"And can you, his friend, say that? Not if he is the son I bore. I trust

not," and, turning away, she left him; while he looked after her and

murmured: "There is more mother in me than in her," and going out to

where Rene lay, he said gaily: "Out of prison at last, my boy. A grim

jail is sickness."

"Ah, to hear the birds who are so free," said Rene. "Are they ever ill,

I wonder?"

"Mr. Hamilton is below, Rene--just come from New York. He has been here

twice."

"Then I shall hear of the world. You have starved me of news." There was

little good to tell him. The duke, their cousin, had fled from France,

and could write to madame only of the Terror and of deaths and ruin.

The Secretary came up fresh with the gaiety of a world in which he was

still battling fiercely with the Republican party, glad of the absence

of his rival, Jefferson, who saw no good in anything he did or said.

"You are very kind," said De Courval, "to spare me a little of your

time, sir." Indeed he felt it. Hamilton sat down, smiling at the

eagerness with which Rene questioned him.

"There is much to tell, Vicomte. The outrages on our commerce by the

English have become unendurable, and how we are to escape war I do not

see. An embargo has been proclaimed by the President; it is for thirty

days, and will be extended to thirty more. We have many English ships in

our ports. No one of them can leave."

"That ought to bring them to their senses," said Rene.

"It may," returned Hamilton.

"And what, sir, of the treaty with England?"

Hamilton smiled. "I was to have been sent, but there was too much

opposition, and now, as I think, wisely, Chief-Justice Jay is to go to

London."

"Ah, Mr. Hamilton, if there were but war with England,--and there is

cause enough,--some of us poor exiles might find pleasant occupation."

The Secretary became grave. "I would do much, yield much, to escape war,

Vicomte. No man of feeling who has ever seen war desires to see it

again. If the memory of nations were as retentive as the memory of a

man, there would be an end of wars."

"And yet, sir," said Rene, "I hardly see how you--how this

people--endure what you so quietly accept."

"Yes, yes. No man more than Washington feels the additions of insult to

injury. If to-day you could give him a dozen frigates, our answer to

England would not be a request for a treaty which will merely secure

peace, and give us that with contempt, and little more. What it

personally costs that proud gentleman, our President, to preserve his

neutral attitude few men know."

Rene was pleased and flattered by the thoughtful gravity of the

statesman's talk.

"I see, sir," he said. "There will be no war."

"No; I think not. I sincerely hope not. But now I must go. My

compliments to your mother; and I am glad to see you so well."

As he went out, he met Schmidt in the hall. "Ah, why did you not prevent

this duel?" he said.

"No man could, sir. It is, I fear, a business to end only when one of

them dies. It dates far back of the blow. Some day we will talk of it,

but I do not like the outlook."

"Indeed." He went into the street thoughtful. In principle opposed to

duels, he was to die in the prime of life a victim to the pistol of

Burr.

The pleasant May weather and the open air brought back to De Courval

health and the joys of life. The girl in the garden heard once more his

bits of French song, and when June came with roses he was able to lie on

the lower porch, swinging at ease in a hammock sent by Captain Biddle,

and it seemed as if the world were all kindness. As he lay, Schmidt

read to him, and he missed only Margaret, ordered out to the country in

the care of Aunt Gainor, while, as he grew better, he had the strange

joy of senses freshened and keener than in health, as if he were reborn

to a new heritage of tastes and odors, the priceless gift of wholesome

convalescence.

He asked no questions concerning Carteaux or what men said of the duel;

but as Schmidt, musing, saw him at times gentle, pleased, merry, or

again serious, he thought how all men have in them a brute ancestor

ready with a club. "Just now the devil is asleep." He alone, and the

mother, fore-looking, knew; and so the time ran on, and every one wanted

him. The women came with flowers and strawberries, and made much of him,

the gray mother not ill-pleased.

In June he was up, allowed to walk out or to lie in the boat while

Schmidt caught white perch or crabs and talked of the many lands he had

seen. Then at last, to Rene's joy, he might ride.

"Here," said Schmidt, "is a note from Mistress Gainor. We are asked to

dine and stay the night. No, not you. You are not yet fit for dinners

and gay women. These doctors are cruel. There will be, she writes, Mr.

Jefferson, here for a week; Mr. Langstroth, and a woman or two; and

Wolcott of the Treasury, 'if Hamilton will let him come,' she says." For

perhaps wisely the new official followed the ex-Secretary's counsels, to

the saving of much needless thinking. "A queer party that!" said

Schmidt. "What new mischief are she and the ex-Quaker Josiah devising?"

He would be there at three, he wrote, the groom having waited a reply.

"Have you any message for Miss Margaret, Rene?" he asked next day.

"Tell her that all that is left of me remembers her mother's kindness."

And, laughing, he added: "That there is more of me every day."

"And is that all?"

"Yes; that is all. Is there any news?"

"None of moment. Oh, yes, I meant to tell you. The heathen imagine a

vain thing--a fine republican mob collected in front of the Harp and

Crown yesterday. There was a picture set up over the door in the war--a

picture of the Queen of France. A painter was made to paint a ring of

blood around the neck and daub the clothes with red. If there is a fool

devil, he must grin at that."

"_Canaille!_" said Rene. "Poor queen! We of the religion did not love

her; but to insult the dead! Ah, a week in Paris now, and these cowards

would fly in fear."

"Yes; it is a feeble sham." And so he left Rene to his book and rode

away with change of garments in his saddle-bags.

XVIII

Miss Gainor being busy at her toilette, Schmidt was received at the Hill

Farm by the black page, in red plush for contrast, and shown up to his

room. He usually wore clothes of simple character and left the changing

fashions to others. But this time he dressed as he did rarely, and came

down with powdered hair, in maroon-colored velvet with enameled buttons,

ruffles at the wrists, and the full lace neck-gear still known as a

Steenkirk.

Miss Gainor envied him the gold buckles of the broidered garters and

shoes, and made her best courtesy to the stately figure which bent low

before her.

"They are late," she said. "Go and speak to Margaret in the garden." He

found her alone under a great tulip-tree.

"_Ach!_" he cried, "you are looking better. You were pale." She rose

with a glad welcome as he saw and wondered. "How fine we are, Pearl!"

"Are we not? But Aunt Gainor would have it. I must courtesy, I suppose."

The dress was a compromise. There were still the gray silks, the

underskirt, open wider than common in front, a pale sea-green petticoat,

and, alas! even powder--very becoming it seemed to the German gentleman.

I am helpless to describe the prettiness of it. Aunt Gainor had an

artist's eye, though she herself delighted in too gorgeous attire.

He gave Margaret the home news and his message from Rene, and no; she

was not yet to come to town. It was too hot, and not very healthy this

summer.

"Why did not the vicomte write?" she said with some hesitation. "That

would have been nicer."

"_Ach, guter Himmel!_ Young men do not write to young women."

"But among Friends we are more simple."

"_Ach_, Friends--and in this gown! Shall we be of two worlds? That might

have its convenience."

"Thou art naughty, sir," she said, and they went in.

There was Colonel Lennox and his wife, whom Schmidt had not met, and

Josiah. "You know Mrs. Byrd, Mr. Schmidt? Mrs. Eager Howard, may I

present to you Mr. Schmidt?" This was the Miss Chew who won the heart of

the victor of the Cowpens battle; and last came Jefferson, tall, meager,

red-cheeked, and wearing no powder, a lean figure in black velvet, on a

visit to the city.

"There were only two good noses," said Gainor next day to a woman with

the nose of a pug dog--"mine and that man Schmidt's--Schmidt, with a

nose like a hawk and a jaw most predacious."

For mischief she must call Mr. Jefferson "Excellency," for had he not

been governor of his State?

He bowed, laughing. "Madame, I have no liking for titles. Not even those

which you confer."

"Oh, but when you die, sir," cried Mrs. Howard, "and you want to read

your title clear to mansions in the skies?"

"I shall want none of them; and there are no mansions in the skies."

"And no skies, sir, I suppose," laughed Mrs. Byrd. "Poor Watts!"

"In your sense none," he returned. "How is De Courval?"

"Oh, better; much better."

"He seems to get himself talked about," said Mrs. Howard. "A fine young

fellow, too."

"You should set your cap for him, Tacy," said Gainor to the blond

beauty, Mrs. Lennox.

"It was set long ago for my Colonel," she cried.

"I am much honored," said her husband, bowing.

"She was Dr. Franklin's last love-affair," cried Gainor. "How is that,

Tacy Lennox?"

"Fie, Madam! He was dying in those days, and, yes, I loved him. There

are none like him nowadays."

"I never thought much of his nose," said Gainor, amid gay laughter; and

they went to dinner, the Pearl quietly attentive, liking it well, and

still better when Colonel Howard turned to chat with her and found her

merry and shyly curious concerning the great war she was too young to

remember well, and in regard to the men who fought and won. Josiah, next

to Mrs. Lennox, contributed contradictions, and Pickering was silent,

liking better the company of men.

At dusk, having had their Madeira, they rode away, leaving only Margaret

and Schmidt. The evening talk was quiet, and the girl, reluctant, was

sent to bed early.

"I have a pipe for you," said Gainor. "Come out under the trees. How

warm it is!"

"You had a queer party," said Schmidt, who knew her well, and judged

better than many her true character.

"Yes; was it not? But the women were to your liking, I am sure."

"Certainly; but why Josiah, and what mischief are you two after?"

"I? Mischief, sir?"

"Yes; you do not like him. You never have him here to dine if you can

help it."

"No; but now I am trying to keep him out of mischief, and to-day he

invited himself to dine."

"Well!" said Schmidt, blowing great rings of smoke.

"General Washington was here yesterday. His horse cast a shoe, and he

must needs pay me a visit. Oh, he was honest about it. He looked tired

and aged. I shall grow old; but aged, sir, never. He is deaf, too. I

hope he may not live to lose his mind. I thought of Johnson's lines

about Marlborough."

"I do not know them. What are they?"

"From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,

And Swift expires, a driv'ler and a show."

"Yes," said Schmidt thoughtfully--"yes; that is the ending I most should

fear."

"He is clear-headed enough to-day; but the men around him think too

much of their own interests, and he of his country alone."

"It may be better with this new cabinet."

"No; there will be less head."

"And more heart, I hope," said Schmidt.

"I could cry when I think of that man's life."

"Yes, it is sad enough; but suppose," said Schmidt, "we return to

Josiah."

"Well, if you must have it, Josiah has one honest affection outside of a

love-affair with Josiah--Margaret, of course."

"Yes; and what more?"

"He thinks she should be married, and proposes to arrange the matter."

The idea of Uncle Josiah as a matchmaker filled the German with comic

delight. He broke into Gargantuan laughter. "I should like to hear his

plan of campaign."

"Oh, dear Aunt Gainor," cried a voice from an upper window, "what is the

joke? Tell me, or I shall come down and find out."

"Go to bed, minx!" shouted Miss Gainor. "Mr. Schmidt is going to be

married, and I am to be bridesmaid. To bed with you!"

"Fie, for shame, Aunt! He will tell me to-morrow." The white figure

disappeared from the window.

"Oh, Josiah is set on it--really set on it, and you know his

possibilities of combining folly with obstinacy."

"Yes, I know. And who is the happy man?"

"The Vicomte de Courval, please."

Schmidt whistled low. "I beg your pardon, Mistress Gainor. Cannot you

stop him? The fool! What does he propose to do?"

"I do not know. He has an odd admiration for De Courval, and that is

strange, for he never contradicts him."

