own Normandy among the
woodlands his boyhood knew.

"Thou art very silent," she said at last.

"No, I am talking; but not to you--of you, perhaps."

"Indeed," and she ceased to express further desire to be enlightened,
and fell to asking questions about irregular French verbs.

Just before they reached the house, Margaret said: "I have often meant
to ask thee to tell me what thou didst do in the city. Friend Schmidt
said to mother that Stephen Girard could not say too much of thee. Tell
me about it, please."

"No," he returned abruptly. "It is a thing to forget, not to talk
about."

"How secretive thou art!" she said, pouting, "and thou wilt never, never
speak of France." In an instant she knew she had been indiscreet as he
returned:

"Nor ever shall. Certainly not now."

"Not--not even to me?"

"No." His mind was away in darker scenes.

Piqued and yet sorry, she returned, "Thou art as abrupt as Daniel
Offley."

"Mademoiselle!"

"What have I said?"

"Daniel Offley is dead. I carried him into his own house to die, a brave
man when few were brave."

"I have had my lesson," she said. There were tears in her eyes, a little
break in her voice.

"And I, Pearl; and God was good to me."

"And to me," she sobbed; "I beg thy pardon--but I want to say--I must
say that thou too wert brave, oh, as brave as any--for I know--I have
heard."

"Oh, Pearl, you must not say that! I did as others did." She had heard
him call her Pearl unreproved, or had she not? He would set a guard on
his tongue. "It is chilly. Let us go in," for they had stood at the gate
as they talked.

It was their last walk, for soon the stripped trees and the ground were
white with an early snowfall and the autumn days had gone, and on the
first of December reluctantly they moved to the city.

XVI

Least of all did De Courval like the change to the busy life of the
city. A growing love, which he knew would arouse every prejudice his
mother held dear, occupied his mind when he was not busy with Schmidt's
affairs or still indecisively on the outlook for his enemy. Genêt,
dismissed, had gone to New York to live, where later he married De Witt
Clinton's sister, being by no means willing to risk his head in France.
His secretary, as De Courval soon heard, was traveling until the new
minister arrived. Thus for the time left more at ease, De Courval
fenced, rode, and talked with Schmidt.

December of this calamitous year went by and the rage of parties
increased. Neither French nor English spared our commerce. The latter
took the French islands, and over a hundred and thirty of our ships were
seized as carriers of provisions and ruthlessly plundered, their crews
impressed and many vessels left to rot, uncared for, at the wharves of
San Domingo and Martinique. A nation without a navy, we were helpless.
There was indeed enough wrong done by our old ally and by the
mother-country to supply both parties in America with good reasons for
war.

The whole land was in an uproar and despite the news of the Terror in
France, the Jacobin clubs multiplied in many cities North and South,
and broke out in the wildest acts of folly. In Charleston they pulled
down the statue of the great statesman Pitt. The Democratic Club of that
city asked to be affiliated with the Jacobin Club in Paris, while the
city council voted to use no longer the absurd titles "Your Honour" and
"Esquire."

Philadelphia was not behindhand in folly, but it took no official form.
The astronomer Rittenhouse, head of the Republican Club, appeared one
day at the widow's and showed Schmidt a copy of a letter addressed to
the Vestry of Christ Church. He was full of it, and when, later, Mr.
Jefferson appeared, to get the chocolate and the talk he dearly liked,
Rittenhouse would have had him sign the appeal.

"This, Citizen," said the astronomer, "will interest and please you."

The Secretary read, with smiling comments: "'To the Vestry of Christ
Church: It is the wish of the respectable citizens that you cause to be
removed the image of George the Second from the gable of Christ Church.'
Why not?" said the Secretary, as he continued to read aloud: "'These
marks of infamy cause the church to be disliked.'"

"Why not remove the church, too?" said Schmidt.

"'T is of as little use," said Jefferson, and this Mrs. Swanwick did not
like. She knew of his disbelief in all that she held dear.

"Thou wilt soon get no chocolate here," she said; for she feared no one
and at times was outspoken.

"Madame, I shall go to meeting next First Day with the citizen Friends.
My chocolate, please." He read on, aloud: "'It has a tendency to keep
the young and virtuous away.' That is you and I, Rittenhouse--'the
young and virtuous.'" But he did not sign, and returned this amazing
document, remarking that his name was hardly needed.

"They have refused," said the astronomer, "actually refused, and it is
to be removed by outraged citizens to-day, I hear. A little more
chocolate, Citess, and a bun--please."

"Citess, indeed! When thou art hungry enough to speak the King's
English," said Mrs. Swanwick, "thou shall have thy chocolate; and if thy
grammar be very good, there will be also a slice of sally-lunn."

The philosopher repented, and was fed, while Schmidt remarked on the
immortality a cake may confer; but who Sally was, no one knew.

"You will be pleased to hear, Rittenhouse, that Dr. Priestly is come to
the city," said the Secretary. "He is at the Harp and Crown on Third
Street."

"I knew him in England," said Schmidt; "I will call on him to-day. A
great chemist, René, and the finder of a new gas called oxygen."

When the star-gazer had gone away the Secretary, after some talk about
the West Indian outrages, said: "I shall miss your chocolate, Madame,
and my visits. You have heard, no doubt, of the cabinet changes."

"Some rumors, only," said Schmidt.

"I have resigned, and go back to my home and my farming. Mr. Hamilton
will also fall out this January, and General Knox, no very great loss.
Colonel Pickering takes his place."

"And who succeeds Hamilton, sir?"

"Oh, his satellite, Wolcott. The ex-Secretary means to pull the wires of
his puppets. He loves power, as I do not. But the chocolate, alas!"

"And who, may I ask," said Mrs. Swanwick, "is to follow thee, Friend
Jefferson?"

"Edmund Randolph, I believe. Bradford will have his place of
Attorney-General. And now you have all my gossip, Madame, and I leave
next week. I owe you many thanks for the pleasant hours in your home.
Good-by, Mr. Schmidt; and Vicomte, may I ask to be remembered to your
mother? I shall hope to be here now and then."

"We shall miss thee, Friend Jefferson," said the widow.

"I would not lessen thy regrets," he said. "Ah, one lingers." He kissed
the hand he held, his bright hazel eyes aglow. "Good-by, Miss Margaret."
And bowing low, he left them.

Schmidt looked after him, smiling.

"Now thou art of a mind to say naughty things of my friend," said Mrs.
Swanwick. "I know thy ways."

"I was, but I meant only to criticize his politics. An intelligent old
fox with golden eyes. He is of no mind to accept any share of the
trouble this English treaty will make, and this excise tax."

René, who was beginning to understand the difficulties in a cabinet
where there was seldom any unanimity of opinion, said: "There will be
more peace for the President."

"And less helpful heads," said Schmidt. "Hamilton is a great loss, and
Jefferson in some respects. They go not well in double harness. Come,
René, let us go and see the philosopher. I knew him well. Great men are
rare sights. A Jacobin philosopher! But there are no politics in gases."

The chemist was not at home, and hearing shouts and unusual noise on
Second Street, they went through Church Alley to see what might be the
cause. A few hundred men and boys of the lower class were gathered in
front of Christ Church, watched by a smaller number of better-dressed
persons, who hissed and shouted, but made no attempt to interfere when,
apparently unmolested, a man, let down from the roof of the gable, tore
off the leaden medallion of the second George[1] amid the cheering and
mad party cries of the mob.

[1] The leaden bas-relief has since been replaced.

Schmidt said: "Now they can say their prayers in peace, these Jacobin
Christians."

In one man's mind there was presently small thought of peace. When the
crowd began to scatter, well pleased, Schmidt saw beside him De la
Forêt, consul-general of France, and with him Carteaux. He threw his
great bulk and broad shoulders between De Courval and the Frenchmen,
saying: "Let us go. Come, René."

As he spoke, Carteaux, now again in the service, said: "We do it better
in France, Citizen Consul. The Committee of Safety and Père Couthon
would have shortened the preacher by a head. Oh, they are leaving. Have
you seen the caricature of the aristocrat Washington on the guillotine?
It has made the President swear, I am told."

As he spoke, De Courval's attention was caught by the French accents
and something in the voice, and he turned to see the stranger who spoke
thus insolently.

"Not here, René. No! no!" said Schmidt. He saw De Courval's face grow
white as he had seen it once before.

"Let us go," said De la Forêt.

"A feeble mob of children," returned Carteaux.

As he spoke, De Courval struck him a single savage blow full in the
face.

"A fight! a fight!" cried the crowd. "Give them room! A ring! a ring!"

There was no fight in the slighter man, who lay stunned and bleeding,
while René struggled in Schmidt's strong arms, wild with rage.

"You have done enough," said the German; "come!" René, silent, himself
again, stared at the fallen man.

"What is the meaning of this outrage!" said De la Forêt. "Your name,
sir?"

"I am the Vicomte de Courval," said René, perfectly cool. "You will find
me at Madame Swanwick's on Front Street."

Carteaux was sitting upon the sidewalk, still dazed and bleeding. The
crowd looked on. "He hits hard," said one.

"Come, René," said the German, and they walked away, René still silent.

"I supposed it would come soon or late," said Schmidt. "We shall hear
from them to-morrow."

[Illustration: "René struggled in Schmidt's arms, wild with rage"]

"_Mon Dieu_, but I am glad. It is a weight off my mind. I shall kill
him."

Schmidt was hardly as sure. Neither man spoke again until they reached
home.

"Come to my room, René," said the German after supper. "I want to settle
that ground-rent business."

As they sat down, he was struck with the young man's look of elation.
"Oh, my pipe first. Where is it? Ah, here it is. What do you mean to
do?"

"Do? I do not mean to let him think it was only the sudden anger of a
French gentleman at a Jacobin's vile speech. He must know why I struck."

"That seems reasonable."

"But I shall not involve in my quarrel a man of your rank. I shall ask
Du Vallon."

"Shall you, indeed! There is wanted here a friend and an older head.
What rank had I when you saw me through my deadly duel with El Vomito?
Now, no more of that." De Courval yielded.

"I shall write to him and explain my action. He may put it as he pleases
to others."

"I see no better way. Write now, and let me see your letter."

René sat at the table and wrote while Schmidt smoked, a troubled and
thoughtful man. "He is no match for that fellow with the sword; and
yet"--and he moved uneasily--"it will be, on the whole, better than the
pistol." Any thought of adjustment or of escape from final resort to the
duel he did not consider. It would have been out of the question for
himself and, as he saw it, for any man of his beliefs and training.

"Here it is, sir," said René. The German gentleman laid down his long
pipe and read:

SIR: I am desirous that you should not consider my action as the
result of what you said in my hearing to M. de la Forêt. I am the
Vicomte de Courval. In the massacre at Avignon on the twelfth of
September, 1791, when my father was about to be released by
Jourdan, your voice alone called for his condemnation. I saw him
die, butchered before my eyes. This is why I struck you.

LOUIS RENÉ DE COURVAL.

"That will do," said Schmidt. "He shall have it to-night. You will have
a week to spend with Du Vallon. No prudent man would meet you in the
condition in which you left him."

"I suppose not. I can wait. I have waited long. I regret the delay
chiefly because in this city everything is known and talked about, and
before we can end the matter it will be heard of here."

"Very probably; but no one will speak of it before your mother, and you
may be sure that these good people will ask no questions, and only
wonder and not realize what must come out of it."

"Perhaps, perhaps." He was not so sure and wished to end it at once.

It had been in his power to have made the social life of the better
republicans impossible for his father's murderer; but this might have
driven Carteaux away and was not what he desired. The constant thought
of his mother had kept him as undecided as Hamlet, but now a sudden
burst of anger had opened the way to what he longed for. He was glad.

When, that night, Jean Carteaux sat up in bed and read by dim
candlelight De Courval's letter, he, too, saw again the great hall at
Avignon and recalled the blood madness. His Jacobin alliances had closed
to him in Philadelphia the houses of the English party and the
Federalists, and in the society he frequented, at the official dinners
of the cabinet officers, he had never seen De Courval, nor, indeed,
heard of him, or, if at all casually, without his title and as one of
the many _émigrés_ nobles with whom he had no social acquaintance. It
was the resurrection of a ghost of revenge. He had helped to send to the
guillotine others as innocent as Jean de Courval, and then, at last, not
without fear of his own fate, had welcomed the appointment of
commissioner to San Domingo and, on his return to France, had secured
the place of secretary to Genêt's legation. The mockery of French
sentiment in the clubs of the American cities, the cockades, and red
bonnets, amused him. It recoiled from personal violence, and saying wild
things, did nothing of serious moment. The good sense and the trust of
the great mass of the people throughout the country in one man promised
little of value to France, as Carteaux saw full well when the recall of
Genêt was demanded. He felt the chill of failure in this cooler air, but
was of no mind to return to his own country. He was intelligent, and,
having some means, meant that his handsome face should secure for him an
American wife, and with her a comfortable dowry; for who knew of his
obscure life in Paris? And now here was that affair at Avignon and the
ruin of his plans. He would at least close one mouth and deny what it
might have uttered. There was no other way, and for the rest--well, a
French _émigré_ had heard him speak rashly and had been brutal. The
Jacobin clubs would believe and stand by him. De la Forêt must arrange
the affair, and so far this insolent _ci-devant_ could have said nothing
else of moment.

De la Forêt called early the next day, and was referred to Schmidt as
René left the room. No pacific settlement was discussed or even
mentioned. The consul, well pleased, accepted the sword as the weapon,
and this being Sunday, on Thursday at 7 A.M. there would be light
enough, and they would cross on the ice to New Jersey; for this year one
could sleigh from the city to the capes, and from New York to Cape
Cod--or so it was said.

Meanwhile the Jacobin clubs rang with the insult to a French secretary,
and soon it was the talk in the well-pleased coffee-houses and at the
tables of the great merchants. René said nothing, refusing to gratify
those who questioned him.

"A pity," said Mrs. Chew to Penn, the Governor, as men still called him.
"And why was it? The young man is so serious and so quiet and, as I
hear, religious. I have seen him often at Christ Church with his mother,
or at Gloria Dei."

"One can get a good deal of religion into a blow," remarked Hamilton,
"or history lies. The man insulted him, I am told, and the vicomte
struck him." Even Hamilton knew no more than this.

"Still, there are milder ways of calling a man to account," said young
Thomas Cadwalader, while Hamilton smiled, remembering that savage duel
in which John Cadwalader, the father, had punished the slanderer,
General Conway.

"Will there be a fight?" said Mrs. Byrd.

"Probably," said Penn, and opinion among the Federals was all for the
vicomte. Meanwhile no one spoke of the matter at the widow's quiet
house, where just now the severe winter made social visits rare.

As for De Courval he fenced daily with Du Vallon, who was taken into
their confidence and shared Schmidt's increasing anxiety.

XVII

On Thursday, at the dawn of a gloomy winter morning, the two sleighs
crossed over a mile of ice to the Jersey shore. Large flakes of snow
were falling as Schmidt drove, the little doctor, Chovet, beside him, De
Courval silent on the back seat. Nothing could keep Chovet quiet very
long. "I was in the duel of Laurens, the President of the Congress. Oh,
it was to be on Christmas Day and near to Seven Street. Mr. Penn--oh,
not the fat governor but the senator from Georgia--he slipped in the mud
on the way, and Laurens he help him with a hand, and they make up all at
once and no further go, and I am disappoint." It was an endless chatter.
"And there was the Conway duel, too. Ah, that was good business!"

Schmidt, out of patience, said at last, "If you talk any more, I will
throw you out of the sleigh."

"Oh, _le diable!_ and who then will heal these which go to stick one the
other? Ha! I ask of you that?"

"The danger will be so much the less," said Schmidt. Chovet was
silenced.

On the shore they met De la Forêt and Carteaux, and presently found in
the woods an open space with little snow. The two men stripped to the
shirt, and were handed the dueling-swords, Schmidt whispering: "Be cool;
no temper here. Wait to attack."

"And now," said the consul, as the seconds fell back, "on guard,
Messieurs!"

Instantly the two blades rang sharp notes of meeting steel as they
crossed and clashed in the cold morning air. "He is lost!" murmured
Schmidt. The slighter man attacked furiously, shifting his ground, at
first imprudently sure of his foe. A prick in the chest warned him. Then
there was a mad interchange of quick thrusts and more or less competent
defense, when De Courval, staggering, let fall his rapier and dropped,
while Carteaux, panting, stood still.

Schmidt knelt down. It was a deep chest wound and bled but little
outwardly. De Courval, coughing up foamy blood, gasped, "It is over for
a time--over." Chovet saw no more to do than to get his man home, and so
strangely does associative memory play her tricks that Schmidt, as he
rose in dismay, recalled the words of the dying _Mercutio_. Then, with
apparent ease, he lifted René, and, carrying him to the sleigh, wrapped
him in furs, and drove swiftly over the ice to the foot of the garden.
"Fasten the horse, Doctor," he said, "and follow me." René smiled as the
German carried him. "The second time of home-coming wounded. How
strange! Don't be troubled, sir. I do not mean to die. Tell my mother
yourself."

"If you die," murmured Schmidt, "he shall follow you. Do not speak,
René."

He met Margaret on the porch. "What is it?" she cried, as he went by her
with his burden. "What is the matter?"

"A duel. He is wounded. Call your mother." Not waiting to say more, he
went carefully up-stairs, and with Chovet's help René was soon in his
bed. It was quietly done, Mrs. Swanwick, distressed, but simply obeying
directions, asked no questions and Margaret, below-stairs, outwardly
calm, her Quaker training serving her well, was bidding Nanny to cease
crying and to get what was needed.

Once in bed, René said only, "My mother--tell her, at once." She had
heard at last the quick haste of unwonted stir and met Schmidt at her
chamber door.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Certainly, Monsieur. Something has happened to René. Is he dead?"

"No; but, he is hurt--wounded."

"Then tell me the worst at once. I am not of those to whom you must
break ill news gently. Sit down." He obeyed her.

"René has had a duel. He is badly wounded in the lung. You cannot see
him now. The doctor insists on quiet."

"And who will stop me?" she said.

"I, Madame," and he stood between her and the door. "Just now you can
only do him harm. I beg of you to wait--oh, patiently--for days,
perhaps. If he is worse, you shall know it at once."

For a moment she hesitated. "I will do as you say. Who was the man?"

"Carteaux, Madame."

"Carteaux here! _Mon Dieu!_ Does he live?"

"Yes. He was not hurt."

"And men say there is a God! Christ help me; what is it I have said? How
came he here, this man?"

He told her the whole story, she listening with moveless, pale, ascetic
face. Then she rose: "I am sorry I did not know of this beforehand. I
should have prayed for my son that he might kill him. I thank you,
Monsieur. I believe you love my René."

"As if he were my son, Madame."

Days went by, darkened with despair or brightened with faint hope. Alas!
who has not known them? The days grew to weeks. There were no longer
guests, only anxious inquirers and a pale, drooping young woman and two
mothers variously troubled.

But if here there were watching friendship and love and service and a
man to die to-day or to-morrow to live, in the darkened room were
spirits twain ever whispering love or hate. Outside of the house where
De Courval lay, the Jacobin clubs rejoiced and feasted Carteaux, who
burned De Courval's note and held his tongue, while Fauchet complained
of the insult to his secretary, and Mr. Randolph neither would nor could
do anything.

The February of 1794 passed, and March and April, while Glentworth,
Washington's physician, came, and afterward Dr. Rush, to Chovet's
disgust. Meanwhile the young man lay in bed wasting away with grim
doubts of phthisis in the doctors' minds until in May there was a gain,
and, as once before, he was allowed a settle, and soon was in the air on
the upper porch, and could see visitors.

Schmidt, more gaunt than ever, kissed the hand of the vicomtesse in his
German fashion, as for the first time through all the long vigils they
had shared with Mary Swanwick she thanked him for positive assurance of
recovery.

"He is safe, you tell me. May the God who has spared my son remember you
and bless you through all your days and in all your ways!"

He bent low. "I have my reward, Madame."

Some intuitive recognition of what was in his mind was perhaps naturally
in the thought of both. She said, "Will it end here?"

Seeing before him a face which he could not read, he replied, "It is to
be desired that it end here, or that some good fortune put the sea
between these two."

"And can you, his friend, say that? Not if he is the son I bore. I trust
not," and, turning away, she left him; while he looked after her and
murmured: "There is more mother in me than in her," and going out to
where René lay, he said gaily: "Out of prison at last, my boy. A grim
jail is sickness."

"Ah, to hear the birds who are so free," said René. "Are they ever ill,
I wonder?"

"Mr. Hamilton is below, René--just come from New York. He has been here
twice."

"Then I shall hear of the world. You have starved me of news." There was
little good to tell him. The duke, their cousin, had fled from France,
and could write to madame only of the Terror and of deaths and ruin.

The Secretary came up fresh with the gaiety of a world in which he was
still battling fiercely with the Republican party, glad of the absence
of his rival, Jefferson, who saw no good in anything he did or said.

"You are very kind," said De Courval, "to spare me a little of your
time, sir." Indeed he felt it. Hamilton sat down, smiling at the
eagerness with which René questioned him.

"There is much to tell, Vicomte. The outrages on our commerce by the
English have become unendurable, and how we are to escape war I do not
see. An embargo has been proclaimed by the President; it is for thirty
days, and will be extended to thirty more. We have many English ships in
our ports. No one of them can leave."

"That ought to bring them to their senses," said René.

"It may," returned Hamilton.

"And what, sir, of the treaty with England?"

Hamilton smiled. "I was to have been sent, but there was too much
opposition, and now, as I think, wisely, Chief-Justice Jay is to go to
London."

"Ah, Mr. Hamilton, if there were but war with England,--and there is
cause enough,--some of us poor exiles might find pleasant occupation."

The Secretary became grave. "I would do much, yield much, to escape war,
Vicomte. No man of feeling who has ever seen war desires to see it
again. If the memory of nations were as retentive as the memory of a
man, there would be an end of wars."

"And yet, sir," said René, "I hardly see how you--how this
people--endure what you so quietly accept."

"Yes, yes. No man more than Washington feels the additions of insult to
injury. If to-day you could give him a dozen frigates, our answer to
England would not be a request for a treaty which will merely secure
peace, and give us that with contempt, and little more. What it
personally costs that proud gentleman, our President, to preserve his
neutral attitude few men know."

René was pleased and flattered by the thoughtful gravity of the
statesman's talk.

"I see, sir," he said. "There will be no war."

"No; I think not. I sincerely hope not. But now I must go. My
compliments to your mother; and I am glad to see you so well."

As he went out, he met Schmidt in the hall. "Ah, why did you not prevent
this duel?" he said.

"No man could, sir. It is, I fear, a business to end only when one of
them dies. It dates far back of the blow. Some day we will talk of it,
but I do not like the outlook."

"Indeed." He went into the street thoughtful. In principle opposed to
duels, he was to die in the prime of life a victim to the pistol of
Burr.

The pleasant May weather and the open air brought back to De Courval
health and the joys of life. The girl in the garden heard once more his
bits of French song, and when June came with roses he was able to lie on
the lower porch, swinging at ease in a hammock sent by Captain Biddle,
and it seemed as if the world were all kindness. As he lay, Schmidt
read to him, and he missed only Margaret, ordered out to the country in
the care of Aunt Gainor, while, as he grew better, he had the strange
joy of senses freshened and keener than in health, as if he were reborn
to a new heritage of tastes and odors, the priceless gift of wholesome
convalescence.

He asked no questions concerning Carteaux or what men said of the duel;
but as Schmidt, musing, saw him at times gentle, pleased, merry, or
again serious, he thought how all men have in them a brute ancestor
ready with a club. "Just now the devil is asleep." He alone, and the
mother, fore-looking, knew; and so the time ran on, and every one wanted
him. The women came with flowers and strawberries, and made much of him,
the gray mother not ill-pleased.

In June he was up, allowed to walk out or to lie in the boat while
Schmidt caught white perch or crabs and talked of the many lands he had
seen. Then at last, to René's joy, he might ride.

"Here," said Schmidt, "is a note from Mistress Gainor. We are asked to
dine and stay the night. No, not you. You are not yet fit for dinners
and gay women. These doctors are cruel. There will be, she writes, Mr.
Jefferson, here for a week; Mr. Langstroth, and a woman or two; and
Wolcott of the Treasury, 'if Hamilton will let him come,' she says." For
perhaps wisely the new official followed the ex-Secretary's counsels, to
the saving of much needless thinking. "A queer party that!" said
Schmidt. "What new mischief are she and the ex-Quaker Josiah devising?"
He would be there at three, he wrote, the groom having waited a reply.

"Have you any message for Miss Margaret, René?" he asked next day.

"Tell her that all that is left of me remembers her mother's kindness."
And, laughing, he added: "That there is more of me every day."

"And is that all?"

"Yes; that is all. Is there any news?"

"None of moment. Oh, yes, I meant to tell you. The heathen imagine a
vain thing--a fine republican mob collected in front of the Harp and
Crown yesterday. There was a picture set up over the door in the war--a
picture of the Queen of France. A painter was made to paint a ring of
blood around the neck and daub the clothes with red. If there is a fool
devil, he must grin at that."

"_Canaille!_" said René. "Poor queen! We of the religion did not love
her; but to insult the dead! Ah, a week in Paris now, and these cowards
would fly in fear."

