XXIV

The widow allowed no one to care for Schmidt's library except her

daughter or herself. It contained little of value except books, but even

those Indian arrow-heads he found on Tinicum Island and the strange

bones from near Valley Forge were dusted with care and regarded with the

more curiosity because, even to the German, they spoke no language the

world as yet could read.

As she turned from her task and Margaret entered, she saw in her face

the signal of something to be told. It needed not the words, "Oh,

mother," as she closed the door behind her--"oh, mother, I am afraid I

have done a wrong thing; but I met Rene de Courval,--I mean, he met

me,--and--and he asked me to marry him--and I will; no one shall stop

me." There was a note of anticipative defiance in the young voice as she

spoke.

"Sit down, dear child."

The girl sunk on a cushion at her feet, her head in the mother's lap. "I

could not help it," she murmured, sobbing.

"I saw this would come to thee, long ago," said the mother. "I had hoped

thou wouldst be so guided as not to let thy heart get the better of thy

head."

"It is my head has got me into this--this sweet trouble. Thou knowest

that I have had others, and some who had thy favor; but, mother, here

for two years I have lived day by day in the house with Rene, and have

seen him so living as to win esteem and honor, a tender son to his

mother, and so respectful to thee, who, for her, art only the keeper of

a boarding-house. Thou knowest what Friend Schmidt says of him. I heard

him tell Friend Hamilton. He said--he said he was a gallant gentleman,

and he wished he were his son. You see, mother, it was first respect and

then--love. Oh, mother, that duel! I knew as I saw him carried in that I

loved him." She spoke rapidly, with little breaks in her voice, and now

was silent.

"It is bad, very bad, my child. I see no end of trouble--oh, it is bad,

bad, for thee and for him!"

"It is good, good, mother, for me and for him. He has waited long. There

has been something, I do not know what, kept him from speaking sooner.

It is over now."

"I do not see what there could have been, unless it were his mother. It

may well be that. Does she know?"

"When he comes back he will tell her."

"I do not like it, and I dislike needless mysteries. From a worldly

point of view,--and I at least, who have drunk deep of poverty, must

somewhat think for thee. Here are two people without competent means--"

"But I love him."

"And his mother?"

"But I love him." She had no other logic. "Oh, I wish Mr. Schmidt were

here! Rene says he will like it."

"That, at least, is a good thing." Both were silent a little while. Mrs.

Swanwick had been long used to defer to the German's opinions, but

looking far past love's limited horizon, the widow thought of the

certain anger of the mother, of the trap she in her pride would think

set for her son by designing people, her prejudices intensified by the

mere fact of the poverty which left her nothing but exaggerated

estimates of her son and what he was entitled to demand of the woman he

should some day marry. And too, Rene had often spoken of a return to

France. She said at last: "We will leave the matter now, and speak of it

to no one; but I should say to thee, my dear, that apart from what for

thy sake I should consider, and the one sad thing of his willingness to

avenge a hasty word by possibly killing a fellow-man,--how

terrible!--apart from these things, there is no one I had been more

willing to give thee to than Rene de Courval."

"Thank thee, mother." The evil hour when the vicomtesse must hear was at

least remote, and something akin to anger rose in the widow's mind as

she thought of it.

Rene came in to supper. Mrs. Swanwick was as usual quiet, asking

questions in regard to Margaret's errand of charity, but of a mind to

win time for reflection, and unwilling as yet to open the subject with

Rene.

When, late in the evening, he came out of the study where he had been

busy with the instructions left by Schmidt, he was annoyed to learn

that Margaret had gone up-stairs. There was still before him the task of

speaking to his mother of what he was sure was often in her mind,

Carteaux. She had learned from the gossip of guests that a Frenchman had

been set upon near Bristol and had been robbed and wounded. Incurious

and self-centered, the affairs of the outer world had for her but little

real interest. Now she must have her mind set at ease, for Rene well

knew that she had not expected him to rest contented or to be satisfied

with the result of his unfortunate duel. Her puritan creed was powerless

here as against her social training, and her sense of what so hideous a

wrong as her husband's murder should exact from his son.

"I have something to tell you, _maman_," he said; "and before I go, it

is well that I should tell you."

"Well, what is it?" she said coldly, and then, as before, uneasily

anxious.

"On the twenty-ninth of November I learned that Carteaux had started for

New York an hour before I heard of it, on his way to France. I had

waited long--undecided, fearing that again some evil chance might leave

you alone in a strange land."

"You did wrong, Rene. There are duties which ought to permit of no such

indecision. You should not have considered me for a moment. Go on."