"The admiration of a coward for a brave man--I have known that more than

once. He will do Heaven knows what, and end in making mischief enough."

"I have scared him a little. He talked, the idiot, about his will, and

what he would or would not do. As if that would help, or as if the dear

child cares or would care. I said I had money to spare at need. He will

say nothing for a while. I do not mean to be interfered with. I told him

so."

"Did you, indeed?"

"I did."

"Mistress Gainor, you had better keep your own hands off and let things

alone. Josiah would be like an elephant in a rose garden."

"And I like--"

"A good, kindly woman about to make a sad mistake. You do not know the

mother's deep-seated prejudices, nor yet of what trouble lies like a

shadow on Rene's life. I should not dare to interfere."

"What is it?" she said, at once curious and anxious.

"Mistress Gainor, you are to be trusted, else you would go your way. Is

not that so?"

"Yes; but I am reasonable and Margaret is dear to me. I like the vicomte

and, as for his mother, she thinks me a kind, rough old woman; and for

her nonsense about rank and blood, stuff! The girl's blood is as good

as hers."

"No doubt; but let it alone. And now I think you ought to hear his story

and I mean to tell it." And sitting in the darkness, he told her of

Avignon and Carteaux and the real meaning of the duel and how the matter

would go on again some day, but how soon fate alone could determine. She

listened, appalled at the tragic story which had come thus fatefully

from a far-away land into the life of a quiet Quaker family.

"It is terrible and sad," she said. "And he has spoken to no one but you

of this tragedy? It must be known to many."

"The death, yes. Carteaux's share in it, no. He was an unknown young

_avocat_ at the time."

"How reticent young De Courval must be! It is singular at his age."

"He had no reason to talk of it; he is a man older than his years. He

had in fact his own good reason for desiring not to drive this villain

out of his reach. He is a very resolute person. If he loves this dear

child, he will marry her, if a dozen mothers stand in the way."

"There will be two. I see now why Mary Swanwick is always sending

Margaret to me or to Darthea Wynne. I think the maid cares for him."

"Ah, my dear Miss Gainor, if I could keep them apart for a year, I

should like it. God knows where the end will be. Suppose this fellow

were to kill him! That they will meet again is sadly sure, if I know De

Courval."

"You are right," she returned. "But if, Mr. Schmidt, this shadow did not

lie across his path, would it please you? Would you who have done so

much for him--would you wish it?"

"With all my heart. But let it rest here, and let time and fate have

their way."

"I will," she said, rising. "It is cool. I must go in. It is a sad

tangle, and those two mothers! I am sometimes glad that I never married

and have no child. Good night. I fear that I shall dream of it."

"I shall have another pipe before I follow you. We are three old

cupids," he added, laughing. "We had better go out of business."

"There is a good bit of cupidity about one of us, sir."

"A not uncommon quality," laughed Schmidt.

Pleased with her jest, she went away, saying, "Tom will take care of

you."

To the well-concealed satisfaction of the vicomtesse, it was settled

that Margaret's health required her to remain all summer at the Hill;

but when June was over, De Courval was able to ride, and why not to

Chestnut Hill? And although Gainor never left them alone, it was

impossible to refuse permission for him to ride with them.

They explored the country far and wide with Aunt Gainor on her great

stallion, a rash rider despite her years. Together they saw White Marsh

and the historic lines of Valley Forge, and heard of Hugh Wynne's ride,

and, by good luck, met General Wayne one day and were told the story of

that dismal winter when snow was both foe and friend. Aunt Gainor rode

in a riding-mask, and the Quaker bonnet was worn no longer, wherefore,

the code of lovers' signals being ingeniously good, there needed no

cupids old or young. The spring of love had come and the summer would

follow in nature's course. Yet always Rene felt that until his dark debt

was paid he could not speak.

Therefore, sometimes he refrained from turning his horse toward the Hill

and went to see his mother, now again, to her pleasure, with Darthea, or

else he rode with Schmidt through that bit of Holland on the Neck and

saw sails over the dikes and the flour windmills turning in the breeze.

Schmidt, too, kept him busy, and he visited Baltimore and New York, and

fished or shot.

"You are well enough now. Let us fence again," said Schmidt, and once

more he was made welcome by the _emigres_ late in the evening when no

others came.

He would rarely touch the foils, but "_Mon Dieu_, Schmidt," said de

Malerive, "he has with the pistol skill."

Du Vallon admitted it. But: "_Mon ami_, it is no weapon for gentlemen.

The Jacobins like it. There is no tierce or quarte against a bullet."

"Do they practise with the pistol here?"

"No. Carteaux, thy lucky friend, ah, very good,--of the best with the

foil,--but no shot." Rene smiled, and Schmidt understood.

"Can you hit that, Rene?" he said, taking from his pocket the ace of

clubs, for playing-cards were often used as visiting-cards, the backs

being white, and other material not always to be had.

Rene hit the edge of the ace with a ball, and then the center. The gay

crowd applauded, and Du Vallon pleased to make a little jest in English,

wished it were a Jacobin club, and, again merry, they liked the jest.

XIX

The only man known to me who remembered Schmidt is said to have heard

Alexander Hamilton remark that all the German lacked of being great was

interest in the noble game of politics. It was true of Schmidt. The war

of parties merely amused him, with their honest dread of a monarchy,

their terror of a bonded debt, their disgust at the abominable

imposition of a tax on freemen, and, above all, an excise tax on whisky.

Jefferson, with keen intellect, was trying to keep the name Republican

for the would-be Democrats, and while in office had rebuked Genet and

kept Fauchet in order, so that, save for the smaller side of him and the

blinding mind fog of personal and party prejudice, he would have been

still more valuable in the distracted cabinet he had left.

Schmidt looked on it all with tranquillity, and while he heard of the

horrors of the Terror with regret for individual suffering, regarded

that strange drama much as an historian looks back on the records of the

past.

Seeing this and the man's interest in the people near to him, in

flowers, nature, and books, his attitude of mind in regard to the vast

world changes seemed singular to the more intense character of De

Courval. It had for him, however, its value in the midst of the turmoil

of a new nation and the temptations an immense prosperity offered to a

people who were not as yet acclimated to the air of freedom.

In fact Schmidt's indifference, or rather the neutrality of a mind not

readily biased, seemed to set him apart, and to enable him to see with

sagacity the meaning and the probable results of what appeared to some

in America like the beginning of a fatal evolution of ruin.

Their companionship had now the qualities of one of those rare and

useful friendships between middle age and youth, seen now and then

between a father and son, with similar tastes. They were much together,

and by the use of business errands and social engagements the elder man

did his share in so occupying De Courval as to limit his chances of

seeing Margaret Swanwick; nor was she entirely or surely displeased. Her

instincts as a woman made her aware of what might happen at any time.

She knew, too, what would then be the attitude of the repellent Huguenot

lady. Her pride of caste was recognized by Margaret with the

distinctness of an equal but different pride, and with some resentment

at an aloofness which, while it permitted the expression of gratitude,

seemed to draw between Mrs. Swanwick and herself a line of impassable

formality of intercourse.

One of the lesser accidents of social life was about to bring for De

Courval unlooked-for changes and materially to affect his fortunes. He

had seemed to Schmidt of late less troubled, a fact due to a decision

which left him more at ease.

The summer of 1794 was over, and the city gay and amusing. He had seen

Carteaux more than once, and seeing him, he had been but little

disturbed. On an evening in September, Schmidt and he went as usual to

the fencing-school. There were some new faces. Du Vallon said, "Here,

Schmidt, is an old friend of mine, and Vicomte, let me present Monsieur

Brillat-Savarin."

The new-comer greeted De Courval and his face expressed surprise as he

bowed to the German. "I beg pardon," he said--"Monsieur Schmidt?"

"Yes, at your service."

He seemed puzzled. "It seems to me that we have met before--in Berne, I

think."

"Berne. Berne," said Schmidt, coldly. "I was never in Berne."

"Ah, I beg pardon. I must be mistaken."

"Are you here for a long stay?"

"Only for a few days. I am wandering in a land of lost opportunities."

"Of what?" asked Schmidt.

"Oh, of the cook. Think of it, these angelic reed-birds, the divine

terrapin, the duck they call canvas, the archangelic wild turkey,

unappreciated, crudely cooked; the Madeira--ah, _mon Dieu!_ I would talk

of them, and, behold, the men talk politics! I have eaten of that dish

at home, and it gave me the colic of disgust."

"But the women?" said a young _emigre_.

"Ah, angels, angels. But can they make an omelet? The divine Miss Morris

would sing to me when I would speak seriously of my search for

truffles. Oh, she would sing the 'Yankee Dudda'[1] and I must hear the

'Lament of Major Andre.' Who was he?"

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

De Courval explained.

"It is the truffle I lament. Ah, to marry the truffle to the wild

turkey."

The little group laughed. "Old gourmand," cried Du Vallon, "you are

still the same."

"Gourmet," corrected Savarin. "Congratulate me. I have found here a

cook--Marino, a master, French of course, from San Domingo. You will

dine with me at four to-morrow; and you, Monsieur Schmidt, certainly you

resemble--"

"Yes," broke in the German. "A likeness often remarked, not very

flattering."

"Ah, pardon me. But my dinner--Du Vallon, you will come, and the

vicomte, and you and you, and there will be Messieurs Bingham and Rawle

and Mr. Meredith, and one Jacobin,--Monsieur Girard,--as I hear a lover

of good diet--ah, he gave me the crab which is soft, the citizen crab.

Monsieur Girard--I bless him. I have seen women, statesmen, kings, but

the crab, ah! the crab 'which is soft.'"

All of them accepted, the _emigres_ gladly, being, alas! none too well

fed.

"And now, adieu. I must go and meditate on my dinner."

The next day at four they met at Marino's, the new restaurant in Front

Street then becoming fashionable.

"I have taken the liberty," said Bingham, "to send half a dozen of

Madeira, 1745, and two decanters of grape juice, what we call the

white. The rest--well, of our best, all of it."

They sat down expectant. "The turkey I have not," said Savarin; "but the

soup--ah, you will see,--soup _a la reine_. Will Citizen Girard

decline?"

The dinner went on with talk and laughter. Savarin talking broken

English, or more volubly French.

"You are to have the crabs which are soft, Monsieur Girard, _en

papillotte_, more becoming crabs than women, and at the close

reed-birds. Had there been these in France, and the crab which is soft,

and the terrapin, there would have been no Revolution. And the

Madeira--perfect, perfect, a revelation. Your health, Mr. Bingham."

Bingham bowed over his glass, and regretted that canvasback ducks and

terrapin were not yet in season. The _emigres_ used well this rare

chance, and with talk of the wine and jest and story (anything but

politics), the dinner went on gaily. Meanwhile Girard, beside De

Courval, spoke of their sad experiences in the fever, and of what was

going on in the murder-scourged West Indian Islands, and of the ruin of

our commerce. Marino in his white cap and long apron stood behind the

host, quietly appreciative of the praise given to his dinner.

Presently Savarin turned to him. "Who," he asked, "dressed this salad.

It is a marvel, and quite new to me."

"I asked Monsieur de Beauvois to do me the honor."

"Indeed! Many thanks, De Beauvois," said the host to a gentleman at the

farther end of the table. "Your salad is past praise. Your health. You

must teach me this dressing."

"A secret," laughed the guest, as he bowed over his glass, "and

valuable."

"That is droll," said De Courval to Bingham.

"No; he comes to my house and to Willing's to dress salad for our

dinners. Ten francs he gets, and lives on it, and saves money."