"Yes; it is a feeble sham." And so he left René to his book and rode
away with change of garments in his saddle-bags.

XVIII

Miss Gainor being busy at her toilette, Schmidt was received at the Hill
Farm by the black page, in red plush for contrast, and shown up to his
room. He usually wore clothes of simple character and left the changing
fashions to others. But this time he dressed as he did rarely, and came
down with powdered hair, in maroon-colored velvet with enameled buttons,
ruffles at the wrists, and the full lace neck-gear still known as a
Steenkirk.

Miss Gainor envied him the gold buckles of the broidered garters and
shoes, and made her best courtesy to the stately figure which bent low
before her.

"They are late," she said. "Go and speak to Margaret in the garden." He
found her alone under a great tulip-tree.

"_Ach!_" he cried, "you are looking better. You were pale." She rose
with a glad welcome as he saw and wondered. "How fine we are, Pearl!"

"Are we not? But Aunt Gainor would have it. I must courtesy, I suppose."

The dress was a compromise. There were still the gray silks, the
underskirt, open wider than common in front, a pale sea-green petticoat,
and, alas! even powder--very becoming it seemed to the German gentleman.
I am helpless to describe the prettiness of it. Aunt Gainor had an
artist's eye, though she herself delighted in too gorgeous attire.

He gave Margaret the home news and his message from René, and no; she
was not yet to come to town. It was too hot, and not very healthy this
summer.

"Why did not the vicomte write?" she said with some hesitation. "That
would have been nicer."

"_Ach, guter Himmel!_ Young men do not write to young women."

"But among Friends we are more simple."

"_Ach_, Friends--and in this gown! Shall we be of two worlds? That might
have its convenience."

"Thou art naughty, sir," she said, and they went in.

There was Colonel Lennox and his wife, whom Schmidt had not met, and
Josiah. "You know Mrs. Byrd, Mr. Schmidt? Mrs. Eager Howard, may I
present to you Mr. Schmidt?" This was the Miss Chew who won the heart of
the victor of the Cowpens battle; and last came Jefferson, tall, meager,
red-cheeked, and wearing no powder, a lean figure in black velvet, on a
visit to the city.

"There were only two good noses," said Gainor next day to a woman with
the nose of a pug dog--"mine and that man Schmidt's--Schmidt, with a
nose like a hawk and a jaw most predacious."

For mischief she must call Mr. Jefferson "Excellency," for had he not
been governor of his State?

He bowed, laughing. "Madame, I have no liking for titles. Not even those
which you confer."

"Oh, but when you die, sir," cried Mrs. Howard, "and you want to read
your title clear to mansions in the skies?"

"I shall want none of them; and there are no mansions in the skies."

"And no skies, sir, I suppose," laughed Mrs. Byrd. "Poor Watts!"

"In your sense none," he returned. "How is De Courval?"

"Oh, better; much better."

"He seems to get himself talked about," said Mrs. Howard. "A fine young
fellow, too."

"You should set your cap for him, Tacy," said Gainor to the blond
beauty, Mrs. Lennox.

"It was set long ago for my Colonel," she cried.

"I am much honored," said her husband, bowing.

"She was Dr. Franklin's last love-affair," cried Gainor. "How is that,
Tacy Lennox?"

"Fie, Madam! He was dying in those days, and, yes, I loved him. There
are none like him nowadays."

"I never thought much of his nose," said Gainor, amid gay laughter; and
they went to dinner, the Pearl quietly attentive, liking it well, and
still better when Colonel Howard turned to chat with her and found her
merry and shyly curious concerning the great war she was too young to
remember well, and in regard to the men who fought and won. Josiah, next
to Mrs. Lennox, contributed contradictions, and Pickering was silent,
liking better the company of men.

At dusk, having had their Madeira, they rode away, leaving only Margaret
and Schmidt. The evening talk was quiet, and the girl, reluctant, was
sent to bed early.

"I have a pipe for you," said Gainor. "Come out under the trees. How
warm it is!"

"You had a queer party," said Schmidt, who knew her well, and judged
better than many her true character.

"Yes; was it not? But the women were to your liking, I am sure."

"Certainly; but why Josiah, and what mischief are you two after?"

"I? Mischief, sir?"

"Yes; you do not like him. You never have him here to dine if you can
help it."

"No; but now I am trying to keep him out of mischief, and to-day he
invited himself to dine."

"Well!" said Schmidt, blowing great rings of smoke.

"General Washington was here yesterday. His horse cast a shoe, and he
must needs pay me a visit. Oh, he was honest about it. He looked tired
and aged. I shall grow old; but aged, sir, never. He is deaf, too. I
hope he may not live to lose his mind. I thought of Johnson's lines
about Marlborough."

"I do not know them. What are they?"

"From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,
And Swift expires, a driv'ler and a show."

"Yes," said Schmidt thoughtfully--"yes; that is the ending I most should
fear."

"He is clear-headed enough to-day; but the men around him think too
much of their own interests, and he of his country alone."

"It may be better with this new cabinet."

"No; there will be less head."

"And more heart, I hope," said Schmidt.

"I could cry when I think of that man's life."

"Yes, it is sad enough; but suppose," said Schmidt, "we return to
Josiah."

"Well, if you must have it, Josiah has one honest affection outside of a
love-affair with Josiah--Margaret, of course."

"Yes; and what more?"

"He thinks she should be married, and proposes to arrange the matter."

The idea of Uncle Josiah as a matchmaker filled the German with comic
delight. He broke into Gargantuan laughter. "I should like to hear his
plan of campaign."

"Oh, dear Aunt Gainor," cried a voice from an upper window, "what is the
joke? Tell me, or I shall come down and find out."

"Go to bed, minx!" shouted Miss Gainor. "Mr. Schmidt is going to be
married, and I am to be bridesmaid. To bed with you!"

"Fie, for shame, Aunt! He will tell me to-morrow." The white figure
disappeared from the window.

"Oh, Josiah is set on it--really set on it, and you know his
possibilities of combining folly with obstinacy."

"Yes, I know. And who is the happy man?"

"The Vicomte de Courval, please."

Schmidt whistled low. "I beg your pardon, Mistress Gainor. Cannot you
stop him? The fool! What does he propose to do?"

"I do not know. He has an odd admiration for De Courval, and that is
strange, for he never contradicts him."

"The admiration of a coward for a brave man--I have known that more than
once. He will do Heaven knows what, and end in making mischief enough."

"I have scared him a little. He talked, the idiot, about his will, and
what he would or would not do. As if that would help, or as if the dear
child cares or would care. I said I had money to spare at need. He will
say nothing for a while. I do not mean to be interfered with. I told him
so."

"Did you, indeed?"

"I did."

"Mistress Gainor, you had better keep your own hands off and let things
alone. Josiah would be like an elephant in a rose garden."

"And I like--"

"A good, kindly woman about to make a sad mistake. You do not know the
mother's deep-seated prejudices, nor yet of what trouble lies like a
shadow on René's life. I should not dare to interfere."

"What is it?" she said, at once curious and anxious.

"Mistress Gainor, you are to be trusted, else you would go your way. Is
not that so?"

"Yes; but I am reasonable and Margaret is dear to me. I like the vicomte
and, as for his mother, she thinks me a kind, rough old woman; and for
her nonsense about rank and blood, stuff! The girl's blood is as good
as hers."

"No doubt; but let it alone. And now I think you ought to hear his story
and I mean to tell it." And sitting in the darkness, he told her of
Avignon and Carteaux and the real meaning of the duel and how the matter
would go on again some day, but how soon fate alone could determine. She
listened, appalled at the tragic story which had come thus fatefully
from a far-away land into the life of a quiet Quaker family.

"It is terrible and sad," she said. "And he has spoken to no one but you
of this tragedy? It must be known to many."

"The death, yes. Carteaux's share in it, no. He was an unknown young
_avocat_ at the time."

"How reticent young De Courval must be! It is singular at his age."

"He had no reason to talk of it; he is a man older than his years. He
had in fact his own good reason for desiring not to drive this villain
out of his reach. He is a very resolute person. If he loves this dear
child, he will marry her, if a dozen mothers stand in the way."

"There will be two. I see now why Mary Swanwick is always sending
Margaret to me or to Darthea Wynne. I think the maid cares for him."

"Ah, my dear Miss Gainor, if I could keep them apart for a year, I
should like it. God knows where the end will be. Suppose this fellow
were to kill him! That they will meet again is sadly sure, if I know De
Courval."

"You are right," she returned. "But if, Mr. Schmidt, this shadow did not
lie across his path, would it please you? Would you who have done so
much for him--would you wish it?"

"With all my heart. But let it rest here, and let time and fate have
their way."

"I will," she said, rising. "It is cool. I must go in. It is a sad
tangle, and those two mothers! I am sometimes glad that I never married
and have no child. Good night. I fear that I shall dream of it."

"I shall have another pipe before I follow you. We are three old
cupids," he added, laughing. "We had better go out of business."

"There is a good bit of cupidity about one of us, sir."

"A not uncommon quality," laughed Schmidt.

Pleased with her jest, she went away, saying, "Tom will take care of
you."

To the well-concealed satisfaction of the vicomtesse, it was settled
that Margaret's health required her to remain all summer at the Hill;
but when June was over, De Courval was able to ride, and why not to
Chestnut Hill? And although Gainor never left them alone, it was
impossible to refuse permission for him to ride with them.

They explored the country far and wide with Aunt Gainor on her great
stallion, a rash rider despite her years. Together they saw White Marsh
and the historic lines of Valley Forge, and heard of Hugh Wynne's ride,
and, by good luck, met General Wayne one day and were told the story of
that dismal winter when snow was both foe and friend. Aunt Gainor rode
in a riding-mask, and the Quaker bonnet was worn no longer, wherefore,
the code of lovers' signals being ingeniously good, there needed no
cupids old or young. The spring of love had come and the summer would
follow in nature's course. Yet always René felt that until his dark debt
was paid he could not speak.

Therefore, sometimes he refrained from turning his horse toward the Hill
and went to see his mother, now again, to her pleasure, with Darthea, or
else he rode with Schmidt through that bit of Holland on the Neck and
saw sails over the dikes and the flour windmills turning in the breeze.
Schmidt, too, kept him busy, and he visited Baltimore and New York, and
fished or shot.

"You are well enough now. Let us fence again," said Schmidt, and once
more he was made welcome by the _émigrés_ late in the evening when no
others came.

He would rarely touch the foils, but "_Mon Dieu_, Schmidt," said de
Malerive, "he has with the pistol skill."

Du Vallon admitted it. But: "_Mon ami_, it is no weapon for gentlemen.
The Jacobins like it. There is no tierce or quarte against a bullet."

"Do they practise with the pistol here?"

"No. Carteaux, thy lucky friend, ah, very good,--of the best with the
foil,--but no shot." René smiled, and Schmidt understood.

"Can you hit that, René?" he said, taking from his pocket the ace of
clubs, for playing-cards were often used as visiting-cards, the backs
being white, and other material not always to be had.

René hit the edge of the ace with a ball, and then the center. The gay
crowd applauded, and Du Vallon pleased to make a little jest in English,
wished it were a Jacobin club, and, again merry, they liked the jest.

XIX

The only man known to me who remembered Schmidt is said to have heard
Alexander Hamilton remark that all the German lacked of being great was
interest in the noble game of politics. It was true of Schmidt. The war
of parties merely amused him, with their honest dread of a monarchy,
their terror of a bonded debt, their disgust at the abominable
imposition of a tax on freemen, and, above all, an excise tax on whisky.
Jefferson, with keen intellect, was trying to keep the name Republican
for the would-be Democrats, and while in office had rebuked Genêt and
kept Fauchet in order, so that, save for the smaller side of him and the
blinding mind fog of personal and party prejudice, he would have been
still more valuable in the distracted cabinet he had left.

Schmidt looked on it all with tranquillity, and while he heard of the
horrors of the Terror with regret for individual suffering, regarded
that strange drama much as an historian looks back on the records of the
past.

Seeing this and the man's interest in the people near to him, in
flowers, nature, and books, his attitude of mind in regard to the vast
world changes seemed singular to the more intense character of De
Courval. It had for him, however, its value in the midst of the turmoil
of a new nation and the temptations an immense prosperity offered to a
people who were not as yet acclimated to the air of freedom.

In fact Schmidt's indifference, or rather the neutrality of a mind not
readily biased, seemed to set him apart, and to enable him to see with
sagacity the meaning and the probable results of what appeared to some
in America like the beginning of a fatal evolution of ruin.

Their companionship had now the qualities of one of those rare and
useful friendships between middle age and youth, seen now and then
between a father and son, with similar tastes. They were much together,
and by the use of business errands and social engagements the elder man
did his share in so occupying De Courval as to limit his chances of
seeing Margaret Swanwick; nor was she entirely or surely displeased. Her
instincts as a woman made her aware of what might happen at any time.
She knew, too, what would then be the attitude of the repellent Huguenot
lady. Her pride of caste was recognized by Margaret with the
distinctness of an equal but different pride, and with some resentment
at an aloofness which, while it permitted the expression of gratitude,
seemed to draw between Mrs. Swanwick and herself a line of impassable
formality of intercourse.

One of the lesser accidents of social life was about to bring for De
Courval unlooked-for changes and materially to affect his fortunes. He
had seemed to Schmidt of late less troubled, a fact due to a decision
which left him more at ease.

The summer of 1794 was over, and the city gay and amusing. He had seen
Carteaux more than once, and seeing him, he had been but little
disturbed. On an evening in September, Schmidt and he went as usual to
the fencing-school. There were some new faces. Du Vallon said, "Here,
Schmidt, is an old friend of mine, and Vicomte, let me present Monsieur
Brillat-Savarin."

The new-comer greeted De Courval and his face expressed surprise as he
bowed to the German. "I beg pardon," he said--"Monsieur Schmidt?"

"Yes, at your service."

He seemed puzzled. "It seems to me that we have met before--in Berne, I
think."

"Berne. Berne," said Schmidt, coldly. "I was never in Berne."

"Ah, I beg pardon. I must be mistaken."

"Are you here for a long stay?"

"Only for a few days. I am wandering in a land of lost opportunities."

"Of what?" asked Schmidt.

"Oh, of the cook. Think of it, these angelic reed-birds, the divine
terrapin, the duck they call canvas, the archangelic wild turkey,
unappreciated, crudely cooked; the Madeira--ah, _mon Dieu!_ I would talk
of them, and, behold, the men talk politics! I have eaten of that dish
at home, and it gave me the colic of disgust."

"But the women?" said a young _émigré_.

"Ah, angels, angels. But can they make an omelet? The divine Miss Morris
would sing to me when I would speak seriously of my search for
truffles. Oh, she would sing the 'Yankee Dudda'[1] and I must hear the
'Lament of Major André.' Who was he?"

[1] He so writes it in his "Physiologie du goût."

De Courval explained.

"It is the truffle I lament. Ah, to marry the truffle to the wild
turkey."

The little group laughed. "Old gourmand," cried Du Vallon, "you are
still the same."

"Gourmet," corrected Savarin. "Congratulate me. I have found here a
cook--Marino, a master, French of course, from San Domingo. You will
dine with me at four to-morrow; and you, Monsieur Schmidt, certainly you
resemble--"

"Yes," broke in the German. "A likeness often remarked, not very
flattering."

"Ah, pardon me. But my dinner--Du Vallon, you will come, and the
vicomte, and you and you, and there will be Messieurs Bingham and Rawle
and Mr. Meredith, and one Jacobin,--Monsieur Girard,--as I hear a lover
of good diet--ah, he gave me the crab which is soft, the citizen crab.
Monsieur Girard--I bless him. I have seen women, statesmen, kings, but
the crab, ah! the crab 'which is soft.'"

All of them accepted, the _émigrés_ gladly, being, alas! none too well
fed.

"And now, adieu. I must go and meditate on my dinner."

The next day at four they met at Marino's, the new restaurant in Front
Street then becoming fashionable.

"I have taken the liberty," said Bingham, "to send half a dozen of
Madeira, 1745, and two decanters of grape juice, what we call the
white. The rest--well, of our best, all of it."

They sat down expectant. "The turkey I have not," said Savarin; "but the
soup--ah, you will see,--soup _a la reine_. Will Citizen Girard
decline?"

The dinner went on with talk and laughter. Savarin talking broken
English, or more volubly French.

"You are to have the crabs which are soft, Monsieur Girard, _en
papillotte_, more becoming crabs than women, and at the close
reed-birds. Had there been these in France, and the crab which is soft,
and the terrapin, there would have been no Revolution. And the
Madeira--perfect, perfect, a revelation. Your health, Mr. Bingham."

Bingham bowed over his glass, and regretted that canvasback ducks and
terrapin were not yet in season. The _émigrés_ used well this rare
chance, and with talk of the wine and jest and story (anything but
politics), the dinner went on gaily. Meanwhile Girard, beside De
Courval, spoke of their sad experiences in the fever, and of what was
going on in the murder-scourged West Indian Islands, and of the ruin of
our commerce. Marino in his white cap and long apron stood behind the
host, quietly appreciative of the praise given to his dinner.

Presently Savarin turned to him. "Who," he asked, "dressed this salad.
It is a marvel, and quite new to me."

"I asked Monsieur de Beauvois to do me the honor."

"Indeed! Many thanks, De Beauvois," said the host to a gentleman at the
farther end of the table. "Your salad is past praise. Your health. You
must teach me this dressing."

"A secret," laughed the guest, as he bowed over his glass, "and
valuable."

"That is droll," said De Courval to Bingham.

"No; he comes to my house and to Willing's to dress salad for our
dinners. Ten francs he gets, and lives on it, and saves money."

"Indeed! I am sorry for him," said René.

Then Mr. Bingham, being next to Girard, said to him: "At the State
Department yesterday, Mr. Secretary Randolph asked me, knowing I was to
see you to-day, if you knew of any French gentleman who could act as
translating clerk. Of course he must know English."

"Why not my neighbor De Courval?" said the merchant. "But he is hardly
of Mr. Randolph's politics."

"And what are they?" laughed Mr. Bingham. "Federal, I suppose; but as
for De Courval, he is of no party. Besides, ever since Freneau left on
account of the fever, the Secretaries are shy of any more clerks who
will keep them in hot water with the President. For a poet he was a
master of rancorous abuse."

"And who," said Girard, "have excelled the poets in malignancy? Having
your permission, I will ask our young friend." And turning to René, he
related what had passed between him and Mr. Bingham.

Somewhat surprised, René said: "I might like it, but I must consult Mr.
Schmidt. I am far from having political opinions, or, if any, they are
with the Federals. But that would be for the Secretary to decide upon.
An exile, Mr. Girard, should have no political opinions unless he means
to become a citizen, as I do not."

"That seems reasonable," said Bingham, the senator for Pennsylvania,
overhearing him. "Your health, De Courval, I commend to you the white
grape juice. And if the place please you, let it be a receipt in full
for my early contribution of mud." And laughing, he told Girard the
story.

"Indeed, sir, it was a very personal introduction," returned René.

"I should like well to have that young man myself," said Girard in an
aside to Bingham. "This is a poor bit of advancement you offer--all
honor and little cash. I like the honor that attends to a draft."

The senator laughed. "Oh, Schmidt has, I believe, adopted De Courval or
something like it. He will take the post for its interest. Do you know,"
he added, "who this man Schmidt may be?"

"I--no; but all Europe is sending us mysterious people. By and by the
kings and queens will come. But Schmidt is a man to trust, that I do
know."

"A good character," cried Schmidt, coming behind them. "My thanks."

"By George! It was lucky we did not abuse you," said Bingham.

"Oh, Madeira is a gentle critic, and a good dinner does fatten
amiability. Come, René, we shall get on even terms of praise with them
as we walk home."

The party broke up, joyous at having dined well.

As they went homeward, Schmidt said: "Our host, René, is not a mere
gourmet. He is a philosophic student of diet, living in general simply,
and, I may add, a gentleman of courage and good sense, as he showed in
France."

"It seems difficult, sir, to judge men. He seemed to me foolish."

"Yes; and one is apt to think not well of a man who talks much of what
he eats. He recognized me, but at once accepted my obvious desire not to
be known. He will be sure to keep my secret."

When having reached home, and it was not yet twilight--they sat down
with their pipes, René laid before his friend this matter of the
secretaryship.

Schmidt said: "My work is small just now, and the hours of the State
Department would release you at three. You would be at the center of
affairs, and learn much, and would find the Secretary pleasant. But,
remember, the work may bring you into relations with Carteaux."

"I have thought of that; but my mother will like this work for me. The
business she disliked."

"Then take it, if it is offered, as I am sure it will be." "He is very
quiet about Carteaux," thought Schmidt. "Something will happen soon. I
did say from the first that I would not desire to be inside of that
Jacobin's skin."

The day after, a brief note called De Courval to the Department of
State.

The modest building which then housed the Secretary and his affairs was
a small dwelling-house on High Street, No. 379, as the old numbers ran.

No mark distinguished it as the vital center of a nation's foreign
business. René had to ask a passer-by for the direction.

For a brief moment De Courval stood on the outer step before the open
door. A black servant was asleep on a chair within the sanded entry.

The simplicity and poverty of a young nation, just of late having set up
housekeeping, were plainly to be read in the office of the Department of
State. Two or three persons went in or came out.

Beside the step an old black woman was selling peanuts. René's thoughts
wandered for a moment from his Norman home to a clerk's place in the
service of a new country.

"How very strange!"--he had said so to Schmidt, and now recalled his
laughing reply: "We think we play the game of life, René, but the banker
Fate always wins. His dice are loaded, his cards are marked." The German
liked to puzzle him. "And yet," reflected De Courval, "I can go in or go
home." He said to himself: "Surely I am free,--and, after all, how
little it means for me! I am to translate letters." He roused the
snoring negro, and asked, "Where can I find Mr. Randolph?" As the drowsy
slave was assembling his wits, a notably pleasant voice behind René
said: "I am Mr. Randolph, at your service. Have I not the pleasure to
see the Vicomte de Courval?"

"Yes, I am he."

"Come into my office." René followed him, and they sat down to talk in
the simply furnished front room.

The Secretary, then in young middle age, was a largely built man and
portly, dark-eyed, with refined features and quick to express a certain
conciliatory courtesy in his relations with others. He used gesture more
freely than is common with men of our race, and both in voice and manner
there was something which René felt to be engaging and attractive.

He liked him, and still more after a long talk in which the duties of
the place were explained and his own indisposition to speak of his past
life recognized with tactful courtesy.

Randolph said at last, "The office is yours if it please you to accept."

"I do so, sir, most gladly."

"Very good. I ought to say that Mr. Freneau had but two hundred and
fifty dollars a year. It is all we can afford."

As René was still the helper of Schmidt, and well paid, he said it was
enough. He added: "I am not of any party, sir. I have already said so,
but I wish in regard to this to be definite."

"That is of no moment, or, in fact, a good thing. Your duties here
pledge you to no party. I want a man of honor, and one with whom state
secrets will be safe. Well, then, you take it? We seem to be agreed."

"Yes; and I am much honored by the offer."

"Then come here at ten to-morrow. There is much to do for a time."

Madame was pleased. This at least was not commerce. But now there was
little leisure, and no time for visits to the Hill, at which the two
conspiring cupids, out of business and anxious, smiled, doubtful as to
what cards Fate would hold in this game: and thus time ran on.

The work was easy and interesting. The Secretary, courteous and
well-pleased, in that simpler day, came in person to the little room
assigned to De Courval and brought documents and letters which opened a
wide world to a curious young man, who would stay at need until
midnight, and who soon welcomed duties far beyond mere French
letter-writing.

By and by there were visits with papers to Mr. Wolcott at the Treasury
Department, No. 119 Chestnut Street, and at last to Fauchet at Oeller's
Hotel.

He was received with formal civility by Le Blanc, a secretary, and
presently Carteaux, entering, bowed. De Courval did not return the
salute, and, finishing his business without haste, went out.

He felt the strain of self-control the situation had demanded, but, as
he wiped the sweat from his forehead, knew with satisfaction that the
stern trials of the years had won for him the priceless power to be or
to seem to be what he was not.

"The _ci-devant_ has had his little lesson," said Le Blanc. "It will be
long before he insults another good Jacobin."

Carteaux, more intelligent, read otherwise the set jaw and grave face of
the Huguenot gentleman. He would be on his guard.

The news of the death of Robespierre, in July, 1794, had unsettled
Fauchet, and his subordinate, sharing his uneasiness, meant to return
to France if the minister were recalled and the Terror at an end, or to
find a home in New York, and perhaps, like Genêt, a wife. For the time
he dismissed De Courval from his mind, although not altogether
self-assured concerning the future.

"And now about this matter of dress," said Miss Gainor.

"Thou art very good, Godmother, to come and consult me," said Mrs.
Swanwick. "I have given it some thought, and I do not see the wisdom of
going half-way. The good preacher White has been talking to Margaret,
and I see no reason why, if I changed, she also should not be free to do
as seems best to her."

"You are very moderate, Mary, as you always are."

"I try to be; but I wish that it were altogether a matter of conscience
with Margaret. It is not. Friends were concerned in regard to that sad
duel and considered me unwise to keep in my house one guilty of the
wickedness of desiring to shed another's blood, Margaret happened to be
with me when Friend Howell opened the subject, and thou knowest how
gentle he is."

