Apparently the corvette knew better, and manoeuvered in hope to catch

a too wary foe, now flying along the shallow coast in perilous waters.

At nightfall the corvette gave up a dangerous chase, got about, and was

off to sea. At morning the English war-ship caught the brig, being

clever enough to lie off the capes. The captain of the _George

Washington_ wisely lacked knowledge of her consort the schooner, and the

Englishman took out of his ship five men, declaring them Britons,

although they spoke sound, nasal Cape Cod American.

XII

An express-rider from Chester had ridden through the night to carry to

Mr. Wynne at Merion the news of his ships' return and a brief note from

the captain to say that all had gone well.

Though weaker than he was willing to believe, De Courval was able with

some help to get on deck and was welcomed by Wynne, who saw with sudden

anxiety the young man's pallor; for although neither wound was serious,

he had lost blood enough to satisfy even the great Dr. Rush, and limped

uneasily as he went to the rail to meet the ship-owner.

"Are you hurt?" asked Wynne.

"Not badly. We had a little bout with a British corvette. Captain Biddle

will tell you, sir. St. Denis! but it was fun while it lasted; and the

cutting out, too."

"I envy you," said Wynne, with swift remembrance of the market-place in

Germantown, the glow of battle in his gray Welsh eyes.

De Courval's face lighted up at the thought of it. "But now," he

said--"now I must see my mother--oh, at once."

"The tide is at full flood. A boat shall drop you at the foot of the

garden. Can you walk up from the shore, or shall I send you a chaise?"

"I can walk, sir." He was too eager to consider his weakness, and

strong hands helping him into and out of the boat, in a few minutes, for

the distance was small, he was set ashore at the foot of the garden, now

bare and leafless. He dismissed the men with thanks, and declared he

required no further help. With much-needed care he limped up the slope,

too aware of pain and of an increase of weakness that surprised him, but

nevertheless with a sense of exhilaration at the thought of coming

home--yes, home--after having done what he well knew would please his

mother. No other thought was in his mind.

Of a sudden he heard voices, and, looking up, saw Mrs. Swanwick and

Margaret. Gay, excited, and happy, he stumbled forward as they came, the

girl crying out: "The vicomte, mother!"

"Ah, but it is good to see you!" he said as he took the widow's hand and

kissed it, and then the girl's, who flushed hot as he rose unsteadily.

Seeing her confusion, he said: "Pardon me. It is our way at home, and I

am so, so very glad to get back to you all!"

"But--thou art lame!" cried the widow, troubled.

"And his face--he is hurt, mother!"

"Yes, yes; but it is of no moment. We had a one-sided battle at sea."

Then he reeled, recovering himself with effort. "My mother is well?"

"Yes. Lean on me. Put a hand on my arm," said Mrs. Swanwick. "Ah, but

the mother will be glad!" And thus, the Pearl walking behind, they went

into the house. "Tell madame he is here, Margaret." The young woman went

by them and up-stairs to the vicomtesse's bedroom, breathless as she

entered in haste.

The vicomtesse said sharply: "Always knock, child."

"I forgot. He is come. He is here. I--we are so glad for thee."

"My son?" She rose.

"Yes, yes." Margaret fled away. It was not for other eyes; she knew

that. The vicomtesse met him on the landing, caught him in her arms,

kissed him, held him off at arm's-length, and cried. "Are you ill,

Rene?"

"No, no; a little hurt, not badly. I have lost blood," and then,

tottering, added faintly, "a wound, a wound," and sank to the floor. She

called loudly in alarm, and Schmidt, coming in haste from his room and

lifting him, carried him to his bedchamber. He had overestimated his

strength and his power of endurance.

Mother and hostess took possession of him. Nanny hurried with the

warming-pan for the bed; and reviving, he laughed as they came and went,

acknowledged the welcome comfort of lavender-scented sheets and drank

eagerly the milk-punch they brought.

Within an hour Schmidt had the little French surgeon at his bedside, and

soon Rene's face and torn thigh were fitly dressed. There was to be

quiet, and only madame or Mrs. Swanwick, and a little laudanum and no

starvation. They guarded him well, and, as he said, "fiercely," and,

yes, in a week he might see people. "Not Mistress Wynne," said the

doctor; "a tornado, that woman: but Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Wynne." He was

impatient enough as he lay abed and ate greedily wonderful dishes from

Darthea Wynne; and there, from the only greenhouse in the town, were

flowers, with Mrs. Robert Morris's compliments, and books, the latest,

from Mistress Gainor, "for the hero, please," for by now the town was

astir with Captain Biddle's story. The German wrote for him notes of

thanks, but as yet would not talk. He could wait to hear of his voyage.

He was on a settle one morning alone with Schmidt. There came a discreet

knock at the door. "Come in," called Schmidt, and Margaret entered,

saying: "These are the first. I gathered them myself at Uncle Josiah's,"

from which it may be understood that Josiah had made his peace.

"I found them on the Wissahickon. Smell of them," she said as she set

her bowl of fragrant trailing-arbutus before him, coloring a little, and

adding: "Mother said I must not stay. We are glad thou art better."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the young man. The air of spring, the

youth of the year, was in the room. As the door closed behind Margaret,

Schmidt asked: "Rene, did you ever see the Quaker lady?--the flower, I

mean."

"Yes, once. And now again. How she grows!"

"Yes, she does grow," said Schmidt. "I have noticed that at her age

young women grow." While he spoke, Mr. Wynne came in, a grave, reserved,

sturdy man, in whom some of the unemotional serenity of his Quaker

ancestry became more notable as he went on into middle life.

Schmidt excused himself, and Wynne sat down, saying: "You seem quite

yourself, Vicomte. I have heard the whole story from Captain Biddle. You

have made one more friend, and a good one. You will be amused to learn

that the French party is overjoyed because of your having victualed the

starving Jacobins. The Federals are as well pleased, and all the

ship-owners at the baffling of the corvette. No, don't speak; let me

finish. The merchants at the coffee-house have voted both of you

tankards, and five hundred dollars for the crew, and what the women will

say or do the Lord knows. You will have need to keep your head cool

among them all."

"Ah, Mr. Wynne, if my head was not turned by what you said to me when we

parted, it is safe enough."

"My opinion has been fully justified; but now for business. Both ships

are in. You have made an unlooked-for gain for me. Your share--oh, I

shall take care of the captain, too--your share will be two thousand

dollars. It is now in the bank with what is left of your deposit with

me. I can take you again as my clerk or Stephen Girard will send you as

supercargo to China. For the present I have said my say."

"I thank you, sir. It is too much, far too much. I shall go back to my

work with you."

"And I shall be glad to have you. But I fear it may not be for life--as

I should wish."

"No, Mr. Wynne. Some day this confusion in France must end, and then or

before, though no Jacobin, I would be in the army."

"I thought as much," said Wynne. "Come back now to me, and in the fall

or sooner something better may turn up; but for a month or two take a

holiday. Your wages will go on. Now, do not protest. You need the rest,

and you have earned it." With this he added: "And come out to Merion. My

wife wants to thank you; and madame must come, too. Have you heard that

we are to have a new French minister in April?"

"Indeed? I suppose he will have a great welcome from the Republicans."

"Very likely," said Wynne.

It was more from loss of blood that Rene had suffered than from the

gravity of the wound. His recovery was rapid, and he was soon released

from the tyranny which woman loves to establish about the

sickness-fettered man. The vicomtesse had some vague regret when he

asserted his independence, for again he had been a child, and her care

of him a novel interest in a life of stringent beliefs, some prejudices,

and very few positive sources of pleasure. The son at this time came to

know her limitations better and to recognize with clearer vision how

narrow must always have been a life of small occupations behind which

lay, as yet unassailed, the pride of race and the more personal creed of

the obligations of a caste which no one, except Mistress Wynne, ventured

to describe to Schmidt as needing social spectacles. "A provincial

lady," she said; "a lady, but of the provinces." The German smiled,

which was often his only comment upon her shrewd insight and unguarded

talk.

The vicomtesse settled down again to her life of books, church, and

refusals to go anywhere except to Darthea at Merion, where she relaxed

and grew tender among the children. She would have her son go among

gayer people, and being free for a time he went as bidden, and was made

much of at the town houses of the gay set. But as he would not play loo

for money, and grew weary at last of the role of Othello and of

relating, much against his will, his adventures to a variety of

attentive Desdemonas who asked questions about his life in France, of

which he had no mind to speak, he soon returned to the more wholesome

company of Schmidt and the tranquil society of the widow's house.

Schmidt, with increasing attachment and growing intimacy of relation,

began again the daily bouts with the foils, the long pulls on the river,

and the talks at night when the house was quiet in sleep.

The grave young Huguenot was rather tired of being made to pass as a

hero, and sternly refused the dinners of the Jacobin clubs, declining to

claim for himself the credit of relieving the Jacobin vicomte, his

kinsman.

The more certain news of war between France and Great Britain had long

since reached Philadelphia, and when, one afternoon in April, Mr.

Alexander Hamilton, just come from a visit to New York, appeared at the

widow's, he said to Schmidt that Citizen Genet, the French minister, had

reached Charleston in the _Ambuscade_, a frigate. He had brought

commissions for privateers, and had already sent out two, the _Citizen

Genet_ and the _Sans Culottes_, to wage war on English commerce. The

Secretary of State, Jefferson, had protested against the French consul's

condemning prizes, but the republican Jacobins, gone mad with joy, took

sides against their leader, and mocked at the President's proclamation

of neutrality. Such was his news. Mr. Hamilton was depressed and had

lost his usual gaiety. It was all bad, very bad. The man's heart ached

for the difficulties of his friend, the harassed President.

Meanwhile imitative folly set the Jacobin fashions of long pantaloons

and high boots for good republicans. The young men took to growing

mustachios. Tricolor cockades appeared in the streets, while the red cap

on barbers' poles and over tavern signs served, with news of the

massacres in France, to keep in De Courval's mind the thought of his

father's fate. In the meantime, amid feasts and clamorous acclaim, Genet

came slowly north with his staff of secretaries.

Schmidt saw at this time how depressed his young friend had become and

felt that in part at least it was due to want of steady occupation.

Trying to distract him one evening, he said: "Let us go to the fencing

school of the Comte du Vallon. I have long meant to ask you. It is late,

but the _emigres_ go thither on a Friday. It will amuse you, and you

want something I cannot teach. Your defense is slow, your attack too

unguarded."

"But," said De Courval, "I cannot afford lessons at a dollar. It is very

well for Morris and Lloyd."

Schmidt laughed. "I let the comte have the rooms free. The house is

mine. Yes, I know, you avoid the _emigres_; but why? Oh, yes, I know you

have been busy, and they are not all to your taste, nor to mine; but you

will meet our bookseller De Mery and De Noailles, whom you know, and you

will like Du Vallon."

It was nine o'clock when, hearing foils ringing and laughter, they went

up-stairs in an old warehouse on the north side of Dunker's Court, and

entered presently a large room amid a dozen of what were plainly French

gentlemen, who were fencing in pairs and as merry as if no heads of

friends and kindred were day by day falling on the guillotine. Schmidt

knew them all and had helped many. They welcomed him warmly.

"_Bonjour, monsieur._ We amuse ourselves well, and forget a little,"

said Du Vallon. "Ah, the Vicomte de Courval! Enchanted to see you here.

Allow me to present Monsieur de Malerive. He is making a fortune with

the ice-cream, but he condescends to give us a lesson now and then.

Gentlemen, the Vicomte de Courval." The foils were lowered and men

bowed. Scarce any knew him, but several came forward and said pleasant

things, while, as they left to return to their fencing, Schmidt made his

brief comments. "That is the Chevalier Pontgibaud, Rene,--the slight

man,--a good soldier in the American war. The Vicomte de Noailles is a

partner of Bingham."

"Indeed!" said Rene. "He is in trade, as I am--a Noailles!"

"Yes; may you be as lucky. He has made a fortune, they say."

"Take a turn with the marquis," said Du Vallon. The marquis taught

fencing. De Courval replied, "With pleasure," and the clatter of foils

began again, while Du Vallon and Schmidt fell apart into quiet talk.

"The young man is a clerk and I hear has won credit and money. _Bon

chien, bonne chasse._ Do you know his story? Ah, my sad Avignon! La

Rochefoucauld told me they killed his father; but of course you know all

about it."