"Indeed! I am sorry for him," said Rene.

Then Mr. Bingham, being next to Girard, said to him: "At the State

Department yesterday, Mr. Secretary Randolph asked me, knowing I was to

see you to-day, if you knew of any French gentleman who could act as

translating clerk. Of course he must know English."

"Why not my neighbor De Courval?" said the merchant. "But he is hardly

of Mr. Randolph's politics."

"And what are they?" laughed Mr. Bingham. "Federal, I suppose; but as

for De Courval, he is of no party. Besides, ever since Freneau left on

account of the fever, the Secretaries are shy of any more clerks who

will keep them in hot water with the President. For a poet he was a

master of rancorous abuse."

"And who," said Girard, "have excelled the poets in malignancy? Having

your permission, I will ask our young friend." And turning to Rene, he

related what had passed between him and Mr. Bingham.

Somewhat surprised, Rene said: "I might like it, but I must consult Mr.

Schmidt. I am far from having political opinions, or, if any, they are

with the Federals. But that would be for the Secretary to decide upon.

An exile, Mr. Girard, should have no political opinions unless he means

to become a citizen, as I do not."

"That seems reasonable," said Bingham, the senator for Pennsylvania,

overhearing him. "Your health, De Courval, I commend to you the white

grape juice. And if the place please you, let it be a receipt in full

for my early contribution of mud." And laughing, he told Girard the

story.

"Indeed, sir, it was a very personal introduction," returned Rene.

"I should like well to have that young man myself," said Girard in an

aside to Bingham. "This is a poor bit of advancement you offer--all

honor and little cash. I like the honor that attends to a draft."

The senator laughed. "Oh, Schmidt has, I believe, adopted De Courval or

something like it. He will take the post for its interest. Do you know,"

he added, "who this man Schmidt may be?"

"I--no; but all Europe is sending us mysterious people. By and by the

kings and queens will come. But Schmidt is a man to trust, that I do

know."

"A good character," cried Schmidt, coming behind them. "My thanks."

"By George! It was lucky we did not abuse you," said Bingham.

"Oh, Madeira is a gentle critic, and a good dinner does fatten

amiability. Come, Rene, we shall get on even terms of praise with them

as we walk home."

The party broke up, joyous at having dined well.

As they went homeward, Schmidt said: "Our host, Rene, is not a mere

gourmet. He is a philosophic student of diet, living in general simply,

and, I may add, a gentleman of courage and good sense, as he showed in

France."

"It seems difficult, sir, to judge men. He seemed to me foolish."

"Yes; and one is apt to think not well of a man who talks much of what

he eats. He recognized me, but at once accepted my obvious desire not to

be known. He will be sure to keep my secret."

When having reached home, and it was not yet twilight--they sat down

with their pipes, Rene laid before his friend this matter of the

secretaryship.

Schmidt said: "My work is small just now, and the hours of the State

Department would release you at three. You would be at the center of

affairs, and learn much, and would find the Secretary pleasant. But,

remember, the work may bring you into relations with Carteaux."

"I have thought of that; but my mother will like this work for me. The

business she disliked."

"Then take it, if it is offered, as I am sure it will be." "He is very

quiet about Carteaux," thought Schmidt. "Something will happen soon. I

did say from the first that I would not desire to be inside of that

Jacobin's skin."

The day after, a brief note called De Courval to the Department of

State.

The modest building which then housed the Secretary and his affairs was

a small dwelling-house on High Street, No. 379, as the old numbers ran.

No mark distinguished it as the vital center of a nation's foreign

business. Rene had to ask a passer-by for the direction.

For a brief moment De Courval stood on the outer step before the open

door. A black servant was asleep on a chair within the sanded entry.

The simplicity and poverty of a young nation, just of late having set up

housekeeping, were plainly to be read in the office of the Department of

State. Two or three persons went in or came out.

Beside the step an old black woman was selling peanuts. Rene's thoughts

wandered for a moment from his Norman home to a clerk's place in the

service of a new country.

"How very strange!"--he had said so to Schmidt, and now recalled his

laughing reply: "We think we play the game of life, Rene, but the banker

Fate always wins. His dice are loaded, his cards are marked." The German

liked to puzzle him. "And yet," reflected De Courval, "I can go in or go

home." He said to himself: "Surely I am free,--and, after all, how

little it means for me! I am to translate letters." He roused the

snoring negro, and asked, "Where can I find Mr. Randolph?" As the drowsy

slave was assembling his wits, a notably pleasant voice behind Rene

said: "I am Mr. Randolph, at your service. Have I not the pleasure to

see the Vicomte de Courval?"

"Yes, I am he."

"Come into my office." Rene followed him, and they sat down to talk in

the simply furnished front room.

The Secretary, then in young middle age, was a largely built man and

portly, dark-eyed, with refined features and quick to express a certain

conciliatory courtesy in his relations with others. He used gesture more

freely than is common with men of our race, and both in voice and manner

there was something which Rene felt to be engaging and attractive.

He liked him, and still more after a long talk in which the duties of

the place were explained and his own indisposition to speak of his past

life recognized with tactful courtesy.

Randolph said at last, "The office is yours if it please you to accept."

"I do so, sir, most gladly."

"Very good. I ought to say that Mr. Freneau had but two hundred and

fifty dollars a year. It is all we can afford."

As Rene was still the helper of Schmidt, and well paid, he said it was

enough. He added: "I am not of any party, sir. I have already said so,

but I wish in regard to this to be definite."

"That is of no moment, or, in fact, a good thing. Your duties here

pledge you to no party. I want a man of honor, and one with whom state

secrets will be safe. Well, then, you take it? We seem to be agreed."

"Yes; and I am much honored by the offer."

"Then come here at ten to-morrow. There is much to do for a time."

Madame was pleased. This at least was not commerce. But now there was

little leisure, and no time for visits to the Hill, at which the two

conspiring cupids, out of business and anxious, smiled, doubtful as to

what cards Fate would hold in this game: and thus time ran on.

The work was easy and interesting. The Secretary, courteous and

well-pleased, in that simpler day, came in person to the little room

assigned to De Courval and brought documents and letters which opened a

wide world to a curious young man, who would stay at need until

midnight, and who soon welcomed duties far beyond mere French

letter-writing.

By and by there were visits with papers to Mr. Wolcott at the Treasury

Department, No. 119 Chestnut Street, and at last to Fauchet at Oeller's

Hotel.

He was received with formal civility by Le Blanc, a secretary, and

presently Carteaux, entering, bowed. De Courval did not return the

salute, and, finishing his business without haste, went out.

He felt the strain of self-control the situation had demanded, but, as

he wiped the sweat from his forehead, knew with satisfaction that the

stern trials of the years had won for him the priceless power to be or

to seem to be what he was not.

"The _ci-devant_ has had his little lesson," said Le Blanc. "It will be

long before he insults another good Jacobin."

Carteaux, more intelligent, read otherwise the set jaw and grave face of

the Huguenot gentleman. He would be on his guard.

The news of the death of Robespierre, in July, 1794, had unsettled

Fauchet, and his subordinate, sharing his uneasiness, meant to return

to France if the minister were recalled and the Terror at an end, or to

find a home in New York, and perhaps, like Genet, a wife. For the time

he dismissed De Courval from his mind, although not altogether

self-assured concerning the future.

XX

"And now about this matter of dress," said Miss Gainor.

"Thou art very good, Godmother, to come and consult me," said Mrs.

Swanwick. "I have given it some thought, and I do not see the wisdom of

going half-way. The good preacher White has been talking to Margaret,

and I see no reason why, if I changed, she also should not be free to do

as seems best to her."

"You are very moderate, Mary, as you always are."

"I try to be; but I wish that it were altogether a matter of conscience

with Margaret. It is not. Friends were concerned in regard to that sad

duel and considered me unwise to keep in my house one guilty of the

wickedness of desiring to shed another's blood, Margaret happened to be

with me when Friend Howell opened the subject, and thou knowest how

gentle he is."

"Yes. I know. What happened, Mary?"

"He said that Friends were advised that to keep in my house a young man

guilty of bloodshed was, as it did appear to them, undesirable. Then, to

my surprise, Margaret said: 'But he was not guilty of bloodshed.' Friend

Howell was rather amazed, as thou canst imagine; but before he could

say a word more, Miss Impudence jumped up, very red in the face, and

said: 'Why not talk to him instead of troubling mother? I wish he had

shed more blood than his own.'"

"Ah, the dear minx! I should like to have been there," said Gainor.

"He was very near to anger--as near as is possible for Arthur Howell;

but out goes my young woman in a fine rage about what was none of her

business."

"And what did you say?"

"What could I say except to excuse her, because the young man was our

friend, and at last that I was very sorry not to do as they would have

had me to do, but would hear no more. He was ill-pleased, I do assure

thee."

"Were you very sorry, Mary Swanwick?"

"I was not, although I could not approve the young man nor my child's

impertinence."

"Well, my dear, I should have said worse things. I may have my way in

the matter of dress, I suppose?"

"Yes," said the widow, resigned. "An Episcopalian in Friends' dress

seems to me to lack propriety; but as to thy desire to buy her fine

garments, there are trunks in my garret full of the world's things I

gave up long ago."

"Were you sorry?"

"A little, Aunt Gainor. Wilt thou see them?"

"Oh, yes, Margaret," she called, "come in."

She entered with De Courval, at home by good luck. "And may I come,

too?" he asked.

"Why not?" said Mistress Gainor, and they went up-stairs, where Nanny,

delighted, opened the trunks and took out one by one the garments of a

gayer world, long laid away unused. The maid in her red bandana

head-gear was delighted, having, like her race, great pleasure in bright

colors.

The widow, standing apart, looked on, with memories which kept her

silent, as the faint smell of lavender, which seems to me always to have

an ancient fragrance, hung about the garments of her youth.

Margaret watched her mother with quick sense of this being for her

something like the turning back to a record of a girlhood like her own.

De Courval had eyes for the Pearl alone. Gainor Wynne, undisturbed by

sentimental reflections, enjoyed the little business.

"Goodness, my dear, what brocade!" cried Miss Wynne. "How fine you were,

Mary! And a white satin, with lace and silver gimp."

"It was my mother's wedding-gown," said the widow.

"And for day wear this lutestring will fit you to a hair, Margaret; but

the sleeves must be loose. And lace--what is it?" She held up a filmy

fabric.

"I think I could tell." And there, a little curious, having heard her

son's voice, was the vicomtesse, interested, and for her mildly excited,

to Rene's surprise.

Miss Gainor greeted her in French I dare not venture upon, and this

common interest in clothes seemed somehow to have the effect of suddenly

bringing all these women into an intimacy of the minute, while the one

man stood by, with the unending wonder of the ignorant male, now, as it

were, behind the scenes. He fell back and the women left him unnoticed.

"What is it, Madame?" asked Margaret.

"Oh, French point, child, and very beautiful."

"And this other must be--"

"It is new to me," cried Miss Wynne.

"Permit me," said the vicomtesse. "Venetian point, I think--quite

priceless, Margaret, a wonder." She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's

head, smiling as she considered the effect.

"Is this my mother?" thought her son, with increase of wonder. He had

seen her only with restricted means, and knew little of the more

luxurious days and tastes of her youth.

"Does you remember this, missus?" said Nanny.

"A doll," cried Gainor, "and in Quaker dress! It will do for your

children, Margaret."