"Yes. I know. What happened, Mary?"

"He said that Friends were advised that to keep in my house a young man
guilty of bloodshed was, as it did appear to them, undesirable. Then, to
my surprise, Margaret said: 'But he was not guilty of bloodshed.' Friend
Howell was rather amazed, as thou canst imagine; but before he could
say a word more, Miss Impudence jumped up, very red in the face, and
said: 'Why not talk to him instead of troubling mother? I wish he had
shed more blood than his own.'"

"Ah, the dear minx! I should like to have been there," said Gainor.

"He was very near to anger--as near as is possible for Arthur Howell;
but out goes my young woman in a fine rage about what was none of her
business."

"And what did you say?"

"What could I say except to excuse her, because the young man was our
friend, and at last that I was very sorry not to do as they would have
had me to do, but would hear no more. He was ill-pleased, I do assure
thee."

"Were you very sorry, Mary Swanwick?"

"I was not, although I could not approve the young man nor my child's
impertinence."

"Well, my dear, I should have said worse things. I may have my way in
the matter of dress, I suppose?"

"Yes," said the widow, resigned. "An Episcopalian in Friends' dress
seems to me to lack propriety; but as to thy desire to buy her fine
garments, there are trunks in my garret full of the world's things I
gave up long ago."

"Were you sorry?"

"A little, Aunt Gainor. Wilt thou see them?"

"Oh, yes, Margaret," she called, "come in."

She entered with De Courval, at home by good luck. "And may I come,
too?" he asked.

"Why not?" said Mistress Gainor, and they went up-stairs, where Nanny,
delighted, opened the trunks and took out one by one the garments of a
gayer world, long laid away unused. The maid in her red bandana
head-gear was delighted, having, like her race, great pleasure in bright
colors.

The widow, standing apart, looked on, with memories which kept her
silent, as the faint smell of lavender, which seems to me always to have
an ancient fragrance, hung about the garments of her youth.

Margaret watched her mother with quick sense of this being for her
something like the turning back to a record of a girlhood like her own.
De Courval had eyes for the Pearl alone. Gainor Wynne, undisturbed by
sentimental reflections, enjoyed the little business.

"Goodness, my dear, what brocade!" cried Miss Wynne. "How fine you were,
Mary! And a white satin, with lace and silver gimp."

"It was my mother's wedding-gown," said the widow.

"And for day wear this lutestring will fit you to a hair, Margaret; but
the sleeves must be loose. And lace--what is it?" She held up a filmy
fabric.

"I think I could tell." And there, a little curious, having heard her
son's voice, was the vicomtesse, interested, and for her mildly excited,
to René's surprise.

Miss Gainor greeted her in French I dare not venture upon, and this
common interest in clothes seemed somehow to have the effect of suddenly
bringing all these women into an intimacy of the minute, while the one
man stood by, with the unending wonder of the ignorant male, now, as it
were, behind the scenes. He fell back and the women left him unnoticed.

"What is it, Madame?" asked Margaret.

"Oh, French point, child, and very beautiful."

"And this other must be--"

"It is new to me," cried Miss Wynne.

"Permit me," said the vicomtesse. "Venetian point, I think--quite
priceless, Margaret, a wonder." She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's
head, smiling as she considered the effect.

"Is this my mother?" thought her son, with increase of wonder. He had
seen her only with restricted means, and knew little of the more
luxurious days and tastes of her youth.

"Does you remember this, missus?" said Nanny.

"A doll," cried Gainor, "and in Quaker dress! It will do for your
children, Margaret."

"No, it is not a child's doll," said Mrs. Swanwick. "Friends in London
sent it to Marie Wynne, Hugh's mother, for a pattern of the last Quaker
fashions in London--a way they had. I had quite forgotten it."

"And very pretty, quite charming," said the vicomtesse.

"And stays, my dear, and a modesty fence," cried Miss Wynne, holding
them up. "You will have to fatten, Pearl."

Upon this the young man considered it as well to retire. He went
down-stairs unmissed, thinking of the agreeable intimacy of stays with
the fair figure he left bending over the trunk, a mass of black lace in
her hand.

[Illustration: "She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling
as she considered the effect"]

"Spanish, my dear," said Madame, with animation; "quite a wonder. Oh,
rare, very rare. Not quite fit for a young woman--a head veil."

"Are they all mine, Mother?" cried Margaret.

"Yes, my child."

"Then, Madame," she said, with rising color and engaging frankness, "may
I not have the honor to offer thee the lace?"

"Why not?" said Gainor, pleased at the pretty way of the girl.

"Oh, quite impossible, child," said the vicomtesse. "It is quite too
valuable."

"Please!" said Pearl. "It would so become thee."

"I really cannot."

"Thy roquelaure," laughed Mrs. Swanwick, "was--well--I did remonstrate.
Why may not we too have the pleasure of extravagance?"

"I am conquered," said Madame, a trace of color in her wan cheeks as
Mrs. Swanwick set the lace veil on her head, saying: "We are obliged,
Madame. And where is the vicomte? He should see thee."

"Gone," said Miss Gainor; "and just as well, too," for now Nanny was
holding up a variety of lavender-scented delicacies of raiment, fine
linens, and openwork silk stockings.

René, still laughing, met Schmidt in the hall.

"You were merry up-stairs."

"Indeed we were." And he gaily described his mother's unwonted mood; but
of the sacred future of the stays he said no word.

"And so our gray moth has become a butterfly. I think Mother Eve would
not have abided long without a milliner. I should like to have been of
the party up-stairs."

"You would have been much enlightened," said Miss Wynne on the stair. "I
shall send for the boxes, Mary." And with this she went away with
Margaret, as the doctor had declared was still needful.

"Why are you smiling, Aunt?" said Margaret.

"Oh, nothing." Then to herself she said: "I think that if René de
Courval had heard her talk to Arthur Howell, he would have been greatly
enlightened. Her mother must have understood; or else she is more of a
fool than I take her to be."

"And thou wilt not tell me?" asked the Pearl.

"Never," said Gainor, laughing--"never."

Meanwhile there was trouble in the western counties of Pennsylvania over
the excise tax on whisky, and more work than French translations for an
able and interested young clerk, whom his mother spoke of as a secretary
to the minister.

"It is the first strain upon the new Constitution," said Schmidt; "but
there is a man with bones to his back, this President." And by November
the militia had put down the riots, and the first grave trial of the
central government was well over; so that the President was free at last
to turn to the question of the treaty with England, already signed in
London.

Then once more the clamor of party strife broke out. Had not Jay kissed
the hand of the queen? "He had prostrated at the feet of royalty the
sovereignty of the people."

Fauchet was busy fostering opposition long before the treaty came back
for decision by the Senate. The foreign office was busy, and Randolph
ill pleased with the supposed terms of the coming document.

To deal with the causes of opposition to the treaty in and out of the
cabinet far into 1795 concerns this story but indirectly. No one was
altogether satisfied, and least of all Fauchet, who at every opportunity
was sending despatches home by any French war-ship seeking refuge in our
ports.

A little before noon, on the 29th of November, of this year, 1794, a
date De Courval was never to forget, he was taking the time for his
watch from the clock on the western wall of the State House. As he
stood, he saw Dr. Chovet stop his chaise.

"_Bonjour_, citizen," cried the doctor. "Your too intimate friend,
Monsieur Carteaux, is off for France. He will trouble you no more." As
usual, the doctor, safe in his chaise, was as impertinent as he dared to
be.

Too disturbed to notice anything but this startling information in
regard to his enemy, De Courval said: "Who told you that? It cannot be
true. He was at the State Department yesterday, and we were to meet this
afternoon over the affair of a British ship captured by a French
privateer."

"Oh, I met him on Fifth Street on horseback just now--a little while
ago."

"Well, what then?"

"'I am for New York,' he said. I asked: 'How can I send letters to
France?' He said: 'I cannot wait for them. I am in a hurry. I must
catch that corvette, the _Jean Bart_, in New York.' Then I cried after
him: 'Are you for France?' And he: 'Do you not wish you, too, were
going? Adieu. Wish me _bon voyage_.'"

"Was he really going? We would have heard of it."

"_Le diable_, I think so; but he has a mocking tongue. I think he goes.
My congratulations that you are rid of him. Adieu!"

"Insolent!" muttered De Courval. Was it only insolence, or was it true
that his enemy was about to escape him? The thought that he could not
leave it in doubt put an instant end to his indecisions.

"I shall not risk it," he said, and there was no time to be lost. His
mother, Margaret, the possible remonstrance from Schmidt, each in turn
had the thought of a moment and then were dismissed in turn as he
hurried homeward. Again he saw Avignon and Carteaux' dark face, and
heard the echoing memory of his father's death-cry, "Yvonne! Yvonne!" He
must tell Schmidt if he were in; if not, so much the better, and he
would go alone. He gave no thought to the unwisdom of such a course. His
whole mind was on one purpose, and the need to give it swift and
definite fulfilment.

He was not sorry that Schmidt was not at home. He sat down and wrote to
him that Carteaux was on his way to embark for France and that he meant
to overtake him. Would Schmidt explain to his mother his absence on
business? Then he took Schmidt's pistols from their place over the
mantel, loaded and primed them, and put half a dozen bullets and a
small powder-horn in his pocket. To carry the pistols, he took Schmidt's
saddle-holsters. What next? He wrote a note to the Secretary that he was
called out of town on business, but would return next day, and would
Schmidt send it as directed. He felt sure that he would return. As he
stood at the door of Schmidt's room, Mrs. Swanwick said from the foot of
the stairs: "The dinner is ready."

"Then it must wait for me until to-morrow. I have to ride on a business
matter to Bristol."

"Thou hadst better bide for thy meal."

"No, I cannot." As Mrs. Swanwick passed into the dining-room, Margaret
came from the withdrawing-room, and stood in the doorway opposite to
him, a china bowl of the late autumnal flowers in her hands. Seeing him
cloaked and booted to ride, she said:

"Wilt thou not stay to dine? I heard thee tell mother thou wouldst not."

"No; I have a matter on hand which requires haste."

She had learned to read his face.

"It must be a pleasant errand," she said. "I wish thee success."
Thinking as he stood how some ancestor going to war would have asked for
a glove, a tress of hair, to carry on his helmet, he said: "Give me a
flower for luck."

"No; they are faded."

"Ah, I shall think your wish a rose--a rose that will not fade."

She colored a little and went by him, saying nothing, lest she might say
too much.

"Good-by!" he added, and went out the hall door, and made haste to reach
the stables of the Bull and Bear, where Schmidt kept the horses De
Courval was free to use. He was about to do a rash and, as men would see
it, a foolish thing. He laughed as he mounted. He knew that now he had
no more power to stop or hesitate than the stone which has left the
sling.

He had made the journey to New York more than once, and as he rode north
up the road to Bristol in a heavy downfall of rain he reflected that
Carteaux would cross the Delaware by the ferry at that town, or farther
on at Trenton.

If the doctor had been correct as to the time, Carteaux had started at
least an hour and a half before him.

It was still raining heavily as he rode out of the city, and as the gray
storm-clouds would shorten the daylight, he pushed on at speed, sure of
overtaking his enemy and intently on guard. He stayed a moment beside
the road to note the distance, as read on a mile-stone, and knew he had
come seven miles. That would answer. He smiled as he saw on the stone
the three balls of the Penn arms, popularly known as the three apple
dumplings. A moment later his horse picked up a pebble. It took him some
minutes to get it out, the animal being restless. Glancing at his watch,
he rode on again, annoyed at even so small a loss of time.

When, being about three miles from Bristol town, and looking ahead over
a straight line of road, he suddenly pulled up and turned into the
shelter of a wood. Some two hundred yards away were two or three
houses. A man stood at the roadside. It was Carteaux. René heard the
clink of a hammer on the anvil.

To be sure of his man, he fastened his horse and moved nearer with care,
keeping within the edge of the wood. Yes, it was Carteaux. The doctor
had not lied. If the secretary were going to France, or only on some
errand to New York, was now to De Courval of small moment. His horse
must have cast a shoe. As Carteaux rode away from the forge. De Courval
mounted, and rode on more rapidly.

Within two miles of Bristol, as he remembered, the road turned at a
sharp angle toward the river. A half mile away was an inn where the
coaches for New York changed horses. It was now five o'clock, and
nearing the dusk of a November day. The rain was over, the sky
darkening, the air chilly, the leaves were fluttering slowly down, and a
wild gale was roaring in the great forest which bounded the road. He
thought of the gentler angelus of another evening, and, strange as it
may seem, bowed his head, and like many a Huguenot noble of his mother's
race, prayed God that his enemy should be delivered into his hands. Then
he stopped his horse and for the first time recognized that it had been
raining heavily and that it were well to renew the priming of his
pistols. He attended to this with care, and then rode quickly around the
turn of the road, and came upon Carteaux walking his horse.

"Stop, Monsieur!" he called, and in an instant he was beside him.

Carteaux turned at the call, and, puzzled for a moment, said: "What is
it?"--and then at once knew the man at his side.

He was himself unarmed, and for a moment alarmed as he saw De Courval's
hand on the pistol in his holster. He called out, "Do you mean to murder
me?"

"Not I. You will dismount, and will take one of my pistols--either; they
are loaded. You will walk to that stump, turn, and yourself give the
word, an advantage, as you may perceive."

"And if I refuse?"

"In that case I shall kill you with no more mercy than you showed my
father. You have your choice. Decide, and that quickly."

Having dismounted as he spoke, he stood with a grip on Carteaux' bridle,
a pistol in hand, and looking up at the face of his enemy. Carteaux
hesitated a moment, with a glance up and down the lonely highway.

"Monsieur," said De Courval, "I am not here to wait on your decision. I
purpose to give you the chance I should give a gentleman; but take
care--at the least sign of treachery I shall kill you."

Carteaux looked down at the stern face of the Huguenot and knew that he
had no choice.

"I accept," he said, and dismounted. De Courval struck the horses
lightly, and having seen them turn out of the road, faced Carteaux, a
pistol in each hand.

"I have just now renewed the primings," he said. As he spoke, he held
out the weapons. For an instant the Jacobin hesitated, and then said
quickly:

"I take the right-hand pistol."

"When you are at the stump, look at the priming," said De Courval,
intently on guard. "Now, Monsieur, walk to the stump beside the road. It
is about twelve paces. You see it?"

"Yes, I see it."

"Very good. At the stump, cock your pistol, turn, and give the word,
'Fire!' Reserve your shot or fire at the word--an advantage, as you
perceive."

The Jacobin turned and moved away, followed by the eye of a man
distrustfully on the watch.

René stood still, not yet cocking his weapon. Carteaux walked away. When
he had gone not over half the distance René heard the click of a cocked
pistol and at the instant Carteaux, turning, fired.

René threw himself to right and felt a sharp twinge of pain where the
ball grazed the skin of his left shoulder. "Dog of a Jacobin!" he cried,
and as Carteaux extended his pistol hand in instinctive protest, De
Courval fired. The man's pistol fell, and with a cry of pain he reeled,
and, as the smoke blew away, was seen to pitch forward on his face.

At the moment of the shot, and while René stood still, quickly
reloading, he heard behind him a wild gallop, and, turning, saw Schmidt
breathless at his side, and in an instant out of the saddle. "_Lieber
Himmel!_" cried the German, "have you killed him?"

"I do not know; but if he is not dead. I shall kill him; not even you
can stop me."

"_Ach!_ but I will, if I have to hold you." As he spoke he set himself
between René and the prostrate man. "I will not let you commit murder.
Give me that pistol."

For a moment René stared at his friend. Then a quick remembrance of all
this man had been to him, all he had done for him, rose in his mind.

"Have your way, sir!" he cried, throwing down his weapon; "but I will
never forgive you, never!"

"_Ach!_ that is better," said Schmidt. "To-morrow you will forgive and
thank me. Let us look at the rascal."

Together they moved forward, and while De Courval stood by in silence,
Schmidt, kneeling beside Carteaux, turned over his insensible body.

"He is not dead," he said, looking up at René.

"I am sorry. Your coming disturbed my aim. I am sorry he is alive."

"And I am not; but not much, _der Teufel!_ The ball has torn his arm,
and is in the shoulder. If he does live, he is for life a maimed man.
This is vengeance worse than death." As he spoke, he ripped open
Carteaux' sleeve. "_Saprement!_ how the beast bleeds! He will fence no
more." The man lay silent and senseless as the German drew from
Carteaux' pocket a handkerchief and tied it around his arm. "There is no
big vessel hurt. _Ach, der Teufel!_ What errand was he about?" A packet
of paper had fallen out with the removal of the handkerchief. "It is
addressed to him. We must know. I shall open it."

"Oh, surely not!" said René.

Schmidt laughed. "You would murder a man, but respect his letters."

"Yes, I should."

"My conscience is at ease. This is war." As he spoke, he tore open the
envelop. Then he whistled low. "Here is a devil of a business, René!"

"What is it, sir?"

"A despatch from Fauchet to the minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris.
Here is trouble, indeed. You waylay and half-kill the secretary of an
envoy--you, a clerk of the State Department--"

"_Mon Dieu!_ Must he always bring me disaster?" cried René. He saw with
utter dismay the far-reaching consequences of his rash act.

"It is to the care of the captain of the _Jean Bart_, New York Harbor.
The Jacobin party will have a fine cry. The State Department will have
sent a man to rob a bearer of despatches. Who will know or believe it
was a private quarrel?"

"How could I know his errand?"

"That will not save you. Your debt is paid with interest, but at bitter
cost. And what now to do?" He stood in the road, silent for a moment,
deep in thought. "If he dies, it must all be told."

"I should tell it myself. I do not care."

"But I very much care. If he lives, he will say you set upon him, an
unarmed man, and stole his despatches."

"Then leave them."

"That were as bad. I saw his treachery; but who will believe me? I must
stay by him, and see what I can do."

Meanwhile the man lay speechless. René looked down at him and then at
Schmidt. He, too, was thinking. In a moment he said: "This at least is
clear. I am bound in honor to go on this hound's errand, and to see that
these papers reach the _Jean Bart_."

"You are right," said Schmidt; "entirely right. But you must not be seen
here. Find your way through the woods, and when it is dark--in an hour
it will be night--ride through Bristol to Trenton, cross the river there
at the ferry. No one will be out of doors in Trenton or Bristol on a
night like this. Listen to the wind! Now go. When you are in New York,
see Mr. Nicholas Gouverneur in Beaver Street. At need, tell him the
whole story; but not if you can help it. Here is money, but not enough.
He will provide what you require. Come back through the Jerseys, and
cross at Camden. I shall secure help here, go to town, get a doctor, and
return. I must talk to this man if he lives, else he will lie about
you."

"You will excuse me to the Secretary?"

"Yes; yes, of course. Now go. These people at the inn must not see you."

He watched him ride away into the wood. "It is a sorry business," he
said as he knelt down to give the fallen man brandy from the flask he
found in his saddle-bag.

Within an hour Carteaux, still insensible, was at Bisanet's Inn, a
neighboring doctor found, and that good Samaritan Schmidt, after a fine
tale of highwaymen, was in the saddle and away to town, leaving Carteaux
delirious.

He went at once to the house of Chovet and found him at home. It was
essential to have some one who could talk French.

"At your service," said the doctor.

"Why the devil did you send De Courval after Carteaux this morning?"

"I never meant to."

"But you did. You have made no end of mischief. Now listen. I need you
because you speak French. Can you hold your tongue, if to hold it means
money? Oh, a good deal. If you breathe a word of what you hear or see, I
will half-kill you."

"Oh, Monsieur, I am the soul of honor."

"Indeed. Why, then, does it trouble you? Owing to your damned
mischief-making, De Courval has shot Carteaux. You are to go to the inn,
Bisanet's, near Bristol, to-night, and as often afterward as is needed.
I shall pay, and generously, if he does not--but, remember, no one is to
know. A highwayman shot him. Do you understand? I found him on the road,
wounded."

"Yes; but it is late."

"You go at once."

"I go, Monsieur."

Then Schmidt went home, and ingeniously accounted to Madame, and in a
note to Randolph, for René's absence in New York.

As he sat alone that night he again carefully considered the matter.
Yes, if Carteaux died not having spoken, the story would have to be
told. The despatch would never be heard of, or if its singular fortune
in going on its way were ever known and discussed, that was far in the
future, and Schmidt had a strong belief in many things happening or not
happening.

And if, too, despite his presumed power to close Carteaux' lips, the
injured man should sooner or later charge René with his wound and the
theft of the despatch, Schmidt, too, would have a story to tell.

Finally--and this troubled his decisions--suppose that at once he
frankly told Fauchet and the Secretary of State what had happened. Would
he be believed by Fauchet in the face of what Carteaux would say, or
would René be believed or that he had honorably gone on his enemy's
errand? The _Jean Bart_ would have sailed. Months must pass before the
news of the reception of the despatch could in the ordinary state of
things be heard of, and now the sea swarmed with British cruisers, and
the French frigates were sadly unsafe. To-morrow he must see Carteaux,
and at once let Fauchet learn the condition of his secretary. He
returned to his trust in the many things that may happen, and, lighting
a pipe, fell upon his favorite Montaigne.

He might have been less at ease could he have dreamed what mischief that
despatch was about to make or what more remote trouble it was to create
for the harassed President and his cabinet.

XXI

At noon next day a tired rider left his horse at an inn in Perth Amboy
and boarded the sloop which was to take him to New York, if tide and
wind served. Both at this time were less good to him than usual, and he
drifted the rest of the afternoon and all night on the bay.

At length, set ashore on the Battery, he was presently with a merchant,
in those days of leisurely ventures altogether a large personage,
merchant and ship-master, capable, accurate, enterprising, something of
the great gentleman, quick to perceive a slight and at need to avenge
it, a lost type to-day--a Dutch cross on Huguenot French. Mr. Nicholas
Gouverneur was glad to see once more the Vicomte de Courval. His own
people, too, had suffered in other days for their religion, and if
René's ancestors had paid in the far past unpleasant penalties for the
respectable crime of treason to the king, had not one of Mr.
Gouverneur's ancestors had a similar distinction, having been hanged for
high treason? "Ah, of course he told you the story, René," said Schmidt
when he heard of this interview.

Mr. Gouverneur, having offered the inevitable hospitality of his
sideboard, was in no hurry.

René, although in hot haste to be done with his strange errand, knew
better than to disturb the formalities of welcome. He must inquire after
Mrs. Gouverneur, and must answer for his mother. At last his host said:
"You do small justice to my rum, Vicomte. It is as unused to neglect as
any young woman. But, pardon me, you look tired, and as if you had made
a hard journey. I see that you are anxious and too polite to interrupt a
garrulous man. What can I do for you or our friend Schmidt!"

"I have this packet of papers which should go at once to the corvette
_Jean Bart_. One François-Guillaume Need is the Captain."

"And I have been delaying you. Pray pardon me. Despatches, I suppose,
for my cousin Gouverneur Morris." René did not contradict him. "We will
see to it at once, at once. The _Jean Bart_ sails to-night, I hear. She
has waited, we knew not why."

"For these despatches, sir. Can I not be set aboard of her at once?"

"Surely," said Gouverneur; "come with me."

As they walked toward the water Mr. Gouverneur said: "You have, I think
you told me, a despatch for the captain of the corvette. Let me urgently
advise you not to board that vessel. My boat shall take you to the
ship,--deliver your despatch,--but let nothing tempt you to set foot on
her deck. We are not on very good terms with France; you are still a
French citizen. Several of the corvette's officers have been in
Philadelphia. If you are recognized as a French noble, you will never
see America again. You know what fate awaits an émigré in Paris; not
even your position in the Department of State would save you."

De Courval returned: "You are no doubt right, sir. I had already thought
of the risk--"

"There need be none if you are prudent."

"But I ought to receive a receipt for the papers I deliver."

"That is hardly needed--unusual, I should say; Mr. Randolph will
scarcely expect that."

De Courval was not inclined to set the merchant right in regard to the
character of the despatches, for it might then be necessary to tell the
whole story. He made no direct reply, but said merely: "I am most
grateful--I shall have the honor to take your advice. Ah, here is the
boat."

"It is my own barge," said Gouverneur. "Be careful. Yonder is the
corvette, a short pull. I shall wait for you here."

In a few minutes De Courval was beside the gangway of the corvette. He
called to a sailor on the deck that he wished to see an officer.
Presently a young lieutenant came down the steps. De Courval said in
French, as he handed the officer the packet of papers:

"This is a despatch, Citizen, from Citizen Minister Fauchet, addressed
to the care of your captain. Have the kindness to give it to him and ask
for a receipt."

The lieutenant went on deck and very soon returned.

"The receipt, please," said De Courval.

"Captain Need desires me to say that, although it is unusual to give a
receipt for such papers, he will do so if you will come to the cabin. He
wishes to ask questions about the British cruisers, and may desire to
send a letter to Citizen Minister Fauchet."

"I cannot wait. I am in haste to return," said De Courval.

"_Le diable_, Citizen! He will be furious. We sail at once--at once; you
will not be delayed."

René thought otherwise.

"Very well; I can but give your reply. It seems to me strange. You will
hear of it some day, Citizen."

As soon as the officer disappeared, René said to his boatman: "Quick!
Get away--get me ashore as soon as you can!"

