Chapter VIII: Part 8

"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 Rene."

"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 Rene 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 Rene. "Are they ever ill, I wonder?"

"Mr. Hamilton is below, Rene--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 Rene 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 Rene.

"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 Rene, "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."

Rene 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 Rene'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, Rene?" 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 Rene. "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 Rene 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 Rene, 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 Rene'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 Rene 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 _emigres_ 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." Rene smiled, and Schmidt understood.

"Can you hit that, Rene?" 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.

Rene 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 Genet 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 _emigre_.

"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 Andre.' Who was he?"

[1] He so writes it in his "Physiologie du gout."

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 _emigres_ 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 _emigres_ 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 Rene.

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 Rene, he related what had passed between him and Mr. Bingham.

Somewhat surprised, Rene 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 Rene.

"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, Rene, 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, Rene, 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, Rene 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. Rene 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. Rene'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, Rene, 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 Rene 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." Rene 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 Rene 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 Rene 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 Genet, a wife. For the time he dismissed De Courval from his mind, although not altogether self-assured concerning the future.

XX

"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 Rene'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.

"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.

Rene, 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 Rene 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.