"No, I have heard but little," said Schmidt. "I know only that his

father was murdered. Des Aguilliers told me that; but as De Courval has

not, does not, speak of it, I presume him to have his reasons. Pray let

us leave it here."

"As you please, _mon ami_." But Du Vallon thought the German strangely

lacking in curiosity.

The time passed pleasantly. De Courval did better with Tiernay, who

taught French to the young women and was in the shabby splendor of

clothes which, like their owner, had seen better days.

They went away late. Yes, he was to have lessons from Du Vallon, who had

courteously criticized his defense as weak. But the remedy had answered

the German's purpose. Here was something to learn which as yet the young

man did badly. The lessons went on, and Schmidt at times carried him

away into the country with fowling-pieces, and they came home loaded

with wood pigeons; and once, to De Courval's joy, from the Welsh hills

with a bear on the back of their chaise and rattles for Pearl from what

De Courval called the _serpent a sonnettes_--"a nice Jacobin snake,

_Mademoiselle_." And so the quiet life went on in the Quaker house with

books, walks, and the round of simple duties, while the young man

regained his former vigor.

The spring came in with flowers and blossoms in the garden, and, on the

21st of May, Citizen Genet was to arrive in this year of '93. The French

frigate _Ambuscade_, lying in the river and hearing from Chester in due

season, was to warn the republicans with her guns of the coming of the

minister.

"Come," said Schmidt, as the casements shook with the signal of three

cannon. "Pearl said she would like to see it, and the farce will be

good. We are going to be amused; and why not?"

"Will Friend de Courval go with us?" asked Margaret. Walks with the

young woman were somehow of late not so easily had. Her mother had

constantly for her some interfering duties. He was glad to go.

At the signal-guns, thousands of patriots gathered in front of the State

House, and in what then was called the Mall, to the south of it. Schmidt

and the young people paused on the skirts of the noisy crowd, where were

many full of liquor and singing the "Marseillaise" with drunken

variations of the tune. "A sight to please the devil of laughter," said

Schmidt. "There are saints for the virtues, why not devils for men's

follies? The mischief mill for the grinding out of French Jacobins from

Yankee grain will not run long. Let us go on around the Mall and get

before these foolish folk. Ah, to insult this perfect day of May with

drunkenness! Is there not enough of gladness in the upspring of things

that men must crave the flattery of drink?" He was in one of those moods

when he was not always, as he said, understandable, and when his English

took on queer ways.

Pausing before the gray jail at the corner of Delaware, Sixth Street,

and Walnut, they saw the poor debtors within thrust out between the bars

of the windows long rods with bags at the end to solicit alms. Schmidt

emptied his pockets of shillings, and they went on, the girl in horror

at the blasphemies of those who got no coin. Said Schmidt: "Our friend

Wynne lay there in the war for months. Ask Madam Darthea for the tale,

De Courval. 'T is pretty, and worth the ear of attention. When I rule

the world there will be no prisons. I knew them once too well."

So rare were these glimpses of a life they knew not of that both young

people, surprised, turned to look at him.

"Wert thou in jail, sir?" said the Pearl.

"Did I say so? Life is a jail, my good Margaret; we are all prisoners."

The girl understood, and asked no more. Crossing the Potter's Field, now

Washington Square, they leaped over the brook that ran through it from

the northwest.

"Here below us lie the dead prisoners of your war, Pearl. The jail was

safe, but now they are free. God rest their souls! There's room for

more." Scarcely was there room in that summer of '93. Passing the

Bettering House on Spruce Street Road, and so on and out to the

Schuylkill, they crossed the floating bridge, and from the deep cutting

where Gray's Lane descended to the river, climbed the slope, and sat

down and waited.

Very soon across the river thousands of men gathered and a few women.

The bridge was lined with people and some collected on the bank and in

the lane below them, on the west side of the stream.

Hauterive, the French consul at New York, and Mr. Duponceau and

Alexander Dallas of the Democratic Club, stood near the water on the

west end of the bridge, waiting to welcome Genet. "I like it very well,"

said Schmidt; "but the play will not run long."

"Oh, they are coming!" cried Margaret. This was interesting. She was

curious, excited and with her bonnet off, as De Courval saw,

bright-eyed, eager, and with isles of color mysteriously passing over

her face, like rose clouds at evening.

A group of horsemen appeared on the top of the hill above them, one in

front. "Genet, I suppose," said De Courval. A good-looking man, florid,

smiling, the tricolor on the hat in his hand, he bowed to right and

left, and honored with a special salute mademoiselle, near-by on the

bank. He had the triumphant air of a very self-conscious conqueror.

Cheers greeted him. "_Vive la republique!_ D----George Washington!

Hurrah for Citizen Genet!" with waving of French flags. He stopped below

them in the lane. A boy in the long pantaloons of protest, with the red

cap of the republic on his head, was lifted up to present a bouquet of

three colors made of paper flowers. Citizen Genet gave him the

fraternal kiss of liberty, and again the crowd cheered. "Are these

people crazy?" asked the Quaker maiden, used to Friends' control of

emotion.

"Mad? Yes, a little." Genet had paused at the bridge. Mr. Dallas was

making him welcome to the capital. David Rittenhouse stood by, silent in

adoration, his attention divided between Genet and a big bun, for he had

missed his dinner.

"It is all real," said the German. "The bun doth equally well convince.

Oh, David, didst thou but dream how comic thou art!" Meanwhile De

Courval by turns considered the fair face and the crowd, too tragically

reminded to be, like Schmidt, altogether amused.

But surely here indeed was comedy, and for many of this careless

multitude a sad ending of politics in the near summer months.

The crowd at the water's-edge closed around Genet, while the group of

four or five men on horseback who followed him came to a halt on the

roadway just below where were seated Schmidt and his companions. The

riders looked around them, laughing. Then one spoke to a young

secretary, and the man thus addressed, turning, took off his hat and

bowed low to the Quaker maid.

"_Mon Dieu!_" cried De Courval, springing up as the attaches moved on.

"_C'est Carteaux!_ It is he!"

Schmidt heard him; the girl to the left of Schmidt less plainly. "What

is it?" she cried to De Courval. His face as she saw it was of a sudden

white, the eyes wide open, staring, the jaw set, the hands half-open,

the figure as of a wild creature about to leap on its prey. "Take care!"

said Schmidt. "Take care! Keep quiet!" He laid a strong hand on De

Courval's shoulder. "Come away! People are looking at you."

"Yes, yes." He straightened, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Art thou ill?" asked Margaret.

"No, no. I am glad--glad as never before. Let us go. It will keep. It

will keep." She looked at him with wonder. They climbed the bank and

went up the hill across the Woodlands, Andrew Hamilton's estate, and

homeward by the middle ferry at High Street, no one speaking.

The girl, troubled and apprehensive, walked on, getting now and then

from the bonnet's seclusion a quick side glance at a face a little

flushed and wearing a look of unwonted satisfaction. Schmidt was as

silent as his companions. Comedy again, he thought, and as ever behind

it the shadow tragedy. "If I were that man, I should be afraid--a

secretary of this accursed envoy. I must know more. Ah, here is the

other man behind the every-day De Courval."

De Courval went in and up-stairs to his room and at the five-o'clock

supper showed no sign of the storm which had swept over him. After the

meal he followed his mother, and as usual read aloud to her a chapter of

the French Bible. Then at dusk he pulled out on the river, and, finding

refreshment in a cold plunge, rowed to shore, returning in full control

of the power to consider with Schmidt, as now he knew he must do, a

situation not so simple as it seemed when he set eyes on his enemy.

"I have been waiting for you, Rene. I guess enough to know this for a

very grave matter. You will want to tell me."

"I have often wanted to talk to you, but, as you may or may not know, it

was also too painful to discuss until the need came; but now it has

come."

"You will talk to me, Rene, or not, as seems the better to you."

"I shall speak, and frankly; but, sir, wait a little."

Without replying further, the German took up a book and read. The young

man let fall his head on his hands, his elbows on a table. He had tried

to forget, but now again with closed eyes and, with that doubtful gift

of visual recall already mentioned he saw the great, dimly lighted hall

at Avignon, the blood-stained murderers, the face of his father, his

vain appeal. The tears rained through his fingers. He seemed to hear

again: "Yvonne! Yvonne!" and at last to see, with definiteness sharpened

by the morning's scene, the sudden look of ferocity in a young man's

face--a man not much older than himself. He had thought to hear from it

a plea for mercy. Ah, and to-day he had seen it gay with laughter. One

day it would not laugh. He wiped away tears as he rose. The German

gentleman caught him to his broad breast. "What is it, my son? Ah, I

would that you were my son! Let us have it out--all of it. I, too, have

had my share of sorrow. Let me hear, and tell it quietly. Then we can

talk."

Thus it came about that with a sense of relief Rene told his story of

failing fortunes, of their chateau in ruins, and of how, on his return

from Avignon, he had found his mother in a friendly farm refuge. He

told, too, with entire self-command of the tragedy in the papal city,

his vain pursuit of Carteaux, their flight to England, and how on the

voyage his mother had wrung from him the whole account of his father's

death.

"Does she know his name?" asked Schmidt.

"Carteaux? Yes. I should not have told it, but I did. She would have me

tell it."

"And that is all." For a little while the German, lighting his pipe,

walked up and down the room without a word. Then at last, sitting down,

he said: "Rene, what do you mean to do?"

"Kill him."

"Yes, of course," said Schmidt, coolly; "but--let us think a little. Do

you mean to shoot him as one would a mad dog?"

"Certainly; and why not?"

"You ask 'Why not?' Suppose you succeed? Of course you would have to

fly, leave your mother alone; or, to be honest with you, if you were

arrested, the death of this dog would be, as men would look at it, the

murder of an official of the French legation. You know the intensity of

party feeling here. You would be as sure to die by the gallows as any

common criminal; and--there again is the mother to make a man hesitate."

"That is all true; but what can I do, sir? Must I sit down and wait?"

"For the present, yes. Opinion will change. Time is the magician of

opportunities. The man will be here long. Wait. Go back to your work.

Say nothing. There are, of course, the ordinary ways--a quarrel, a

duel--"

"Yes, yes; anything--something--"

"Anything--something, yes; but what thing? You must not act rashly.

Leave it to me to think over; and promise me to do nothing rash--to do

nothing in fact just yet."

De Courval saw only too clearly that his friend was wiser than he. After

a moment of silence he said: "I give you my word, sir. And how can I

thank you?"

"By not thanking me, not a rare form of thanks. Now go to bed."

When alone, Schmidt said to himself: "Some day he will lose his head,

and then the tiger will leap. It was clear from what I saw, and who

could sit quiet and give it up? Not I. A duel? If this man I have

learned to love had Du Vallon's wrist of steel or mine, it would be easy

to know what to do. Ah, if one could know that rascal's fence--or if

I--no; the boy would never forgive me; and to cheat a man out of a just

vengeance were as bad as to cheat him of a woman's love." As for killing

a man with whom he had no personal quarrel, the German, unreproached by

conscience, considered the matter entirely in his relation to De

Courval. And here, as he sat in thought, even a duel troubled him, and

it was sure to come; for soon or late, in the limited society of the

city, these two men would meet. He was deeply disturbed. An accident to

De Courval was possible; well, perhaps his death. He foresaw even this

as possible, since duels in that time were not the serio-comic

encounters of the French duel of to-day.

As Schmidt sat in self-counsel as to what was advisable he felt with

curious joy that his affection for the young noble was disturbing his

judgment of what as a gentleman he would have advised. The situation

was, as he saw, of terrible significance. A large experience of men and

events failed to assist him to see his way.

No less bewildered and even more deeply troubled, De Courval lay awake,

and, as the hours went by, thought and thought the thing over from every

point of view. Had he met Carteaux that morning alone, away from men, he

knew that he would have throttled the slighter man with his strong young

hands, glad of the joy of brute contact and of personal infliction of

the death penalty with no more merciful weapon than his own strength. He

thrilled at the idea; but Schmidt, coldly reasonable, had brought him

down to the level of common-sense appreciation of unregarded

difficulties. His mother! He knew her now far better than ever. His

mother would say, "Go, my son." She would send him out to take his

chances with this man, as for centuries the women of her race had sent

their men to battle. He was more tender for her than she would be for

herself. His indecision, the product of a larger duty to her lonely,

helpless life, increased by what Schmidt had urged, left him without a

helpful thought, while ever and ever in the darkness he felt, as his

friend had felt, that in some moment of opportune chance he should lose

for her and himself all thought of consequences.