Pursuit from a man-of-war boat was possible, if one lay ready on the
farther side of the corvette. He had, however, only a ten minutes' row
before he stood beside Mr. Gouverneur on the Battery slip.

"I am a little relieved," said the older man. "Did you get the
acknowledgment of receipt you wanted?"

"No, sir. It was conditioned upon my going aboard to the captain's
cabin."

"Ah, well, I do not suppose that Mr. Randolph will care."

"Probably not." René had desired some evidence of his singular mission,
but the immense importance of it as proof of his good faith was not at
the time fully apprehended. The despatch had gone on its way, and he had
done honorably his enemy's errand.

"And now," said the merchant, "let us go to my house and see Mrs.
Gouverneur, and above all have dinner."

René had thought that flight might be needed if he carried out his fatal
purpose, and he had therefore put in his saddle-bags enough garments to
replace the muddy dress of a hard ride. He had said that he must leave
at dawn, and having laid aside the cares of the last days, he gave
himself up joyously to the charm of the refined hospitality of his
hosts.

As they turned away, the corvette was setting her sails and the cries of
the sailors and the creak of the windlass showed the anchor was being
raised. Before they had reached Gouverneur's house she was under way,
with papers destined to make trouble for many.

As René lay at rest that night within the curtained bed, no man on
Manhattan Island could have been more agreeably at ease with his world.
The worry of indecision was over. He felt with honest conviction that
his prayer for the downfall of his enemy had been answered, and in this
cooler hour he knew with gratitude that his brute will to kill had been
wisely denied its desire. It had seemed to him at the time that to act
on his instinct was only to do swift justice on a criminal; but he had
been given a day to reflect and acknowledged the saner wisdom of the
morrow.

Further thought should have left him less well pleased at what the
future might hold for him. But the despatch had gone, his errand was
done. An image of Margaret in the splendor of brocade and lace haunted
the dreamy interval between the waking state and the wholesome sleep of
tired youth. Moreover, the good merchant's Madeira had its power of
somnolent charm, and, thus soothed, De Courval passed into a world of
visionless slumber.

He rode back through the Jerseys to avoid Bristol and the scene of his
encounter, and, finding at Camden a flat barge returning to
Philadelphia, was able, as the river was open and free of ice, to get
his horse aboard and thus to return with some renewal of anxiety to Mrs.
Swanwick's house. No one was at home; but Nanny told him that Mr.
Schmidt, who had been absent, had returned two days before, but was out.
Miss Margaret was at the Hill, and June, the cat, off for two days on
love-affairs or predatory business.

He went up-stairs to see his mother. Should he tell her? On the whole,
it was better not to speak until he had seen Schmidt. He amused her with
an account of having been sent to New York on business and then spoke of
the Gouverneur family and their Huguenot descent. He went away satisfied
that he had left her at ease, which was not quite the case. "Something
has happened," she said to herself. "By and by he will tell me. Is it
the girl? I trust not. Or that man? Hardly."

The supper passed in quiet, with light talk of familiar things, the
vicomtesse, always a taciturn woman, saying but little.

As De Courval sat down, her black dress, the silvery quiet of Mrs.
Swanwick's garb, her notably gentle voice, the simple room without
colors, the sanded floor, the spotless cleanliness of the table
furniture, of a sudden struck him as he thought of the violence and
anger of the scene on the Bristol road. What would this gentle Friend
say, and the Pearl? What, indeed!

Supper was just over when, to René's relief, Schmidt appeared. He nodded
coolly to René and said, laughing: "Ah, Frau Swanwick, I have not had a
chance to growl; but when I go again to the country, I shall take Nanny.
I survive; but the diet!" He gave an amusing account of it. "Pork--it is
because of the unanimous pig. Pies--ach!--cabbage, a sour woman and sour
bread, chicken rigged with hemp and with bosoms which need not stays."
Even the vicomtesse smiled. "I have dined at Mr. Morris's, to my relief.
Come, René, let us smoke."

When once at ease in his room, he exclaimed: "_Potstausend_, René, I am
out of debt. The years I used to count to be paid are settled. Two days'
watching that delirious swine and bottling up the gossiping little demon
Chovet! A pipe, a pipe, and then I shall tell you."

"Indeed, I have waited long."

"Chovet told Fauchet at my request of this regrettable affair. He is
uneasy, and he well may be, concerning all there is left of his
secretary."

"Then he is alive," said René; "and will he live?"

"Alive? Yes, very much alive, raving at times like a madman haunted by
hell fiends. I had to stay. After a day he was clear of head, but as
weak as a man can be with the two maladies of a ball in a palsied
shoulder and a doctor looking for it. Yes, he will live; and alive or
dead will make mischief."

"Did he talk to you?"

"Yes. He has no memory of my coming at the time he was shot. I think he
did not see me at all."

"Well, what else?"

"I told him the whole story, and what I had seen him do. I was plain,
too, and said that I had found his despatch, and you, being a gentleman,
must needs see that it went. He saw, I suspect, what other motive you
had--if he believed me at all."

"But did he believe you? Does he?"

"No, he does not. I said, 'You are scamp enough to swear that we set on
you to steal your papers, a fine tale for our Jacobin mobocrats.' A
fellow can't lie with his whole face. I saw his eyes narrow, but I told
him to try it if he dared, and out comes my tale of his treachery. We
made a compact at last, and he will swear he was set upon and robbed. I
left him to invent his story. But it is plainly his interest to keep
faith, and not accuse you."

"He will not keep faith. Sometime he will lie about me. The despatch has
gone by the _Jean Bart_, but that part of our defense is far to reach."

"Well, Chovet is gold dumb, and as for the Jacobin, no man can tell. If
he be wise, he will stick to his tale of highwaymen. Of course I asked
Chovet to let the minister learn of this sad accident, but he did not
arrive until after I had the fellow well scared."

"Is that all?"

"No. The man is in torment. Damn! if I were in pain like that, I should
kill myself. Except that fever, I never had anything worse than a
stomachache in all my life. The man is on the rack, and Chovet declares
that he will never use the arm again, and will have some daily reminder
of you so long as he lives. Now, René, a man on the rack may come to say
things of the gentleman who turned on the torture."

"Then some day he will lie, and I, _mon Dieu_, will be ruined. Who will
believe me? The State Department will get the credit of it, and I shall
be thrown over--sacrificed to the wolves of party slander."

"Not if I am here."

"If you are here?"

"Yes. At any time I may have to go home."

"Then let us tell the whole story."

"Yes, if we must; but wait. Why go in search of trouble? For a time,
perhaps always, he will be silent. Did you get a receipt for the
despatch?"

"No. The captain would not give one unless I went to his cabin and that
I dared not do."

"I, as the older man, should have pointed out to you the need of using
every possible means to get an acknowledgment from the captain; but you
were right. Had you gone on board the ship, you would never have left
her. Well, then there is more need to play a silent, waiting game until
we know, as we shall, of the papers having reached their destination. In
fact, there is nothing else to do. There will be a nice fuss over the
papers, and then it will all be forgotten."

"Yes, unless he speaks."

"If he does, there are other cards in my hand. Meanwhile, being a good
Samaritan, I have again seen Carteaux. He will, I think, be silent for a
while. Be at ease, my son; and now I must go to bed. I am tired."

This was one of many talks; none of them left René at ease. How could he
as yet involve a woman he loved in his still uncertain fate! He was by
no means sure that she loved him; that she might come to do so he felt
to be merely possible, for the modesty of love made him undervalue
himself and see her as far beyond his deserts. His mother's prejudices
troubled him less. Love consults no peerage and he had long ago ceased
to think as his mother did of a title which had no legal existence.

It was natural enough that an event as grave as this encounter with
Carteaux should leave on a young man's mind a deep impression; nor had
his talk with Schmidt, the night before, enabled him, as next day he
walked to the State Department, to feel entirely satisfied. The news of
the highway robbery had been for two days the city gossip, and already
the gazettes were considering it in a leisurely fashion; but as no
journals reached the widow's house unless brought thither by Schmidt,
the amenities of the press in regard to the assault and the
administration were as yet unseen by De Courval. On the steps of the
Department of State he met the Marquis de Noailles, who greeted him
cheerfully, asking if he had read what Mr. Bache and the "Aurora" said
of the attack on Carteaux.

René felt the cold chill of too conscious knowledge as he replied: "Not
yet, Marquis. I am but yesterday come from New York."

"Well, it should interest Mr. Randolph. It does appear to Mr. Bache that
no one except the English party and the Federals could profit by the
theft. How they could be the better by the gossip of this _sacré_
Jacobin actor in the rôle of a minister the _bon Dieu_ alone knows."

René laughed. "You are descriptive, Marquis."

"Who would not be? But, my dear De Courval, you must regret that you
were not the remarkable highwayman who stole Fauchet's eloquence and
left a gold watch and seals; but here comes Mr. Randolph. He may explain
it; at all events, if he confides to you the name of that robber, send
the man to me. I will pay five dollars apiece for Jacobin scalps.
_Adieu._ My regrets that you are not the man."

Mr. Randolph was cool as they went in together, and made it plain that
absence without leave on the part of a clerk was an embarrassment to the
public service of the State Department, in which were only three or four
clerks. De Courval could only say that imperative private business had
taken him out of town. It would not occur again. Upon this Mr. Randolph
began to discuss the amazing assault and robbery with which town gossip
was so busy. Mr. Fauchet had been insolent, and, asking aid in
discovering the thief, had plainly implied that more than he and his
government would suffer if the despatch were not soon restored to the
minister. Mr. Randolph had been much amused, a little angry and also
puzzled. "It had proved," he said, "a fine weapon in the hands of the
Democrats." The young man was glad to shift the talk, but wherever he
went for a few days, people, knowing of his duel, were sure to talk to
him of this mysterious business. Later the "Aurora" and Mr. Bache, who
had taken up the rôle in which Mr. Freneau had acted with skill and ill
temper, made wild use of the story and of the value of the stolen papers
to a criminal cabinet. Over their classic signatures Cato and Aristides
challenged Democratic Socrates or Cicero to say how General Washington
would be the better for knowledge of the rant of the strolling player
Fauchet. Very soon, however, people ceased to talk of it. It was an
unsolved mystery. But for one man torment of body and distress of mind
kept ever present the will and wish to be without risk revenged. He was
already, as he knew, _persona non grata_, and to have Schmidt's story
told and believed was for the secretary to be sent home in disgrace. He
waited, seeing no way as yet to acquit himself of this growing debt.

January of 1795 came in with the cabinet changes already long expected.
Carteaux was still very ill in bed, with doctors searching for the
bullet. As yet he told only of being robbed of his despatches and that
he had lost neither watch nor purse, which was conclusive. Whereupon
Fauchet talked and insulted Randolph, and the Democratic clubs raved
with dark hints and insinuations, while the despatch went on its way,
not to be heard of for months to come. René, who was for a time uneasy
and disliked the secrecy thrown about an action of which he was far
from ashamed, began at last to feel relieved, and thus the midwinter was
over and the days began noticeably to lengthen.

XXII

"Let us skate to-night. I have tried the ice," said Schmidt, one
afternoon in February. "Pearl learned, as you know, long ago." She was
in town for a week, the conspirators feeling assured of René's
resolution to wait on this, as on another matter, while he was busy with
his double work. Her mother had grown rebellious over her long absence,
and determined that she should remain in town, as there seemed to be no
longer cause for fear and the girl was in perfect health. Aunt Gainor,
also, was eager for town and piquet and well pleased with the excuse to
return, having remained at the Hill long after her usual time.

"The moon is a fair, full matron," said Schmidt. "The ice is perfect.
Look out for air-holes, René," he added, as he buckled on his skates.
"Not ready yet?" René was kneeling and fastening the Pearl's skates. It
took long.

"Oh, hurry!" she cried. "I cannot wait." She was joyous, excited, and he
somehow awkward.

Then they were away over the shining, moonlighted ice of the broad
Delaware with that exhilaration which is caused by swift movement, the
easy product of perfect physical capacity. For a time they skated
quietly side by side, Schmidt, as usual, enjoying an exercise in which,
says Graydon in his memoirs, the gentlemen of Philadelphia were
unrivaled. Nearer the city front, on the great ice plain, were many
bonfires, about which phantom figures flitted now an instant black in
profile, and then lost in the unillumined spaces, while far away,
opposite to the town, hundreds of skaters carrying lanterns were seen or
lost to view in the quick turns of the moving figures. "Like great
fireflies," said Schmidt. A few dim lights in houses and frost-caught
ships and faint, moonlit outlines alone revealed the place of the city.
The cries and laughter were soon lost to the three skaters, and a vast
solitude received them as they passed down the river.

"Ah, the gray moonlight and the gray ice!" said Schmidt, "a Quaker
night, Pearl."

"And the moon a great pearl," she cried.

"How one feels the night!" said the German. "It is as on the Sahara.
Only in the loneliness of great spaces am I able to feel eternity; for
space is time." He had his quick bits of talk to himself. Both young
people, more vaguely aware of some sense of awe in the dim unpeopled
plain, were under the charm of immense physical joy in the magic of
easily won motion.

"Surely there is nothing like it," said René, happy and breathless,
having only of late learned to skate, whereas Pearl had long since been
well taught by the German friend.

"No," said Schmidt; "there is nothing like it, except the quick sweep of
a canoe down a rapid. A false turn of the paddle, and there is death.
Oh, but there is joy in the added peril! The blood of the Angels finds
the marge of danger sweet."

"Not for me," said Pearl; "but we are safe here."

"I have not found your Delaware a constant friend. How is that, René?"

"What dost thou mean?" said Pearl. "Thou art fond of teasing my
curiosity, and I am curious, too. Tell me, please. Oh, but thou must!"

"Ask the vicomte," cried Schmidt. "He will tell you."

"Oh, will he, indeed?" said René, laughing. "Ah, I am quite out of
breath."

"Then rest a little." As they halted, a swift skater, seeking the
loneliness of the river below the town, approaching, spoke to Margaret,
and then said: "Ah, Mr. Schmidt, what luck to find you! You were to give
me a lesson. Why not now?"

"Come, then," returned Schmidt. "I brought you hither, René, because it
is safer away from clumsy learners, and where we are the ice is safe. I
was over it yesterday, but do not go far. I shall be back in a few
minutes. If Margaret is tired, move up the river. I shall find you."

"Please not to be long," said Margaret.

"Make him tell you when your wicked Delaware was not my friend, and
another was. Make him tell."

As he spoke, he was away behind young Mr. Morris, singing in his lusty
bass snatches of German song and thinking of the ripe mischief of the
trap he had baited with a nice little Cupid. "I want it to come soon,"
he said, "before I go. She will be curious and venture in, and it will
be as good as the apple with knowledge of good and--no, there is evil in
neither."

She was uneasy, she scarce knew why. Still at rest on the ice, she
turned to De Courval. "Thou wilt tell me?" she said.

"I had rather not."

"But if I ask thee?"

"Why should I not?" he thought. It was against his habit to speak of
himself, but she would perhaps like him the better for the story.

"Then, Miss Margaret, not because he asked and is willing, but because
you ask, I shall tell you."

"Oh, I knew thou wouldst. He thought thou wouldst not and I should be
left puzzled. Sometimes he is just like a boy for mischief."

"Oh, it was nothing. The first day I was here I saved him from drowning.
A boat struck his head while we were swimming, and I had the luck to be
near. There, that is all." He was a trifle ashamed to tell of it.

She put out her hand as they stood. "Thank thee. Twice I thank thee, for
a dear life saved and because thou didst tell, not liking to tell me. I
could see that. Thank thee."

"Ah, Pearl," he exclaimed, and what more he would have said I do not
know, nor had he a chance, for she cried: "I shall thank thee always,
Friend de Courval. We are losing time." The peril that gives a keener
joy to sport was for a time far too near, but in other form than in
bodily risk. "Come, canst thou catch me?" She was off and away, now
near, now far, circling about him with easy grace, merrily laughing as
he sped after her in vain. Then of a sudden she cried out and came to a
standstill.

"A strap broke, and I have turned my ankle. Oh, I cannot move a step!
What shall I do?"

"Sit down on the ice."

As she sat, he undid her skates and then his own and tied them to his
belt. "Can you walk?" he said.

"I will try. Ah!" She was in pain. "Call Mr. Schmidt," she said. "Call
him at once."

"I do not see him. We were to meet him opposite the Swedes' church."

"Then go and find him."

"What, leave you? Not I. Let me carry you."

"Oh, no, no; thou must not." But in a moment he had the slight figure in
his arms.

"Let me down! I will never, never forgive thee!" But he only said in a
voice of resolute command, "Keep still, Pearl, or I shall fall." She was
silent. Did she like it, the strong arms about her, the head on his
shoulder, the heart throbbing as never before? He spoke no more, but
moved carefully on.

They had not gone a hundred yards when he heard Schmidt calling. At once
he set her down, saying, "Am I forgiven?"

"No--yes," she said faintly.

"Pearl, dear Pearl, I love you. I meant not to speak, oh, for a time,
but it has been too much for me. Say just a word." But she was silent as
Schmidt stopped beside them and René in a few words explained.

"Was it here?" asked Schmidt.

"No; a little while ago."

"But how did you come so far, my poor child?"

"Oh, I managed," she said.

"Indeed. I shall carry you."

"If thou wilt, please. I am in much pain."

He took off his skates, and with easy strength walked away over the ice,
the girl in his arms, so that before long she was at home and in her
mother's care, to be at rest for some days.

"Come in, René," said Schmidt, as later they settled themselves for the
usual smoke and chat. The German said presently: "It was not a very bad
sprain. Did you carry her, René?"

"I--"

"Yes. Do you think, man, that I cannot see!"

"Yes, I carried her. What else could I do?"

"Humph! What else? Nothing. Was she heavy, Herr de Courval?"

"Please not to tease me, sir. You must know that, God willing, I shall
marry her."

"Will you, indeed! And your mother, René, will she like it?"

"No; but soon or late she will have to like it. For her I am still a
child, but now I shall go my way."

"And Pearl?"

"I mean to know, to hear. I can wait no longer. Would it please you,
sir?"

"Mightily, my son; and when it comes to the mother, I must say a word or
two."

"She will not like that. She likes no one to come between us."

"Well, we shall see. I should be more easy if only that Jacobin hound
were dead, or past barking. He is in a bad way, I hear. I could have
wished that you had been of a mind to have waited a little longer before
you spoke to her."

René smiled. "Why did you leave us alone to-night? It is you, sir, who
are responsible."

"_Potstausend! Donnerwetter!_ You saucy boy! Go to bed and repent. There
are only two languages in which a man can find good, fat, mouth-filling
oaths, and the English oaths are too naughty for a good Quaker house."

"You seem to have found one, sir. It sounds like thunder. We can do it
pretty well in French."

"Child's talk, prattle. Go to bed. What will the mother say? Oh, not
yours. Madame Swanwick has her own share of pride. Can't you wait a
while?"

"No. I must know."

"Well, Mr. Obstinate Man, we shall see." The wisdom of waiting he saw,
and yet he had deliberately been false to the advice he had more than
once given. René left him, and Schmidt turned, as he loved to do, to the
counselor Montaigne, just now his busy-minded comrade, and, lighting
upon the chapter on reading, saw what pleased him.

"That is good advice, in life and for books. To have a 'skipping wit.'
We must skip a little time. I was foolish. How many threads there are in
this tangle men call life!" And with this he read over the letters just
come that morning from Germany. Then he considered Carteaux again.

"If that fellow is tormented into taking his revenge, and I should be
away, as I may be, there will be the deuce to pay.

"Perhaps I might have given René wiser advice; but with no proof
concerning the fate of the despatch, there was no course which was
entirely satisfactory. Best to let the sleeping dog lie. But why did I
leave them on the ice? _Sapristi!_ I am as bad as Mistress Gainor. But
she is not caught yet, Master René."

XXIII

In few days Margaret was able to be afoot, although still lame; but René
had no chance to see her. She was not to be caught alone, and would go
on a long-promised visit to Merion. Thus February passed, and March, and
April came, when personal and political matters abruptly broke up for a
time their peaceful household.

Margaret had been long at home again, but still with a woman's wit she
avoided her lover. Aunt Gainor, ever busy, came and went, always with a
dozen things to do.

Her attentions to Madame de Courval lessened when that lady no longer
needed her kindness and, as soon happened, ceased to be interesting. She
would not gamble, and the two women had little in common. Miss Gainor's
regard for René was more lasting. He was well-built and handsome, and
all her life she had had a fancy for good looks in men. He had, too, the
virile qualities she liked and a certain steadiness of purpose which
took small account of obstacles and reminded her of her nephew Hugh
Wynne. Above all, he had been successful, and she despised people who
failed and too often regarded success as a proof of the right to
succeed, even when the means employed were less creditable than those
by which René had made his way. Moreover, had he not told her once that
her French was wonderful? Miss Gainor changed her favorites often, but
René kept in her good graces and was blamed only because he did not give
her as much of his time as she desired; for after she heard his history
from Schmidt, he won a place in her esteem which few men had ever held.
She had set her heart at last on his winning Margaret, and the lifelong
game of gambling with other folks' fortunes and an honest idolatry for
the heroic, inclined her to forgive a lack of attention due in a measure
to his increasing occupations.

To keep her eager hands off this promising bit of match-making had been
rather a trial, but Schmidt was one of the few people of whom she had
any fear, and she had promised not to meddle. At present she had begun
to think that the two human pawns in the game she loved were becoming
indifferent, and to let things alone was something to which she had
never been inclined. Had she become aware of the German's mild treachery
that night on the ice, she would in all likelihood have been angry at
first and then pleased or annoyed not to have had a hand in the matter.

Mistress Wynne, even in the great war, rarely allowed her violent
politics to interfere with piquet, and now Mr. Dallas had asked leave to
bring Fauchet, the new French minister, to call upon her. He was gay,
amusing, talked no politics, played piquet nearly as well as she, and
was enchanted, as he assured her, to hear French spoken without accent.
If to De la Forêt, the consul-general, he made merry concerning his
travels in China, as he called her drawing-room, saying it was
perilously over-populous with strange gods, she did not hear it, nor
would she have cared so long as she won the money of the French
republic.

One evening in early April, after a long series of games, he said: "I
wish I could have brought here my secretary Carteaux. He did play to
perfection, but now, poor devil, the wound he received has palsied his
right arm, and he will never hold cards again--or, what he thinks worse,
a foil. It was a strange attack."

"Does he suffer? I have heard about him."

"Horribly. He is soon going home to see if our surgeons can find the
bullet; but he is plainly failing."

"Oh, he is going home?"

"Yes; very soon."

"How did it all happen? It has been much talked about, but one never
knows what to believe."

"I sent him to New York with despatches for our foreign office, but the
_Jean Bart_ must have sailed without them; for he was waylaid, shot, and
robbed of the papers, but lost no valuables."

"Then it was not highwaymen?"

"No; I can only conjecture who were concerned. It was plainly a robbery
in the interest of the Federalists. I do not think Mr. Randolph could
have these despatches, or if he has, they will never be heard of." Upon
this he smiled.

"Then they are lost?"

"Yes. At least to our foreign office. I think Mr. Wolcott of the
Treasury would have liked to see them."

"But why? Why Mr. Wolcott?" She showed her curiosity quite too plainly.

"Ah, that is politics, and Madame forbids them."

"Yes--usually; but this affair of Monsieur Carteaux cannot be political.
It seems to me an incredible explanation."

"Certainly a most unfortunate business," said the minister.

He had said too much and was on his guard. He had, however, set the
spinster to thinking, and remembering what Schmidt had told her of De
Courval, her reflections were fertile. "Shall we have another game?"

A month before the day on which they played, the _Jean Bart_, since
November of 1794 at sea, after seizing an English merchantman was
overhauled in the channel by the British frigate _Cerberus_ and
compelled to surrender. The captain threw overboard his lead-weighted
signal-book and the packet of Fauchet's despatches. A sailor of the
merchant ship, seeing it float, jumped overboard from a boat and rescued
it. Upon discovering its value, Captain Drew of the _Cerberus_ forwarded
the despatches to Lord Grenville in London, who in turn sent them as
valuable weapons to Mr. Hammond, the English minister in Philadelphia.
There was that in them which might discredit one earnest enemy of the
English treaty, but months went by before the papers reached America.

Miss Gainor, suspecting her favorite's share in this much-talked-of
affair, made haste to tell Schmidt of the intention of Carteaux to sail,
to the relief of the German gentleman, who frankly confided to her the
whole story. He spoke also once more of De Courval and urged her for
every reason to leave the young people to settle their own affairs.
Meanwhile Josiah was in bed with well-earned gout.

On the afternoon of the 14th of April, René came home from the State
office and said to Schmidt: "I have had paid me a great compliment, but
whether I entirely like it or not, I do not know. As usual, I turn to
you for advice."

"Well, what is it!"

"The President wants some one he can trust to go to the western counties
of this State and report on the continued disturbance about the excise
tax. I thought the thing was at an end. Mr. Hamilton, who seems to have
the ear of the President, advised him that as a thoroughly neutral man I
could be trusted. Mr. Randolph thinks it a needless errand."