"No, it is not a child's doll," said Mrs. Swanwick. "Friends in London

sent it to Marie Wynne, Hugh's mother, for a pattern of the last Quaker

fashions in London--a way they had. I had quite forgotten it."

"And very pretty, quite charming," said the vicomtesse.

"And stays, my dear, and a modesty fence," cried Miss Wynne, holding

them up. "You will have to fatten, Pearl."

Upon this the young man considered it as well to retire. He went

down-stairs unmissed, thinking of the agreeable intimacy of stays with

the fair figure he left bending over the trunk, a mass of black lace in

her hand.

[Illustration: "She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling

as she considered the effect"]

"Spanish, my dear," said Madame, with animation; "quite a wonder. Oh,

rare, very rare. Not quite fit for a young woman--a head veil."

"Are they all mine, Mother?" cried Margaret.

"Yes, my child."

"Then, Madame," she said, with rising color and engaging frankness, "may

I not have the honor to offer thee the lace?"

"Why not?" said Gainor, pleased at the pretty way of the girl.

"Oh, quite impossible, child," said the vicomtesse. "It is quite too

valuable."

"Please!" said Pearl. "It would so become thee."

"I really cannot."

"Thy roquelaure," laughed Mrs. Swanwick, "was--well--I did remonstrate.

Why may not we too have the pleasure of extravagance?"

"I am conquered," said Madame, a trace of color in her wan cheeks as

Mrs. Swanwick set the lace veil on her head, saying: "We are obliged,

Madame. And where is the vicomte? He should see thee."

"Gone," said Miss Gainor; "and just as well, too," for now Nanny was

holding up a variety of lavender-scented delicacies of raiment, fine

linens, and openwork silk stockings.

Rene, still laughing, met Schmidt in the hall.

"You were merry up-stairs."

"Indeed we were." And he gaily described his mother's unwonted mood; but

of the sacred future of the stays he said no word.

"And so our gray moth has become a butterfly. I think Mother Eve would

not have abided long without a milliner. I should like to have been of

the party up-stairs."

"You would have been much enlightened," said Miss Wynne on the stair. "I

shall send for the boxes, Mary." And with this she went away with

Margaret, as the doctor had declared was still needful.

"Why are you smiling, Aunt?" said Margaret.

"Oh, nothing." Then to herself she said: "I think that if Rene de

Courval had heard her talk to Arthur Howell, he would have been greatly

enlightened. Her mother must have understood; or else she is more of a

fool than I take her to be."

"And thou wilt not tell me?" asked the Pearl.

"Never," said Gainor, laughing--"never."

Meanwhile there was trouble in the western counties of Pennsylvania over

the excise tax on whisky, and more work than French translations for an

able and interested young clerk, whom his mother spoke of as a secretary

to the minister.

"It is the first strain upon the new Constitution," said Schmidt; "but

there is a man with bones to his back, this President." And by November

the militia had put down the riots, and the first grave trial of the

central government was well over; so that the President was free at last

to turn to the question of the treaty with England, already signed in

London.

Then once more the clamor of party strife broke out. Had not Jay kissed

the hand of the queen? "He had prostrated at the feet of royalty the

sovereignty of the people."

Fauchet was busy fostering opposition long before the treaty came back

for decision by the Senate. The foreign office was busy, and Randolph

ill pleased with the supposed terms of the coming document.

To deal with the causes of opposition to the treaty in and out of the

cabinet far into 1795 concerns this story but indirectly. No one was

altogether satisfied, and least of all Fauchet, who at every opportunity

was sending despatches home by any French war-ship seeking refuge in our

ports.

A little before noon, on the 29th of November, of this year, 1794, a

date De Courval was never to forget, he was taking the time for his

watch from the clock on the western wall of the State House. As he

stood, he saw Dr. Chovet stop his chaise.

"_Bonjour_, citizen," cried the doctor. "Your too intimate friend,

Monsieur Carteaux, is off for France. He will trouble you no more." As

usual, the doctor, safe in his chaise, was as impertinent as he dared to

be.

Too disturbed to notice anything but this startling information in

regard to his enemy, De Courval said: "Who told you that? It cannot be

true. He was at the State Department yesterday, and we were to meet this

afternoon over the affair of a British ship captured by a French

privateer."

"Oh, I met him on Fifth Street on horseback just now--a little while

ago."

"Well, what then?"

"'I am for New York,' he said. I asked: 'How can I send letters to

France?' He said: 'I cannot wait for them. I am in a hurry. I must

catch that corvette, the _Jean Bart_, in New York.' Then I cried after

him: 'Are you for France?' And he: 'Do you not wish you, too, were

going? Adieu. Wish me _bon voyage_.'"

"Was he really going? We would have heard of it."

"_Le diable_, I think so; but he has a mocking tongue. I think he goes.

My congratulations that you are rid of him. Adieu!"

"Insolent!" muttered De Courval. Was it only insolence, or was it true

that his enemy was about to escape him? The thought that he could not

leave it in doubt put an instant end to his indecisions.

"I shall not risk it," he said, and there was no time to be lost. His

mother, Margaret, the possible remonstrance from Schmidt, each in turn

had the thought of a moment and then were dismissed in turn as he

hurried homeward. Again he saw Avignon and Carteaux' dark face, and

heard the echoing memory of his father's death-cry, "Yvonne! Yvonne!" He

must tell Schmidt if he were in; if not, so much the better, and he

would go alone. He gave no thought to the unwisdom of such a course. His

whole mind was on one purpose, and the need to give it swift and

definite fulfilment.

He was not sorry that Schmidt was not at home. He sat down and wrote to

him that Carteaux was on his way to embark for France and that he meant

to overtake him. Would Schmidt explain to his mother his absence on

business? Then he took Schmidt's pistols from their place over the

mantel, loaded and primed them, and put half a dozen bullets and a

small powder-horn in his pocket. To carry the pistols, he took Schmidt's

saddle-holsters. What next? He wrote a note to the Secretary that he was

called out of town on business, but would return next day, and would

Schmidt send it as directed. He felt sure that he would return. As he

stood at the door of Schmidt's room, Mrs. Swanwick said from the foot of

the stairs: "The dinner is ready."

"Then it must wait for me until to-morrow. I have to ride on a business

matter to Bristol."

"Thou hadst better bide for thy meal."

"No, I cannot." As Mrs. Swanwick passed into the dining-room, Margaret

came from the withdrawing-room, and stood in the doorway opposite to

him, a china bowl of the late autumnal flowers in her hands. Seeing him

cloaked and booted to ride, she said:

"Wilt thou not stay to dine? I heard thee tell mother thou wouldst not."

"No; I have a matter on hand which requires haste."

She had learned to read his face.

"It must be a pleasant errand," she said. "I wish thee success."

Thinking as he stood how some ancestor going to war would have asked for

a glove, a tress of hair, to carry on his helmet, he said: "Give me a

flower for luck."

"No; they are faded."

"Ah, I shall think your wish a rose--a rose that will not fade."

She colored a little and went by him, saying nothing, lest she might say

too much.

"Good-by!" he added, and went out the hall door, and made haste to reach

the stables of the Bull and Bear, where Schmidt kept the horses De

Courval was free to use. He was about to do a rash and, as men would see

it, a foolish thing. He laughed as he mounted. He knew that now he had

no more power to stop or hesitate than the stone which has left the

sling.

He had made the journey to New York more than once, and as he rode north

up the road to Bristol in a heavy downfall of rain he reflected that

Carteaux would cross the Delaware by the ferry at that town, or farther

on at Trenton.

If the doctor had been correct as to the time, Carteaux had started at

least an hour and a half before him.

It was still raining heavily as he rode out of the city, and as the gray

storm-clouds would shorten the daylight, he pushed on at speed, sure of

overtaking his enemy and intently on guard. He stayed a moment beside

the road to note the distance, as read on a mile-stone, and knew he had

come seven miles. That would answer. He smiled as he saw on the stone

the three balls of the Penn arms, popularly known as the three apple

dumplings. A moment later his horse picked up a pebble. It took him some

minutes to get it out, the animal being restless. Glancing at his watch,

he rode on again, annoyed at even so small a loss of time.

When, being about three miles from Bristol town, and looking ahead over

a straight line of road, he suddenly pulled up and turned into the

shelter of a wood. Some two hundred yards away were two or three

houses. A man stood at the roadside. It was Carteaux. Rene heard the

clink of a hammer on the anvil.

To be sure of his man, he fastened his horse and moved nearer with care,

keeping within the edge of the wood. Yes, it was Carteaux. The doctor

had not lied. If the secretary were going to France, or only on some

errand to New York, was now to De Courval of small moment. His horse

must have cast a shoe. As Carteaux rode away from the forge. De Courval

mounted, and rode on more rapidly.

Within two miles of Bristol, as he remembered, the road turned at a

sharp angle toward the river. A half mile away was an inn where the

coaches for New York changed horses. It was now five o'clock, and

nearing the dusk of a November day. The rain was over, the sky

darkening, the air chilly, the leaves were fluttering slowly down, and a

wild gale was roaring in the great forest which bounded the road. He

thought of the gentler angelus of another evening, and, strange as it

may seem, bowed his head, and like many a Huguenot noble of his mother's

race, prayed God that his enemy should be delivered into his hands. Then

he stopped his horse and for the first time recognized that it had been

raining heavily and that it were well to renew the priming of his

pistols. He attended to this with care, and then rode quickly around the

turn of the road, and came upon Carteaux walking his horse.

"Stop, Monsieur!" he called, and in an instant he was beside him.

Carteaux turned at the call, and, puzzled for a moment, said: "What is

it?"--and then at once knew the man at his side.

He was himself unarmed, and for a moment alarmed as he saw De Courval's

hand on the pistol in his holster. He called out, "Do you mean to murder

me?"

"Not I. You will dismount, and will take one of my pistols--either; they

are loaded. You will walk to that stump, turn, and yourself give the

word, an advantage, as you may perceive."

"And if I refuse?"

"In that case I shall kill you with no more mercy than you showed my

father. You have your choice. Decide, and that quickly."

Having dismounted as he spoke, he stood with a grip on Carteaux' bridle,

a pistol in hand, and looking up at the face of his enemy. Carteaux

hesitated a moment, with a glance up and down the lonely highway.

"Monsieur," said De Courval, "I am not here to wait on your decision. I

purpose to give you the chance I should give a gentleman; but take

care--at the least sign of treachery I shall kill you."

Carteaux looked down at the stern face of the Huguenot and knew that he

had no choice.

"I accept," he said, and dismounted. De Courval struck the horses

lightly, and having seen them turn out of the road, faced Carteaux, a

pistol in each hand.

"I have just now renewed the primings," he said. As he spoke, he held

out the weapons. For an instant the Jacobin hesitated, and then said

quickly:

"I take the right-hand pistol."

"When you are at the stump, look at the priming," said De Courval,

intently on guard. "Now, Monsieur, walk to the stump beside the road. It

is about twelve paces. You see it?"

"Yes, I see it."

"Very good. At the stump, cock your pistol, turn, and give the word,

'Fire!' Reserve your shot or fire at the word--an advantage, as you

perceive."

The Jacobin turned and moved away, followed by the eye of a man

distrustfully on the watch.

Rene stood still, not yet cocking his weapon. Carteaux walked away. When

he had gone not over half the distance Rene heard the click of a cocked

pistol and at the instant Carteaux, turning, fired.

Rene threw himself to right and felt a sharp twinge of pain where the

ball grazed the skin of his left shoulder. "Dog of a Jacobin!" he cried,

and as Carteaux extended his pistol hand in instinctive protest, De

Courval fired. The man's pistol fell, and with a cry of pain he reeled,

and, as the smoke blew away, was seen to pitch forward on his face.