Perhaps of those who saw the episode of sudden passionate anger in

Gray's Lane none was more puzzled and none more curious than Margaret

Swanwick. Anything as abrupt and violent as De Courval's irritation was

rare in her life of tranquil experiences, and nothing she had seen of

him prepared her for this outbreak. Of late, it is to be confessed, De

Courval had been a frequent guest of her thoughts, and what concerned

him began greatly to concern her. Something forbade her to ask of

Schmidt an explanation of what she had seen. Usually she was more frank

with him than with any one else, and why now, she thought, should she

not question him? But then, as if relieved by the decision, she

concluded that it was not her business, and put aside the curiosity, but

not completely the anxiety which lay behind it.

If she told her mother and asked of her what De Courval's behavior might

have meant, she was sure that her eagerness would be reproved by a

phrase which Mrs. Swanwick used on fitting occasions--"Thou shalt not

covet thy neighbor's secrets." Many things were to happen before the

girl would come to understand why, in the quiet of a May morning, a

rather reserved gentleman had of a sudden looked like a wild animal.

XIII

A cheering crowd escorted Genet to Oeller's Hotel. A few days later

Washington received the minister, De Ternant's successor, with a coldly

formal speech, and the envoy came away in wrath; for had he not seen in

the parlor of the President, medallions of decapitated Citizen Capet and

his family? His insolent demands for money owing to France, but not yet

due, and for a new and more liberal compact, are matters of history.

There were wild claims for the right of French consuls to condemn prizes

without intermediation of our courts, and yet more and more absurd

requests and specious arguments, to which Jefferson replied with

decision, but with more tenderness than pleased the Federalists.

When the privateer _Citizen Genet_ anchored off Market Street wharf, two

enlisted Americans on board were arrested, and the cabinet, being of one

opinion, the President ordered the privateer to leave. Genet appealed to

the Secretary of State for delay and against this inconceivable wrong to

a sister republic, and as the cabinet remained firm, and the democrats

raged, the town was for days on the verge of riot and bloodshed.

On the 27th of May, while on an errand for Mr. Wynne, about four in the

afternoon, De Courval saw the crowd going into Oeller's Hotel for a

great dinner in honor of Genet. On the steps stood a man waving the

tricolor. It was Carteaux. "_Mon Dieu!_" murmured De Courval, "shall I

get used to it?" His errand took him past the house of the

Vice-President, John Adams. Servants and friends were carrying in

muskets. A noisy mob hooted and drifted away to Oeller's. There had been

threats of destroying the house, and Adams meant to be ready. The young

man went on deep in thought. In front of the Senate House he bowed to

Edmund Randolph, an occasional visitor at the Quaker salon and now

Attorney-General at the age of thirty-eight.

Returning, De Courval met Stephen Girard, who stopped him. Short,

sallow, a little bald, and still slight of build, he was watching with a

look of amusement the noisy mob in front of the hotel. "_Ah, bonjour,

monsieur._ And you would not go as my supercargo. It is open for the

asking." He spoke French of course. "These yonder are children, but they

are not as serious as they think themselves. Come this afternoon to my

farm on the neck and eat of my strawberries. There will be the French

consul-general and the secretary Carteaux. No politics, mind you. My

heart is with the revolutionary government at home, but my politics in

America are here," and he struck his breeches' pocket. "I am not for

war, _monsieur_."

De Courval excused himself, and went away murmuring: "Again, again! It

must end. I must make it end. Ah, mother, mother!"

Schmidt, troubled by the young man's gloom and loss of spirits, did all

he could, but characteristically made no effort to reopen a subject on

which he had as yet reached no other decision than the counsel of delay.

The mother questioned her son. It was nothing. He was not quite well,

and the heat of July was great. The German was yet more disturbed when

one evening after the fencing lesson Du Vallon said: "I had here to-day

two of the staff of that _sacre_ Citizen Genet. There is already talk of

his recall for insolence to the President. _Le bon Dieu_ be praised!"

"Why, Marquis, do you permit these cattle to come here?"

"One must live, Monsieur Schmidt."

"Perhaps."

"One of them is a pleasure to fence with--a Monsieur Carteaux, a meager

Jacobin. I could not touch him."

"I should like to, with the buttons off the foils," said Schmidt.

"I also. That does make a difference."

Schmidt went away thoughtful. The next afternoon, feeling the moist

heat, the vicomtesse went to Darthea at Merion. The two men fenced as

usual, while mother and daughter sat in shadow on the porch, and a

faint, cool air came up from the river.

"_Ach, du lieber Himmel!_ but it is hot!" cried the German, casting down

his foil. "You are doing better. Let us go and cool off in the river.

Come."

They went down the garden, picking the ripe plums as they went. "What

is wrong with you, Rene? You promised me."

"It is the heat. Miss Margaret looks ill. No one could endure it, and in

the counting-house it is dreadful, and with no work to distract me."

"The Pearl goes again to Gray Court to-morrow," said the German.

"Indeed."

"Yes. I shall miss her, but it is as well. And, you, Rene--it is not the

heat. Why do you put me off with such excuses?"

"Well, no. It is of course that villain," and he told of Girard and the

invitation.

"Rene, a day will come when you will meet that man, and then the thing

will somehow end. You cannot go on suffering as you are doing."

"I know; but a devil of indecision pursues me."

"An angel, perhaps."

"Oh, yes. Pity me. My mother stands like a wall I may not pass between

me and him. It is horrible to think that she--she is protecting my

father's murderer. If I told her, by Heaven! she would bid me go and

kill him. You do not know her. She would do it; but, then, who knows

what might chance? If I die, she is alone, friendless. I fear to risk

it. _Mon Dieu_, sir, I am afraid!"

"And yet some day you will have to put an end to all this doubt. Comfort

yourself with this: Fate, which plays with us will take you in hand. Let

it go just now."

"I will try to. I will. If I were as these good Quakers--ah, me, I

should sit down,"--and he smiled,--"and thee and thou Providence, and

be quiet in the armor of meek unresistance."

"They do kill flies," said the German.

"Ah, I wish then they would attend to the mosquitos," cried De Courval,

laughing.

"As to non-resistance, friend, it hath its limitations. Did I tell thee

of Daniel Offley? My Pearl told me," and he related the defeat of the

blacksmith.

"Insolent," said Rene.

"No; the man believed that he had a mission. I should like to have his

conscience for a week or two, to see how it feels; and, as for

non-resistance, canst thou keep a secret?"

"I? Why not? What is it?" He was curious. As they talked, standing

beside the river, Rene watched the flat stones he threw ricochet on the

water.

"Once on a time, as they say in Madame Swanwick's book of sixty-five

tales, by Nancy Skyrin, a man, one Schmidt, came into the dining-room

and sat down quietly to read at an open window for the sake of the

breeze from the river. It might have been on Second Day. It chanced to

be the same time a Quaker man who hath of late come often sat without on

the step of the porch, a proper lad, and young, very neat in gray. Near

by sat a maid. Up from the river came the little god who is of all

religions and did tempt the young man. The man within lost interest in

his book."

Then Rene gave up the game of skip-stone, and, turning, said, "_Mon

Dieu_, you did not listen?"

"Did he not? He had listened to the talk in the book, and wherefore not

to them? It amused him more. For a little the maid did not seem greatly

displeased."

"She did not seem displeased?"

"No. And then--and then that Friend who was perverted into a lover would

_brusquer_ matters, as you say, and did make a venture, being tempted by

the little devil called Cupid. The man who listened did not see it, but

it does seem probable she was kissed, because thereupon was heard a

resounding smack, and feeling that here had been a flagrant departure

from non-resistance, the man within, having been satisfactorily

indiscreet, fell to reading again and the Quaker went away doubly

wounded. Dost thou like my story, Friend de Courval?"

"No, I do not." He was flushing, angry.

"I told you I had no conscience."

"Upon my word, I believe you. Why did you not kick him?"

"I leave you the privilege."

"Come. I hate your story,"--and laughing, despite his wrath,--"your

conscience needs a bath."

"Perhaps." And they went down to the boat, the German still laughing.

"What amuses you?"

"Nothing. Nothing amuses one as much as nothing. I should have been a

diplomatist at the court of Love." And to himself: "Is it well for these

children? Here is another tangle, and if--if anything should go amiss

here are three sad hearts. D----the Jacobin cur! I ought to kill him.

That would settle things."

For many days De Courval saw nothing of his enemy. Schmidt, who owned

many houses and mortgages and good irredeemable ground rents, was busy.

Despite the fear of foreign war and the rage of parties, the city was

prosperous and the increase of chariots, coaches, and chaises so great

as to cause remark. House rents rose, the rich of the gay set drank,

danced, gambled, and ran horses on the road we still call Race Street.

Wages were high. All the wide land felt confidence, and speculation went

on, for the poor in lotteries, for the rich in impossible canals never

to see water.

On August 6 of this fatal year '93, Uncle Josiah came to fetch the Pearl

away for a visit, and, glad as usual to be the bearer of bad news, told

Schmidt that a malignant fever had killed a child of Dr. Hodge and three

more. It had come from the _Sans Culottes_, privateer, or because of

damaged coffee fetched from he knew not where.

The day after, Dr. Redman, President of the College of Physicians, was

of opinion that this was the old disease of 1762--the yellow plague.

Schmidt listened in alarm. Before the end of August three hundred were

dead, almost every new case being fatal. On August 20, Schmidt was gone

for a day. On his return at evening he said: "I have rented a house on

the hill above the Falls of Schuylkill. We move out to-morrow. I know

this plague. _El vomito_ they call it in the West Indies."

Mrs. Swanwick protested.

"No," he said; "I must have my way. You have cared for me in sickness

and health these five years. Now it is my turn. This disease will pass

along the water-front. You are not safe an hour." She gave way to his

wishes as usual, and next day they were pleasantly housed in the

country.

Business ceased as if by agreement, and the richer families, if not

already in the country, began to flee. The doom of a vast desertion and

of multiplying deaths fell on the gay and prosperous city. By September

10 every country farm was crowded with fugitives, and tents received

thousands along the Schuylkill and beyond it. Sooner or later some

twenty-three thousand escaped, and whole families camped in the open air

and in all weather. More would have gone from the city, but the shops

were shut, money ceased to circulate, and even the middle class lacked

means to flee. Moreover, there was no refuge open, since all the towns

near by refused to receive even those who could afford to leave. Hence

many stayed who would gladly have gone.

Madame de Courval was at Merion, and Margaret had now rejoined her

mother, brought over by her uncle. He had ventured into the city and

seen Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, on business. He would talk no

business. "Terrible time," said Josiah--"terrible! Not a man will do

business." Did he feel for these dying and the dead? Schmidt doubted it,

and questioned him quietly. The doctors were not agreed, and Rush bled

every one. He, Josiah, was not going back. Half a dozen notes he held

had been protested; a terrible calamity, but fine for debtors; a neat

excuse.

Mr. Wynne had closed his counting-house, and was absent on the Ohio,

and De Courval was left to brood; for now the French legation had gone

to the country, the cabinet fled to Germantown, and the President long

before to Mount Vernon for his summer rest.

The day after Josiah's visit, Schmidt left a letter on Mrs. Swanwick's

table, and rode away to town without other farewell.

"Look at that, my friend," said the widow to Rene, and burst into tears.

He read and re-read the letter:

DEAR MADAM: The city has no nurses, and help is needed, and

money. I have a note from Girard. He has what Wetherill once

described as the courage of the penny, not the cowardice of the

dollar. I go to help him, for how long I know not, and to do what

I can. My love to my friend Rene. I shall open your house. I have

taken the key. I shall write when I can. I leave in my desk

money. Use it. I owe what no money can ever repay.

I am, as always, your obedient, humble servant,

_J. S._

There was consternation in the home and at Merion, where he was a

favorite, and at the Hill, which Gainor had filled with guests; but day

after day went by without news. No one would carry letters. Few would

even open those from the city. The flying men and women told frightful

stories. And now it was September. Two weeks had gone by without a word

from Schmidt. The "National Gazette" was at an end, and the slanderer

Freneau gone. Only one newspaper still appeared, and the flight went on:

all fled who could.