"No. It is by no means needless. I have lands near Pittsburg, as you
know, and I hear of much disaffection. The old fox, Jefferson, at
Monticello talks about the excise tax as 'infernal,' and what with the
new treaty and Congress and other things the Democrats are making
trouble enough for a weak cabinet and a strong President. I advise you
to accept. You can serve me, too. Take it. You are fretting here for
more reasons than one. I hear that Carteaux is out of bed, a crippled
wreck, and Fauchet says is soon to go to France. In August the minister
himself will leave and one Adet take his place. I think you may go with
an easy mind. We are to be rid of the whole pestilent lot."

"Then I shall accept and go as soon as I receive my instructions. But I
do dread to leave town. I shall go, but am at ease only since you will
be here."

"But I shall not be, René. I have hesitated to tell you. I am called
home to Germany, and shall sail from New York for England on to-day a
week. I shall return, I think; but I am not sure, nor if then I can
remain. It is an imperative call. I am, it seems, pardoned, and my
father is urgent, and my elder brother is dead. If you have learned to
know me, you will feel for me the pain with which I leave this simpler
life for one which has never held for me any charm. Since Carteaux is
soon to sail, and I hear it is certain, I feel less troubled. I hope to
be here again in August or later. You may, I think, count on my return."

"Have you told Mrs. Swanwick, sir?"

"Yes, and the Pearl. Ah, my son, the one thing in life I have craved is
affection; and now--"

"No one will miss you as I shall--no one--" He could say no more.

"You will of course have charge of my affairs, and Mr. Wilson has my
power of attorney, and there is Hamilton at need. Ah, but I have had a
scene with these most dear people!"

The time passed quickly for De Courval. He himself was to be gone at
least two months. There was a week to go, as he must, on horseback, and
as much to return. There were wide spaces of country to cover and much
business to settle for Schmidt. His stay was uncertain and not without
risks.

Over three weeks went by before he could be spared from the thinly
officered department. Schmidt had long since gone, and René sat alone in
the library at night and missed the large mind and a temperament gayer
than his own. His mother had asked no questions concerning Carteaux, and
as long as there was doubt in regard to his course, he had been
unwilling to mention him; but now he felt that he should speak freely
and set his mother's mind at rest before he went away.

Neither, despite what he was sure would be the stern opposition he would
have to encounter from his mother, could he go without a word to
Margaret--a word that would settle his fate and hers. The Carteaux
business was at an end. He felt free to act. Fortune for once favored
him. Since he had spoken to his mother of his journey and the lessened
household knew of it, Pearl had even more sedulously avoided the
pleasant talks in the garden and the rides, now rare, with Aunt Gainor
and himself. The mother, more and more uneasy, had spoken to her
daughter very decidedly, and Madame grew less familiarly kind to the
girl; while she herself, with a mind as yet in doubt, had also her share
of pride and believed that the young vicomte had ceased to care for her,
else would he not have created an opportunity to say what long ago that
night on the ice seemed to make a matter of honor? She was puzzled by
his silence, a little vexed and not quite sure of herself.

He put off to the last moment his talk with his mother and watched in
vain for a chance to speak to Margaret. His instructions were ready, his
last visits made. He had had an unforgettable half-hour with the
President and a talk with Hamilton, now on a visit from New York. The
ex-secretary asked him why he did not cast in his lot frankly with the
new land, as he himself had done. He would have to give notice in court
and renounce his allegiance to his sovereign, so ran the new law.

"I have no sovereign," he replied, "and worthless as it now seems, I
will not renounce my title, as your law requires."

"Nor would I," said Hamilton. "You will go home some day. The chaos in
France will find a master. The people are weary of change and will
accept any permanent rule."

"Yes, I hope to return. Such is my intention," and they fell into talk
of Schmidt.

De Courval's last day in the city had come. Schmidt had left him the
free use of his horses, and he would try one lately bought to see how it
would answer for his long journey.

About eleven of a sunny June morning he mounted and rode westward up
Chestnut Street. At Fifth and Chestnut streets, Congress having just
adjourned, the members were coming out of the brick building which still
stands at the corner. He knew many, and bowed to Gallatin and Fisher
Ames. Mr. Madison stopped him to say a word about the distasteful
English treaty. Then at a walk he rode on toward the Schuylkill, deep in
thought.

Beyond Seventh there was as yet open country, with few houses. It was
two years since, a stranger, he had fallen among friends in the Red
City, made for himself a sufficient income and an honorable name and won
the esteem of men. Schmidt, Margaret, the Wynnes; his encounters with
Carteaux, the yellow plague, passed through his mind. God had indeed
dealt kindly with the exiles. As he came near to the river and rode into
the thinned forest known as the Governor's Woods, he saw Nanny seated at
the roadside.

"What are you doing here, Nanny?" he asked.

"The missus sent me with Miss Margaret to carry a basket of stuff to
help some no-account colored people lives up that road. I has to wait."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, and, dismounting, tied his horse. "At last," he
said, and went away up the wood road. Far in the open forest he saw her
coming, her Quaker bonnet swinging on her arm.

"Oh, Miss Margaret!" he cried. "I am glad to have found you. You know I
am going away to-morrow for two months at least. It is a hard journey,
not without some risk, and I cannot go without a word with you. Why have
you avoided me as you have done?"

"Have I?" she replied.

"Yes; and you know it."

"I thought--I thought--oh, let me go home!"

"No; not till you hear me. Can you let me leave in this way without a
word? I do not mean that it shall be. Sit down here on this log and
listen to me." He caught her hand.

"Please, I must go."

"No; not yet. Sit down here. I shall not keep you long--a woman who
wants none of me. But I have much to say--explanations, ah, much to
say." She sat down.

"I will hear thee, but--"

"Oh, you will hear me? Yes, because you must? Go, if you will. It will
be my answer."

"I think the time and the place ill chosen,"--she spoke with simple
dignity,--"but I will hear thee."

"I have had no chance but this. You must pardon me." She looked down and
listened. "It is a simple matter. I have loved you long. No other love
has ever troubled my life. Save my mother, I have no one. What might
have been the loves for brothers and sisters are all yours, a love
beyond all other loves, the love of a lonely man. Whether or not you
permit me to be something more, I shall still owe you a debt the years
can never make me forget--the remembrance of what my life beside you in
your home has given me."

The intent face, the hands clasped in her lap, might have shown him how
deeply she was moved; for now at last that she had heard him she knew
surely that she loved him. The long discipline of Friends in controlling
at least the outward expression of emotion came to her aid as often
before. She felt how easy it would have been to give him the answer he
longed for; but there were others to think about, and from her childhood
she had been taught the lesson of consideration for her elders. She set
herself to reply to him with stern repression of feeling not very
readily governed.

"How can I answer thee? What would thy mother say?" He knew then what
her answer might have been. She, too, had her pride, and he liked her
the more for that.

"Thou art a French noble. I am a plain Quaker girl without means. There
would be reason in the opposition thy mother would make."

"A French noble!" he laughed. "A banished exile, landless and poor--a
pretty match I am. But, Pearl, the future is mine. I have succeeded
here, where my countrymen starve. I have won honor, respect, and trust.
I would add love."

"I know, I know; but--"

"It is vain to put me off with talk of others. I think you do care for
me. My mother will summon all her prejudices and in the end will yield.
It is very simple, Pearl. I ask only a word. If you say yes, whatever
may then come, we will meet with courage and respect. Do you love me,
Pearl?"

She said faintly, "Yes."

He sat silent a moment, and then said, "I thank God!" and, lifting her
hand, kissed it.

"Oh, René," she cried, "what have I done?" and she burst into tears. "I
did not mean to."

"Is it so hard, dear Pearl? I have made you cry."

"No, it is not hard; but it is that I am ashamed to think that I loved
thee long--long before thou didst care for me. Love thee, René! Thou
dost not dream how--how I love thee."

[Illustration: "'I know, I know, but--'"]

Her reticence, her trained reserve, were lost in this passion of
long-restrained love. Ah, here was Schmidt's Quaker Juliet!

He drew her to him and kissed her wet cheek. "You will never, never
regret," he said. "All else is of no moment. We love each other. That is
all now. I have so far never failed in anything, and I shall not now."

He had waited long, he said, and for good reasons. Some day, but not now
in an hour of joy, he would tell her the story of his life, a sad one,
and of why he had been what men call brutal to Carteaux and why their
friend Schmidt, who knew of his love, had urged him to wait. She must
trust him yet a little while longer.

"And have I not trusted thee?"

"Yes, Pearl."

"We knew, mother and I, knowing thee as we did, that there must be more
cause for that dreadful duel than we could see."

"More? Yes, dear, and more beyond it; but it is all over now. The man I
would have killed is going to France."

"Oh, René--killed!"

"Yes, and gladly. The man goes back to France and my skies are clear for
love to grow."

He would kill! A strange sense of surprise arose in her mind, and the
thought of how little even now she knew of the man she loved and
trusted. "I can wait, René," she said, "and oh, I am so glad; but
mother--I have never had a secret from her, never."

"Tell her," he said; "but then let it rest between us until I come
back."

"That would be best, and now I must go."

"Yes, but a moment, Pearl. Long ago, the day after we landed, a sad and
friendless man, I walked out to the river and washed away my cares in
the blessed waters. On my return, I sat on this very log, and talked to
some woodmen, and asked the name of a modest flower. They said, 'We call
it the Quaker lady.' And to think that just here I should find again, my
Quaker lady."

"But I am not a Quaker lady. I am a naughty 'Separatist,' as Friends
call it. Come, I must go, René. I shall say good-by to thee to-night.
Thou wilt be off early, I do suppose. And oh, it will be a weary time
while thou art away!"

"I shall be gone by six in the morning."

"And I sound asleep," she returned, smiling. He left her at the roadside
with Nanny, and, mounting, rode away.

XXIV

The widow allowed no one to care for Schmidt's library except her
daughter or herself. It contained little of value except books, but even
those Indian arrow-heads he found on Tinicum Island and the strange
bones from near Valley Forge were dusted with care and regarded with the
more curiosity because, even to the German, they spoke no language the
world as yet could read.

As she turned from her task and Margaret entered, she saw in her face
the signal of something to be told. It needed not the words, "Oh,
mother," as she closed the door behind her--"oh, mother, I am afraid I
have done a wrong thing; but I met René de Courval,--I mean, he met
me,--and--and he asked me to marry him--and I will; no one shall stop
me." There was a note of anticipative defiance in the young voice as she
spoke.

"Sit down, dear child."

The girl sunk on a cushion at her feet, her head in the mother's lap. "I
could not help it," she murmured, sobbing.

"I saw this would come to thee, long ago," said the mother. "I had hoped
thou wouldst be so guided as not to let thy heart get the better of thy
head."

"It is my head has got me into this--this sweet trouble. Thou knowest
that I have had others, and some who had thy favor; but, mother, here
for two years I have lived day by day in the house with René, and have
seen him so living as to win esteem and honor, a tender son to his
mother, and so respectful to thee, who, for her, art only the keeper of
a boarding-house. Thou knowest what Friend Schmidt says of him. I heard
him tell Friend Hamilton. He said--he said he was a gallant gentleman,
and he wished he were his son. You see, mother, it was first respect and
then--love. Oh, mother, that duel! I knew as I saw him carried in that I
loved him." She spoke rapidly, with little breaks in her voice, and now
was silent.

"It is bad, very bad, my child. I see no end of trouble--oh, it is bad,
bad, for thee and for him!"

"It is good, good, mother, for me and for him. He has waited long. There
has been something, I do not know what, kept him from speaking sooner.
It is over now."

"I do not see what there could have been, unless it were his mother. It
may well be that. Does she know?"

"When he comes back he will tell her."

"I do not like it, and I dislike needless mysteries. From a worldly
point of view,--and I at least, who have drunk deep of poverty, must
somewhat think for thee. Here are two people without competent means--"

"But I love him."

"And his mother?"

"But I love him." She had no other logic. "Oh, I wish Mr. Schmidt were
here! René says he will like it."

"That, at least, is a good thing." Both were silent a little while. Mrs.
Swanwick had been long used to defer to the German's opinions, but
looking far past love's limited horizon, the widow thought of the
certain anger of the mother, of the trap she in her pride would think
set for her son by designing people, her prejudices intensified by the
mere fact of the poverty which left her nothing but exaggerated
estimates of her son and what he was entitled to demand of the woman he
should some day marry. And too, René had often spoken of a return to
France. She said at last: "We will leave the matter now, and speak of it
to no one; but I should say to thee, my dear, that apart from what for
thy sake I should consider, and the one sad thing of his willingness to
avenge a hasty word by possibly killing a fellow-man,--how
terrible!--apart from these things, there is no one I had been more
willing to give thee to than René de Courval."

"Thank thee, mother." The evil hour when the vicomtesse must hear was at
least remote, and something akin to anger rose in the widow's mind as
she thought of it.

René came in to supper. Mrs. Swanwick was as usual quiet, asking
questions in regard to Margaret's errand of charity, but of a mind to
win time for reflection, and unwilling as yet to open the subject with
René.

When, late in the evening, he came out of the study where he had been
busy with the instructions left by Schmidt, he was annoyed to learn
that Margaret had gone up-stairs. There was still before him the task of
speaking to his mother of what he was sure was often in her mind,
Carteaux. She had learned from the gossip of guests that a Frenchman had
been set upon near Bristol and had been robbed and wounded. Incurious
and self-centered, the affairs of the outer world had for her but little
real interest. Now she must have her mind set at ease, for René well
knew that she had not expected him to rest contented or to be satisfied
with the result of his unfortunate duel. Her puritan creed was powerless
here as against her social training, and her sense of what so hideous a
wrong as her husband's murder should exact from his son.

"I have something to tell you, _maman_," he said; "and before I go, it
is well that I should tell you."

"Well, what is it?" she said coldly, and then, as before, uneasily
anxious.

"On the twenty-ninth of November I learned that Carteaux had started for
New York an hour before I heard of it, on his way to France. I had
waited long--undecided, fearing that again some evil chance might leave
you alone in a strange land."

"You did wrong, René. There are duties which ought to permit of no such
indecision. You should not have considered me for a moment. Go on."

"How could I help it, thinking of you, mother? I followed, and overtook
this man near Bristol. I meant no chance with the sword this time. He
was unarmed. I gave him the choice of my pistols, bade him pace the
distance, and give the word. He walked away some six feet, half the
distance, and, turning suddenly, fired, grazing my shoulder. I shot
him--ah, a terrible wound in arm and shoulder. Schmidt had found a note
I left for him, and, missing his pistols, inquired at the French
legation, and came up in time to see it all and to prevent me from
killing the man."

"Pre--vent you! How did he dare!"

"Yes, mother; and it was well. Schmidt found, when binding up his wound,
that he was carrying despatches from the Republican Minister Fauchet to
go by the corvette _Jean Bart_, waiting in New York Harbor."

"What difference did that make?"

"Why, mother, I am in the State Department. To have killed a member of
the French legation, or stopped his journey, would have been ruin to me
and a weapon in the hands of these mock Jacobins."

"But you did stop him."

"Yes; but I delivered the despatch myself to the corvette."

"Yes, you were right; but what next? He must have spoken."

"No. The threat from Schmidt that he would tell the whole story of
Avignon and his treachery to me has made him lie and say he had been set
upon by unknown persons and robbed of his papers. He has wisely held his
tongue. He is crippled for life and has suffered horribly. Now he goes
to France a broken, miserable man, punished as death's release could not
punish."

"I do not know that. I have faith in the vengeance of God. You should
have killed him. You did not. And so I suppose there is an end of it for
a time. Is that all, René?"

"Yes, that is all. The loss of the despatch remains a mystery, and the
Democrats are foolish enough to believe we have it in the foreign
office. No one of them but Carteaux knows and he dare not speak. The
despatch will never come back here, or if it does, Carteaux will have
gone. People have ceased to talk about it, and now, mother, I am going
away with an easy mind. Do not worry over this matter. Good night."

"Worry?" she cried. "Ah, I would have killed the Jacobin dog!"

"I meant to," he said, and left her.

At dawn he was up and had his breakfast and there was Pearl in the hall
and her hands on his two shoulders. "Kiss me," she said. "God bless and
guard thee, René!"

XXV

While Schmidt was far on his homeward way, De Courval rode through the
German settlements of Pennsylvania and into the thinly settled
Scotch-Irish clearings beyond the Alleghanies, a long and tedious
journey, with much need to spare his horse.

His letters to government officers in the village of Pittsburg greatly
aided him in his more remote rides. He settled some of Schmidt's land
business, and rode with a young soldier's interest over Braddock's fatal
field, thinking of the great career of the youthful colonel who was one
of the few who kept either his head or his scalp on that day of
disaster.

He found time also to prepare for his superiors a reassuring report, and
on July 18 set out on his return. He had heard nothing from his mother
or from any one else. The mails were irregular and slow,--perhaps one a
week,--and very often a flood or an overturned coach accounted for
letters never heard of again. There would be much to hear at home.

On July Fourth of 1795, while the bells were ringing in memory of the
nation's birthday, Fauchet sat in his office at Oeller's Hotel. He had
been recalled and was for various reasons greatly troubled. The
reaction in France against the Jacobins had set in, and they, in turn
were suffering from the violence of the returning royalists and the
outbreaks of the Catholic peasantry in the south. Marat's bust had been
thrown into the gutter and the Jacobin clubs closed. The minister had
been able to do nothing of value to stop the Jay treaty. The despatch on
which he had relied to give such information as might enable his
superiors to direct him and assure them of his efforts to stop the
treaty had disappeared eight months ago, as he believed by a bold
robbery in the interest of the English party, possibly favored by the
cabinet, which, as he had to confess, was less likely. He was angry as
he thought of it and uneasy as concerned his future in distracted
France. He had questioned Carteaux again and again but had never been
quite satisfied. The theft of the despatch had for a time served his
purpose, but had been of no practical value. The treaty with England
would go to the senate and he return home, a discredited diplomatic
failure. Meanwhile, in the trying heat of summer, as during all the long
winter months, Carteaux lay for the most part abed, in such misery as
might have moved to pity even the man whose bullet had punished him so
savagely. At last he was able to sit up for a time every day and to
arrange with the captain of a French frigate, then in port, for his
return to France.

Late in June he had dismissed Chovet with only a promise to pay what was
in fact hard-earned money. Dr. Glentworth, Washington's surgeon, had
replaced him, and talked of an amputation, upon which, cursing doctors
in general, Carteaux swore that he would prefer to die.

Chovet, who dosed his sick folk with gossip when other means failed,
left with this ungrateful patient one piece of news which excited
Carteaux's interest. Schmidt, he was told, had gone to Europe, and then,
inaccurate as usual, Chovet declared that it was like enough he would
never return, a fact which acquired interest for the doctor himself as
soon as it became improbable that Carteaux would pay his bill. When a
few days later Carteaux learned from De la Forêt that his enemy De
Courval was to be absent for several weeks, and perhaps beyond the time
set for his own departure, he began with vengeful hope to reconsider a
situation which had so far seemed without resource.

Resolved at last to make for De Courval all the mischief possible before
his own departure, with such thought as his sad state allowed he had
slowly matured in his mind a statement which seemed to him
satisfactorily malignant. Accordingly on this Fourth of July he sent his
black servant to ask the minister to come to his chamber.

Fauchet, somewhat curious, sat down by the bedside and parting the
chintz curtains, said, "I trust you are better."

The voice which came from the shadowed space within was weak and hoarse.
"I am not better--I never shall be, and I have little hope of reaching
home alive."

"I hoped it not as bad as that."

"And still it is as I say. I do not want to die without confessing to
you the truth about that affair in which I was shot and my despatch
stolen."

Men who had lived through the years of the French Revolution were not
readily astonished, but at this statement the Minister sat up and
exclaimed: "_Mon Dieu!_ What is this?"

"I am in damnable pain; I must be brief. I was waylaid near Bristol by
Schmidt and De Courval, and when I would not stop, was shot by De
Courval. They stole the despatch, and made me swear on threat of death
that I had been attacked by men I did not know."

Fauchet was silent for a while, and then said: "That is a singular
story--and that you kept the promise, still more singular."

"I did keep it. I had good reason to keep it." He realized, as he told
the tale, how improbable it sounded, how entirely Fauchet disbelieved
him. If he had not been dulled by opiates and racked past power of
critical thought, he was far too able a man to have put forth so
childish a tale. He knew at once that he was not believed.

"You do not believe me, Citizen."

"I do not. Why did you not tell me the truth at first?"

"It was not the threat to kill me which stopped me. I was of the
tribunal at Avignon which condemned the _ci-devant_ vicomte, the young
man's father. To have had it known here would have been a serious thing
to our party and for me ruin. I was ill, feeble, in their hands, and I
promised Schmidt that I would put it all on some unknown person."

Fauchet listened. He entirely distrusted him. "Is that all? Do you
expect any reasonable man to believe such a story?"

"Yes, I do. If I had told you at the time, you would have used my
statement at once and I should have suffered. Now that both these cursed
villains are gone, I can speak."

"Indeed," said Fauchet, very desirous of a look at the face secure from
observation within the curtained bed, "but why do you speak now! It is
late. Why speak at all?"

"For revenge, Monsieur. I am in hell."

Fauchet hesitated. "That is a good reason; but there is more in this
matter than you are willing to tell."

"That is my business. I have told you enough to satisfy my purpose and
yours."

"Rather late for mine. But let us understand each other. This man, then,
this De Courval, had a double motive--to avenge his father's death and
to serve his masters, the Federalists. That is your opinion?"

"Yes, his desire for revenge made him an easy tool. I cannot talk any
more. What shall you do about it?"

"I must think. I do not know. You are either a great fool or a coward or
both. I only half trust you."

"Ah, were I well, Monsieur, no man should talk to me as you are doing."

"Luckily for me you are not well; but will you swear to this, to a
written statement?"

"I will." Whether it was to be a truthful statement or not concerned the
minister but little if he could make use of it. Upon this, the
consul-general and a secretary, Le Blanc, being called in, to their
amazement Carteaux dictated a plain statement and signed it with his
left hand, the two officials acting as witnesses.

The minister read it aloud:

OELLER'S HOTEL, July 4, 1795.

I, George Carteaux, being _in extremis_, declare that on the 29th
of November, about 5 P.M., near Bristol, I was set upon and shot
and a despatch taken from me by one Schmidt and a Frenchman by
name De Courval. No valuables were taken. By whom they were set
on or paid I do not know.

GEORGE CARTEAUX.

_Witnesses_:

LOUIS LE BLANC,
JEAN DE LA FORÊT.

The two members of the legation silently followed the minister out of
the room.

"That is a belated story," said De la Forêt. "Do you credit it?"

"It is not all, you may be sure; a rather lean tale," replied Le Blanc,
whose career in the police of Paris had taught him to distrust men. "He
lied both times, but this time it is a serviceable lie."

"A little late, as you say," remarked Fauchet. "Once it might have
helped us."

"Ah, if," said the consul-general, "he could tell who has your
despatch!"

"Not Mr. Randolph," said Le Blanc.

"No," returned Fauchet; "or if he has, it will never be seen by any one
else."

"Why?" asked Le Blanc.

The minister, smiling, shook his head. "If ever it turns up in other
hands, you will know why, and Mr. Randolph, too."

The minister later in the day assured Carteaux that he would make such
use of the deposition as would force the administration to rid itself of
a guilty clerk. He was in no haste to fulfil his pledge. Two or three
months earlier, when the general opposition to the English treaty
promised to delay or prevent it, this damaging paper would have had some
value. Apart, however, from any small practical utility the confession
might still possess, it promised Fauchet another form of satisfaction.
Being a man of great vanity, he felt injured and insulted by the
coolness of his diplomatic reception and by the complete absence of
pleasant social recognition in the homes of the great Federalist
merchants. He would give Carteaux's statement to the Secretary of State
and demand that De Courval be dismissed and punished. He felt that he
could thus annoy and embarrass the administration; but still,
distrusting Carteaux, he waited. His delay was ended by the gossip which
began to be rumored about in regard to the attack on Carteaux, and
concerning the mysterious loss of Despatch No. 10.

Chovet had been abruptly dismissed, unpaid, and the German having gone
away in some haste with no thought of his promise to pay, none knew when
he would return. The little doctor was furious. His habit of imprudent
gossip had been controlled by Schmidt's threats and still more surely by
his pledge of payment. By and by, in his exasperation, he let drop
hints, and soon the matter grew. He had been cheated by Carteaux, and if
people only knew the truth of that story, and so on, while he won
self-importance from holding what he half believed to be a state secret.

At last, increasingly uneasy about his fee, it occurred to him to ask
Miss Wynne if it were certain that Schmidt would not return. If not--ah,
there was the young man who must pay, or the whole story should be told.

That Miss Gainor kept him waiting for half an hour he felt as a slight
and regarded it as an addition to the many wrongs he had suffered at the
hands of a woman who had learned from time and experience no lessons in
prudence.

Increasingly vexed at her delay, when she came in he was walking about
with reckless disregard of the priceless china with which she delighted
to crowd her drawing-room. As she entered he looked at his watch, but
Mistress Gainor was to-day in high good humor, having won at piquet of
Mrs. Bingham the night before enough to make her feel comfortably
pleased with Gainor Wynne.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," she said in her fluent anglicized French. "I beg
pardon for keeping you waiting; I was dressing." Chovet had rarely been
able to sacrifice his liking to annoy to the practical interests of the
moment, and now, disbelieving her, he said, "If you will speak English,
I may be able to understand you." This was a little worse than usual.