At the moment of the shot, and while Rene stood still, quickly

reloading, he heard behind him a wild gallop, and, turning, saw Schmidt

breathless at his side, and in an instant out of the saddle. "_Lieber

Himmel!_" cried the German, "have you killed him?"

"I do not know; but if he is not dead. I shall kill him; not even you

can stop me."

"_Ach!_ but I will, if I have to hold you." As he spoke he set himself

between Rene and the prostrate man. "I will not let you commit murder.

Give me that pistol."

For a moment Rene stared at his friend. Then a quick remembrance of all

this man had been to him, all he had done for him, rose in his mind.

"Have your way, sir!" he cried, throwing down his weapon; "but I will

never forgive you, never!"

"_Ach!_ that is better," said Schmidt. "To-morrow you will forgive and

thank me. Let us look at the rascal."

Together they moved forward, and while De Courval stood by in silence,

Schmidt, kneeling beside Carteaux, turned over his insensible body.

"He is not dead," he said, looking up at Rene.

"I am sorry. Your coming disturbed my aim. I am sorry he is alive."

"And I am not; but not much, _der Teufel!_ The ball has torn his arm,

and is in the shoulder. If he does live, he is for life a maimed man.

This is vengeance worse than death." As he spoke, he ripped open

Carteaux' sleeve. "_Saprement!_ how the beast bleeds! He will fence no

more." The man lay silent and senseless as the German drew from

Carteaux' pocket a handkerchief and tied it around his arm. "There is no

big vessel hurt. _Ach, der Teufel!_ What errand was he about?" A packet

of paper had fallen out with the removal of the handkerchief. "It is

addressed to him. We must know. I shall open it."

"Oh, surely not!" said Rene.

Schmidt laughed. "You would murder a man, but respect his letters."

"Yes, I should."

"My conscience is at ease. This is war." As he spoke, he tore open the

envelop. Then he whistled low. "Here is a devil of a business, Rene!"

"What is it, sir?"

"A despatch from Fauchet to the minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris.

Here is trouble, indeed. You waylay and half-kill the secretary of an

envoy--you, a clerk of the State Department--"

"_Mon Dieu!_ Must he always bring me disaster?" cried Rene. He saw with

utter dismay the far-reaching consequences of his rash act.

"It is to the care of the captain of the _Jean Bart_, New York Harbor.

The Jacobin party will have a fine cry. The State Department will have

sent a man to rob a bearer of despatches. Who will know or believe it

was a private quarrel?"

"How could I know his errand?"

"That will not save you. Your debt is paid with interest, but at bitter

cost. And what now to do?" He stood in the road, silent for a moment,

deep in thought. "If he dies, it must all be told."

"I should tell it myself. I do not care."

"But I very much care. If he lives, he will say you set upon him, an

unarmed man, and stole his despatches."

"Then leave them."

"That were as bad. I saw his treachery; but who will believe me? I must

stay by him, and see what I can do."

Meanwhile the man lay speechless. Rene looked down at him and then at

Schmidt. He, too, was thinking. In a moment he said: "This at least is

clear. I am bound in honor to go on this hound's errand, and to see that

these papers reach the _Jean Bart_."

"You are right," said Schmidt; "entirely right. But you must not be seen

here. Find your way through the woods, and when it is dark--in an hour

it will be night--ride through Bristol to Trenton, cross the river there

at the ferry. No one will be out of doors in Trenton or Bristol on a

night like this. Listen to the wind! Now go. When you are in New York,

see Mr. Nicholas Gouverneur in Beaver Street. At need, tell him the

whole story; but not if you can help it. Here is money, but not enough.

He will provide what you require. Come back through the Jerseys, and

cross at Camden. I shall secure help here, go to town, get a doctor, and

return. I must talk to this man if he lives, else he will lie about

you."

"You will excuse me to the Secretary?"

"Yes; yes, of course. Now go. These people at the inn must not see you."

He watched him ride away into the wood. "It is a sorry business," he

said as he knelt down to give the fallen man brandy from the flask he

found in his saddle-bag.

Within an hour Carteaux, still insensible, was at Bisanet's Inn, a

neighboring doctor found, and that good Samaritan Schmidt, after a fine

tale of highwaymen, was in the saddle and away to town, leaving Carteaux

delirious.

He went at once to the house of Chovet and found him at home. It was

essential to have some one who could talk French.

"At your service," said the doctor.

"Why the devil did you send De Courval after Carteaux this morning?"

"I never meant to."

"But you did. You have made no end of mischief. Now listen. I need you

because you speak French. Can you hold your tongue, if to hold it means

money? Oh, a good deal. If you breathe a word of what you hear or see, I

will half-kill you."

"Oh, Monsieur, I am the soul of honor."

"Indeed. Why, then, does it trouble you? Owing to your damned

mischief-making, De Courval has shot Carteaux. You are to go to the inn,

Bisanet's, near Bristol, to-night, and as often afterward as is needed.

I shall pay, and generously, if he does not--but, remember, no one is to

know. A highwayman shot him. Do you understand? I found him on the road,

wounded."

"Yes; but it is late."

"You go at once."

"I go, Monsieur."

Then Schmidt went home, and ingeniously accounted to Madame, and in a

note to Randolph, for Rene's absence in New York.

As he sat alone that night he again carefully considered the matter.

Yes, if Carteaux died not having spoken, the story would have to be

told. The despatch would never be heard of, or if its singular fortune

in going on its way were ever known and discussed, that was far in the

future, and Schmidt had a strong belief in many things happening or not

happening.

And if, too, despite his presumed power to close Carteaux' lips, the

injured man should sooner or later charge Rene with his wound and the

theft of the despatch, Schmidt, too, would have a story to tell.

Finally--and this troubled his decisions--suppose that at once he

frankly told Fauchet and the Secretary of State what had happened. Would

he be believed by Fauchet in the face of what Carteaux would say, or

would Rene be believed or that he had honorably gone on his enemy's

errand? The _Jean Bart_ would have sailed. Months must pass before the

news of the reception of the despatch could in the ordinary state of

things be heard of, and now the sea swarmed with British cruisers, and

the French frigates were sadly unsafe. To-morrow he must see Carteaux,

and at once let Fauchet learn the condition of his secretary. He

returned to his trust in the many things that may happen, and, lighting

a pipe, fell upon his favorite Montaigne.

He might have been less at ease could he have dreamed what mischief that

despatch was about to make or what more remote trouble it was to create

for the harassed President and his cabinet.

XXI

At noon next day a tired rider left his horse at an inn in Perth Amboy

and boarded the sloop which was to take him to New York, if tide and

wind served. Both at this time were less good to him than usual, and he

drifted the rest of the afternoon and all night on the bay.

At length, set ashore on the Battery, he was presently with a merchant,

in those days of leisurely ventures altogether a large personage,

merchant and ship-master, capable, accurate, enterprising, something of

the great gentleman, quick to perceive a slight and at need to avenge

it, a lost type to-day--a Dutch cross on Huguenot French. Mr. Nicholas

Gouverneur was glad to see once more the Vicomte de Courval. His own

people, too, had suffered in other days for their religion, and if

Rene's ancestors had paid in the far past unpleasant penalties for the

respectable crime of treason to the king, had not one of Mr.

Gouverneur's ancestors had a similar distinction, having been hanged for

high treason? "Ah, of course he told you the story, Rene," said Schmidt

when he heard of this interview.

Mr. Gouverneur, having offered the inevitable hospitality of his

sideboard, was in no hurry.

Rene, although in hot haste to be done with his strange errand, knew

better than to disturb the formalities of welcome. He must inquire after

Mrs. Gouverneur, and must answer for his mother. At last his host said:

"You do small justice to my rum, Vicomte. It is as unused to neglect as

any young woman. But, pardon me, you look tired, and as if you had made

a hard journey. I see that you are anxious and too polite to interrupt a

garrulous man. What can I do for you or our friend Schmidt!"

"I have this packet of papers which should go at once to the corvette

_Jean Bart_. One Francois-Guillaume Need is the Captain."

"And I have been delaying you. Pray pardon me. Despatches, I suppose,

for my cousin Gouverneur Morris." Rene did not contradict him. "We will

see to it at once, at once. The _Jean Bart_ sails to-night, I hear. She

has waited, we knew not why."

"For these despatches, sir. Can I not be set aboard of her at once?"

"Surely," said Gouverneur; "come with me."

As they walked toward the water Mr. Gouverneur said: "You have, I think

you told me, a despatch for the captain of the corvette. Let me urgently

advise you not to board that vessel. My boat shall take you to the

ship,--deliver your despatch,--but let nothing tempt you to set foot on

her deck. We are not on very good terms with France; you are still a

French citizen. Several of the corvette's officers have been in

Philadelphia. If you are recognized as a French noble, you will never

see America again. You know what fate awaits an emigre in Paris; not

even your position in the Department of State would save you."

De Courval returned: "You are no doubt right, sir. I had already thought

of the risk--"

"There need be none if you are prudent."

"But I ought to receive a receipt for the papers I deliver."

"That is hardly needed--unusual, I should say; Mr. Randolph will

scarcely expect that."

De Courval was not inclined to set the merchant right in regard to the

character of the despatches, for it might then be necessary to tell the

whole story. He made no direct reply, but said merely: "I am most

grateful--I shall have the honor to take your advice. Ah, here is the

boat."

"It is my own barge," said Gouverneur. "Be careful. Yonder is the

corvette, a short pull. I shall wait for you here."

In a few minutes De Courval was beside the gangway of the corvette. He

called to a sailor on the deck that he wished to see an officer.

Presently a young lieutenant came down the steps. De Courval said in

French, as he handed the officer the packet of papers:

"This is a despatch, Citizen, from Citizen Minister Fauchet, addressed

to the care of your captain. Have the kindness to give it to him and ask

for a receipt."

The lieutenant went on deck and very soon returned.

"The receipt, please," said De Courval.

"Captain Need desires me to say that, although it is unusual to give a

receipt for such papers, he will do so if you will come to the cabin. He

wishes to ask questions about the British cruisers, and may desire to

send a letter to Citizen Minister Fauchet."

"I cannot wait. I am in haste to return," said De Courval.

"_Le diable_, Citizen! He will be furious. We sail at once--at once; you

will not be delayed."

Rene thought otherwise.

"Very well; I can but give your reply. It seems to me strange. You will

hear of it some day, Citizen."

As soon as the officer disappeared, Rene said to his boatman: "Quick!

Get away--get me ashore as soon as you can!"

Pursuit from a man-of-war boat was possible, if one lay ready on the

farther side of the corvette. He had, however, only a ten minutes' row

before he stood beside Mr. Gouverneur on the Battery slip.

"I am a little relieved," said the older man. "Did you get the

acknowledgment of receipt you wanted?"

"No, sir. It was conditioned upon my going aboard to the captain's

cabin."

"Ah, well, I do not suppose that Mr. Randolph will care."

"Probably not." Rene had desired some evidence of his singular mission,

but the immense importance of it as proof of his good faith was not at

the time fully apprehended. The despatch had gone on its way, and he had

done honorably his enemy's errand.

"And now," said the merchant, "let us go to my house and see Mrs.

Gouverneur, and above all have dinner."

Rene had thought that flight might be needed if he carried out his fatal

purpose, and he had therefore put in his saddle-bags enough garments to

replace the muddy dress of a hard ride. He had said that he must leave

at dawn, and having laid aside the cares of the last days, he gave

himself up joyously to the charm of the refined hospitality of his

hosts.