At length De Courval could bear it no longer. He had no horse, and set

off afoot to see his mother at Merion, saying nothing of his intention

to Mrs. Swanwick. He learned that Wynne was still on the Ohio; ignorant

of the extent of the calamity at home.

"Mother," he said, "again I must go into danger. Mr. Schmidt has gone to

the city to care for the sick. For two weeks we have been without news

of him. I can bear it no longer. I must go and see what has become of

him."

"Well, and why, my son, should you risk your life for a man of whom you

know nothing? When before you said it was a call of duty I bade you go.

Now I will not."

"Mother, for a time we lived on that man's generous bounty."

"What!" she cried.

"Yes. It was made possible for me because I had the good fortune to save

him from drowning. I did not tell you."

"No, of course not."

He told briefly the story of his rescue of the German.

"If he is well, I must know it. He is more than merely my friend. If he

is ill, I must care for him. If he is dead--oh, dear mother, I must go!"

"I forbid it absolutely. If you go, it is against my will."

He saw that she meant it. It was vain to protest. He rose.

"I have no time to lose, mother. Pray for me."

"That I do always, but I shall not forgive you; no--yes, kiss me. I did

not mean that; but think of my life, of yours, what it owes me. You will

not go, my son."

"Yes, I am going. I should be base, a coward, ungrateful, if I did not

go. Good-by, mother. Let them know at Mrs. Swanwick's."

He was gone. She sat still a little while, and then rising, she looked

out and saw him go down the garden path, a knapsack on his back.

"His father would never have left me. Ah, but he is my son--all of him.

He was right to go, and I was weak, but, my God, life is very hard!" For

a moment she looked after his retreating figure, and then, fearless,

quiet, and self-contained, took up again the never-finished embroidery.

XIV

In the summer of 1793, the city of Penn numbered forty-five thousand

souls, and lay in the form of an irregularly bounded triangle, the apex

being about seven squares, as we say, west of the Delaware. From this it

spread eastward, widening until the base, thinly builded with shops,

homes, and warehouses, extended along the Delaware River a distance of

about two miles from Callowhill Street to Cedar. It was on the parts

nearest to the river that the death-cloud lay.

De Courval had walked from the Falls of Schuylkill late in the morning,

and, after having been ferried across the Schuylkill, passed by forest

and farm roads over a familiar, rolling country, and arrived at Merion,

in the Welsh barony, where he parted from his mother. To this distance

he was now to add the seven miles which would bring him to the city.

He soon reached the Lancaster road, and after securing a bowl of bread

and milk, for which he paid the exorbitant price of two shillings at a

farm-house, he lay down in the woods and, lighting his meerschaum pipe,

rested during the early afternoon, glad of shelter from the moist heat

of the September day.

He had much to think about. His mother he dismissed, smiling. If, after

what he had said, he had not obeyed the call of duty and gratitude, he

knew full well that she would have been surprised, despite her protests

and the terror with which his errand filled her. He, too, felt it, for

it is the form which peril takes rather than equality of risk which

makes disease appal many a man for whom war has the charm which awakens

the lust of contest, and not such alarm as the presence of the unseen

foe which gives no quarter. He dismissed his fears with a silent appeal

for strength and support.

He thought then of his enemy. Where was he? This pestilence, the

inexplicable act of an all-powerful God, had for a time been set as a

barrier between him and his foe. If either he or Carteaux died of it,

there was an end of all the indecisions that affection had put in his

way. He had a moral shock at the idea that he was unwilling to believe

it well that the will of God should lose him the fierce joy of a

personal vengeance. How remote seemed such a feeling from the religious

calm of the Quaker home! And then a rosy face, a slight, gray-clad

figure, came before him with the clearness of visual perception which

was one of his mental peculiarities. The sense of difference of rank

which his mother had never lost, and would never lose, he had long since

put aside. Margaret's refinement, her young beauty, her gay sweetness,

her variety of charm, he recalled as he lay; nor against these was there

for him any available guard of common sense, that foe of imprudent love,

to sum up the other side with the arithmetic of worldly wisdom. He rose,

disturbed a little at the consciousness of a power beginning to get

beyond his control, and went on his way down the long, dusty road,

refreshed by the fair angel company of Love and Longing.

Very soon he was recalled from his dreams. As he came within a mile of

the city, he saw tents as for an army, camp-fires, people cooking, men,

women, and children lying about by the roadside and in the orchards or

the woods. Two hungry-looking mechanics begged help of him. He gave them

each a shilling and went on. The nearer shore of the quiet Schuylkill

was lined with tents. Over the middle-ferry floating bridge came

endlessly all manner of vehicles packed with scared people, the

continuous drift from town of all who could afford to fly, a pitiful

sight in the closing day. Beyond the river were more tents and

half-starved families.

At dusk, as he went eastward on Market Street, there were fewer people,

and beyond Sixth Street almost none. The taverns were closed. Commerce

was at an end. Turning south, he crossed the bridge over Dock Creek at

Second Street and was soon in a part of the city where death and horror

had left only those whom disease, want of means, or some stringent need,

forbade to leave their homes. Twenty-four thousand then or later fled

the town. A gallant few who could have gone, stayed from a sense of

duty.

Exposure at night was said to be fatal, so that all who could were shut

up indoors, or came out in fear only to feed with pitch and fence

palings the fires kindled in the streets which were supposed to give

protection, but were forbidden later. A canopy of rank tar-smoke hung

over the town and a dull, ruddy glow from these many fires. Grass grew

in the roadway of the once busy street, and strange silence reigned

where men were used to move amid the noises of trade. As he walked on

deep in thought, a woman ran out of a house, crying: "They are dead! All

are dead!" She stopped him. "Is my baby dead, too?"

"I--I do not know," he said, looking at the wasted, yellow face of the

child in her arms. She left it on the pavement, and ran away screaming.

He had never in his life touched the dead; but now, though with

repugnance, he picked up the little body and laid it on a door-step. Was

it really dead? he asked himself. He stood a minute looking at the

corpse; then he touched it. It was unnaturally hot, as are the dead of

this fever. Not seeing well in the dusk, and feeling a strange

responsibility, he laid a hand on the child's heart. It was still. He

moved away swiftly through the gathering gloom of deserted streets. On

Front Street, near Lombard, a man, seeing him approach, ran from him

across the way. A little farther, the sense of solitude and loneliness

grew complete as the night closed dark about him. He had been long on

his way.

A half-naked man ran out of an alley and, standing before him, cried:

"The plague is come upon us because they have numbered the people.

Death! death! you will die for this sin." The young man, thus halted,

stood appalled and then turned to look after the wild prophet of

disaster, who ran up Lombard Street, his sinister cries lost as he

disappeared in the gloom. Rene recalled that somewhere in the Bible he

had read of how a plague had come on the Israelites for having numbered

the people. Long afterward he learned that a census of Philadelphia had

been taken in 1792. He stood still a moment in the gloom, amid the

silence of the deserted city and then of a sudden moved rapidly onward.

He had reached the far edge of the town, his mind upon Schmidt, when he

saw to his surprise by the glow of a dying fire a familiar form. "Mr.

Girard!" he cried, in pleased surprise; for in the country little was as

yet known of the disregard of death with which this man and many more

were quietly nursing the sick and keeping order in a town where, except

the comparatively immune negroes, few aided, and where the empty homes

were being plundered. The quick thought passed through Rene's mind that

he had heard this man called an atheist by Daniel Offley.

He said to Girard: "Ah, Monsieur, have you seen Monsieur Schmidt?"

"Not for three days. He has been busy as the best. There is one man who

knows not fear. Where is he, Vicomte?"

"We do not know. We have heard nothing since he left us two weeks ago.

But he meant to live in Mrs. Swanwick's house."

"Let us go and see," said Girard; and with the man who already counted

his wealth in millions Rene hurried on. At the house they entered

easily, for the door was open, and went up-stairs.

In Schmidt's room, guided by his delirious cries, they found him.

Girard struck a light from his steel and flint, and presently they had

candles lighted, and saw the yellow face, and the horrors of the

_vomito_, in the disordered room.

"_Mon Dieu!_ but this is sad!" said Girard. "Ah, the brave gentleman!

You will stay? I shall send you milk and food at once. Give him water

freely, and the milk. Bathe him. Are you afraid?"

"I--yes; but I came for this, and I am here to stay."

"I shall send you a doctor; but they are of little use."

"Is there any precaution to take?"

"Yes. Live simply. Smoke your pipe--I believe in that. You can get

cooler water by hanging out in the air demijohns and bottles wrapped in

wet linen--a West-Indian way, and the well water is cold. I shall come

back to-morrow." And so advising, he left him.

De Courval set the room in order, and lighted his pipe, after obeying

Girard's suggestions. At intervals he sponged the hot body of the man

who was retching in agony of pain, babbling and crying out about courts

and princes and a woman--ever of a woman dead and of some prison life.

De Courval heard his delirious revelations with wonder and a pained

sense of learning the secrets of a friend.

In an hour came Dr. Rush, with his quiet manner and thin, intellectual

face. Like most of those of his profession, the death of some of whom in

this battle with disease a tablet in the College of Physicians records

to-day, he failed of no duty to rich or poor. But for those who

disputed his views of practice he had only the most virulent abuse. A

firm friend, an unpardoning hater, and in some ways far ahead of his

time, was the man who now sat down as he said: "I must bleed him at

once. Calomel and blood-letting are the only safety, sir. I bled Dr.

Griffith seventy-five ounces to-day. He will get well." The doctor bled

everybody, and over and over.

His voice seemed to rouse Schmidt. He cried out: "Take away that horse

leech. He will kill me." He fought them both and tore the bandage from

his arm. The doctor at last gave up, unused to resistance. "Give him the

calomel powders."

"Out with your drugs!" cried the sick man, striking at him in fury, and

then falling back in delirium again, yellow and flushed. The doctor left

in disgust, with his neat wrist ruffles torn. On the stair he said: "He

will die, but I shall call to-morrow. He will be dead, I fear."

"Is he gone?" gasped Schmidt, when, returning, Rene sat down by his

bedside.

"Yes, sir; but he will come again."

"I do not want him. I want air--air." As he spoke, he rose on his elbow

and looked about him. "I knew you would come. I should never have sent

for you. _Mein Gott!_" he cried hoarsely, looking at the room and the

bedclothes. "Horrible!" His natural refinement was shocked at what he

saw. "_Ach!_ to die like a wallowing pig is a torture of disgust! An

insult, this disease and torment." Then wandering again: "I pray you,

sir, to hold me excused."

The distracted young man never forgot that night. The German at dawn,

crying, "Air, air!" got up, and despite all De Courval could do

staggered out to the upper porch and lay uncovered on a mattress upon

which De Courval dragged him. The milk and food came, and at six o'clock

Stephen Girard.

"I have been up all night," he said; "but here is a black to help you."

To De Courval's delight, it was old Cicero, who, lured by high wages

given to the negro, whom even the pest passed by, had left the widow's

service.

"Now," said Girard, "here is help. Pay him well. Our friend will die, I

fear; and, sir, you are a brave man, but do not sit here all day."

De Courval, in despair at his verdict, thanked him. But the friend was

not to die. Cicero proved faithful, and cooked and nursed and Rene, as

the hours of misery went on, began to hope. The fever lessened in a day

or two, but Schmidt still lay on the porch, speechless, yellow and

wasted, swearing furiously at any effort to get him back to bed. As the

days ran on he grew quiet and rejoiced to feel the cool breeze from the

river and had a smile for Rene and a brief word of cheer for Girard, who

came hither daily, heroically uncomplaining, spending his strength

lavishly and his money with less indifference. Schmidt, back again in

the world of human interests, listened to his talk with Rene, himself

for the most part silent.

Twice a day, when thus in a measure relieved, as the flood served, De

Courval rowed out on the river, and came back refreshed by his swim. He

sent comforting notes by Cicero to his mother and to Mrs. Swanwick, and

a message of remembrance to Margaret, and was careful to add that he had

"fumed" the letters with sulphur, that things were better with Schmidt,

and he himself was well. Cicero came back with glad replies and fruit

and milk and lettuce and fresh eggs and what not, while day after day

three women prayed at morning and night for those whom in their

different ways they loved.