"Sir," she said, with dignity, "your manners are bad. Never do I permit
such things to be said to me. I might say something such as you have
said to me in regard to your English and there would be an end of our
conversation," upon which she laughed outright. "What makes you so
cross, Doctor, and to what do I owe the honor of a visit?"

Then he broke out. "I have been cheated by Mr. Carteaux. He has not paid
me a cent. He has got another doctor."

"Wise man, Mr. Carteaux; but what on earth have I to do with that
Jacobin?"

In his anger the doctor had quite lost sight for the moment of the
object of his visit, which was to know if Schmidt had gone never to
return, as was freely reported. Now he remembered.

"I desire to know if Mr. Schmidt will come back. He promised to pay if
Carteaux did not. Oh, it is a fine story--of him and De Courval. A
despatch has been stolen--every one knows that. I am not to be trifled
with, Madame. I can tell a nice tale."

"Can you, indeed? I advise you to be careful what you say. Mr. Schmidt
will return and then you will get some unusual interest on your money.
Have you no sense of honor that you must talk as you have done?"

"I do never talk," he said, becoming uneasy.

Miss Gainor rose, having heard all she wished to hear. "Lord! man, talk!
You do nothing else. You have been chattering about this matter to Mrs.
Byrd. If I were you, I should be a bit afraid. How much money is owing
you?"

"Three hundred dollars, and--I have lost patients, too. I have--"

"Sit down," she said. "Don't behave like a child." She went to her desk,
wrote a check and gave it to him. "May I trouble you for a receipt?" He
gave it, surprised and pleased. "And now do hold your tongue if you can,
or if Mr. Schmidt does not beat you when he comes home, I will. You have
no more decency than you have hair."

This set him off again. "Ah you think it is only money, money. You, a
woman, can say things. I am insult," he cried. "I will have revenge of
Schmidt, if he do come. I will have blood."

"Blood, I would," she said. "Get your lancet ready." She broke into
laughter at the idea of a contest with the German. "I will hear no more.
These are my friends." When in one of her fits of wrath, now rare, she
was not choice of her words. Both were now standing. "A flea and a bear,
you and Schmidt! Lord, but he will be scared--poor man!"

He too was in a fine rage, such as he never allowed himself with men.
"Oh, I am paid, am I? That will not be all of it." He rose on tiptoe,
gesticulating wildly, and threw his hands out, shaking them. There was a
sudden clatter of broken china.

"Great heavens!" cried Gainor. "Two of my gods gone, and my blue
mandarin!"

For a moment he stood appalled amid the wreck of precious porcelain,
looking now at Miss Wynne and now at the broken deities.

The owner of the gods towered over the little doctor. Wrath and an
overwhelming sense of the comic contended for expression. "Two gods,
man! Where now do you expect to go when you die--"

"Nowhere," he said.

"I agree with you. Neither place would have you. You are not good enough
for one and not bad enough for the other." She began to enjoy the
situation. "I have half a mind to take away that check. It would not
pay, but still--"

"I regret--I apologize." He began to fear lest this terrible old woman
might have a whole mind in regard to the check.

"Oh," she laughed, "keep it. But I swear to you by all my other gods
that if you lie any more about my friends, I shall tell the story Dr.
Abernethy told me. In your greed and distrust of men whose simple word
is as sure as their bond, you threaten to tell a tale. Well, I will
exchange stories with you. I shall improve mine, too."

"Ah," he cried, "you do promise, and keep no word. You have told already
Schmidt of me."

"I did--and one other; but now the whole town shall hear. You were
ingenious, but the poor highwayman was too well hanged."

Chovet grew pale. "Oh, Madame, you would not. I should be ruined."

"Then be careful and--go away. I sometimes lose my temper, but never my
memory. Remember."

He looked up at the big woman as she stood flushed with anger, and
exclaiming under his breath, "_Quelle diablesse!_" went out scared and
uneasy.

Looking from the window, she saw him walk away. His hands hung limp at
his sides, his head was dropped on his breast; not even Ça Ira looked
more dejected.

"Good heavens! the man ought to have a bearing-rein. I much fear the
mischief is done. The little brute! He is both mean and treacherous."

She turned to look down at the wreckage of her household Lares and rang
the bell.

Cæsar appeared. "Sweep up my gods, and take them away. Good heavens! I
ought to have flattered the man. I promised the blue mandarin to Darthea
Wynne because he always nodded yes to her when she wanted advice to her
liking. Well, well, I am a blundering old idiot." She had indeed made
mischief, and repentance, as usual with her, came late. She had,
however, only added to the mischief. Chovet had already said enough, and
the loss of the despatch and the attack on Carteaux by a clerk of the
Department of State aroused anew the Democrats and fed the gossip of the
card-tables, while René rode on his homeward way with a mind at ease.
Nothing had so disturbed the social life of the city for many a day.
Before long the matter came to the ear of the Secretary of State, who
saw at once its bearing upon his department and the weapon it would be
in the hands of party. It was, however, he said to Mr. Bingham, too wild
a story for ready credence, and De Courval would soon be at home.

A day later, Fauchet presented to the amazed and angry Secretary of
State Carteaux's formal statement, but made no explanation of its delay
except the illness of his attaché. The man was near to death. He himself
believed his statement, the words of a man about to die. Randolph stood
still in thought. "Your charge, sir," he said, and he spoke French well,
"is that my clerk, the Vicomte de Courval, has stolen your despatch and
perhaps fatally wounded the gentleman commissioned to deliver it."

"You state it correctly. I am not surprised."

The tone was so insolent that Randolph said sharply: "You are not
surprised? Am I to presume that you consider me a party to the matter?"

"I have not said so, but subordinates are sometimes too zealous and--"

"And what, sir?"

"It is idle to suppose that the theft had no motive. There was some
motive, but what it was perhaps the English party may be able to
explain. My despatch is lost. Your secretary took it with the help of
one Schmidt. The loss is irreparable and of great moment. I insist, sir,
that the one man who has not fled be dealt with by you, and by the law."

"I shall wait, sir, until I hear the vicomte's story. He is a gentleman
of irreproachable character, a man of honor who has served us here most
faithfully. I shall wait to hear from him. Your secretary seems to have
lied at first and waited long to tell this amazing story."

The minister did not explain, but said sharply:

"It will be well if that despatch can be found. It was meant only for
the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

"I do not understand you."

Fauchet laughed. "I trust that you may never have occasion to understand
me better." He was angry, and lost both his prudence and what little
manners he ever possessed. "It is desirable, or at least it is to be
hoped that the thief destroyed it."

"The gentleman you condemn, sir, is not yet on trial, and this has gone
far enough and too far. I shall lay the matter in due time before the
President." Upon which he bowed out the Republican envoy.

Greatly annoyed, Mr. Randolph put the matter before the members of the
cabinet, who agreed that in justice they must wait for De Courval's
return.

Meanwhile Chovet's gossip had done its work, and there were a dozen
versions which amused many, made others angry, and fed the strife of
parties; for now Fauchet spoke of it everywhere with the utmost freedom.

"It is incredible," said Governor Penn; and the women, too, were all on
the side of De Courval, while Mr. Wynne, in great anxiety, thought fit
to call at Mrs. Swanwick's for news of the vicomte.

He saw in a moment that the widow had heard some of the stories so
freely talked about. She had found to her relief some one to whom she
could speak. "What is all this," she asked, "I hear about Friend de
Courval? My Uncle Josiah has been to tell me and I could make nothing of
it?"

"I know, Mary, only the wildest tales. But when De Courval returns, I
desire to see him at once."

"His mother heard from him to-day and we look for him possibly
to-morrow. Gainor Wynne has been here, in a fine rage. The young man
has very warm friends, Hugh. I cannot believe a word of it."

"Nor I, what I hear. But let him see me at once." The widow was
distressed. "Something there must have been. Alas, my poor Margaret!"

Her life had been for many years a constant struggle with poverty, made
harder by remembrance of early days of ease and luxury. She bore it all
with high-hearted courage and the pride which for some inexplicable
reason will accept any gift except money. It became an easier life when
Schmidt took of her his two rooms and became by degrees their friend,
while the fact that the daughter, inheriting her beauty, was like
herself of Friends, did in a measure keep their lives simple and free
from the need for many luxuries she saw in the homes of their cousins.
Mrs. Swanwick thought, too, of these strangers whom she had nursed,
of the vicomtesse, at times a little trying with her sense of what
was due to her; of her son, kindly, grave, thoughtful of others,
religious,--that was singular,--and twice, as it was said, engaged in
bloody quarrels. How could one understand that?

She knew what her bountiful nature had given these exiles. Now she was
again to be a reproach among Friends and to feel that these people had
brought into her quiet home for her child only misfortune and sorrow. If
Schmidt were but here! Margaret was at home, busy and joyful, knowing
nothing of what lay before her or of this sinister story of attempted
murder and robbery. Resolutely setting it all aside, Mrs. Swanwick went
out to provide for the wants of the day.

A half hour later De Courval crossed the city, riding along High Street
A pleasant comrade--Joy--went with him as he turned down Front Street,
past widely separated houses and gardens gay with flowers. Once they had
been country homes, but now the city was slowly crowding in on them with
need for docks. He left his horse at the stable and walked swiftly
homeward.

Mrs. Swanwick's house was still remote enough to be secure from the
greed of commerce. The dusty, gray road before him, dry with the intense
heat of August, ran southward. No one was in sight. There was something
mysteriously depressing in the long highway without sign of life, a
reminder of that terrible summer when day by day he had come out of the
house and seen no one.

As he drew near Mrs. Swanwick's door, he met Captain Biddle. "Oh, by
George!" said the sailor, "so you are come at last, and none too soon. I
have been here thrice."

"What is the matter, Captain? Is any one ill?"

"No; but there is a lot of lies about you. There is neither decency nor
charity ashore. Have you been at the State Department or seen any one?"

"No. I am this moment come back. But, for God's sake, Captain, tell me
what it is."

"A fellow named Carteaux has charged you with half killing him and
stealing his despatches. That is all I know."

"Is that all? _Diable!_ I am sorry I did not wholly kill him. I knew
this would come out soon or late. Of course he is lying; but I did shoot
him."

"There is a malignant article in the 'Aurora' to-day--there, I marked
it."

René looked it over as he stood. "So I am the thief, I am the agent of
the cabinet or the Federal party, and _mon Dieu_, Schmidt--"

"It is serious," said the captain. "A horsewhip is the weapon needed
here, but I am at your service in every way."

"Thank you; but first of all, I must see Mr. Randolph; and, oh, worst of
all, Schmidt is absent!" He felt that he could not meet Margaret until
he had put an end to this slander. He foresaw also that to meet with
success would, in Schmidt's absence, be difficult. Thanking his sailor
friend, he made haste to see his official superior.

"Ah," said Randolph, "I am both glad and sorry to see you. Sit down.
Have you heard of the charges against you made by Mr. Fauchet for his
secretary, Carteaux?"

"Nothing very clear, sir; but enough to bring me here instantly to have
the thing explained to me."

"Pray read this statement."

De Courval read Carteaux's deposition and, flushing with sudden anger he
threw the paper on the table. "So it seems I deliberately waylaid and
shot the secretary of an envoy in order to steal his despatches."

"That is the charge, made by a man who I am assured is dying. You can
have no objection to my asking you a few questions."

"None. I shall like it."

"Did you shoot this man?"

"I did. He was of the mock court which murdered my father at Avignon.
Any French gentleman here can tell you--Du Vallon for one, and De
Noailles. Of the direct personal part this man took in causing my
father's death I have not talked. Twice he has had the equal chance I
would have given a gentleman. Yes, I meant to kill him."

"But, Vicomte--"

"Pardon me." And he told briefly the story of Carteaux's treacherous
shot and of why for a while it seemed well to Schmidt to silence the
man.

"It was unwise. A strange and sad affair," said the secretary, "but,
Monsieur, it is only this recent matter which concerns me, and the fact,
the unfortunate fact, that your enemy was a bearer of despatches. Who
can substantiate your statement as against that of a man said to be
dying? Who can I call upon?"

"No one. Mr. Schmidt saw it. He is in Europe. The man lies. It is his
word or mine. He says here nothing of its being only a personal quarrel;
and why did he wait? Ah, clearly until Schmidt, who saw it all, had gone
to Europe and I was absent."

"Why he waited I cannot say. The rest concerns me greatly. Did you
destroy his despatches?"

"_Mon Dieu!_ I? No. Mr. Schmidt, in cutting open his clothes to get at
his wound, found those papers, and then seeing what I had done, and how
the department might be credited with it, or at least the English party,
I myself carried the despatch to its address, the captain of the _Jean
Bart_."

"Did you get a receipt?"

"I asked for it. It was refused. The captain was angry at what he said
had been dangerous delay, and refused unless I would come on board and
talk to him. I of course declined to do so. I would certainly have been
carried to France."

"She has sailed, the _Jean Bart?_"

"Yes, sir."

"Then what proof have you as against the deposition of a man _in
extremis?_"

"None but my word, that I gave to an officer of the corvette a package
of papers."

"The minister was insolent enough to hint that this was a robbery in the
interest of my service and a plot of the Federalist English
sympathizers. In fact, he implied even more. I am asked to dismiss you
as proof that we at least are in no way a party to the matter."

"One moment, Mr. Secretary--would that be proof?"

"No, sir. Pardon me. This affair has been twice before the cabinet,
where, to be frank, some difference of opinion existed. The
President--but no matter. You admit the fact of the assault and, well,
the taking of the paper. You do not deny either. You have no evidence in
favor of your explanation,--none."

"Pardon me; I have said De Noailles could assure you that I had cause
for a personal quarrel."

"Admit the personal motive, it does not help you. The Republicans are
using this scandal freely, and we have quite enough complications, as
you know. If these people urge it, the law may be appealed to. To
conclude, this is not a cabinet matter, and it was so decided. It
affects the honor of my own department."

"Sir, the honor!" De Courval rose as he spoke. "You have said what I
could permit no one but my official superior to say."

"I regret to have been so unpleasant, but having duly considered the
matter, I must reluctantly ask you not to return to the office until you
can clear yourself by other evidence than your own. I deeply regret it."

"You are plain enough, sir, and I most unfortunate. It does seem to me
that my life here might at least give my word value as against that of
this lying Jacobin."

The Secretary made no reply. Randolph, although a kindly man and
courteous, had nothing more to say to the young clerk. He was but one of
many _émigré_ nobles cast on our shores, and his relations with the
Secretary had been simply official, although, as the latter would have
admitted, the service rendered had been of the best.

Still standing, René waited a moment after his personal appeal for
justice, but, as I have said, the Secretary did not see fit to answer.
To have bluntly refused Fauchet's demand would have been his desire and
decision; but as a matter of policy he must do something to disarm party
criticism. With this in mind he had offered the young man a compromise;
and not quite sure that he should not have dismissed him, he seemed to
himself, considering all things, to have acted with moderation.

[Illustration: "'Then I beg to resign my position'"]

De Courval, who had waited on the Secretary's silence, said at last, "I
judge, sir, that you have no more to say."

"No. I am sorry that nothing you have told me changes this very painful
situation."

"Then I beg to resign my position. I have many friends and time will do
me justice."

The Secretary would have preferred the young vicomte to have accepted
his offer. He was not assured that Carteaux's story was correct; but
what else could he do? "Are you not hasty?" he said.

"No. You believe me to have lied, and my sole witness, Mr. Schmidt, is
in Germany. It is he who is slandered as well as I. I shall come here no
more. Here is my report on the condition of the frontier counties."

"No, Vicomte. I did not doubt your word, but only your power to prove
your truth for others who do not know you."

"It amounts to the same thing," said De Courval, coldly. "Good morning."

He went to his own office, and stood a moment in the small, whitewashed
room, reflecting with indignant anger on the sudden ending of a career
he had enjoyed. Then he gathered his personal belongings and calling the
old negro caretaker, bade him carry them to Mrs. Swanwick's.

As for the last time he went down the steps, he said to himself: "So I
am thrown to the wolves of party! I knew I should be, and I said so,"
which was hardly just to the man he left, who would have been pleased if
his compromise had been accepted. Little could Randolph have imagined
that the remote agency of the man he had thus thrown over would result
for himself in a situation not unlike that which he had created for his
subordinate.

"I am ruined," murmured De Courval. "Who will believe me? and Margaret!
My God! that is at an end! And my mother!"

He walked slowly homeward, avoiding people and choosing the alley
by-ways so numerous in Penn's city.

The hall door was usually open in the afternoon to let the breeze pass
through. He went into Schmidt's room, and then into the garden, seeing
only Nanny and black Cicero, with whom he was a favorite. No one was in
but madame, his mother. Mr. Girard had been to ask for him and Mr.
Bingham and Mr. Wynne, and others. So it was to be the mother first.

He was used to the quiet, unemotional welcome. He kissed her hand and
her forehead, saying, "You look well, mother, despite the heat."

"Yes, I am well. Tell me of your journey. Ah, but I am glad to see you!
I have had but one letter. You should have written more often." The
charm of his mother's voice, always her most gracious quality, just now
affected him almost to tears.

"I did write, mother, several times. The journey may wait. I have bad
news for you."

"None is possible for me while you live, my son."

"Yes, yes," he said. "The man Carteaux, having heard of Schmidt's
absence and mine, has formally charged me with shooting him without
warning in order to steal his despatches."

"Ah, you should have killed him. I said so."

"Yes, perhaps. The charge is clearly made on paper, attested by
witnesses. He is said to be dying."

"Thank God."

"I have only my word." He told quietly of the weakness of his position,
of the political aspect of the affair, of his interview and his
resignation.

"Did you ask Mr. Randolph to apologize, René?"

"Oh, mother, one cannot do that with a cabinet minister."

"Why not? And is this all? You resign a little clerkship. I am surprised
that it troubles you."

"Mother, it is ruin."

"Nonsense! What is there to make you talk of ruin?"

"The good word of men lost; the belief in my honor. Oh, mother, do you
not see it? And it is a case where there is nothing to be done, nothing.
If Randolph, after my long service, does not believe me, who will?"

She was very little moved by anything he said. She lived outside of the
world of men, one of those island lives on which the ocean waves of
exterior existence beat in vain. The want of sympathy painfully affected
him. She had said it was of no moment, and had no helpful advice to
give. The constantly recurring thought of Margaret came and went as they
talked, and added to his pain. He tried to make her see both the shame
and even the legal peril of his position. It was quite useless. He was
for her the Vicomte de Courval, and these only common people whom a
revolution had set in high places. Never before had he fully realized
the quality of his mother's unassailable pride. It was a foretaste of
what he might have to expect when she should learn of his engagement to
Margaret; but now that, too, must end. He went away, exhausted as from a
bodily struggle.

In the hall he met Margaret just come in, the joy of time-nurtured love
on her face. "Oh, René!" she cried. "How I have longed for thee! Come
out into the garden. The servants hear everything in the house."

They went out and sat down under the trees, she talking gaily, he
silent.

"What is the matter?" she inquired at last, of a sudden anxious.

"Pearl," he said, "I am a disgraced and ruined man."

"René, what dost thou mean? Disgraced, ruined!"

He poured out this oft-repeated story of Avignon, the scene on the
Bristol road, the despatch, and last, his talk with Randolph and his
resignation.

"And this," she said, "was what some day I was to hear. It is terrible,
but--ruined--oh, that thou art not. Think of the many who love thee! And
disgraced? Thou art René de Courval."

"Yes; but, Pearl, dear Pearl, this ends my joy. How can I ask you to
marry a man in my position?"

For a moment she said no word. Then she kissed him. "There is my answer,
René."

"No, no. It is over. I cannot. As a gentleman, I cannot."

Again the wholesome discipline of Friends came to her assistance. It was
a serious young face she saw. He it was who was weak, and she strong.

"Trouble comes to all of us in life, René. I could not expect always to
escape. It has come to us in the morning of our love. Let us meet it
together. It is a terrible story, this. How can I, an inexperienced
girl, know how to regard it? I am sure thou hast done what was right in
thine own eyes. My mother will say thou shouldst have left it to God's
justice. I do not know. I am not sure. I suppose it is because I so love
thee that I do not know. We shall never speak of it again, never. It is
the consequences we--yes, we--have to deal with."

"There is no way to deal with them." He was in resourceless despair.

"No, no. Friend Schmidt will return. He is sure to come, and this will
all be set right. Dost thou remember how the blessed waters washed away
thy care? Is not love as surely good?"

"Oh, yes; but this is different. That was a trifle."

"No; it is the waiting here for Friend Schmidt that troubles me. What is
there but to wait? Thou art eager to do something; that is the man's
way, and the other is the woman's way. Take thy daily swim, ride, sail;
the body will help the soul. It will all come right; but not marry me!
Then, René de Courval, I shall marry thee."

A divine hopefulness was in her words, and for the first time he knew
what a firm and noble nature had been given the woman at his side, what
power to trust, what tenderness, what common sense, and, too, what
insight; for he knew she was right. The contrast to his mother was
strange, and in a way distressing.

"I must think it over," he said.

"Thou wilt do no such thing. Thou, indeed! As if it were thy business
alone! I am a partner thou wilt please to remember. Thou must see thy
friends, and, above all, write to Mr. Hamilton at once, and do as I have
said. I shall speak to my mother. Hast thou--of course thou hast seen
thy mother?"

"I have; and she takes it all as a matter of no moment, really of not
the least importance."

"Indeed, and so must we. Now, I am to be kissed--oh, once, for the good
of thy soul--I said once. Mr. Bingham has been here. See him and Mr.
Wynne, and swim to-night, René, and be careful, too, of my property,
thy--dear self."

Even in this hour of mortification, and with the memory of Randolph's
doubt in mind, René had some delightful sense of being taken in hand and
disciplined. He had not said again that the tie which bound them
together must be broken. He had tacitly accepted the joy of defeat, a
little ashamed, perhaps.

Every minute of this talk had been a revelation to the man who had lived
near Margaret for years. An older man could have told him that no length
of life will reveal to the most observant love all the possibilities of
thought or action in the woman who may for years have been his wife.
There will always remain surprises of word and deed.

Although René listened and said that he could do none of the things she
urged, the woman knew that he would do all of them.

At last she started up, saying: "Why, René, thou hast not had thy
dinner, and now, as we did not look for thee, it is long over. Come in
at once."

"Dear Pearl," he said, "I am better let alone. I do not need anything."
He wished to be left by himself to brood over the cruel wrong of the
morning, and with any one but Pearl he would have shown some sense of
irritation at her persistence.

The wild creatures are tamed by starvation, the animal man by good
feeding. This fact is the sure possession of every kindly woman; and so
it was that De Courval went meekly to the house and was fed,--as was
indeed needed,--and having been fed, with the girl watching him, was
better in body and happier in mind.

He went at once into Schmidt's study and wrote to Hamilton, while
Margaret, sitting in her room at the eastward window, cried a little and
smiled between the tears and wondered at the ways of men.

What she said to her mother may be easily guessed. The vicomtesse was as
usual at the evening meal, where René exerted himself to talk of his
journey to Mrs. Swanwick, less interested than was her way.

The day drew to a close. The shadows came with coolness in the air. The
endless embroidery went on, the knitting needles clicked, and a little
later in the dusk, Margaret smiled as René went down the garden to the
river, a towel on his arm.

"I did him good," she murmured proudly.

Later in the evening they were of one mind that it was well to keep
their engagement secret, above all, not to confide it to their relatives
or to Miss Wynne until there was some satisfactory outcome of the
serious charge which had caused Randolph to act as he had done.

XXVI

Mr. Hamilton's reply came in five days. He would come at once. De
Courval's friends, Bingham and Wynne, had heard his story, and thought
he did well to resign, while Wynne advised him to come to Merion for a
week or two. His other adviser would not have even the appearance of
flight.

"Above all," said Margaret, "go about as usual. Thou must not avoid
people, and after Mr. Hamilton comes and is gone, think of Merion if it
so please thee, or I can let thee go. Aunt Gainor was here in one of her
fine tempers yesterday. I am jealous of her, Monsieur de Courval. And
she has her suspicions."

He took her advice, and saw too easily that he was the observed of many;
for in the city he had long been a familiar personality, with his
clean-shaven, handsome face and the erect figure, which showed the
soldier's training. He was, moreover, a favorite, especially with the
older men and women, so that not all the looks he met were either from
hostile, cockaded Jacobins or from the merely curious.

Mr. Thomas Cadwalader stopped him, and said that at need he was at his
service, if he desired to call out the minister or the Secretary. Mrs.
Byrd, both curious and kind, would have him to come and tell her all
about it, which he was little inclined to do.

He took Margaret's wholesome advice, and swam and rode, and was in a
calmer state of mind, and even happy at the greetings of those in the
fencing school, where were some whom, out of his slender means, he had
helped. They told him gleefully how de Malerive had given up the
ice-cream business for a morning to quiet for a few weeks an Irish
Democrat who had said of the vicomte unpleasant things; and would he not
fence! "Yes, now," he said smiling, and would use the pistol no more.

Mr. Hamilton came as he had promised. "I must return to New York," he
said, "to-morrow. I have heard from Schmidt. He may not come very soon;
but I wrote him fully, on hearing from you. He will be sure to come soon
or late, but meanwhile I have asked General Washington to see you with
me. It may, indeed, be of small present use, but I want him to hear
you--your own account of this affair. So far he has had only what Mr.
Randolph has been pleased to tell him. I made it a personal favor. Let
us go. The cabinet meeting will be over."