As they turned away, the corvette was setting her sails and the cries of

the sailors and the creak of the windlass showed the anchor was being

raised. Before they had reached Gouverneur's house she was under way,

with papers destined to make trouble for many.

As Rene lay at rest that night within the curtained bed, no man on

Manhattan Island could have been more agreeably at ease with his world.

The worry of indecision was over. He felt with honest conviction that

his prayer for the downfall of his enemy had been answered, and in this

cooler hour he knew with gratitude that his brute will to kill had been

wisely denied its desire. It had seemed to him at the time that to act

on his instinct was only to do swift justice on a criminal; but he had

been given a day to reflect and acknowledged the saner wisdom of the

morrow.

Further thought should have left him less well pleased at what the

future might hold for him. But the despatch had gone, his errand was

done. An image of Margaret in the splendor of brocade and lace haunted

the dreamy interval between the waking state and the wholesome sleep of

tired youth. Moreover, the good merchant's Madeira had its power of

somnolent charm, and, thus soothed, De Courval passed into a world of

visionless slumber.

He rode back through the Jerseys to avoid Bristol and the scene of his

encounter, and, finding at Camden a flat barge returning to

Philadelphia, was able, as the river was open and free of ice, to get

his horse aboard and thus to return with some renewal of anxiety to Mrs.

Swanwick's house. No one was at home; but Nanny told him that Mr.

Schmidt, who had been absent, had returned two days before, but was out.

Miss Margaret was at the Hill, and June, the cat, off for two days on

love-affairs or predatory business.

He went up-stairs to see his mother. Should he tell her? On the whole,

it was better not to speak until he had seen Schmidt. He amused her with

an account of having been sent to New York on business and then spoke of

the Gouverneur family and their Huguenot descent. He went away satisfied

that he had left her at ease, which was not quite the case. "Something

has happened," she said to herself. "By and by he will tell me. Is it

the girl? I trust not. Or that man? Hardly."

The supper passed in quiet, with light talk of familiar things, the

vicomtesse, always a taciturn woman, saying but little.

As De Courval sat down, her black dress, the silvery quiet of Mrs.

Swanwick's garb, her notably gentle voice, the simple room without

colors, the sanded floor, the spotless cleanliness of the table

furniture, of a sudden struck him as he thought of the violence and

anger of the scene on the Bristol road. What would this gentle Friend

say, and the Pearl? What, indeed!

Supper was just over when, to Rene's relief, Schmidt appeared. He nodded

coolly to Rene and said, laughing: "Ah, Frau Swanwick, I have not had a

chance to growl; but when I go again to the country, I shall take Nanny.

I survive; but the diet!" He gave an amusing account of it. "Pork--it is

because of the unanimous pig. Pies--ach!--cabbage, a sour woman and sour

bread, chicken rigged with hemp and with bosoms which need not stays."

Even the vicomtesse smiled. "I have dined at Mr. Morris's, to my relief.

Come, Rene, let us smoke."

When once at ease in his room, he exclaimed: "_Potstausend_, Rene, I am

out of debt. The years I used to count to be paid are settled. Two days'

watching that delirious swine and bottling up the gossiping little demon

Chovet! A pipe, a pipe, and then I shall tell you."

"Indeed, I have waited long."

"Chovet told Fauchet at my request of this regrettable affair. He is

uneasy, and he well may be, concerning all there is left of his

secretary."

"Then he is alive," said Rene; "and will he live?"

"Alive? Yes, very much alive, raving at times like a madman haunted by

hell fiends. I had to stay. After a day he was clear of head, but as

weak as a man can be with the two maladies of a ball in a palsied

shoulder and a doctor looking for it. Yes, he will live; and alive or

dead will make mischief."

"Did he talk to you?"

"Yes. He has no memory of my coming at the time he was shot. I think he

did not see me at all."

"Well, what else?"

"I told him the whole story, and what I had seen him do. I was plain,

too, and said that I had found his despatch, and you, being a gentleman,

must needs see that it went. He saw, I suspect, what other motive you

had--if he believed me at all."

"But did he believe you? Does he?"

"No, he does not. I said, 'You are scamp enough to swear that we set on

you to steal your papers, a fine tale for our Jacobin mobocrats.' A

fellow can't lie with his whole face. I saw his eyes narrow, but I told

him to try it if he dared, and out comes my tale of his treachery. We

made a compact at last, and he will swear he was set upon and robbed. I

left him to invent his story. But it is plainly his interest to keep

faith, and not accuse you."

"He will not keep faith. Sometime he will lie about me. The despatch has

gone by the _Jean Bart_, but that part of our defense is far to reach."

"Well, Chovet is gold dumb, and as for the Jacobin, no man can tell. If

he be wise, he will stick to his tale of highwaymen. Of course I asked

Chovet to let the minister learn of this sad accident, but he did not

arrive until after I had the fellow well scared."

"Is that all?"

"No. The man is in torment. Damn! if I were in pain like that, I should

kill myself. Except that fever, I never had anything worse than a

stomachache in all my life. The man is on the rack, and Chovet declares

that he will never use the arm again, and will have some daily reminder

of you so long as he lives. Now, Rene, a man on the rack may come to say

things of the gentleman who turned on the torture."

"Then some day he will lie, and I, _mon Dieu_, will be ruined. Who will

believe me? The State Department will get the credit of it, and I shall

be thrown over--sacrificed to the wolves of party slander."

"Not if I am here."

"If you are here?"

"Yes. At any time I may have to go home."

"Then let us tell the whole story."

"Yes, if we must; but wait. Why go in search of trouble? For a time,

perhaps always, he will be silent. Did you get a receipt for the

despatch?"

"No. The captain would not give one unless I went to his cabin and that

I dared not do."

"I, as the older man, should have pointed out to you the need of using

every possible means to get an acknowledgment from the captain; but you

were right. Had you gone on board the ship, you would never have left

her. Well, then there is more need to play a silent, waiting game until

we know, as we shall, of the papers having reached their destination. In

fact, there is nothing else to do. There will be a nice fuss over the

papers, and then it will all be forgotten."

"Yes, unless he speaks."

"If he does, there are other cards in my hand. Meanwhile, being a good

Samaritan, I have again seen Carteaux. He will, I think, be silent for a

while. Be at ease, my son; and now I must go to bed. I am tired."

This was one of many talks; none of them left Rene at ease. How could he

as yet involve a woman he loved in his still uncertain fate! He was by

no means sure that she loved him; that she might come to do so he felt

to be merely possible, for the modesty of love made him undervalue

himself and see her as far beyond his deserts. His mother's prejudices

troubled him less. Love consults no peerage and he had long ago ceased

to think as his mother did of a title which had no legal existence.

It was natural enough that an event as grave as this encounter with

Carteaux should leave on a young man's mind a deep impression; nor had

his talk with Schmidt, the night before, enabled him, as next day he

walked to the State Department, to feel entirely satisfied. The news of

the highway robbery had been for two days the city gossip, and already

the gazettes were considering it in a leisurely fashion; but as no

journals reached the widow's house unless brought thither by Schmidt,

the amenities of the press in regard to the assault and the

administration were as yet unseen by De Courval. On the steps of the

Department of State he met the Marquis de Noailles, who greeted him

cheerfully, asking if he had read what Mr. Bache and the "Aurora" said

of the attack on Carteaux.

Rene felt the cold chill of too conscious knowledge as he replied: "Not

yet, Marquis. I am but yesterday come from New York."

"Well, it should interest Mr. Randolph. It does appear to Mr. Bache that

no one except the English party and the Federals could profit by the

theft. How they could be the better by the gossip of this _sacre_

Jacobin actor in the role of a minister the _bon Dieu_ alone knows."

Rene laughed. "You are descriptive, Marquis."

"Who would not be? But, my dear De Courval, you must regret that you

were not the remarkable highwayman who stole Fauchet's eloquence and

left a gold watch and seals; but here comes Mr. Randolph. He may explain

it; at all events, if he confides to you the name of that robber, send

the man to me. I will pay five dollars apiece for Jacobin scalps.

_Adieu._ My regrets that you are not the man."

Mr. Randolph was cool as they went in together, and made it plain that

absence without leave on the part of a clerk was an embarrassment to the

public service of the State Department, in which were only three or four

clerks. De Courval could only say that imperative private business had

taken him out of town. It would not occur again. Upon this Mr. Randolph

began to discuss the amazing assault and robbery with which town gossip

was so busy. Mr. Fauchet had been insolent, and, asking aid in

discovering the thief, had plainly implied that more than he and his

government would suffer if the despatch were not soon restored to the

minister. Mr. Randolph had been much amused, a little angry and also

puzzled. "It had proved," he said, "a fine weapon in the hands of the

Democrats." The young man was glad to shift the talk, but wherever he

went for a few days, people, knowing of his duel, were sure to talk to

him of this mysterious business. Later the "Aurora" and Mr. Bache, who

had taken up the role in which Mr. Freneau had acted with skill and ill

temper, made wild use of the story and of the value of the stolen papers

to a criminal cabinet. Over their classic signatures Cato and Aristides

challenged Democratic Socrates or Cicero to say how General Washington

would be the better for knowledge of the rant of the strolling player

Fauchet. Very soon, however, people ceased to talk of it. It was an

unsolved mystery. But for one man torment of body and distress of mind

kept ever present the will and wish to be without risk revenged. He was

already, as he knew, _persona non grata_, and to have Schmidt's story

told and believed was for the secretary to be sent home in disgrace. He

waited, seeing no way as yet to acquit himself of this growing debt.

January of 1795 came in with the cabinet changes already long expected.

Carteaux was still very ill in bed, with doctors searching for the

bullet. As yet he told only of being robbed of his despatches and that

he had lost neither watch nor purse, which was conclusive. Whereupon

Fauchet talked and insulted Randolph, and the Democratic clubs raved

with dark hints and insinuations, while the despatch went on its way,

not to be heard of for months to come. Rene, who was for a time uneasy

and disliked the secrecy thrown about an action of which he was far

from ashamed, began at last to feel relieved, and thus the midwinter was

over and the days began noticeably to lengthen.

XXII

"Let us skate to-night. I have tried the ice," said Schmidt, one

afternoon in February. "Pearl learned, as you know, long ago." She was

in town for a week, the conspirators feeling assured of Rene's

resolution to wait on this, as on another matter, while he was busy with

his double work. Her mother had grown rebellious over her long absence,

and determined that she should remain in town, as there seemed to be no

longer cause for fear and the girl was in perfect health. Aunt Gainor,

also, was eager for town and piquet and well pleased with the excuse to

return, having remained at the Hill long after her usual time.

"The moon is a fair, full matron," said Schmidt. "The ice is perfect.

Look out for air-holes, Rene," he added, as he buckled on his skates.

"Not ready yet?" Rene was kneeling and fastening the Pearl's skates. It

took long.

"Oh, hurry!" she cried. "I cannot wait." She was joyous, excited, and he

somehow awkward.

Then they were away over the shining, moonlighted ice of the broad

Delaware with that exhilaration which is caused by swift movement, the

easy product of perfect physical capacity. For a time they skated

quietly side by side, Schmidt, as usual, enjoying an exercise in which,

says Graydon in his memoirs, the gentlemen of Philadelphia were

unrivaled. Nearer the city front, on the great ice plain, were many

bonfires, about which phantom figures flitted now an instant black in

profile, and then lost in the unillumined spaces, while far away,

opposite to the town, hundreds of skaters carrying lanterns were seen or

lost to view in the quick turns of the moving figures. "Like great

fireflies," said Schmidt. A few dim lights in houses and frost-caught

ships and faint, moonlit outlines alone revealed the place of the city.

