CHAPTER XXVII _The Red City: A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington

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 Ca Ira 69

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

"Thou canst not shoe my conscience" 153

Rene 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

_emigres_ 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, Rene.

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,

Rene, 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, Rene?"

"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, Rene. 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

tete_' 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 Glaciere.'"

"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 cafes, 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, Rene, 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, Rene. 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 _tutoyed_ 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 "_Sacre!_" 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 _emigre_ 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 _emigres_ 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 betes! 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 a l'esperance,

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 a revoir ma Normandie,

C'est le pays qui m'a donne 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, Rene? 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, Rene; 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, Rene--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, Rene. 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 Andre 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,

Rene."

"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, Ca 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 Ca Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the

doctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. "_Sacre

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 Ca 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 Ca 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

Rene, 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 Rene 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 rafraichit les belles;

Je veux, en galant troubadour,

Celebrer, 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 role. 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'etait 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."

The Red City: A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington · 第 27 / 31 章

CHAPTER XXVII 401