René thanked him and not altogether assured that any good would result
from this visit, walked away with Hamilton, the two men attracting some
attention. The President at this time lived on High Street, in the
former house of Robert Morris, near to Sixth Street. They were shown
into the office room on the right, which De Courval knew well, and
where Genêt, the Jacobin minister, had been insulted by the medallions
of the hapless king and queen.

In a few minutes the President entered. He bowed formally, and said,
"Pray be seated, Vicomte. I have been asked, sir, by Mr. Hamilton to
hear you. As you are not now in the service, I am pleased to allow
myself the pleasure to do so, although I have thought it well to advise
Mr. Randolph of my intention. Your case has been before the cabinet, but
as yours was a position solely in the gift of the Secretary of State,
I--or we, have felt that his appointments should lie wholly within his
control."

"And of disappointments, also, I suppose," said Hamilton, smiling, a
privileged person.

Little open to appreciation of humor, no smile came upon the worn face
of the President. He turned to Hamilton as he spoke, and then went on
addressing De Courval, and speaking, as was his way, with deliberate
slowness. "I have given this matter some personal consideration because,
although Mr. Secretary Randolph has acted as to him seemed best, you
have friends who, to be frank with you, feel desirous that I should be
informed by you in person of what took place. I am willing to oblige
them. You are, it seems, unfortunate. There are two serious charges, an
assault and--pardon me--the seizure of a despatch. May I be allowed to
ask you certain questions?"

"I shall be highly honored, sir."

"This, I am given to understand, was a personal quarrel."

"Yes, your Excellency."

"What the law may say of the matter, I do not know. What concerns us
most is the despatch. In what I say I desire, sir, to be considered open
to correction. When, as I am told, you followed Mr. Carteaux, intending
a very irregular duel, did you know that he carried a despatch?"

"I did not until Mr. Schmidt found it. Then the man was cared for, and I
delivered his papers to their destination."

"I regret, sir, to hear that of this you have no proof. Here your word
suffices. Outside of these walls it has been questioned."

"I have no proof,--none of any value,--nor can I ever hope to prove that
I did what my own honor and my duty to the administration required."

Hamilton listened intently while the aging, tired face of the President
for a moment seemed lost in reflection. Then the large, blue eyes were
lifted as he said, "At present this matter seems hopeless, sir, but time
answers many questions." Upon this he turned to Hamilton. "There are two
persons involved. Who, sir, is this Mr. Schmidt? I am told that he has
left the country; in fact, has fled."

For a moment Hamilton was embarrassed. "I can vouch for him as my
friend. He was called to Germany on a matter of moment. At present I am
not at liberty to reply to you more fully. He is sure to return, and
then I may,--indeed, I am sure, will be more free to answer you
frankly.

"But if so, what value will his evidence have? None, I conceive, as
affecting the loss of the despatch. If that charge were disproved, the
political aspect of the matter would become unimportant. The affair, so
far as the duel is concerned, would become less serious."

"It seems so to me," said Hamilton. "The Democrats are making the most
of it, and the English Federalists are doing harm by praising my young
friend for what he did not do and never would have done. They were mad
enough in New York to propose a dinner to the vicomte."

The President rose. "I do not think it advisable, Mr. Hamilton, to
pursue this matter further at present; nor, sir, do I apprehend that any
good can result for this gentleman from my willingness to gratify your
wish that I should see him."

"We shall detain your Excellency no longer."

The President was never fully at ease when speaking, and owing to a
certain deliberateness in speech, was thought to be dull when in company
and, perhaps through consciousness of a difficulty in expression, was
given to silence, a disposition fostered, no doubt, by the statesman's
long disciplined need for reticence.

After Hamilton had accepted the President's rising as a signal of their
audience being over, René, seeing that the general did not at once move
toward the door, waited for Hamilton. The ex-Secretary, however, knew
well the ways of his friend and stood still, aware that the President
was slowly considering what further he desired to say.

The pause was strange to De Courval as he stood intently watching the
tall figure in black velvet, and the large features on which years of
war and uneasy peace had left their mark.

Then with more than his usual animation, the President came nearer to De
Courval: "I have myself, sir, often had to bide on time for full
justification of my actions. While you are in pursuit of means to deal
with the suspicions arising, permit me to say, from your own imprudence
you will have to bear in silence what men say of you. I regret, to
conclude, that I cannot interfere in this matter. I discover it to be
more agreeable to say to you that personally I entirely believe you. But
this you must consider as spoken 'under the rose'"--a favorite
expression. De Courval flushed with joy, and could say no more than: "I
thank you. You have helped me to wait."

The general bowed, and at the door, as they were passing out, said: "I
shall hope to see you again in the service, and you must not think of
retiring permanently from the work which you have done so well. I remind
myself that I have not yet thanked you for your report. It has greatly
relieved my mind." On this he put out his hand, over which René bowed in
silent gratitude, and with a last look at the weary face of the man
whose life had been one long sacrifice to duty, he went away, feeling
the strengthening influence of a great example.

As they reached the street, René said, "How just he is, and how clear!"

"Yes. A slowly acting mind, but sure--and in battle, in danger, swift,
decisive, and reckless of peril. Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, I am. I shall be, even though this matter is never cleared up."

"It will be. He said so, and I have long since learned to trust his
foresight. In all my long experience of the man, I have scarcely ever
heard him speak at such length. You may live to see many men in high
places; you will never see a greater than George Washington. I know him
as few know him."

He was silent for a moment, and then added, "When I was young and hasty,
and thought more of Alexander Hamilton than I do to-day, he forgave me
an outburst of youthful impertinence which would have made a vainer man
desire to see no more of me." De Courval, a less quick-tempered
character, wondered that any one should have taken a liberty with the
man they had just left.

"But now I must leave you," said Hamilton. "If Schmidt returns, he will
land in New York, and I shall come hither with him. Have you seen the
new paper, the 'Aurora'? Mr. Bache has taken up the task Freneau
dropped--of abusing the President."

"No, I have not seen it. I suppose now it is the English treaty. It will
interest me no longer."

"Oh, for a time, for a time. Between us, the President has sent it to
the Senate. It will leak out. He will sign it with a reservation as
concerns the English claim to seize provisions meant for French ports.
Do not speak of it. Randolph is striving to strengthen the President's
scruples with regard to a not altogether satisfactory treaty, but, on
the whole, the best we can get. It will be signed and will be of great
service. Keep this to yourself, and good-by. Randolph is too French for
me. I may have said to you once that if we had a navy, it is not peace
that the President would desire."

De Courval hastened home to pour into the ear of Margaret so much of his
interview as he felt free to speak of.

"My mother," she said, "would speak to thee of me, René." But he asked
that she would wait, and his sense of satisfaction soon gave place, as
was natural, to a return of depression, which for a time left him only
when in the company of Margaret. Her mother, usually so calm, did most
uneasily wait while the days went by, but made no effort to interfere
with the lovers.

On the 9th of August, at evening, Margaret and René were seated in the
garden when of a sudden René leaped up with a cry of joyous welcome, as
he saw Schmidt, large, bronzed and laughing, on the porch.

"_Du Guter Himmel!_" he cried, "but I am content to be here. I have good
news for you. _Ach_, let me sit down. Now listen. But first, is it all
right, children!"

"May I tell him in my way, René?"

"Yes, of course; but what is your way?"

"This is my way," said Margaret, and bending over, as the German sat on
the grass at her feet, she kissed him, saying, "as yet no one knows."

"I am answered, Pearl, and now listen. This morning I met Mr. Randolph
and Mr. Hamilton with the President. That was best before seeing you.
Mr. Randolph was silent while I told the general plainly the story of
your duel. _Ach_, but he has the trick of silence! A good one, too. When
I had ended, he said, 'I am to be pardoned, sir, if I ask who in turn
will vouch for you as a witness?'"

"Then I said, 'With my apologies to these gentlemen, may I be allowed a
brief interview alone with your Excellency, or, rather, may I ask also
for Mr. Hamilton to be present?' 'With your permission, Mr. Randolph,'
the President said, and showed us into a small side room. There I told
him."

"Told him what?" asked Margaret.

"Your husband may tell you, my dear, when you are married. I may as well
permit it, whether I like it or not. You would get it out of him."

"I should," she said; "but--it is dreadful to have to wait."

"On our return, his Excellency said, 'Mr. Randolph, I am satisfied as
regards the correctness of the Vicomte de Courval's account of Mr.
Carteaux's treachery and of the vicomte's ignorance of his errand. Mr.
Gouverneur sends me by Mr. Schmidt a letter concerning the despatch.'

"Then Randolph asked quietly: 'Did he see it, sir?'

"'He knows that the vicomte delivered a packet of papers to the _Jean
Bart_.'

"'And without receipt for them or other evidence?'

"'Yes. It so seems.'

"'Then I regret to say that all we have heard appears to me, sir, to
leave the matter where it was.'

"'Not quite. Mr. Fauchet is out of office and about to go home.
Carteaux, as Mr. Hamilton can tell you, refused to be questioned, and
has sailed for France. Adet, the new minister, will not urge the matter.
You must pardon me, but, as it appears to me, an injustice has been
done.'

"Randolph said testily: 'It is by no means clear to me, and until we
hear of that despatch, it never will be.'

"This smileless old man said, 'I am not free to speak of what Mr.
Schmidt has confided to me, but it satisfies me fully.' Then he waited
to hear what Randolph would say."

"And he?" said René, impatient.

"Oh, naturally enough he was puzzled and I thought annoyed, but said, 'I
presume, Mr. President, it is meant that I ought to offer this young man
the position he forfeited?'

"'That, sir,' said the President, 'is for you to decide.'

"Then Mr. Hamilton, who can be as foxy as Jefferson, said in a careless
way, 'I think I should wait a little.'

"The moment he said that, I knew what would happen. Randolph said,
'Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, I prefer to conduct the affairs of my
department without aid.' They love not one another, these two. 'I am of
the President's opinion. I shall write to the Vicomte de Courval.'

"Mr. Hamilton did seem to me to amuse himself. He smiled a little and
said: 'A pity to be in such a hurry. Time will make it all clearer.'
Randolph made no reply. You will hear from him to-morrow."

"I shall not accept," said René.

"Yes, you must. It is a full answer to all criticism, and after what the
President has said, you cannot refuse."

"Mr. Schmidt is right, René," said Margaret. "Thou must take the place."

"Good, wise little counselor!" said the German. "He will write you a
courteous note, René. He has had, as Hamilton says, enough differences
with the chief to make him willing to oblige him in a minor matter. You
must take it."

At last, it being so agreed, Schmidt went in to see Mrs. Swanwick and to
relieve her as concerned a part, at least, of her troubles. The rest he
would talk about later.

Even the vicomtesse was so good as to be pleased, and the evening meal
was more gay than usual.

The next morning René received the following note:

DEAR SIR: My opinion in regard to the matter under discussion of
late having been modified somewhat, and the President favoring my
action, it gives me pleasure to offer you the chance to return to
the office.

I have the honor to be,

Your obedient friend and servant,

EDMUND RANDOLPH.

Schmidt laughed as he read it. "He does not like it. The dose is bitter.
He thinks you will say no. But you will write simply, and accept with
pleasure."

"Yes, I see. I shall do as you say." He sent a simple note of
acceptance. A visit to the office of state settled the matter, and on
the day but one after receipt of the letter, René was well pleased to be
once more at his desk and busy.

Meanwhile Schmidt had been occupied with long letters to Germany and his
affairs in the city, but in the evening of the 12th of August, they
found time for one of their old talks.

"This matter of yours, and in fact of mine, René, does not fully satisfy
me. I still hear much about it, and always of that infernal despatch."

"It does not satisfy me, sir."

"Well, it seems to me that it will have to. Long ago that despatch must
be in Paris; but Mr. Monroe, our minister, could learn nothing about it.
And so you two young folks have arranged your affairs. I can tell you
that Miss Gainor will be sorry to have had no hand in this business, and
Uncle Josiah, too."

"That is droll enough. I am glad to have pleased somebody. We have
thought it better not as yet to speak of it."

"Have you told your mother, René? You may be sure that she will know, or
guess at the truth, and resent being left in the dark."

"That is true; but you may very well imagine that I dread what she will
say of Margaret. We have never had a serious difference, and now it is
to come. I shall talk to her to-morrow."

"No, now. Get it over, sir. Get it over. I must go home again soon, and
I want to see you married. Go now at once and get it over."

"I suppose that will be as well."

He went slowly up the winding staircase which was so remarkable a
feature of the finer Georgian houses. Suddenly he was aware in the
darkness of Margaret on the landing above him.

"Don't stop me," she said.

"What is wrong!" he asked.

"Everything. I told thee thy mother would know. She sent for me. I went.
She was cruel--cruel--hard."

"What, dear, did she say?"

"I shall not tell thee. She insulted me and my mother. Ah, but she
said--no, I shall not tell thee, nor mother. She sent for me, and I
went. I had to tell her. Oh, I said that--that--I told her--I do not
know what I told her." She was on the edge of her first almost
uncontrollable loss of self-government. It alarmed her pride, and at
once becoming calm, she added, "I told her that it was useless to talk
to me, to say that it must end, that thou wouldst obey her. I--I just
laughed; yes, I did. And I told her she did not yet know her own
son--and--that some day she would regret what she had said to me, and,
René, of my mother. I do not care--"

"But I care, Margaret. I was this moment on my way to tell her."

"Let me pass. I hope thou art worth what I have endured for thy sake.
Let me pass." He went by her, troubled and aware that he too needed to
keep himself in hand. When he entered his mother's room he found her
seated by the feeble candle-light, a rose of the never-finished
embroidery growing under her thin, skilful fingers.

For her a disagreeable matter had been decisively dealt with and put
aside; no trace of emotion betrayed her self-satisfaction at having
finally settled an unpleasant but necessary business.

In the sweet, low voice which seemed so out of relation to her severity
of aspect, she said: "Sit down. I have been left to learn from the young
woman of this entanglement. I should have heard it from you, or never
have had to hear it at all."

"Mother, I have been in very great trouble of late. That my disaster did
trouble you so little has been painful to me. But this is far worse. I
waited to feel at ease about the other affair before I spoke to you of
my intention to marry Miss Swanwick. I was on my way just now when I met
her on the stair. I desire to say, mother--"

She broke in: "It is useless to discuss this absurd business. It is
over. I have said so to the young woman. That ends it. Now kiss me. I
wish to go to bed."

"No," he said; "this does not end it."

"Indeed, we shall see--a quite ordinary Quaker girl and a designing
mother. It is all clear enough. Neither of you with any means, not a
louis of dot--a nice wife to take home. Oh, I have expressed myself
fully, and it was needed. She presumed to contradict me. _Ciel!_ I had
to be plain."

"So it seems; but as I count for something, I beg leave to say,
_maman_, that I mean to marry Margaret Swanwick."

"You, the Vicomte de Courval!"

He laughed bitterly. "What are titles here, or in France, to-day? There
are a dozen starving nobles in this city, exiles and homeless. As to
money, I have charge of Mr. Schmidt's affairs, and shall have. I am not
without business capacity."

"Business!" she exclaimed.

"Well, no matter, mother. I pray you to be reasonable, and to remember
what these people have done for us: in health no end of kindness; in
sickness--mother, I owe to them my life."

"They were paid, I presume."

"_Mon Dieu_, mother! how can you say such things? It is incredible."

"René, do you really mean to disobey me?"

"I hope not to have to do so."

"If you persist, you will have to. I shall never consent, never."

"Then, mother,--and you force me to say it,--whether you agree to it or
not, I marry Margaret. You were hard to her and cruel."

"No; I was only just and wise."

"I do not see it; but rest assured that neither man nor woman shall part
us. Oh, I have too much of you in me to be controlled in a matter where
both love and honor are concerned."

"Then you mean to make this _mésalliance_ against my will."

"I mean, and that soon, to marry the woman I think worthy of any man's
love and respect."

"She is as bad as you--two obstinate fools! I am sorry for your
children."

"Mother!"

"Well, and what now?"

"It is useless to resist. It will do no good. It only hurts me. Did your
people want you to marry Jean de Courval, my father?"

"No."

"You did. Was it a _mésalliance?_"

"They said so."

"You set me a good example. I shall do as you did, if, after this, her
pride does not come in the way."

"Her pride, indeed! Will it be to-morrow, the marriage?"

"Ah, dear mother, why will you hurt me so?"

"I know you as if it were myself. I take the lesser of two evils." And
to his amazement, she said, "Send the girl up to me."

"If she will come."

"Come? Of course she will come." He shook his head and left her, but
before he was out of the room, her busy hands were again on the
embroidery-frame.

"No, I will not go," said Margaret when he delivered his message.

"For my sake, dear," said René, and at last, reluctant and still angry,
Margaret went up-stairs.

"Come in," said madame; "you have kept me waiting." The girl stood still
at the open door.

"Do not stand there, child. Come here and sit down."

"No," said Margaret, "I shall stand."

"As you please, Mademoiselle. My son has made up his mind to an act of
folly. I yield because I must. He is obstinate, as you will some day
discover to your cost. I cannot say I am satisfied, but as you are to be
my daughter, I shall say no more. You may kiss me. I shall feel better
about it in a few years, perhaps."

Never, I suppose, was Margaret's power of self-command more sorely
tried. She bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the
embroidery, and kissed it, saying, "Thou art René's mother, Madame,"
and, turning, left the room.

René was impatiently walking in the hall when Margaret came down the
stair from this brief interview. She was flushed and still had in her
eyes the light of battle. "I have done as you desired. I cannot talk any
more. I have had all I can stand. No, I shall not kiss thee. My kisses
are spoilt for to-night." Then she laughed as she went up the broad
stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: "There will be two for
to-morrow. They will keep. Good night."

The vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had
the worst of the skirmish.

"I hate it. I hate it," she said, "but that was well done of the maid.
Where did she get her fine ways?" She was aware, as René had said in
some wrath, that she could not insult these kind people and continue to
eat their bread. The dark lady with the wan, ascetic face, as of a saint
of many fasts, could abide poverty and accept bad diet, but nevertheless
did like very well the things which make life pleasant, and had been
more than comfortable amid the good fare and faultless cleanliness of
the Quaker house.

She quite well understood that the matter could not remain in the
position in which she had left it. She had given up too easily; but now
she must take the consequences. Therefore it was that the next day after
breakfast she said to Margaret, "I desire to talk to you a little."

"Certainly, Madame. Will the withdrawing-room answer?"

"Yes, here or there." Margaret closed the door as she followed the
vicomtesse, and after the manner of her day stood while the elder woman
sat very upright in the high-backed chair prophetically designed for her
figure and the occasion.

"Pray be seated," she said. "I have had a white night, Mademoiselle, if
you know what that is. I have been sleepless." If this filled Margaret
with pity, I much doubt. "I have had to elect whether I quarrel with my
son or with myself. I choose the latter, and shall say no more than
this--I am too straightforward to avoid meeting face to face the
hardships of life."

"Bless me, am I the hardship?" thought Margaret, her attitude of defiant
pride somewhat modified by assistant sense of the comic.

"I shall say only this: I have always liked you. Whether I shall ever
love you or not, I do not know. I have never had room in my heart for
more than one love. God has so made me," which the young woman thought
did comfortably and oddly shift responsibility, and thus further aided
to restore her good humor.

"We shall be friends, Margaret." She rose as she spoke, and setting her
hands on Margaret's shoulders as she too stood, said: "You are
beautiful, child, and you have very good manners. There are things to be
desired, the want of which I much regret; otherwise--" She felt as if
she had gone far enough. "Were these otherwise, I should have been
satisfied." Then she kissed her coldly on the forehead.

Margaret said, "I shall try, Madame, to be a good daughter," and,
falling back, courtesied, and left the tall woman to her meditations.

Madame de Courval and Mary Swanwick knew that soon or late what their
children had settled they too must discuss. Neither woman desired it,
the vicomtesse aware that she might say more than she meant to say, the
Quaker matron in equal dread lest things might be said which would make
the future difficult. Mary Swanwick usually went with high courage to
meet the calamities of life, and just at present it is to be feared that
she thus classified the stern puritan dame. But now she would wait no
longer, and having so decided on Saturday, she chose Sunday morning,
when--and she smiled--the vicomtesse having been to Gloria Dei and she
herself to Friends' meeting, both should be in a frame of mind for what
she felt might prove a trial of good temper.

Accordingly, having heard the gentle Friend Howell discourse, and bent
in silent prayer for patience and charity, she came home and waited
until from the window of Schmidt's room she saw the tall, black figure
approach.

She went out to the hall and let in Madame de Courval, saying: "I have
waited for thee. Wilt thou come into the withdrawing-room? I have that
to say which may no longer be delayed."

"I myself had meant to talk with you of this unfortunate matter. It is
as well to have it over." So saying she followed her hostess. Both women
sat upright in the high-backed chairs, the neat, gray-clad Quaker lady,
tranquil and rosy; the black figure of the Huguenot dame, sallow, with
grave, unmoved features, a strange contrast.

"I shall be pleased to hear you, Madame Swanwick."

"It is simple. I have long seen that there was a growth of attachment
between our children. I did not--I do not approve it."

"Indeed," said Madame de Courval, haughtily. What was this woman to sit
in judgment on the Vicomte de Courval?

"I have done my best to keep them apart. I spoke to Margaret, and sent
her away again and again as thou knowest. It has been in vain, and now
having learned that thou hast accepted a condition of things we do
neither of us like, I have thought it well to have speech of thee."

"I do not like it, and I never shall. I have, however, yielded a
reluctant consent. I cannot quarrel with my only child; but I shall
never like it--never."

"Never is a long day."

"I am not of those who change. There is no fitness in it, none. My son
is of a class far above her. They are both poor." A sharp reply to the
reference to social distinctions was on Mary Swanwick's tongue. She
resisted the temptation, and said quietly:

"Margaret will not always be without means; my uncle will give her, on
his death, all he has; and as to class, Madame, the good Master to whom
we prayed this morning, must--"

"It is not a matter for discussion," broke in the elder woman.

"No; I agree with thee. It is not, but--were it not as well that two
Christian gentlewomen should accept the inevitable without reserve and
not make their children unhappy?"

"Gentlewomen!"

Mary Swanwick reddened. "I said so. We, too, are not without the pride
of race you value. A poor business, but,"--and she looked straight at
the vicomtesse, unable to resist the temptation to retort--"we are not
given to making much of it in speech."

Madame de Courval had at times entertained Margaret with some of the
grim annals of her father's people. Now, feeling the thrust, and not
liking it, or that she had lost her temper, she shifted her ground, and
being at heart what her hostess described as a gentlewoman, said
stiffly: "I beg pardon; I spoke without thought." At this moment
Margaret entered, and seeing the signals of discomposure on both faces,
said: "Oh, you two dear people whom I love and want to love more and
more, you are talking of me and of René. Shall I give him up, Madame,
and send him about his business."

"Do, dear," laughed her mother, relieved.

There was no mirth to be had out of it for Yvonne de Courval.

"It is not a matter for jesting," she said. "He is quite too like me to
be other than obstinate, and this, like what else of the trials God has
seen fit to send, is to be endured. He is too like me to change."

"Then," said Margaret, gaily, "thou must be like him."

"I suppose so," said the vicomtesse, with a note of melancholy in her
tones.

"Then if thou art like him, thou wilt have to love me," cried Margaret.
The mother smiled at this pretty logic, but the Huguenot dame sat up on
her chair, resentful of the affectionate familiarity of the girl's
gaiety.

"Your mother and I have talked, and what use is it? I shall try to care
for you, and love may come. But I could have wished--"

"Oh, no!" cried Margaret. "Please to say no more. Thou will only hurt
me."

"I remain of the same opinion; I am not of a nature which allows me to
change without reason."

"And as for me," said Mrs. Swanwick, smiling as she rose, "I yield when
I must."

"I, too," said the dark lady; "but to yield outwardly is not to give up
my opinions, nor is it easy or agreeable to do so. We will speak of it
another time, Madame Swanwick." But they never did, and so this
interview ended with no very good result, except to make both women feel
that further talk would be of no use, and that the matter was settled.

As the two mothers rose, Miss Gainor entered, large, smiling, fresh from
Christ Church. Quick to observe, she saw that something unusual had
occurred, and hesitated between curiosity and the reserve which good
manners exacted.

"Good morning," she said. "I heard that Mr. Schmidt had come back, and
so I came at once from church to get all the news from Europe for the
Penns, where I go to dine."

"Europe is unimportant," cried Margaret, disregarding a warning look
from her mother. "I am engaged to be married to Monsieur de
Courval--and--everybody--is pleased. Dear Aunt Gainor, I like it
myself."

"I at least am to be excepted," said the vicomtesse, "as Mademoiselle
knows. I beg at present to be saved further discussion. May I be
excused--"

"It seems, Madame," returned Miss Wynne, smiling, "to have got past the
need for discussion. I congratulate you with all my heart."

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the vicomtesse, forgetful of her Huguenot
training, and swept by Miss Gainor's most formal courtesy and was gone.