One afternoon Dr. Rush came again and said it was amazing, but it would

have been still better if he had been let to bleed him, telling how he

had bled Dr. Mease six times in five days, and now he was safe. But here

he considered that he would be no further needed. Schmidt had listened

civilly to the doctor with the mild, tired, blue eyes and delicate

features; feeling, with the inflowing tide of vigor, a return of his

normal satisfaction in the study of man, he began, to De Courval's joy,

to amuse himself.

"Do you bleed the Quakers, too?" he asked.

"Why not?" said the doctor, puzzled.

"Have they as much blood as other people? You look to be worn out. Pray

do not go. Sit down. Cicero shall give you some chocolate."

The doctor liked few things better than a chance to talk. He sat down

again as desired, saying: "Yes, I am tired; but though I had only three

hours' sleep last night, I am still, through the divine Goodness, in

perfect health. Yesterday was a triumph for mercury, jalap, and

bleeding. They saved at least a hundred lives."

"Are the doctors all of your way of thinking?"

"No, sir. I have to combat prejudice and falsehood. Sir, they are

murderers."

"Sad, very sad!" remarked Schmidt.

"I have one satisfaction. I grieve for the blindness of men, but I

nourish a belief that my labor is acceptable to Heaven. Malice and

slander are my portion on earth; but my opponents will have their reward

hereafter."

"Most comforting!" murmured Schmidt. "But what a satisfaction to be sure

you are right!"

"Yes, to know, sir, that I am right and these my enemies wrong, does

console me; and, too, to feel that I am humbly following in the

footsteps of my Master. But I must go. The chocolate is good. My thanks.

If you relapse, let me know, and the lancet will save you. Good-by."

When Rene returned, having attended the doctor to the door, Schmidt was

smiling.

"Ah, my son," he said, "only in the Old Testament will you find a man

like that--malice and piety, with a belief in himself no man, no reason,

can disturb."

"Yes, I heard him with wonder."

"He has done me good, but now I am tired. He has gone--he said so--to

visit Miss Gainor, at the Hill. I should like to hear her talk to him."

An attack of gout had not improved that lady's temper, and she cruelly

mocked at the great doctor's complaints of his colleagues. When she

heard of De Courval, and how at last he would not agree to have Schmidt

held for the doctor to bleed him she said he was a fine fellow; and to

the doctor's statement that he was a fool, she retorted: "You have

changed your religion twice, I do hear. When you are born again, try to

be born a fool."

The doctor, enraged, would have gone at once, but the gout was in solid

possession, and the threat to send for Dr. Chovet held him. He laughed,

outwardly at least, and did not go. The next day he, too, was in the

grip of the fever, and was bled to his satisfaction, recovering later to

resume his gallant work.

And now that, after another week, Schmidt, a ghastly frame of a man,

began to eat, but still would not talk, De Courval, who had never left

him except for his swim or to walk in the garden, leaving Cicero in

charge, went out into the streets to find a shop and that rare article,

tobacco.

It was now well on into this fatal September. The deaths were three

hundred a week. The sick no man counted, but probably half of those

attacked died. At night in his vigils, De Courval heard negroes, with

push-carts or dragging chaises, cry: "Bring out your dead! Bring out

your dead!" The bodies were let down from upper windows by ropes or left

outside of the doorways until the death-cart came and took them away.

It was about noon when Rene left the house. As he neared the center of

the city, there were more people in the streets than he expected to see;

but all wore a look of anxiety and avoided one another, walking in the

middle of the roadway. No one shook hands with friend or kinsman. Many

smoked; most of them wore collars of tarred rope, or chewed garlic, or

held to their faces vials of "vinegar of the four thieves" once popular

in the plague. He twice saw men, stricken as they walked, creep away

like animals, beseeching help from those who fled in dismay. Every hour

had its sickening tragedy.

As he stood on Second Street looking at a man chalking the doors of

infected houses, a lightly clad young woman ran forth screaming. He

stopped her. "What is it? Can I help you?" A great impulse of desire to

aid came over him, a feeling of pitiful self-appeal to the manhood of

his courage.

"Let me go! My husband has it. I won't stay! I am too young to die."

A deadly fear fell upon the young Huguenot. "I, too, am young, and may

die," he murmured; but he went in and up-stairs. He saw an old man,

yellow and convulsed; but being powerless to help him, he went out to

find some one.

On the bridge over Dock Creek he met Daniel Offley. He did not esteem

him greatly, but he said, "I want to know how I can help a man I have

just left."

The two men who disliked each other had then and there their lesson. "I

will go with thee." They found the old man dead. As they came out,

Offley said, "Come with me, if thee is minded to aid thy fellows," and

they went on, talking of the agony of the doomed city.

Hearses and push-carts went by in rows, heavy with naked corpses in the

tainted air. Very few well-dressed people were seen. Fashion and wealth

had gone, panic-stricken, and good grass crops could have been cut in

the desolate streets near the Delaware.

Now and then some scared man, walking in the roadway, for few, as I

said, used the sidewalk, would turn, shocked at hearing the Quaker's

loud voice; for, as was noticed, persons who met, spoke softly and low,

as if feeling the nearness of the unseen dead in the houses. While De

Courval waited, Offley went into several alleys on their way, and came

out more quiet.

"I have business here," said Offley, as he led the way over the south

side of the Potter's Field we now call Washington Square. He paused to

pay two black men who were digging wide pits for the fast-coming dead

cast down from the death-carts. A Catholic priest and a Lutheran

clergyman were busy, wearily saying brief prayers over the dead.

Offley looked on, for a minute silent. "The priest is of Rome," he said,

"one Keating--a good man; the other a Lutheran."

"Strange fellowship!" thought De Courval.

They left them to this endless task, and went on, Daniel talking in his

oppressively loud voice of the number of the deaths. The imminence of

peril affected the spirits of most men, but not Offley. De Courval,

failing to answer a question, he said: "What troubles thee, young man?

Is thee afeared?"

"A man should be--and at first I was; but now I am thinking of the

Papist and Lutheran--working together. That gives one to think, as we

say in French."

"I see not why," said Offley. "But we must hasten, or the health

committee will be gone."

In a few minutes they were at the State House. Daniel led him through

the hall and up-stairs. In the council-room of Penn was seated a group

of notable men.

"Here," said Offley in his great voice, "is a young man of a will to

help us."

Girard rose. "This, gentlemen, is my countryman, the Vicomte de

Courval."

Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, made him welcome.

"Sit down," he said. "We shall presently be free to direct you."

De Courval took the offered seat and looked with interest at the men

before him.

There were Carey, the future historian of the plague; Samuel Wetherill,

the Free Quaker; Henry de Forrest, whom he had met; Thomas Savory;

Thomas Wistar; Thomas Scattergood; Jonathan Seargeant; and others. Most

of them, being Friends, sat wearing their white beaver hats. Tranquil

and fearless, they were quietly disposing of a task from which some of

the overseers of the poor had fled. Six of those present were very soon

to join the four thousand who died before November. When the meeting was

over Girard said to De Courval: "Peter Helm and I are to take charge of

the hospital on Bush Hill. Are you willing to help us? It is perilous; I

ought to tell you that."

"Yes, I will go," said Rene; "I have now time, and I want to be of some

use."

"We thank you," said Matthew Clarkson. "Help is sorely needed."

"Come with me," said Girard. "My chaise is here. Help is scarce. Too

many who should be of us have fled." As they went out, he added: "I owe

this city much, as some day it will know. You are going to a scene of

ungoverned riot, of drunken negro nurses; but it is to be changed, and

soon, too."

James Hamilton's former country seat on Bush Hill was crowded with the

dying and the dead; but there were two devoted doctors, and soon there

was better order and discipline.

De Courval went daily across the doomed city to his loathsome task,

walking thither after his breakfast. He helped to feed and nurse the

sick, aided in keeping the beds decent, and in handling the many who

died, until at nightfall, faint and despairing, he wandered back to his

home. Only once Schmidt asked a question, and hearing his sad story, was

silent, except to say: "I thought as much. God guard you, my son!"

One day, returning, he saw at evening on Front Street a man seated on a

door-step. He stopped, and the man looked up. It was the blacksmith

Offley.

"I am stricken," he said. "Will thee help me?"

"Surely I will." De Courval assisted him into the house and to bed. He

had sent his family away. "I have shod my last horse, I fear. Fetch me

Dr. Hutchinson."

"He died to-day."

"Then another--Dr. Hodge; but my wife must not know. She would come.

Ask Friend Pennington to visit me. I did not approve of thee, young man.

I ask thee pardon; I was mistaken. Go, and be quick."

"I shall find some one." He did not tell him that both Pennington and

the physician were dead.

De Courval was able to secure the needed help, but the next afternoon

when he returned, the blacksmith was in a hearse at the door. De Courval

walked away thoughtful. Even those he knew avoided him, and he observed,

what many noticed, that every one looked sallow and their eyes yellow. A

strange thing it seemed.

And so, with letters well guarded, that none he loved might guess his

work, September passed, and the German was at last able to be in the

garden, but strangely feeble, still silent, and now asking for books. A

great longing was on the young man to see those he loved; but October,

which saw two thousand perish, came and went, and it was well on into

the cooler November before the pest-house was closed and De Courval set

free, happy in a vast and helpful experience, but utterly worn out and

finding his last week's walks to the hospital far too great an exertion.

What his body had lost for a time, his character had gained in an

exercised charity for the sick, for the poor, and for the opinions of

men on whom he had previously looked with small respect.

A better and wiser man on the 20th of November drove out with Schmidt to

the home of the Wynnes at Merion, where Schmidt left him to the tender

care of two women, who took despotic possession.

"At last!" cried the mother, and with tears most rare to her she held

the worn and wasted figure in her arms. "_Mon Dieu!_" she cried, as for

the first time she heard of what he had done. For only to her was

confession of heroic conduct possible. "And I--I would have kept you

from God's service. I am proud of you as never before." All the long

afternoon they talked, and Mr. Wynne, just come back, and Darthea would

have him to stay for a few days.

At bedtime, as they sat alone, Hugh said to his wife, "I was sure of

that young man."

"Is he not a little like you?" asked Darthea.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "Do you think every good man like me? I grieve

that I was absent."

"And I do not."

XV

The weeks before Mrs. Swanwick's household returned to the city were for

De Courval of the happiest. He was gathering again his former strength

in the matchless weather of our late autumnal days. To take advantage of

the re-awakened commerce and to return to work was, as Wynne urged,

unwise for a month or more. The American politics of that stormy time

were to the young noble of small moment, and the Terror, proclaimed in

France in September on Barras's motion, followed by the queen's death,

made all hope of change in his own land for the present out of the

question.

With the passing of the plague, Genet and his staff had come back; but

for Rene to think of what he eagerly desired was only to be reminded of

his own physical feebleness.

Meanwhile Genet's insolent demands went on, and the insulted cabinet was

soon about to ask for his recall, when, as Schmidt hoped, Carteaux would

also leave the country. The enthusiasm for the French republic was at

first in no wise lessened by Genet's conduct, although his threat to

appeal to the country against Washington called out at last a storm of

indignation which no one of the minister's violations of law and of the

courtesies of life had yet occasioned. At first it was held to be an

invention of "black-hearted Anglican aristocrats," but when it came out

in print, Genet was at once alarmed at the mischief he had made. He had

seriously injured his Republican allies,--in fact, nearly ruined the

party, said Madison,--for at no time in our history was Washington more

venerated. The Democratic leaders begged men not to blame the newly

founded republic, "so gloriously cemented with the blood of

aristocrats," for the language of its insane envoy. The Federalists

would have been entirely pleased, save that neither England nor France

was dealing wisely with our commerce, now ruined by the exactions of

privateers and ships of war. Both parties wailed over this intolerable

union of insult and injury; but always the President stood for peace,

and, contemplating a treaty with England, was well aware how hopeless

would be a contest on sea or land with the countries which, recklessly

indifferent to international law, were ever tempting us to active

measures of resentment. For De Courval the situation had, as it seemed,

no personal interest. There has been some need, however, to remind my

readers of events which were not without influence upon the fortunes of

those with whom this story is concerned.

Schmidt was earnestly desirous that they should still remain in the

country, and this for many reasons. De Courval and he would be the

better for the cool autumn weather, and both were quickly gathering

strength. Madame de Courval had rejoined them. The city was in mourning.