The cries and laughter were soon lost to the three skaters, and a vast

solitude received them as they passed down the river.

"Ah, the gray moonlight and the gray ice!" said Schmidt, "a Quaker

night, Pearl."

"And the moon a great pearl," she cried.

"How one feels the night!" said the German. "It is as on the Sahara.

Only in the loneliness of great spaces am I able to feel eternity; for

space is time." He had his quick bits of talk to himself. Both young

people, more vaguely aware of some sense of awe in the dim unpeopled

plain, were under the charm of immense physical joy in the magic of

easily won motion.

"Surely there is nothing like it," said Rene, happy and breathless,

having only of late learned to skate, whereas Pearl had long since been

well taught by the German friend.

"No," said Schmidt; "there is nothing like it, except the quick sweep of

a canoe down a rapid. A false turn of the paddle, and there is death.

Oh, but there is joy in the added peril! The blood of the Angels finds

the marge of danger sweet."

"Not for me," said Pearl; "but we are safe here."

"I have not found your Delaware a constant friend. How is that, Rene?"

"What dost thou mean?" said Pearl. "Thou art fond of teasing my

curiosity, and I am curious, too. Tell me, please. Oh, but thou must!"

"Ask the vicomte," cried Schmidt. "He will tell you."

"Oh, will he, indeed?" said Rene, laughing. "Ah, I am quite out of

breath."

"Then rest a little." As they halted, a swift skater, seeking the

loneliness of the river below the town, approaching, spoke to Margaret,

and then said: "Ah, Mr. Schmidt, what luck to find you! You were to give

me a lesson. Why not now?"

"Come, then," returned Schmidt. "I brought you hither, Rene, because it

is safer away from clumsy learners, and where we are the ice is safe. I

was over it yesterday, but do not go far. I shall be back in a few

minutes. If Margaret is tired, move up the river. I shall find you."

"Please not to be long," said Margaret.

"Make him tell you when your wicked Delaware was not my friend, and

another was. Make him tell."

As he spoke, he was away behind young Mr. Morris, singing in his lusty

bass snatches of German song and thinking of the ripe mischief of the

trap he had baited with a nice little Cupid. "I want it to come soon,"

he said, "before I go. She will be curious and venture in, and it will

be as good as the apple with knowledge of good and--no, there is evil in

neither."

She was uneasy, she scarce knew why. Still at rest on the ice, she

turned to De Courval. "Thou wilt tell me?" she said.

"I had rather not."

"But if I ask thee?"

"Why should I not?" he thought. It was against his habit to speak of

himself, but she would perhaps like him the better for the story.

"Then, Miss Margaret, not because he asked and is willing, but because

you ask, I shall tell you."

"Oh, I knew thou wouldst. He thought thou wouldst not and I should be

left puzzled. Sometimes he is just like a boy for mischief."

"Oh, it was nothing. The first day I was here I saved him from drowning.

A boat struck his head while we were swimming, and I had the luck to be

near. There, that is all." He was a trifle ashamed to tell of it.

She put out her hand as they stood. "Thank thee. Twice I thank thee, for

a dear life saved and because thou didst tell, not liking to tell me. I

could see that. Thank thee."

"Ah, Pearl," he exclaimed, and what more he would have said I do not

know, nor had he a chance, for she cried: "I shall thank thee always,

Friend de Courval. We are losing time." The peril that gives a keener

joy to sport was for a time far too near, but in other form than in

bodily risk. "Come, canst thou catch me?" She was off and away, now

near, now far, circling about him with easy grace, merrily laughing as

he sped after her in vain. Then of a sudden she cried out and came to a

standstill.

"A strap broke, and I have turned my ankle. Oh, I cannot move a step!

What shall I do?"

"Sit down on the ice."

As she sat, he undid her skates and then his own and tied them to his

belt. "Can you walk?" he said.

"I will try. Ah!" She was in pain. "Call Mr. Schmidt," she said. "Call

him at once."

"I do not see him. We were to meet him opposite the Swedes' church."

"Then go and find him."

"What, leave you? Not I. Let me carry you."

"Oh, no, no; thou must not." But in a moment he had the slight figure in

his arms.

"Let me down! I will never, never forgive thee!" But he only said in a

voice of resolute command, "Keep still, Pearl, or I shall fall." She was

silent. Did she like it, the strong arms about her, the head on his

shoulder, the heart throbbing as never before? He spoke no more, but

moved carefully on.

They had not gone a hundred yards when he heard Schmidt calling. At once

he set her down, saying, "Am I forgiven?"

"No--yes," she said faintly.

"Pearl, dear Pearl, I love you. I meant not to speak, oh, for a time,

but it has been too much for me. Say just a word." But she was silent as

Schmidt stopped beside them and Rene in a few words explained.

"Was it here?" asked Schmidt.

"No; a little while ago."

"But how did you come so far, my poor child?"

"Oh, I managed," she said.

"Indeed. I shall carry you."

"If thou wilt, please. I am in much pain."

He took off his skates, and with easy strength walked away over the ice,

the girl in his arms, so that before long she was at home and in her

mother's care, to be at rest for some days.

"Come in, Rene," said Schmidt, as later they settled themselves for the

usual smoke and chat. The German said presently: "It was not a very bad

sprain. Did you carry her, Rene?"

"I--"

"Yes. Do you think, man, that I cannot see!"

"Yes, I carried her. What else could I do?"

"Humph! What else? Nothing. Was she heavy, Herr de Courval?"

"Please not to tease me, sir. You must know that, God willing, I shall

marry her."

"Will you, indeed! And your mother, Rene, will she like it?"

"No; but soon or late she will have to like it. For her I am still a

child, but now I shall go my way."

"And Pearl?"

"I mean to know, to hear. I can wait no longer. Would it please you,

sir?"

"Mightily, my son; and when it comes to the mother, I must say a word or

two."

"She will not like that. She likes no one to come between us."

"Well, we shall see. I should be more easy if only that Jacobin hound

were dead, or past barking. He is in a bad way, I hear. I could have

wished that you had been of a mind to have waited a little longer before

you spoke to her."

Rene smiled. "Why did you leave us alone to-night? It is you, sir, who

are responsible."

"_Potstausend! Donnerwetter!_ You saucy boy! Go to bed and repent. There

are only two languages in which a man can find good, fat, mouth-filling

oaths, and the English oaths are too naughty for a good Quaker house."

"You seem to have found one, sir. It sounds like thunder. We can do it

pretty well in French."

"Child's talk, prattle. Go to bed. What will the mother say? Oh, not

yours. Madame Swanwick has her own share of pride. Can't you wait a

while?"

"No. I must know."

"Well, Mr. Obstinate Man, we shall see." The wisdom of waiting he saw,

and yet he had deliberately been false to the advice he had more than

once given. Rene left him, and Schmidt turned, as he loved to do, to the

counselor Montaigne, just now his busy-minded comrade, and, lighting

upon the chapter on reading, saw what pleased him.

"That is good advice, in life and for books. To have a 'skipping wit.'

We must skip a little time. I was foolish. How many threads there are in

this tangle men call life!" And with this he read over the letters just

come that morning from Germany. Then he considered Carteaux again.

"If that fellow is tormented into taking his revenge, and I should be

away, as I may be, there will be the deuce to pay.

"Perhaps I might have given Rene wiser advice; but with no proof

concerning the fate of the despatch, there was no course which was

entirely satisfactory. Best to let the sleeping dog lie. But why did I

leave them on the ice? _Sapristi!_ I am as bad as Mistress Gainor. But

she is not caught yet, Master Rene."

XXIII

In few days Margaret was able to be afoot, although still lame; but Rene

had no chance to see her. She was not to be caught alone, and would go

on a long-promised visit to Merion. Thus February passed, and March, and

April came, when personal and political matters abruptly broke up for a

time their peaceful household.

Margaret had been long at home again, but still with a woman's wit she

avoided her lover. Aunt Gainor, ever busy, came and went, always with a

dozen things to do.

Her attentions to Madame de Courval lessened when that lady no longer

needed her kindness and, as soon happened, ceased to be interesting. She

would not gamble, and the two women had little in common. Miss Gainor's

regard for Rene was more lasting. He was well-built and handsome, and

all her life she had had a fancy for good looks in men. He had, too, the

virile qualities she liked and a certain steadiness of purpose which

took small account of obstacles and reminded her of her nephew Hugh

Wynne. Above all, he had been successful, and she despised people who

failed and too often regarded success as a proof of the right to

succeed, even when the means employed were less creditable than those

by which Rene had made his way. Moreover, had he not told her once that

her French was wonderful? Miss Gainor changed her favorites often, but

Rene kept in her good graces and was blamed only because he did not give

her as much of his time as she desired; for after she heard his history

from Schmidt, he won a place in her esteem which few men had ever held.

She had set her heart at last on his winning Margaret, and the lifelong

game of gambling with other folks' fortunes and an honest idolatry for

the heroic, inclined her to forgive a lack of attention due in a measure

to his increasing occupations.

To keep her eager hands off this promising bit of match-making had been

rather a trial, but Schmidt was one of the few people of whom she had

any fear, and she had promised not to meddle. At present she had begun

to think that the two human pawns in the game she loved were becoming

indifferent, and to let things alone was something to which she had

never been inclined. Had she become aware of the German's mild treachery

that night on the ice, she would in all likelihood have been angry at

first and then pleased or annoyed not to have had a hand in the matter.

Mistress Wynne, even in the great war, rarely allowed her violent

politics to interfere with piquet, and now Mr. Dallas had asked leave to

bring Fauchet, the new French minister, to call upon her. He was gay,

amusing, talked no politics, played piquet nearly as well as she, and

was enchanted, as he assured her, to hear French spoken without accent.

If to De la Foret, the consul-general, he made merry concerning his

travels in China, as he called her drawing-room, saying it was

perilously over-populous with strange gods, she did not hear it, nor

would she have cared so long as she won the money of the French

republic.

One evening in early April, after a long series of games, he said: "I

wish I could have brought here my secretary Carteaux. He did play to

perfection, but now, poor devil, the wound he received has palsied his

right arm, and he will never hold cards again--or, what he thinks worse,

a foil. It was a strange attack."

"Does he suffer? I have heard about him."

"Horribly. He is soon going home to see if our surgeons can find the

bullet; but he is plainly failing."

"Oh, he is going home?"

"Yes; very soon."

"How did it all happen? It has been much talked about, but one never

knows what to believe."

"I sent him to New York with despatches for our foreign office, but the

_Jean Bart_ must have sailed without them; for he was waylaid, shot, and

robbed of the papers, but lost no valuables."

"Then it was not highwaymen?"

"No; I can only conjecture who were concerned. It was plainly a robbery

in the interest of the Federalists. I do not think Mr. Randolph could

have these despatches, or if he has, they will never be heard of." Upon

this he smiled.

"Then they are lost?"

"Yes. At least to our foreign office. I think Mr. Wolcott of the

Treasury would have liked to see them."

"But why? Why Mr. Wolcott?" She showed her curiosity quite too plainly.

"Ah, that is politics, and Madame forbids them."

"Yes--usually; but this affair of Monsieur Carteaux cannot be political.

It seems to me an incredible explanation."

"Certainly a most unfortunate business," said the minister.