"How could I help it, thinking of you, mother? I followed, and overtook

this man near Bristol. I meant no chance with the sword this time. He

was unarmed. I gave him the choice of my pistols, bade him pace the

distance, and give the word. He walked away some six feet, half the

distance, and, turning suddenly, fired, grazing my shoulder. I shot

him--ah, a terrible wound in arm and shoulder. Schmidt had found a note

I left for him, and, missing his pistols, inquired at the French

legation, and came up in time to see it all and to prevent me from

killing the man."

"Pre--vent you! How did he dare!"

"Yes, mother; and it was well. Schmidt found, when binding up his wound,

that he was carrying despatches from the Republican Minister Fauchet to

go by the corvette _Jean Bart_, waiting in New York Harbor."

"What difference did that make?"

"Why, mother, I am in the State Department. To have killed a member of

the French legation, or stopped his journey, would have been ruin to me

and a weapon in the hands of these mock Jacobins."

"But you did stop him."

"Yes; but I delivered the despatch myself to the corvette."

"Yes, you were right; but what next? He must have spoken."

"No. The threat from Schmidt that he would tell the whole story of

Avignon and his treachery to me has made him lie and say he had been set

upon by unknown persons and robbed of his papers. He has wisely held his

tongue. He is crippled for life and has suffered horribly. Now he goes

to France a broken, miserable man, punished as death's release could not

punish."

"I do not know that. I have faith in the vengeance of God. You should

have killed him. You did not. And so I suppose there is an end of it for

a time. Is that all, Rene?"

"Yes, that is all. The loss of the despatch remains a mystery, and the

Democrats are foolish enough to believe we have it in the foreign

office. No one of them but Carteaux knows and he dare not speak. The

despatch will never come back here, or if it does, Carteaux will have

gone. People have ceased to talk about it, and now, mother, I am going

away with an easy mind. Do not worry over this matter. Good night."

"Worry?" she cried. "Ah, I would have killed the Jacobin dog!"

"I meant to," he said, and left her.

At dawn he was up and had his breakfast and there was Pearl in the hall

and her hands on his two shoulders. "Kiss me," she said. "God bless and

guard thee, Rene!"

XXV

While Schmidt was far on his homeward way, De Courval rode through the

German settlements of Pennsylvania and into the thinly settled

Scotch-Irish clearings beyond the Alleghanies, a long and tedious

journey, with much need to spare his horse.

His letters to government officers in the village of Pittsburg greatly

aided him in his more remote rides. He settled some of Schmidt's land

business, and rode with a young soldier's interest over Braddock's fatal

field, thinking of the great career of the youthful colonel who was one

of the few who kept either his head or his scalp on that day of

disaster.

He found time also to prepare for his superiors a reassuring report, and

on July 18 set out on his return. He had heard nothing from his mother

or from any one else. The mails were irregular and slow,--perhaps one a

week,--and very often a flood or an overturned coach accounted for

letters never heard of again. There would be much to hear at home.

On July Fourth of 1795, while the bells were ringing in memory of the

nation's birthday, Fauchet sat in his office at Oeller's Hotel. He had

been recalled and was for various reasons greatly troubled. The

reaction in France against the Jacobins had set in, and they, in turn

were suffering from the violence of the returning royalists and the

outbreaks of the Catholic peasantry in the south. Marat's bust had been

thrown into the gutter and the Jacobin clubs closed. The minister had

been able to do nothing of value to stop the Jay treaty. The despatch on

which he had relied to give such information as might enable his

superiors to direct him and assure them of his efforts to stop the

treaty had disappeared eight months ago, as he believed by a bold

robbery in the interest of the English party, possibly favored by the

cabinet, which, as he had to confess, was less likely. He was angry as

he thought of it and uneasy as concerned his future in distracted

France. He had questioned Carteaux again and again but had never been

quite satisfied. The theft of the despatch had for a time served his

purpose, but had been of no practical value. The treaty with England

would go to the senate and he return home, a discredited diplomatic

failure. Meanwhile, in the trying heat of summer, as during all the long

winter months, Carteaux lay for the most part abed, in such misery as

might have moved to pity even the man whose bullet had punished him so

savagely. At last he was able to sit up for a time every day and to

arrange with the captain of a French frigate, then in port, for his

return to France.

Late in June he had dismissed Chovet with only a promise to pay what was

in fact hard-earned money. Dr. Glentworth, Washington's surgeon, had

replaced him, and talked of an amputation, upon which, cursing doctors

in general, Carteaux swore that he would prefer to die.

Chovet, who dosed his sick folk with gossip when other means failed,

left with this ungrateful patient one piece of news which excited

Carteaux's interest. Schmidt, he was told, had gone to Europe, and then,

inaccurate as usual, Chovet declared that it was like enough he would

never return, a fact which acquired interest for the doctor himself as

soon as it became improbable that Carteaux would pay his bill. When a

few days later Carteaux learned from De la Foret that his enemy De

Courval was to be absent for several weeks, and perhaps beyond the time

set for his own departure, he began with vengeful hope to reconsider a

situation which had so far seemed without resource.