Whole families had been swept away. There were houses which no one

owned, unclaimed estates, and men missing of whose deaths there was no

record, while every day or two the little family of refugees heard of

those dead among the middle class or of poor acquaintances of whose

fates they had hitherto learned nothing. Neither Schmidt nor Rene would

talk of the horrors they had seen, and the subject was by tacit

agreement altogether avoided.

Meanwhile they rode, walked, and fished in the Schuylkill. Schmidt went

now and then to town on business, and soon, the fear of the plague quite

at an end, party strife was resumed, and the game of politics began

anew, while the city forgot the heroic few who had served it so well,

and whom to-day history also has forgotten and no stone commemorates.

One afternoon Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come, let us have a longer

walk!"

Margaret, eager to join them, would not ask it, and saw them go down the

garden path toward the river. "Bring me some goldenrod, please," she

called.

"Yes, with pleasure," cried De Courval at the gate, as he turned to look

back, "if there be any left."

"Then asters," she called.

"A fair picture," said Schmidt, "the mother and daughter, the bud and

the rose. You know the bluets folks hereabouts call the Quaker

ladies,--oh, I spoke of this before,--pretty, but it sufficeth not. Some

sweet vanity did contrive those Quaker garments."

It was in fact a fair picture. The girl stood, a gray figure in soft

Eastern stuffs brought home by our ships. One arm was about the mother's

waist, and with the other she caught back the hair a playful breeze blew

forward to caress the changeful roses of her cheek.

"I must get me a net, mother, such as the President wore one First Day

at Christ Church."

"Thou must have been piously attending to thy prayers," returned Mrs.

Swanwick, smiling.

"Oh, but how could I help seeing?"

"It is to keep the powder off his velvet coat, my dear. When thou art

powdered again, we must have a net."

"Oh, mother!" It was still a sore subject.

"I should like to have seen thee, child."

"Oh, the naughty mother! I shall tell of thee. Ah, here is a pin in

sight. Let me hide it, mother."

The woman seen from the gate near-by was some forty-five years old, her

hair a trifle gray under the high cap, the face just now merry, the gown

of fine, gray linen cut to have shown the neck but for the soft, silken

shawl crossed on the bosom and secured behind by a tie at the waist. A

pin held it in place where it crossed, and other pins on the shoulders.

The gown had elbow sleeves, and she wore long, openwork thread glove

mitts; for she was expecting Mistress Wynne and Josiah and was pleased

in her own way to be at her best.

Schmidt, lingering, said: "It is the pins. They must needs be hid in the

folds not to be seen. Ah, vanity has many disguises. It is only to be

neat, thou seest, Rene, and not seem to be solicitous concerning

appearances." Few things escaped the German.

They walked away, and as they went saw Mistress Gainor Wynne go by in

her landau with Langstroth. "That is queer to be seen--the damsel in her

seventies and uncle bulldog Josiah. He had a permanent ground rent on

her hill estate as lasting as time, a matter of some ten pounds. They

have enjoyed to fight over it for years. But just now there is peace.

Oh, she told me I was to hold my tongue. She drove to Gray Court, and

what she did to the man I know not; but the rent is redeemed, and they

are bent on mischief, the pair of them. As I was not to speak of it, I

did not; but if you tell never shall I be forgiven." He threw his long

bulk on the grass and laughed great laughter.

"But what is it?" said Rene.

"_Guter Himmel_, man! the innocent pair are gone to persuade the Pearl

and the sweet mother shell--she that made it--to take that lottery

prize. I would I could see them."

"But she will never, never do it," said Rene.

"No; for she has already done it."

"What, truly? _Vraiment!_"

"Yes. Is there not a god of laughter to whom I may pray? I have used up

my stock of it. When Cicero came in one day, he fetched a letter to

Stephen Girard from my Pearl. She had won her mother to consent, and

Girard arranged it all, and, lo! the great prize of money is gone long

ago to help the poor and the sick. Now the ministers of Princeton

College may pray in peace. Laugh, young man!"

But he did not. "And she thought to do that?"

"Yes; but as yet none know. They will soon, I fear."

"But she took it, after all. What will Friends say?"

"She was read out of meeting long ago, disowned, and I do advise them to

be careful how they talk to Madame of the girl. There is a not mild

maternal tigress caged somewhere inside of the gentlewoman. 'Ware claws,

if you are wise, Friend Waln!" De Courval laughed, and they went on

their way again, for a long time silent.

At Flat Rock, above the swiftly flowing Schuylkill, they sat down, and

Schmidt, saying, "At last the pipe tastes good," began to talk in the

strain of joyous excitement which for him the beautiful in nature always

evoked, when for a time his language became singular. "Ah, Rene, it is

worth while to cross the ocean to see King Autumn die thus gloriously.

How peaceful is the time! They call this pause when regret doth make the

great Reaper linger pitiful--they call it the Indian summer."

"And we, the summer of St. Martin."

"And we, in my homeland, have no name for it, or, rather, _Spaetsommer_;

but it is not as here. See how the loitering leaves, red and gold, rock

in mid-air. A serene expectancy is in the lingering hours. It is as

still as a dream of prayer that awaiteth answer. Listen, Rene, how the

breeze is stirring the spruces, and hark, it is--ah, yes--the Angelus of

evening."

His contemplative ways were familiar, and just now suited the young

man's mood. "A pretty carpet," he said, "and what a gay fleet of colors

on the water!"

"Yes, yes. There is no sorrow for me in the autumn here, but after comes

the winter." His mood of a sudden changed. "Let us talk of another

world, Rene--the world of men. I want to ask of you a question; nay,

many questions." His tone changed as he spoke. "I may embarrass you."

De Courval knew by this time that on one subject this might very well be

the case. He said, however, "I do not know of anything, sir, which you

may not freely ask me."

He was more at ease when Schmidt said, "We are in the strange position

of being two men one of whom twice owes his life to the other."

"Ah, but you forget to consider what unending kindness I too owe--I, a

stranger in a strange land; nor what your example, your society, have

been to me."

"Thank you, Rene; I could gather more of good from you than you from

me."

"Oh, sir!"

"Yes, yes; but all that I have said is but to lead up to the wide

obligation to be frank with me."

"I shall be."

"When I was ill I babbled. I was sometimes half-conscious, and was as

one man helplessly watching another on the rack telling about him things

he had no mind to hear spoken."

"You wandered much, sir."

"Then did I speak of a woman?"

"Yes; and of courts and battles."

"Did I speak of--did I use my own name, my title? Of course you know

that I am not Herr Schmidt."

"Yes; many have said that."

"You heard my name, my title?"

"Yes; I heard them."

For a minute there was silence. Then Schmidt said: "There are reasons

why it must be a secret--perhaps for years or always. I am Graf von

Ehrenstein; but I am more than that--much more and few even in Germany

know me by that name. And I did say so?"

"Yes, sir."

"It must die in your memory, my son, as the priests say of what is heard

in confession."

This statement, which made clear a good deal of what De Courval had

heard in the German's delirium, was less singular to him than it would

have seemed to-day. More than one mysterious titled person of importance

came to the city under an assumed name, and went away leaving no one the

wiser.

"It is well," continued Schmidt, "that you, who are become so dear to

me, should know my story. I shall make it brief."

"Soon after my marriage, a man of such position as sometimes permits men

to insult with impunity spoke of my wife so as to cause me to demand an

apology. He fell back on his higher rank, and in my anger I struck him

on the parade-ground at Potsdam while he was reviewing his regiment. A

lesser man than I would have lost his life for what I did. I was sent to

the fortress of Spandau, where for two years I had the freedom of the

fortress, but was rarely allowed to hear from my wife or to write. Books

I did have, as I desired, and there I learned my queer English from my

only English books, Shakespeare and the Bible."

"Ah, now I understand," said De Courval; "but it is not Shakespeare you

talk. Thanks to you, I know him."

"No, not quite; who could? After two years my father's interest obtained

my freedom at the cost of my exile. My wife had died in giving birth to

a still-born child. My father, an old man, provided me with small means,

which I now do not need, nor longer accept, since he gave grudgingly,

because I had done that which for him was almost unpardonable. I went to

England and France, and then came hither to breathe a freer air, and, as

you know, have prospered, and am, for America, rich. You cannot know the

disgust in regard to arbitrary injustice with which I left my own land.

I felt that to use a title in this country would be valueless, and

subject me to comment and to inquiry I wished to avoid. You have earned

the right to know my story, as I know yours. Mr. Alexander Hamilton and

my business adviser, Mr. Justice Wilson, alone know my name and title,

and, I may add, Mr. Gouverneur Morris. I shall say to the two former

that you share this knowledge. They alone know why it is reasonable and,

indeed, may have been prudent that, until my return home, I remain

unknown. It is needless to go farther into the matter with you. This

simple life is to my taste, but I may some day have to go back to my own

land--I devoutly trust never. We shall not again open a too painful

subject."

De Courval said, "I have much to thank you for, but for nothing as for

this confidence."

"Yet a word, Rene. For some men--some young men--to know what now you

know of me, would disturb the intimacy of their relation. I would have

it continue simple. So let it be, my son. Come, let us go. How still the

woods are! There is here a quiet that hath the quality of a gentle

confessor who hears and will never tell. Listen to that owl!"

As they drew near to the house the German said: "_Ach_, I forgot. In

December I suppose we must go to the city. You are not as yet fit for

steady work; but if I can arrange it with Wynne, why not let me use you?

I have more to do here and in New York than I like. Now, do not be

foolish about it. There are rents to gather in, journeys to make. Let me

give you five hundred _livres_ a month. You will have time to ride,

read, and see the country. I shall talk to Hugh Wynne about the matter."

Thus, after some discussion and some protest, it was arranged, the young

man feeling himself in such relation to the older friend as made this

adjustment altogether agreeable and a glad release from a return to the

routine of the counting-house.

Too often the thought of Carteaux haunted him, while he wondered how

many in France were thus attended. When in after years he saw go by men

who had been the lesser agents in the massacres, or those who had

brought the innocent to the guillotine, he wondered at the impunity with

which all save Marat had escaped the personal vengeance of those who

mourned, and, mourning, did nothing. Even during the Terror, when death

seemed for so many a thing to face smiling, the man who daily sent to

the guillotine in Paris or the provinces uncounted thousands, walked the

streets unguarded, and no one, vengeful, struck. In fact, the Terror

seemed to paralyze even the will of the most reckless. Not so felt the

young noble. He hungered for the hour of relief, let it bring what it

might.

The simple and wholesome life of the Quaker household had done much to

satisfy the vicomtesse, whose life had never of late years been one of

great luxury, and as she slowly learned English, she came to recognize

the qualities of refinement and self-sacrifice which, with unusual

intelligence, made Mrs. Swanwick acceptably interesting. It became her

custom at last to be more down-stairs, and to sit with her embroidery

and talk while the knitting-needles clicked and the ball of wool hanging

by its silver hoop from the Quaker lady's waist grew smaller. Sometimes

they read aloud, French or English, or, with her rare smile, the

vicomtesse would insist on sharing some small household duty. The serene

atmosphere of the household, and what Schmidt called the gray religion

of Friends, suited the Huguenot lady. As concerned her son, she was less

at ease, and again, with some anxiety, she had spoken to him of his too

evident pleasure in the society of Margaret, feeling strongly that two

such young and attractive people might fall easily into relations which

could end only in disappointment for one or both. The girl's mother was

no less disturbed, and Schmidt, as observant, but in no wise troubled,

looked on and, seeing, smiled, somewhat dreading for Rene the inevitable

result of a return to town and an encounter with his enemy.

Genet had at last been recalled, in December, but, as Du Vallon told

Schmidt, Carteaux was to hold his place as charge d'affaires to Fauchet,

the new minister, expected to arrive in February, 1794.

On the day following the revelations made by Schmidt, and just after

breakfast, Margaret went out into the wood near by to gather autumn

leaves. Seeing her disappear among the trees, De Courval presently

followed her. Far in the woods he came upon her seated at the foot of a

great tulip-tree. The basket at her side was full of club moss and gaily

tinted toadstools. The red and yellow leaves of maple and oak, falling

on her hair and her gray gown, made, as it seemed to him, a pleasant

picture.

De Courval threw himself at her feet on the ground covered with autumn's

lavished colors.

"We have nothing like this in France. How wonderful it is!"

"Yes," she said; "it is finer than ever I saw it." Then, not looking up,

she added, after a pause, the hands he watched still busy: "Why didst

thou not bring me any goldenrod last evening? I asked thee."