He had said too much and was on his guard. He had, however, set the

spinster to thinking, and remembering what Schmidt had told her of De

Courval, her reflections were fertile. "Shall we have another game?"

A month before the day on which they played, the _Jean Bart_, since

November of 1794 at sea, after seizing an English merchantman was

overhauled in the channel by the British frigate _Cerberus_ and

compelled to surrender. The captain threw overboard his lead-weighted

signal-book and the packet of Fauchet's despatches. A sailor of the

merchant ship, seeing it float, jumped overboard from a boat and rescued

it. Upon discovering its value, Captain Drew of the _Cerberus_ forwarded

the despatches to Lord Grenville in London, who in turn sent them as

valuable weapons to Mr. Hammond, the English minister in Philadelphia.

There was that in them which might discredit one earnest enemy of the

English treaty, but months went by before the papers reached America.

Miss Gainor, suspecting her favorite's share in this much-talked-of

affair, made haste to tell Schmidt of the intention of Carteaux to sail,

to the relief of the German gentleman, who frankly confided to her the

whole story. He spoke also once more of De Courval and urged her for

every reason to leave the young people to settle their own affairs.

Meanwhile Josiah was in bed with well-earned gout.

On the afternoon of the 14th of April, Rene came home from the State

office and said to Schmidt: "I have had paid me a great compliment, but

whether I entirely like it or not, I do not know. As usual, I turn to

you for advice."

"Well, what is it!"

"The President wants some one he can trust to go to the western counties

of this State and report on the continued disturbance about the excise

tax. I thought the thing was at an end. Mr. Hamilton, who seems to have

the ear of the President, advised him that as a thoroughly neutral man I

could be trusted. Mr. Randolph thinks it a needless errand."

"No. It is by no means needless. I have lands near Pittsburg, as you

know, and I hear of much disaffection. The old fox, Jefferson, at

Monticello talks about the excise tax as 'infernal,' and what with the

new treaty and Congress and other things the Democrats are making

trouble enough for a weak cabinet and a strong President. I advise you

to accept. You can serve me, too. Take it. You are fretting here for

more reasons than one. I hear that Carteaux is out of bed, a crippled

wreck, and Fauchet says is soon to go to France. In August the minister

himself will leave and one Adet take his place. I think you may go with

an easy mind. We are to be rid of the whole pestilent lot."

"Then I shall accept and go as soon as I receive my instructions. But I

do dread to leave town. I shall go, but am at ease only since you will

be here."

"But I shall not be, Rene. I have hesitated to tell you. I am called

home to Germany, and shall sail from New York for England on to-day a

week. I shall return, I think; but I am not sure, nor if then I can

remain. It is an imperative call. I am, it seems, pardoned, and my

father is urgent, and my elder brother is dead. If you have learned to

know me, you will feel for me the pain with which I leave this simpler

life for one which has never held for me any charm. Since Carteaux is

soon to sail, and I hear it is certain, I feel less troubled. I hope to

be here again in August or later. You may, I think, count on my return."

"Have you told Mrs. Swanwick, sir?"

"Yes, and the Pearl. Ah, my son, the one thing in life I have craved is

affection; and now--"

"No one will miss you as I shall--no one--" He could say no more.

"You will of course have charge of my affairs, and Mr. Wilson has my

power of attorney, and there is Hamilton at need. Ah, but I have had a

scene with these most dear people!"

The time passed quickly for De Courval. He himself was to be gone at

least two months. There was a week to go, as he must, on horseback, and

as much to return. There were wide spaces of country to cover and much

business to settle for Schmidt. His stay was uncertain and not without

risks.

Over three weeks went by before he could be spared from the thinly

officered department. Schmidt had long since gone, and Rene sat alone in

the library at night and missed the large mind and a temperament gayer

than his own. His mother had asked no questions concerning Carteaux, and

as long as there was doubt in regard to his course, he had been

unwilling to mention him; but now he felt that he should speak freely

and set his mother's mind at rest before he went away.

Neither, despite what he was sure would be the stern opposition he would

have to encounter from his mother, could he go without a word to

Margaret--a word that would settle his fate and hers. The Carteaux

business was at an end. He felt free to act. Fortune for once favored

him. Since he had spoken to his mother of his journey and the lessened

household knew of it, Pearl had even more sedulously avoided the

pleasant talks in the garden and the rides, now rare, with Aunt Gainor

and himself. The mother, more and more uneasy, had spoken to her

daughter very decidedly, and Madame grew less familiarly kind to the

girl; while she herself, with a mind as yet in doubt, had also her share

of pride and believed that the young vicomte had ceased to care for her,

else would he not have created an opportunity to say what long ago that

night on the ice seemed to make a matter of honor? She was puzzled by

his silence, a little vexed and not quite sure of herself.

He put off to the last moment his talk with his mother and watched in

vain for a chance to speak to Margaret. His instructions were ready, his

last visits made. He had had an unforgettable half-hour with the

President and a talk with Hamilton, now on a visit from New York. The

ex-secretary asked him why he did not cast in his lot frankly with the

new land, as he himself had done. He would have to give notice in court

and renounce his allegiance to his sovereign, so ran the new law.

"I have no sovereign," he replied, "and worthless as it now seems, I

will not renounce my title, as your law requires."

"Nor would I," said Hamilton. "You will go home some day. The chaos in

France will find a master. The people are weary of change and will

accept any permanent rule."

"Yes, I hope to return. Such is my intention," and they fell into talk

of Schmidt.

De Courval's last day in the city had come. Schmidt had left him the

free use of his horses, and he would try one lately bought to see how it

would answer for his long journey.

About eleven of a sunny June morning he mounted and rode westward up

Chestnut Street. At Fifth and Chestnut streets, Congress having just

adjourned, the members were coming out of the brick building which still

stands at the corner. He knew many, and bowed to Gallatin and Fisher

Ames. Mr. Madison stopped him to say a word about the distasteful

English treaty. Then at a walk he rode on toward the Schuylkill, deep in

thought.

Beyond Seventh there was as yet open country, with few houses. It was

two years since, a stranger, he had fallen among friends in the Red

City, made for himself a sufficient income and an honorable name and won

the esteem of men. Schmidt, Margaret, the Wynnes; his encounters with

Carteaux, the yellow plague, passed through his mind. God had indeed

dealt kindly with the exiles. As he came near to the river and rode into

the thinned forest known as the Governor's Woods, he saw Nanny seated at

the roadside.

"What are you doing here, Nanny?" he asked.

"The missus sent me with Miss Margaret to carry a basket of stuff to

help some no-account colored people lives up that road. I has to wait."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, and, dismounting, tied his horse. "At last," he

said, and went away up the wood road. Far in the open forest he saw her

coming, her Quaker bonnet swinging on her arm.

"Oh, Miss Margaret!" he cried. "I am glad to have found you. You know I

am going away to-morrow for two months at least. It is a hard journey,

not without some risk, and I cannot go without a word with you. Why have

you avoided me as you have done?"

"Have I?" she replied.

"Yes; and you know it."

"I thought--I thought--oh, let me go home!"

"No; not till you hear me. Can you let me leave in this way without a

word? I do not mean that it shall be. Sit down here on this log and

listen to me." He caught her hand.

"Please, I must go."

"No; not yet. Sit down here. I shall not keep you long--a woman who

wants none of me. But I have much to say--explanations, ah, much to

say." She sat down.

"I will hear thee, but--"

"Oh, you will hear me? Yes, because you must? Go, if you will. It will

be my answer."

"I think the time and the place ill chosen,"--she spoke with simple

dignity,--"but I will hear thee."

"I have had no chance but this. You must pardon me." She looked down and

listened. "It is a simple matter. I have loved you long. No other love

has ever troubled my life. Save my mother, I have no one. What might

have been the loves for brothers and sisters are all yours, a love

beyond all other loves, the love of a lonely man. Whether or not you

permit me to be something more, I shall still owe you a debt the years

can never make me forget--the remembrance of what my life beside you in

your home has given me."

The intent face, the hands clasped in her lap, might have shown him how

deeply she was moved; for now at last that she had heard him she knew

surely that she loved him. The long discipline of Friends in controlling

at least the outward expression of emotion came to her aid as often

before. She felt how easy it would have been to give him the answer he

longed for; but there were others to think about, and from her childhood

she had been taught the lesson of consideration for her elders. She set

herself to reply to him with stern repression of feeling not very

readily governed.

"How can I answer thee? What would thy mother say?" He knew then what

her answer might have been. She, too, had her pride, and he liked her

the more for that.

"Thou art a French noble. I am a plain Quaker girl without means. There

would be reason in the opposition thy mother would make."

"A French noble!" he laughed. "A banished exile, landless and poor--a

pretty match I am. But, Pearl, the future is mine. I have succeeded

here, where my countrymen starve. I have won honor, respect, and trust.

I would add love."

"I know, I know; but--"

"It is vain to put me off with talk of others. I think you do care for

me. My mother will summon all her prejudices and in the end will yield.

It is very simple, Pearl. I ask only a word. If you say yes, whatever

may then come, we will meet with courage and respect. Do you love me,

Pearl?"

She said faintly, "Yes."

He sat silent a moment, and then said, "I thank God!" and, lifting her

hand, kissed it.

"Oh, Rene," she cried, "what have I done?" and she burst into tears. "I

did not mean to."

"Is it so hard, dear Pearl? I have made you cry."

"No, it is not hard; but it is that I am ashamed to think that I loved

thee long--long before thou didst care for me. Love thee, Rene! Thou

dost not dream how--how I love thee."

[Illustration: "'I know, I know, but--'"]

Her reticence, her trained reserve, were lost in this passion of

long-restrained love. Ah, here was Schmidt's Quaker Juliet!

He drew her to him and kissed her wet cheek. "You will never, never

regret," he said. "All else is of no moment. We love each other. That is

all now. I have so far never failed in anything, and I shall not now."

He had waited long, he said, and for good reasons. Some day, but not now

in an hour of joy, he would tell her the story of his life, a sad one,

and of why he had been what men call brutal to Carteaux and why their

friend Schmidt, who knew of his love, had urged him to wait. She must

trust him yet a little while longer.

"And have I not trusted thee?"

"Yes, Pearl."

"We knew, mother and I, knowing thee as we did, that there must be more

cause for that dreadful duel than we could see."

"More? Yes, dear, and more beyond it; but it is all over now. The man I

would have killed is going to France."

"Oh, Rene--killed!"

"Yes, and gladly. The man goes back to France and my skies are clear for

love to grow."

He would kill! A strange sense of surprise arose in her mind, and the

thought of how little even now she knew of the man she loved and

trusted. "I can wait, Rene," she said, "and oh, I am so glad; but

mother--I have never had a secret from her, never."

"Tell her," he said; "but then let it rest between us until I come

back."

"That would be best, and now I must go."

"Yes, but a moment, Pearl. Long ago, the day after we landed, a sad and

friendless man, I walked out to the river and washed away my cares in

the blessed waters. On my return, I sat on this very log, and talked to

some woodmen, and asked the name of a modest flower. They said, 'We call

it the Quaker lady.' And to think that just here I should find again, my

Quaker lady."

"But I am not a Quaker lady. I am a naughty 'Separatist,' as Friends

call it. Come, I must go, Rene. I shall say good-by to thee to-night.

Thou wilt be off early, I do suppose. And oh, it will be a weary time

while thou art away!"

"I shall be gone by six in the morning."

"And I sound asleep," she returned, smiling. He left her at the roadside

with Nanny, and, mounting, rode away.