"Dear child," cried Mistress Wynne, as she caught Margaret in her arms,
"I am glad as never before. The vicomte has gone back to the service
and--you are to marry--oh, the man of my choice. The poor vicomtesse,
alas! Where is the vicomte?"

"He is out just now. We did mean to tell thee this evening."

"Ah! I am glad it came earlier, this good news. May I tell them at the
governor's?"

"I may as well say yes," cried Margaret. "Thou wouldst be sure to tell."

"I should," said Gainor.

XXVII

Both mothers had accepted a situation which neither entirely liked; but
the atmosphere was cleared, and the people most concerned were well
satisfied and happy. Miss Gainor joyously distributed the news. Gay
cousins called, and again the late summer afternoons saw in the garden
many friends who had sturdily stood by De Courval in his day of
discredit.

If Randolph was cool to him, others were not, and the office work and
the treaty were interesting, while in France affairs were better, and
the reign of blood had passed and gone.

The warm days of August went by, and De Courval's boat drifted on the
river at evening, where he lay and talked to Margaret, or listened, a
well-contented man. There were parties in the country, dinners with the
Peters at Belmont, or at historic Cliveden. Schmidt, more grave than
usual, avoided these festivities, and gave himself to lonely rides, or
to long evenings on the river when De Courval was absent or otherwise
occupied, as was commonly the case.

When late one afternoon he said to René, "I want you to lend me Margaret
for an hour," she cried, laughing, "Indeed, I lend myself; and I make my
lord vicomte obey, as is fitting before marriage. I have not yet
promised to obey after it, and I am at thy service, Friend Schmidt."

René laughed and said, "I am not left much choice," whereupon Schmidt
and Margaret went down to the shore, and soon their boat lay quiet far
out on the river.

"They are talking," said the young lover. "I wonder what about."

In fact they had not exchanged even the small current coin of
conventional talk; both were silent until Schmidt laid down his oars,
and the boat silently drifted upward with the tide. It was the woman who
spoke first.

"Ah, what a true friend thou hast been!"

"Yes, I have that way a talent. Why did you bring me out here to flatter
me?"

"I did think it was thou proposed it; but I do wish to talk with thee.
My mother is not well pleased because the other mother is ill pleased. I
do want every one I love to feel that all is well with René and me, and
that the love I give is good for him."

"It is well for you and for him, my child, and as for that grim fortress
of a woman, she will live to be jealous of your mother and of René. An
east wind of a woman. She will come at last to love you, Pearl."

"Ah, dost thou really think so?"

"Yes."

"And thou art pleased. We thought thou wert grave of late and less--less
gay."

"I am more than pleased, Margaret. I am not sad, but only grieved over
the coming loss out of my life of simple days and those I love, because
soon, very soon, I go away to a life of courts and idle ceremonies, and
perhaps of strife and war."

For a moment or two neither spoke. The fading light seemed somehow to
the girl to fit her sense of the gravity of this announcement of a vast
loss out of life. Her eyes filled as she looked up.

"Oh, why dost thou go? Is not love and reverence and hearts that thank
thee--oh, are not these enough? Why dost thou go?"

"You, dear, who know me will understand when I answer with one
word--duty."

"I am answered," she said, but the tears ran down her cheeks.

"René will some day tell you more, indeed, all; and you will know why I
must leave you." Then, saying no more, he took up the oars and pulled
into the shore. René drew up the boat.

"Will you go out with me now, Margaret?"

"Not this evening, René," she said, and went slowly up to the house.

On one of these later August days, Mr. Hammond, the English minister, at
his house in the country was pleased, being about to return home, to ask
the company of Mr. Wolcott of the Treasury. There were no other guests,
and after dinner the minister, to add zest to his dessert, handed to
Wolcott the now famous intercepted Despatch No. 10, sent back by Lord
Grenville after its capture, to make still further mischief. Having been
told the story of the wanderings of this fateful document, the Secretary
read it with amazement, and understood at once that it was meant by
Hammond to injure Randolph, whose dislike of the Jay treaty and what it
yielded to England was well known in London. Much disturbed by what he
gathered, Wolcott took away the long document, agreeing to give a
certified copy to Hammond, who, having been recalled, was well pleased
to wing this Parthian arrow.

The next day Wolcott showed it to his colleagues, Pickering and the
Attorney-General. As it seemed to them serious, they sent an urgent
message to the President, which brought back the weary man from his rest
at Mount Vernon. On his return, the President, despite Randolph's desire
for further delay, called a cabinet meeting, and with a strong
remonstrance against the provision clause which yielded the hated rights
of search, decided to ratify the treaty with England.

The next day he was shown the long-lost, intercepted Despatch No. 10.

Greatly disturbed, he waited for several days, and then again called
together his advisers, naming for Randolph a half-hour later.

On this, the 19th of August, De Courval, being at his desk, was asked to
see an express rider who had come with a report of Indian outrages on
the frontier. The Secretary of State having gone, as he learned, to a
cabinet meeting, De Courval made haste to find him, being well aware of
the grave import of the news thus brought. Arriving at the house of the
President, he was shown as usual into the drawing-room, and sat down to
wait among a gay party of little ones who were practising the minuet
with the young Custis children under the tuition of a sad-looking, old
_émigré_ gentleman. The small ladies courtesied to the new-comer, the
marquis bowed. The violin began again, and René sat still, amused.

Meanwhile in the room on the farther side of the hall, Washington
discussed with Pickering and Oliver Wolcott the fateful, intercepted
despatch. A little later Randolph entered the hall, and desiring De
Courval to wait with his papers, joined the cabinet meeting.

As he entered, the President rose and said, "Mr. Randolph, a matter has
been brought to my knowledge in which you are deeply concerned." He
spoke with great formality, and handing him Fauchet's despatch, added,
"Here is a letter which I desire you to read and make such explanation
in regard to it as you choose."

Randolph, amazed, ran his eye over the long report of Fauchet to his
home office, the other secretaries watching him in silence. He flushed
with sudden anger as he read on, while no one spoke, and the President
walked up and down the room. This is what the Secretary of State saw in
Fauchet's despatch:

Mr. Randolph came to see me with an air of great eagerness just
before the proclamation was made in regard to the excise
insurrection, and made to me overtures of which I have given you
an account in my despatches No. 6 and No. 3. Thus with some
thousands of dollars the French Republic could have decided on
war or peace. Thus the consciences of the pretended patriots of
America have already their prices [_tarif_].

Then followed abuse of Hamilton and warm praise of Jefferson and
Madison.

"The despatches No. 6 and No. 3 are not here," said the Secretary. Again
he read on. Then at last, looking up, he said, "If I may be permitted to
retain this letter a short time, I shall be able to answer everything in
it in a satisfactory manner." He made no denial of its charges.

The President said: "Very well. You may wish at present, sir, to step
into the back room and further consider the matter." He desired to do
so, the President saying that he himself wished meanwhile to talk of it
with his other advisers. Mr. Randolph, assenting, retired, and in half
an hour returned. What passed in this interval between the chief and his
secretaries no one knows, nor what went on in the mind of Washington.
Mr. Randolph finally left the meeting, saying, "Your Excellency will
hear from me." As he was passing the door of the parlor De Courval came
forward to meet him and said, "These papers are of moment, sir. They
have just come." The violin ceased, the marquis bowed. The Secretary
saluted the small dames and said hastily: "I cannot consider these
papers at present. I must go. Give them to the President." Upon this he
went away, leaving De Courval surprised at the agitation of his manner.

In a few moments Mr. Wolcott also came out, leaving the office door
open. Meanwhile De Courval waited, as he had been desired to do, until
the President should be disengaged.

The violin went on, the small figures, as he watched them, moved in the
slow measures of the dance. Then during a pause one little dame
courtesied to him, and the old violinist asked would Monsieur le Vicomte
walk a minuet with Miss Langdon. De Courval, rising, bowed to the
anticipative partner, and said, "No; the President may want me." And
again the low notes of the violin set the small puppets in motion. Of a
sudden, heard through the open door across the hall, came a voice
resonant with anger. It was Washington who spoke. "Why, Colonel
Pickering, did he say nothing of moment? He was my friend Peyton
Randolph's nephew and adopted son, my aide, my Secretary. I made him
Attorney-General, Secretary of State. I would have listened, sir. Never
before have I allowed friendship to influence me in an appointment." The
voice fell; he heard no more, but through it all the notes of the violin
went on, a strange accompaniment, while the children moved in the
ceremonious measures of the minuet, and René crossed the room to escape
from what he was not meant to hear. A full half hour went by while De
Courval sat amazed at the words he had overheard. At last the Secretary
of War, entering the hall, passed out of the house.

Then De Courval asked a servant in the gray and red of the Washington
livery to take the papers to the President. Hearing him, Washington,
coming to the door, said: "Come in, sir. I will see you." The face De
Courval saw had regained its usual serenity. "Pray be seated." He took
the papers and deliberately considered them. "Yes, they are of
importance. You did well to wait. I thank you." Then smiling kindly he
said, "Here has been a matter which concerns you. The despatch you were
charged with taking was captured at sea by an English frigate and sent
to us by Mr. Hammond, the British minister. It has been nine months on
the way. I never, sir, had the least doubt of your honor, and permit me
now to express my pleasure. At present this affair of the despatch must
remain a secret. It will not be so very long. Permit me also to
congratulate you on your new tie to this country. Mistress Wynne has
told Mrs. Washington of it. Will you do me the honor to dine with us at
four to-morrow? At four."

Coming out of the room with De Courval, he paused in the hall, having
said his gracious words. The violin ceased. The little ladies in
brocades and slippers came to the drawing-room door, a pretty dozen or
so, Miss Langdon, Miss Biddle, Miss Morris, and the Custis children.
They courtesied low, waiting expectant. Like most shy men, Washington
was most at ease with children, loving what fate had denied him. He was
now and then pleased, as they knew, to walk with one of them the slow
measure of the minuet, and then to lift up and kiss his small partner in
the dance. Now looking down on them from his great height he said: "No,"
with a sad smile at their respectful appeal--"no, not to-day, children.
Not to-day. Good-by, Vicomte." As the servant held the door open, René
looked back and saw the tall figure, the wreck of former vigor, go
wearily up the broad staircase.

[Illustration: "'Not to-day, children, not to-day'"]

"What has so troubled him?" thought De Courval. "What is this that
Edmund Randolph has done?" Standing on the outer step and taking off his
hat, he murmured, "My God, I thank thee!" He heard faintly through the
open window as he walked away the final notes of the violin and the
laughter of childhood as the lesson ended.

It was only a little way, some three blocks, from the house of the
President to the State Department, where, at 287 High Street, half a
dozen clerks now made up the slender staff. De Courval walked slowly to
the office, and setting his business in order, got leave from his
immediate superior to be absent the rest of the day.

As he went out, Mr. Randolph passed in. De Courval raised his hat, and
said, "Good morning, sir." The Secretary turned back. In his hour of
humiliation and evident distress his natural courtesy did not desert
him.

"Monsieur," he said in ready French, "the despatch which you sent on its
way has returned. I desire to ask you to forget the injustice I did
you." He was about to add, "My time to suffer has come." He refrained.

"I thank you," said De Courval; "you could hardly have done otherwise
than you did." The two men bowed, and parted to meet no more. "What does
it all mean?" thought the young man. Thus set free, he would at once
have gone home to tell of the end of the troubles this wandering paper
had made for him. But Margaret was at Merion for the day, and others
might wait. He wished for an hour to be alone, and felt as he walked
eastward the exaltation which was natural to a man sensitive as to the
slightest reflection on his honor. Thus surely set at ease, with the
slow pace of the thoughtful, he moved along what we now call Market
Street. Already at this time it had its country carts and wide market
sheds, where Schmidt liked to come, pleased with the colors of the fruit
and vegetables. René heard again with a smile the street-cries,
"Calamus! sweet calamus!" and "Peaches ripe! ripe!" as on his first sad
day in the city.

Aimlessly wandering, he turned northward into Mulberry Street, with its
Doric portals, and seeing the many Friends coming out of their
meeting-house, was reminded that it was Wednesday. "I should like," he
thought, "to have said my thanks with them." Moving westward at Delaware
Fifth Street, he entered the burial-ground of Christ Church, and for a
while in serious mood read what the living had said of the dead.

"Well, René," said Schmidt, behind him, "which are to be preferred,
those underneath or those above ground?"

"I do not know. You startled me. To-day, for me, those above ground."

"When a man has had both experiences he may be able to answer--or not. I
once told you I liked to come here. This is my last call upon these
dead, some of whom I loved. What fetched you hither?"

"Oh, I was lightly wandering with good news," and he told him of the
lost Despatch No. 10, and that it was to be for the time a secret.

"At last!" said Schmidt. "I knew it would come. The world may
congratulate you. I am not altogether grieved that you have been through
this trial. I, too, have my news. Edmund Randolph has resigned within an
hour or so. Mr. Wolcott has just heard it from the President. Oh, the
wild confusion of things! If you had not sent that despatch on its way,
Randolph would not have fallen. A fatal paper. Let us go home, René."

"But how, sir, does it concern Mr. Randolph?"

"Pickering has talked of it to Bingham, whom I have seen just now, and I
am under the impression that Fauchet's despatch charged Randolph with
asking for money. It was rather vague, as I heard it."

"I do not believe it," said René.

"A queer story," said Schmidt. "A wild Jacobin's despatch ruins his
Secretary for life, disgraces for a time an _émigré_ noble, turns out a
cabinet minister--what fancy could have invented a stranger tale? Come,
let us leave these untroubled dead."

Not until December of that year, 1795, did Randolph's pamphlet, known as
his "Vindication," appear. This miserable business concerns us here
solely as it affected the lives of my characters. It has excited much
controversy, and even to this day, despite Fauchet's explanations to
Randolph and the knowledge we now have of the papers mentioned as No. 3
and No. 6, it remains in a condition to puzzle the most astute
historian. Certainly few things in diplomatic annals are more
interesting than the adventures of Despatch No. 10. The verdict of "not
proven" has been the conclusion reached by some writers, while despite
Randolph's failure to deny the charges at once, as he did later, it is
possible that Fauchet misunderstood him or lied, although why he should
have done so is difficult to comprehend.

The despatch, as we have seen, affected more persons than the
unfortunate Secretary. Dr. Chovet left the city in haste when he heard
of Schmidt's return, and Aunt Gainor lamented as among the not minor
consequences the demise of her two gods and the blue china mandarin. She
was in some degree comforted by the difficult business of Margaret's
marriage outfit, for Schmidt, overjoyed at the complete justification of
De Courval, insisted that there must be no delay, since he himself was
obliged to return to Germany in October.

Mrs. Swanwick would as usual accept no money help, and the preparations
should be simple, she said, nor was it a day of vulgar extravagance in
bridal presents. Margaret, willing enough to delay, and happy in the
present, was slowly making her way to what heart there was in the
Huguenot dame. Margaret at her joyous best was hard to resist, and now
made love to the vicomtesse, and, ingenuously ready to serve, wooed her
well and wisely in the interest of peace.

What Madame de Courval most liked about Margaret was a voice as low and
as melodious in its changes as her own, so that, as Schmidt said, "It is
music, and what it says is of the lesser moment." Thus one day at
evening as they sat on the porch, Margaret murmured in the ear of the
dark lady: "I am to be married in a few days; wilt not thou make me a
little wedding gift?"

"My dear Margaret," cried René, laughing, "the jewels all went in
England, and except a son of small value, what can my mother give you?"

"But, him I have already," cried Margaret. "What I want, madame has--oh,
and to spare."

"Well, and what is it I am to give?" said madame, coldly.

"A little love," she whispered.

"Ah, do you say such things to René?"

"No, never. It is he who says them to me. Oh, I am waiting. A lapful I
want of thee," and she held up her skirts to receive the gift.

"How saucy thou art," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"It is no affair of thine, Friend Swanwick," cried the Pearl. "I wait,
Madame."

"I must borrow of my son," said the vicomtesse. "It shall be ready at
thy wedding. Thou wilt have to wait."

"Ah," said René, "we can wait. Come, let us gather some peaches,
Margaret," and as they went down the garden, he added: "My mother said
'thou' to you. Did you hear?"

"Yes, I heard. She was giving me what I asked, and would not say so."

"Yes, it was not like her," said the vicomte, well pleased.

The September days went by, and to all outward appearance Madame de
Courval accepted with no further protest what it was out of her power
to control. Uncle Josiah insisted on settling upon Margaret a modest
income, and found it the harder to do so because, except Mistress Gainor
Wynne, no one was disposed to differ with him. That lady told him it was
shabby. To which he replied that there would be the more when he died.

"Get a permanent ground-rent on your grave," said Gainor, "or never will
you lie at rest."

"It is our last ride," said Schmidt, on October the first, of this, the
last year of my story. They rode out through the busy Red City and up
the Ridge Road, along which General Green led the left wing of the army
to the fight at Germantown, and so to the Wissahickon Creek, where,
leaving their horses at an inn, they walked up the stream.

"_Ach, lieber Himmel_, this is well," said Schmidt as they sat down on a
bed of moss above the water. "Tell me," he said, "more about the
President. Oh, more; you were too brief." He insisted eagerly. "I like
him with the little ones. And, ah, that tragedy of fallen ambition and
all the while the violin music and the dance. It is said that sometimes
he is pleased to walk a minuet with one of these small maids, and then
will kiss the fortunate little partner."

"He did not that day; he told them he could not. He was sad about
Randolph."

"When they are old, they will tell of it, René." And, indeed, two of
these children lived to be great-grandmothers, and kissing their
grandchildren's children, two of whom live to-day in the Red City, bade
them remember that the lips which kissed them had often been kissed by
Washington.

"It is a good sign of a man to love these little ones," said Schmidt.
"What think you, René? Was Randolph guilty?"

"I do not think so, sir. Fauchet was a quite irresponsible person; but
what that silent old man, Washington, finally believed, I should like to
know. I fear that he thought Randolph had been anything but loyal to his
chief."

For a little while the German seemed lost in thought. Then he said: "You
will have my horses and books and the pistols and my rapier. My life
will, I hope, need them no more. I mean the weapons; but who can be sure
of that? Your own life will find a use for them, if I be not mistaken.
When I am gone, Mr. Justice Wilson will call on you, and do not let the
Pearl refuse what I shall leave for her. I have lived two lives. One of
my lives ends here in this free land. Mr. Wilson has, as it were, my
will. In Germany I shall have far more than I shall ever need. Keep my
secret. There are, there were, good reasons for it."

"It is safe with me."

"Ah, the dear life I have had here, the freedom of the wilderness, the
loves, the simple joys!" As he spoke, he gathered and let fall the
autumn leaves strewn thickly on the forest floor. "We shall meet no more
on earth, René, and I have loved you as few men love." Again he was long
silent.

"I go from these wonder woods to the autumn of a life with duties and,
alas! naught else. Sometimes I shall write to you; and, René, you will
speak of me to your children."

The younger man said little in reply. He, too, was deeply moved, and
sorrowful as never before. As they sat, Schmidt put his hand on René's
shoulder. "May the good God bless and keep you and yours through length
of honorable days! Let us go. Never before did the autumn woodlands seem
to me sad. Let us go." He cast down as he rose the last handful of the
red and gold leaves of the maple.

They walked down the creek, still beautiful to-day, and rode home in
silence amid the slow down-drift of the early days of the fall.

In the house Margaret met them joyous. "Oh, René, a letter of
congratulation to me! Think of it--to me, sir, from General Washington!
And one to thee!" These letters were to decide in far-away after days a
famous French law-suit.

* * * * *

The sun shone bright on the little party which passed among the graves
into the modest Gloria Dei, the church of the Swedes. Here were the many
kinsfolk; and Washington's secretary, Colonel Lear, Alexander Hamilton
and Gouverneur Morris, with Binghams and Morrises; Whartons and Biddles,
the forefathers of many lines of men since famous in our annals, whether
of war or peace. Women there were also. Mistress Gainor in the front pew
with Mrs. Swanwick and Lady Washington, as many called her, and the gay
Federalist dames, who smiled approval of Margaret in her radiant
loveliness.

Schmidt, grave and stately in dark velvet, gave away the bride, and the
good Swedish rector, the Reverend Nicholas Cullin, read the service of
the church.

Then at last they passed into the vestry, and, as Margaret decreed, all
must sign the marriage-certificate after the manner of Friends. De
Courval wrote his name, and the Pearl, "Margaret Swanwick," whereat
arose merriment and an erasure when, blushing, she wrote, "De Courval."
Next came Schmidt. He hesitated a moment, and then wrote "Johan Graf von
Ehrenstein," to the surprise of the curious many who followed, signing
with laughter and chatter of young tongues. Meanwhile the German
gentleman, unnoticed, passed out of the vestry, and thus out of my
story.

"What with all these signatures, it does look, Vicomte," said young Mr.
Morris, "like the famous Declaration of Independence."

"Humph!" growled Josiah Langstroth, "if thee thinks, young man, that it
is a declaration of independence, thee is very much mistaken."

"Not I," said René, laughing; and they went out to where Mistress
Gainor's landau was waiting, and so home to the mother's house.

Here was a note from Schmidt.

DEAR CHILDREN,

To say good-by is more than I will to bear. God bless you both! I
go at once.

JOHAN GRAF VON EHRENSTEIN.

There were tears in the Pearl's eyes.

"He told me he would not say good-by. And is that his real name, René?
No, it is not; I know that much."

René smiled. "Some day," he said, "I shall tell you."

In a few minutes came his honor, Mr. Justice Wilson, saying: "I feared
to be late. Madame," to Margaret, "here is a remembrance for you from
our friend."

"Oh, open it!" she cried. "Ah, if only he were here!"

There was a card. It said, "Within is my kiss of parting," and as she
stood in her bridal dress, René fastened the necklace of great pearls
about her neck, while Madame de Courval looked on in wonder at the
princely gift.

Then the Judge, taking them aside into Schmidt's room, said: "I am to
give you, Vicomte, these papers which make you for your wife the trustee
of our friend's estate, a large one, as you may know. My
congratulations, Vicomtesse."

"He told me!" said Margaret. "He told me, René." She was too moved to
say more.

In an hour, for this was not a time of wedding breakfasts, they were on
their way to Cliveden, which Chief-Justice Chew had lent for their
honeymoon.

* * * * *

So ends my story, and thus I part with these, the children of my mind.
Many of them lived, and have left their names in our history; others,
perhaps even more real to me, I dismiss with regret, to become for me,
as time runs on, but remembered phantoms of the shadow world of
fiction.

_L'envoi_

Before De Courval and his wife returned to France, the Directory had
come and gone, the greatest of soldiers had taken on the rule, and the
grave Huguenot mother had gone to her grave in Christ Church yard.

Mrs. Swanwick firmly refused to leave her country. "Better, far better,"
she said, "Margaret, that thou shouldst be without me. I shall live to
see thee again and the children."

In after years in Penn's City men read of Napoleon's soldier, General
the Comte de Courval and of the American beauty at the Emperor's court,
while over their Madeira the older men talked of the German gentleman
who had been so long among them, and passed so mysteriously out of the
knowledge of all.

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

1. All punctuation inconsistencies between the "List of Illustrations"
and the "Illustrations" themselves have been retained as printed.

2. Footnotes have been moved to the end of the paragraph where the
footnote anchor appears.

3, Punctuation corrections:

p. 72, removed leading double quote (In the hall Dr. Chovet....)

p. 121, changed comma to period (of what was to come.)

p. 145, changed period to comma (will laugh, and soon it will be)

p. 345, added closing quote ("...waiting in New York Harbor.")

p. 375, changed comma to period (I do not need anything.)

p. 394, removed ending double quote (figure and the occasion.)

p. 415, changed period to comma (I want of thee,)

4. Spelling corrections: (number in parentheses) indicate the number of
times the word was spelled correctly in the original text.

p. 22, "Mon dieu!" to "Mon Dieu!" (26) (translated: my God!)

p. 73, "himslf" to "himself" (86) (he could avenge himself)

p. 169, "mon dieu" to "mon Dieu" (26)

p. 275, "mon dieu!" to "mon Dieu!" (26)

p. 320, "Angles" to "Angels" (the Angels find the marge)

5. Word variations used in this text which have been retained:

"Ach" (unitalicized p. 1-95) and "Ach" (always italicized thereafter)
"a-foot" (1) and "afoot" (2)
"appal" (1), "appalled" (4), "appalling" (2)
"bed-room" (1) and "bedroom" (1)
"candle-light" (1) and "candlelight" (2)
"match-making" (1) and "matchmaking" (1)
"practice" (2) and "practise(ed)" (2)
"Shakspere" (1) and "Shakespeare" (2)
"ship-master" (1) and "shipmaster" (1)
"vandoo" (1) and "vendue" (1) (in W.E.D. "auction")
"vendue-master" (1) and "vendue master" (1)

6. Words using the [oe] ligature in the original text are: [OE]il
de B[oe]uf, c[oe]ur, and man[oe]uvered. This ligature has been
replaced with "oe".

7. General notes:

All punctuation inconsistencies between the "List of Illustrations"
and the "Illustrations" themselves have been retained as printed.

p. 120, in the phrase (..., Who will shew us) the capitalization of
"Who" after a comma has been retained as printed. Used as a noun.

The printer inconsistently italicized phrases and names. All have
been retained as printed in the original text.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Red City - A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington" ***

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