"I saw none."

"Ah, but there is still plenty, or at least there are asters. I think

thou must have been gathering _pensees_, as thy mother calls them;

pansies, we say."

"Yes, thoughts, thoughts," he returned with sudden gravity--"_pensees_."

"They must have been of my cousin Shippen or of Fanny Cadwalader, only

she is always laughing." This young woman, who still lives in all her

beauty on Stuart's canvas, was to end her life in England.

"Oh, neither, neither," he said gaily, "not I. Guess better."

"Then a quiet Quaker girl like--ah--like, perhaps, Deborah Wharton."

He shook his head.

"No? Thou art hard to please," she said. "Well, I shall give them

up--thy _pensees_. They must have been freaked with jet; for how serious

thou art!"

"What is that--freaked with jet?"

She laughed merrily. "Oh, what ignorance! That is Milton,

Monsieur--'Lycidas.'" She was gently proud of superior learning.

"Ah, I must ask Mr. Schmidt of it. I have much to learn."

"I would," and her hands went on with their industry of selecting the

more brilliantly colored leaves. "I have given thee something to think

of. Tell me, now, what were the thoughts of jet in thy _pensees_--the

dark thoughts."

"I cannot tell thee. Some day thou wilt know, and that may be too soon,

too soon"; for he thought: "If I kill that man, what will they think of

revenge, of the guilt of blood, these gentle Quaker people?" Aloud he

said: "You cannot think these thoughts of mine, and I am glad you

cannot."

He was startled as she returned quickly, without looking up from her

work: "How dost thou know what I think? It is something that will

happen," and, the white hands moving with needless quickness among the

gaily tinted leaves, she added: "I do not like change, or new things, or

mysteries. Does Madame, thy mother, think to leave us? My mother would

miss her."

"And you? Would not you a little?"

"Yes, of course; and so would friend Schmidt. There, my basket will hold

no more. How pretty they are! But thou hast not answered me."

"We are not thinking of any such change."

"Well, so far that is good news. But I am still curious. Mr. Schmidt did

once say the autumn has no answers. I think thou art like it." She rose

as she spoke.

"Ah, but the spring may make reply in its time--in its time. Let me

carry thy basket, Miss Margaret." She gave it to him with the woman's

liking to be needlessly helped.

"I am very gay with red and gold," she cried, and shook the leaves from

her hair and gown. "It is worse than the brocade and the sea-green

petticoat my wicked cousins put on me." She could laugh at it now.

"But what would Friends say to the way the fine milliner, Nature, has

decked thee, Mademoiselle? They would forgive thee, I think. Mr. Schmidt

says the red and gold lie thick on the unnamed graves at Fourth and

Mulberry streets, and no Quaker doth protest with a broom."

"He speaks in a strange way sometimes. I often wonder where he learned

it."

"Why dost thou not ask him?"

"I should not dare. He might not like it."

"But thou art, it seems, more free to question some other people."

"Oh, but that is different; and, Monsieur," she said demurely, "thou

must not say thou and thee to me. Thy mother says it is not proper."

He laughed. "If I am thou for thee, were it not courteous to speak to

thee in thy own tongue?"

She colored, remembering the lesson and her own shrewd guess at the

lady's meaning, and how, as she was led to infer, to _tutoyer_, to say

thou, inferred a certain degree of intimacy. "It is not fitting here

except among Friends."

"And why not? In France we do it."

"Yes, sometimes, I have so heard." But to explain further was far from

her intention. "It sounds foolish here, in people who are not of

Friends. I said so--"

"But are we not friends?"

"I said Friends with a big F, Monsieur."

"I make my apologies,"--he laughed with a formal bow,--"but one easily

catches habits of talk."

"Indeed, I am in earnest, and thou must mend thy habits. Friend

Marguerite Swanwick desires to be excused of the Vicomte de Courval,"

and, smiling, she swept the courtesy of reply to his bow as the autumn

leaves fell from the gathered skirts.

"As long as thou art thou, it will be hard to obey," he said, and she

making no reply, they wandered homeward through level shafts of

sunlight, while fluttering overhead on wings of red and gold, the cupids

of the forest enjoyed the sport, and the young man murmured: "Thou and

thee," dreaming of a walk with her in his own Normandy among the

woodlands his boyhood knew.

"Thou art very silent," she said at last.

"No, I am talking; but not to you--of you, perhaps."

"Indeed," and she ceased to express further desire to be enlightened,

and fell to asking questions about irregular French verbs.

Just before they reached the house, Margaret said: "I have often meant

to ask thee to tell me what thou didst do in the city. Friend Schmidt

said to mother that Stephen Girard could not say too much of thee. Tell

me about it, please."

"No," he returned abruptly. "It is a thing to forget, not to talk

about."

"How secretive thou art!" she said, pouting, "and thou wilt never, never

speak of France." In an instant she knew she had been indiscreet as he

returned:

"Nor ever shall. Certainly not now."

"Not--not even to me?"

"No." His mind was away in darker scenes.

Piqued and yet sorry, she returned, "Thou art as abrupt as Daniel

Offley."

"Mademoiselle!"

"What have I said?"

"Daniel Offley is dead. I carried him into his own house to die, a brave

man when few were brave."

"I have had my lesson," she said. There were tears in her eyes, a little

break in her voice.

"And I, Pearl; and God was good to me."

"And to me," she sobbed; "I beg thy pardon--but I want to say--I must

say that thou too wert brave, oh, as brave as any--for I know--I have

heard."

"Oh, Pearl, you must not say that! I did as others did." She had heard

him call her Pearl unreproved, or had she not? He would set a guard on

his tongue. "It is chilly. Let us go in," for they had stood at the gate

as they talked.

It was their last walk, for soon the stripped trees and the ground were

white with an early snowfall and the autumn days had gone, and on the

first of December reluctantly they moved to the city.

XVI

Least of all did De Courval like the change to the busy life of the

city. A growing love, which he knew would arouse every prejudice his

mother held dear, occupied his mind when he was not busy with Schmidt's

affairs or still indecisively on the outlook for his enemy. Genet,

dismissed, had gone to New York to live, where later he married De Witt

Clinton's sister, being by no means willing to risk his head in France.

His secretary, as De Courval soon heard, was traveling until the new

minister arrived. Thus for the time left more at ease, De Courval

fenced, rode, and talked with Schmidt.

December of this calamitous year went by and the rage of parties

increased. Neither French nor English spared our commerce. The latter

took the French islands, and over a hundred and thirty of our ships were

seized as carriers of provisions and ruthlessly plundered, their crews

impressed and many vessels left to rot, uncared for, at the wharves of

San Domingo and Martinique. A nation without a navy, we were helpless.

There was indeed enough wrong done by our old ally and by the

mother-country to supply both parties in America with good reasons for

war.

The whole land was in an uproar and despite the news of the Terror in

France, the Jacobin clubs multiplied in many cities North and South,

and broke out in the wildest acts of folly. In Charleston they pulled

down the statue of the great statesman Pitt. The Democratic Club of that

city asked to be affiliated with the Jacobin Club in Paris, while the

city council voted to use no longer the absurd titles "Your Honour" and

"Esquire."

Philadelphia was not behindhand in folly, but it took no official form.

The astronomer Rittenhouse, head of the Republican Club, appeared one

day at the widow's and showed Schmidt a copy of a letter addressed to

the Vestry of Christ Church. He was full of it, and when, later, Mr.

Jefferson appeared, to get the chocolate and the talk he dearly liked,

Rittenhouse would have had him sign the appeal.

"This, Citizen," said the astronomer, "will interest and please you."

The Secretary read, with smiling comments: "'To the Vestry of Christ

Church: It is the wish of the respectable citizens that you cause to be

removed the image of George the Second from the gable of Christ Church.'

Why not?" said the Secretary, as he continued to read aloud: "'These

marks of infamy cause the church to be disliked.'"

"Why not remove the church, too?" said Schmidt.

"'T is of as little use," said Jefferson, and this Mrs. Swanwick did not

like. She knew of his disbelief in all that she held dear.

"Thou wilt soon get no chocolate here," she said; for she feared no one

and at times was outspoken.

"Madame, I shall go to meeting next First Day with the citizen Friends.

My chocolate, please." He read on, aloud: "'It has a tendency to keep

the young and virtuous away.' That is you and I, Rittenhouse--'the

young and virtuous.'" But he did not sign, and returned this amazing

document, remarking that his name was hardly needed.

"They have refused," said the astronomer, "actually refused, and it is

to be removed by outraged citizens to-day, I hear. A little more

chocolate, Citess, and a bun--please."

"Citess, indeed! When thou art hungry enough to speak the King's

English," said Mrs. Swanwick, "thou shall have thy chocolate; and if thy

grammar be very good, there will be also a slice of sally-lunn."

The philosopher repented, and was fed, while Schmidt remarked on the

immortality a cake may confer; but who Sally was, no one knew.

"You will be pleased to hear, Rittenhouse, that Dr. Priestly is come to

the city," said the Secretary. "He is at the Harp and Crown on Third

Street."

"I knew him in England," said Schmidt; "I will call on him to-day. A

great chemist, Rene, and the finder of a new gas called oxygen."

When the star-gazer had gone away the Secretary, after some talk about

the West Indian outrages, said: "I shall miss your chocolate, Madame,

and my visits. You have heard, no doubt, of the cabinet changes."

"Some rumors, only," said Schmidt.

"I have resigned, and go back to my home and my farming. Mr. Hamilton

will also fall out this January, and General Knox, no very great loss.

Colonel Pickering takes his place."

"And who succeeds Hamilton, sir?"

"Oh, his satellite, Wolcott. The ex-Secretary means to pull the wires of

his puppets. He loves power, as I do not. But the chocolate, alas!"

"And who, may I ask," said Mrs. Swanwick, "is to follow thee, Friend

Jefferson?"

"Edmund Randolph, I believe. Bradford will have his place of

Attorney-General. And now you have all my gossip, Madame, and I leave

next week. I owe you many thanks for the pleasant hours in your home.

Good-by, Mr. Schmidt; and Vicomte, may I ask to be remembered to your

mother? I shall hope to be here now and then."

"We shall miss thee, Friend Jefferson," said the widow.

"I would not lessen thy regrets," he said. "Ah, one lingers." He kissed

the hand he held, his bright hazel eyes aglow. "Good-by, Miss Margaret."

And bowing low, he left them.

Schmidt looked after him, smiling.

"Now thou art of a mind to say naughty things of my friend," said Mrs.

Swanwick. "I know thy ways."

"I was, but I meant only to criticize his politics. An intelligent old

fox with golden eyes. He is of no mind to accept any share of the

trouble this English treaty will make, and this excise tax."

Rene, who was beginning to understand the difficulties in a cabinet

where there was seldom any unanimity of opinion, said: "There will be

more peace for the President."

"And less helpful heads," said Schmidt. "Hamilton is a great loss, and

Jefferson in some respects. They go not well in double harness. Come,

Rene, let us go and see the philosopher. I knew him well. Great men are

rare sights. A Jacobin philosopher! But there are no politics in gases."

The chemist was not at home, and hearing shouts and unusual noise on

Second Street, they went through Church Alley to see what might be the

cause. A few hundred men and boys of the lower class were gathered in

front of Christ Church, watched by a smaller number of better-dressed

persons, who hissed and shouted, but made no attempt to interfere when,

apparently unmolested, a man, let down from the roof of the gable, tore

off the leaden medallion of the second George[1] amid the cheering and

mad party cries of the mob.

[1] The leaden bas-relief has since been replaced.

Schmidt said: "Now they can say their prayers in peace, these Jacobin

Christians."

In one man's mind there was presently small thought of peace. When the

crowd began to scatter, well pleased, Schmidt saw beside him De la

Foret, consul-general of France, and with him Carteaux. He threw his

great bulk and broad shoulders between De Courval and the Frenchmen,

saying: "Let us go. Come, Rene."

As he spoke, Carteaux, now again in the service, said: "We do it better

in France, Citizen Consul. The Committee of Safety and Pere Couthon

would have shortened the preacher by a head. Oh, they are leaving. Have

you seen the caricature of the aristocrat Washington on the guillotine?

It has made the President swear, I am told."

As he spoke, De Courval's attention was caught by the French accents

and something in the voice, and he turned to see the stranger who spoke

thus insolently.