Resolved at last to make for De Courval all the mischief possible before

his own departure, with such thought as his sad state allowed he had

slowly matured in his mind a statement which seemed to him

satisfactorily malignant. Accordingly on this Fourth of July he sent his

black servant to ask the minister to come to his chamber.

Fauchet, somewhat curious, sat down by the bedside and parting the

chintz curtains, said, "I trust you are better."

The voice which came from the shadowed space within was weak and hoarse.

"I am not better--I never shall be, and I have little hope of reaching

home alive."

"I hoped it not as bad as that."

"And still it is as I say. I do not want to die without confessing to

you the truth about that affair in which I was shot and my despatch

stolen."

Men who had lived through the years of the French Revolution were not

readily astonished, but at this statement the Minister sat up and

exclaimed: "_Mon Dieu!_ What is this?"

"I am in damnable pain; I must be brief. I was waylaid near Bristol by

Schmidt and De Courval, and when I would not stop, was shot by De

Courval. They stole the despatch, and made me swear on threat of death

that I had been attacked by men I did not know."

Fauchet was silent for a while, and then said: "That is a singular

story--and that you kept the promise, still more singular."

"I did keep it. I had good reason to keep it." He realized, as he told

the tale, how improbable it sounded, how entirely Fauchet disbelieved

him. If he had not been dulled by opiates and racked past power of

critical thought, he was far too able a man to have put forth so

childish a tale. He knew at once that he was not believed.

"You do not believe me, Citizen."

"I do not. Why did you not tell me the truth at first?"

"It was not the threat to kill me which stopped me. I was of the

tribunal at Avignon which condemned the _ci-devant_ vicomte, the young

man's father. To have had it known here would have been a serious thing

to our party and for me ruin. I was ill, feeble, in their hands, and I

promised Schmidt that I would put it all on some unknown person."

Fauchet listened. He entirely distrusted him. "Is that all? Do you

expect any reasonable man to believe such a story?"

"Yes, I do. If I had told you at the time, you would have used my

statement at once and I should have suffered. Now that both these cursed

villains are gone, I can speak."

"Indeed," said Fauchet, very desirous of a look at the face secure from

observation within the curtained bed, "but why do you speak now! It is

late. Why speak at all?"

"For revenge, Monsieur. I am in hell."

Fauchet hesitated. "That is a good reason; but there is more in this

matter than you are willing to tell."

"That is my business. I have told you enough to satisfy my purpose and

yours."

"Rather late for mine. But let us understand each other. This man, then,

this De Courval, had a double motive--to avenge his father's death and

to serve his masters, the Federalists. That is your opinion?"

"Yes, his desire for revenge made him an easy tool. I cannot talk any

more. What shall you do about it?"

"I must think. I do not know. You are either a great fool or a coward or

both. I only half trust you."

"Ah, were I well, Monsieur, no man should talk to me as you are doing."

"Luckily for me you are not well; but will you swear to this, to a

written statement?"

"I will." Whether it was to be a truthful statement or not concerned the

minister but little if he could make use of it. Upon this, the

consul-general and a secretary, Le Blanc, being called in, to their

amazement Carteaux dictated a plain statement and signed it with his

left hand, the two officials acting as witnesses.

The minister read it aloud:

OELLER'S HOTEL, July 4, 1795.

I, George Carteaux, being _in extremis_, declare that on the 29th

of November, about 5 P.M., near Bristol, I was set upon and shot

and a despatch taken from me by one Schmidt and a Frenchman by

name De Courval. No valuables were taken. By whom they were set

on or paid I do not know.

GEORGE CARTEAUX.

_Witnesses_:

LOUIS LE BLANC,

JEAN DE LA FORET.

The two members of the legation silently followed the minister out of

the room.

"That is a belated story," said De la Foret. "Do you credit it?"

"It is not all, you may be sure; a rather lean tale," replied Le Blanc,

whose career in the police of Paris had taught him to distrust men. "He

lied both times, but this time it is a serviceable lie."

"A little late, as you say," remarked Fauchet. "Once it might have

helped us."

"Ah, if," said the consul-general, "he could tell who has your

despatch!"

"Not Mr. Randolph," said Le Blanc.

"No," returned Fauchet; "or if he has, it will never be seen by any one

else."

"Why?" asked Le Blanc.

The minister, smiling, shook his head. "If ever it turns up in other

hands, you will know why, and Mr. Randolph, too."