"Not here, Rene. No! no!" said Schmidt. He saw De Courval's face grow

white as he had seen it once before.

"Let us go," said De la Foret.

"A feeble mob of children," returned Carteaux.

As he spoke, De Courval struck him a single savage blow full in the

face.

"A fight! a fight!" cried the crowd. "Give them room! A ring! a ring!"

There was no fight in the slighter man, who lay stunned and bleeding,

while Rene struggled in Schmidt's strong arms, wild with rage.

"You have done enough," said the German; "come!" Rene, silent, himself

again, stared at the fallen man.

"What is the meaning of this outrage!" said De la Foret. "Your name,

sir?"

"I am the Vicomte de Courval," said Rene, perfectly cool. "You will find

me at Madame Swanwick's on Front Street."

Carteaux was sitting upon the sidewalk, still dazed and bleeding. The

crowd looked on. "He hits hard," said one.

"Come, Rene," said the German, and they walked away, Rene still silent.

"I supposed it would come soon or late," said Schmidt. "We shall hear

from them to-morrow."

[Illustration: "Rene struggled in Schmidt's arms, wild with rage"]

"_Mon Dieu_, but I am glad. It is a weight off my mind. I shall kill

him."

Schmidt was hardly as sure. Neither man spoke again until they reached

home.

"Come to my room, Rene," said the German after supper. "I want to settle

that ground-rent business."

As they sat down, he was struck with the young man's look of elation.

"Oh, my pipe first. Where is it? Ah, here it is. What do you mean to

do?"

"Do? I do not mean to let him think it was only the sudden anger of a

French gentleman at a Jacobin's vile speech. He must know why I struck."

"That seems reasonable."

"But I shall not involve in my quarrel a man of your rank. I shall ask

Du Vallon."

"Shall you, indeed! There is wanted here a friend and an older head.

What rank had I when you saw me through my deadly duel with El Vomito?

Now, no more of that." De Courval yielded.

"I shall write to him and explain my action. He may put it as he pleases

to others."

"I see no better way. Write now, and let me see your letter."

Rene sat at the table and wrote while Schmidt smoked, a troubled and

thoughtful man. "He is no match for that fellow with the sword; and

yet"--and he moved uneasily--"it will be, on the whole, better than the

pistol." Any thought of adjustment or of escape from final resort to the

duel he did not consider. It would have been out of the question for

himself and, as he saw it, for any man of his beliefs and training.

"Here it is, sir," said Rene. The German gentleman laid down his long

pipe and read:

SIR: I am desirous that you should not consider my action as the

result of what you said in my hearing to M. de la Foret. I am the

Vicomte de Courval. In the massacre at Avignon on the twelfth of

September, 1791, when my father was about to be released by

Jourdan, your voice alone called for his condemnation. I saw him

die, butchered before my eyes. This is why I struck you.

LOUIS RENE DE COURVAL.

"That will do," said Schmidt. "He shall have it to-night. You will have

a week to spend with Du Vallon. No prudent man would meet you in the

condition in which you left him."

"I suppose not. I can wait. I have waited long. I regret the delay

chiefly because in this city everything is known and talked about, and

before we can end the matter it will be heard of here."

"Very probably; but no one will speak of it before your mother, and you

may be sure that these good people will ask no questions, and only

wonder and not realize what must come out of it."

"Perhaps, perhaps." He was not so sure and wished to end it at once.

It had been in his power to have made the social life of the better

republicans impossible for his father's murderer; but this might have

driven Carteaux away and was not what he desired. The constant thought

of his mother had kept him as undecided as Hamlet, but now a sudden

burst of anger had opened the way to what he longed for. He was glad.

When, that night, Jean Carteaux sat up in bed and read by dim

candlelight De Courval's letter, he, too, saw again the great hall at

Avignon and recalled the blood madness. His Jacobin alliances had closed

to him in Philadelphia the houses of the English party and the

Federalists, and in the society he frequented, at the official dinners

of the cabinet officers, he had never seen De Courval, nor, indeed,

heard of him, or, if at all casually, without his title and as one of

the many _emigres_ nobles with whom he had no social acquaintance. It

was the resurrection of a ghost of revenge. He had helped to send to the

guillotine others as innocent as Jean de Courval, and then, at last, not

without fear of his own fate, had welcomed the appointment of

commissioner to San Domingo and, on his return to France, had secured

the place of secretary to Genet's legation. The mockery of French

sentiment in the clubs of the American cities, the cockades, and red

bonnets, amused him. It recoiled from personal violence, and saying wild

things, did nothing of serious moment. The good sense and the trust of

the great mass of the people throughout the country in one man promised

little of value to France, as Carteaux saw full well when the recall of

Genet was demanded. He felt the chill of failure in this cooler air, but

was of no mind to return to his own country. He was intelligent, and,

having some means, meant that his handsome face should secure for him an

American wife, and with her a comfortable dowry; for who knew of his

obscure life in Paris? And now here was that affair at Avignon and the

ruin of his plans. He would at least close one mouth and deny what it

might have uttered. There was no other way, and for the rest--well, a

French _emigre_ had heard him speak rashly and had been brutal. The

Jacobin clubs would believe and stand by him. De la Foret must arrange

the affair, and so far this insolent _ci-devant_ could have said nothing

else of moment.

De la Foret called early the next day, and was referred to Schmidt as

Rene left the room. No pacific settlement was discussed or even

mentioned. The consul, well pleased, accepted the sword as the weapon,

and this being Sunday, on Thursday at 7 A.M. there would be light

enough, and they would cross on the ice to New Jersey; for this year one

could sleigh from the city to the capes, and from New York to Cape

Cod--or so it was said.

Meanwhile the Jacobin clubs rang with the insult to a French secretary,

and soon it was the talk in the well-pleased coffee-houses and at the

tables of the great merchants. Rene said nothing, refusing to gratify

those who questioned him.

"A pity," said Mrs. Chew to Penn, the Governor, as men still called him.

"And why was it? The young man is so serious and so quiet and, as I

hear, religious. I have seen him often at Christ Church with his mother,

or at Gloria Dei."

"One can get a good deal of religion into a blow," remarked Hamilton,

"or history lies. The man insulted him, I am told, and the vicomte

struck him." Even Hamilton knew no more than this.

"Still, there are milder ways of calling a man to account," said young

Thomas Cadwalader, while Hamilton smiled, remembering that savage duel

in which John Cadwalader, the father, had punished the slanderer,

General Conway.

"Will there be a fight?" said Mrs. Byrd.

"Probably," said Penn, and opinion among the Federals was all for the

vicomte. Meanwhile no one spoke of the matter at the widow's quiet

house, where just now the severe winter made social visits rare.

As for De Courval he fenced daily with Du Vallon, who was taken into

their confidence and shared Schmidt's increasing anxiety.

XVII

On Thursday, at the dawn of a gloomy winter morning, the two sleighs

crossed over a mile of ice to the Jersey shore. Large flakes of snow

were falling as Schmidt drove, the little doctor, Chovet, beside him, De

Courval silent on the back seat. Nothing could keep Chovet quiet very

long. "I was in the duel of Laurens, the President of the Congress. Oh,

it was to be on Christmas Day and near to Seven Street. Mr. Penn--oh,

not the fat governor but the senator from Georgia--he slipped in the mud

on the way, and Laurens he help him with a hand, and they make up all at

once and no further go, and I am disappoint." It was an endless chatter.

"And there was the Conway duel, too. Ah, that was good business!"

Schmidt, out of patience, said at last, "If you talk any more, I will

throw you out of the sleigh."

"Oh, _le diable!_ and who then will heal these which go to stick one the

other? Ha! I ask of you that?"

"The danger will be so much the less," said Schmidt. Chovet was

silenced.

On the shore they met De la Foret and Carteaux, and presently found in

the woods an open space with little snow. The two men stripped to the

shirt, and were handed the dueling-swords, Schmidt whispering: "Be cool;

no temper here. Wait to attack."

"And now," said the consul, as the seconds fell back, "on guard,

Messieurs!"

Instantly the two blades rang sharp notes of meeting steel as they

crossed and clashed in the cold morning air. "He is lost!" murmured

Schmidt. The slighter man attacked furiously, shifting his ground, at

first imprudently sure of his foe. A prick in the chest warned him. Then

there was a mad interchange of quick thrusts and more or less competent

defense, when De Courval, staggering, let fall his rapier and dropped,

while Carteaux, panting, stood still.

Schmidt knelt down. It was a deep chest wound and bled but little

outwardly. De Courval, coughing up foamy blood, gasped, "It is over for

a time--over." Chovet saw no more to do than to get his man home, and so

strangely does associative memory play her tricks that Schmidt, as he

rose in dismay, recalled the words of the dying _Mercutio_. Then, with

apparent ease, he lifted Rene, and, carrying him to the sleigh, wrapped

him in furs, and drove swiftly over the ice to the foot of the garden.

"Fasten the horse, Doctor," he said, "and follow me." Rene smiled as the

German carried him. "The second time of home-coming wounded. How

strange! Don't be troubled, sir. I do not mean to die. Tell my mother

yourself."

"If you die," murmured Schmidt, "he shall follow you. Do not speak,

Rene."

He met Margaret on the porch. "What is it?" she cried, as he went by her

with his burden. "What is the matter?"

"A duel. He is wounded. Call your mother." Not waiting to say more, he

went carefully up-stairs, and with Chovet's help Rene was soon in his

bed. It was quietly done, Mrs. Swanwick, distressed, but simply obeying

directions, asked no questions and Margaret, below-stairs, outwardly

calm, her Quaker training serving her well, was bidding Nanny to cease

crying and to get what was needed.

Once in bed, Rene said only, "My mother--tell her, at once." She had

heard at last the quick haste of unwonted stir and met Schmidt at her

chamber door.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Certainly, Monsieur. Something has happened to Rene. Is he dead?"

"No; but, he is hurt--wounded."

"Then tell me the worst at once. I am not of those to whom you must

break ill news gently. Sit down." He obeyed her.

"Rene has had a duel. He is badly wounded in the lung. You cannot see

him now. The doctor insists on quiet."

"And who will stop me?" she said.

"I, Madame," and he stood between her and the door. "Just now you can

only do him harm. I beg of you to wait--oh, patiently--for days,

perhaps. If he is worse, you shall know it at once."

For a moment she hesitated. "I will do as you say. Who was the man?"

"Carteaux, Madame."

"Carteaux here! _Mon Dieu!_ Does he live?"

"Yes. He was not hurt."

"And men say there is a God! Christ help me; what is it I have said? How

came he here, this man?"

He told her the whole story, she listening with moveless, pale, ascetic

face. Then she rose: "I am sorry I did not know of this beforehand. I

should have prayed for my son that he might kill him. I thank you,

Monsieur. I believe you love my Rene."

"As if he were my son, Madame."

Days went by, darkened with despair or brightened with faint hope. Alas!

who has not known them? The days grew to weeks. There were no longer

guests, only anxious inquirers and a pale, drooping young woman and two

mothers variously troubled.

But if here there were watching friendship and love and service and a

man to die to-day or to-morrow to live, in the darkened room were

spirits twain ever whispering love or hate. Outside of the house where

De Courval lay, the Jacobin clubs rejoiced and feasted Carteaux, who

burned De Courval's note and held his tongue, while Fauchet complained

of the insult to his secretary, and Mr. Randolph neither would nor could

do anything.

The February of 1794 passed, and March and April, while Glentworth,

Washington's physician, came, and afterward Dr. Rush, to Chovet's

disgust. Meanwhile the young man lay in bed wasting away with grim

doubts of phthisis in the doctors' minds until in May there was a gain,

and, as once before, he was allowed a settle, and soon was in the air on

the upper porch, and could see visitors.

Schmidt, more gaunt than ever, kissed the hand of the vicomtesse in his

German fashion, as for the first time through all the long vigils they

had shared with Mary Swanwick she thanked him for positive assurance of

recovery.

"He is safe, you tell me. May the God who has spared my son remember you

and bless you through all your days and in all your ways!"

He bent low. "I have my reward, Madame."

Some intuitive recognition of what was in his mind was perhaps naturally

in the thought of both. She said, "Will it end here?"

Seeing before him a face which he could not read, he replied, "It is to

be desired that it end here, or that some good fortune put the sea

between these two."