The minister later in the day assured Carteaux that he would make such

use of the deposition as would force the administration to rid itself of

a guilty clerk. He was in no haste to fulfil his pledge. Two or three

months earlier, when the general opposition to the English treaty

promised to delay or prevent it, this damaging paper would have had some

value. Apart, however, from any small practical utility the confession

might still possess, it promised Fauchet another form of satisfaction.

Being a man of great vanity, he felt injured and insulted by the

coolness of his diplomatic reception and by the complete absence of

pleasant social recognition in the homes of the great Federalist

merchants. He would give Carteaux's statement to the Secretary of State

and demand that De Courval be dismissed and punished. He felt that he

could thus annoy and embarrass the administration; but still,

distrusting Carteaux, he waited. His delay was ended by the gossip which

began to be rumored about in regard to the attack on Carteaux, and

concerning the mysterious loss of Despatch No. 10.

Chovet had been abruptly dismissed, unpaid, and the German having gone

away in some haste with no thought of his promise to pay, none knew when

he would return. The little doctor was furious. His habit of imprudent

gossip had been controlled by Schmidt's threats and still more surely by

his pledge of payment. By and by, in his exasperation, he let drop

hints, and soon the matter grew. He had been cheated by Carteaux, and if

people only knew the truth of that story, and so on, while he won

self-importance from holding what he half believed to be a state secret.

At last, increasingly uneasy about his fee, it occurred to him to ask

Miss Wynne if it were certain that Schmidt would not return. If not--ah,

there was the young man who must pay, or the whole story should be told.

That Miss Gainor kept him waiting for half an hour he felt as a slight

and regarded it as an addition to the many wrongs he had suffered at the

hands of a woman who had learned from time and experience no lessons in

prudence.

Increasingly vexed at her delay, when she came in he was walking about

with reckless disregard of the priceless china with which she delighted

to crowd her drawing-room. As she entered he looked at his watch, but

Mistress Gainor was to-day in high good humor, having won at piquet of

Mrs. Bingham the night before enough to make her feel comfortably

pleased with Gainor Wynne.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," she said in her fluent anglicized French. "I beg

pardon for keeping you waiting; I was dressing." Chovet had rarely been

able to sacrifice his liking to annoy to the practical interests of the

moment, and now, disbelieving her, he said, "If you will speak English,

I may be able to understand you." This was a little worse than usual.

"Sir," she said, with dignity, "your manners are bad. Never do I permit

such things to be said to me. I might say something such as you have

said to me in regard to your English and there would be an end of our

conversation," upon which she laughed outright. "What makes you so

cross, Doctor, and to what do I owe the honor of a visit?"

Then he broke out. "I have been cheated by Mr. Carteaux. He has not paid

me a cent. He has got another doctor."

"Wise man, Mr. Carteaux; but what on earth have I to do with that

Jacobin?"

In his anger the doctor had quite lost sight for the moment of the

object of his visit, which was to know if Schmidt had gone never to

return, as was freely reported. Now he remembered.

"I desire to know if Mr. Schmidt will come back. He promised to pay if

Carteaux did not. Oh, it is a fine story--of him and De Courval. A

despatch has been stolen--every one knows that. I am not to be trifled

with, Madame. I can tell a nice tale."

"Can you, indeed? I advise you to be careful what you say. Mr. Schmidt

will return and then you will get some unusual interest on your money.

Have you no sense of honor that you must talk as you have done?"

"I do never talk," he said, becoming uneasy.

Miss Gainor rose, having heard all she wished to hear. "Lord! man, talk!

You do nothing else. You have been chattering about this matter to Mrs.

Byrd. If I were you, I should be a bit afraid. How much money is owing

you?"

"Three hundred dollars, and--I have lost patients, too. I have--"

"Sit down," she said. "Don't behave like a child." She went to her desk,

wrote a check and gave it to him. "May I trouble you for a receipt?" He

gave it, surprised and pleased. "And now do hold your tongue if you can,

or if Mr. Schmidt does not beat you when he comes home, I will. You have

no more decency than you have hair."

This set him off again. "Ah you think it is only money, money. You, a

woman, can say things. I am insult," he cried. "I will have revenge of

Schmidt, if he do come. I will have blood."

"Blood, I would," she said. "Get your lancet ready." She broke into

laughter at the idea of a contest with the German. "I will hear no more.

These are my friends." When in one of her fits of wrath, now rare, she

was not choice of her words. Both were now standing. "A flea and a bear,

you and Schmidt! Lord, but he will be scared--poor man!"

He too was in a fine rage, such as he never allowed himself with men.

"Oh, I am paid, am I? That will not be all of it." He rose on tiptoe,

gesticulating wildly, and threw his hands out, shaking them. There was a

sudden clatter of broken china.

"Great heavens!" cried Gainor. "Two of my gods gone, and my blue

mandarin!"

For a moment he stood appalled amid the wreck of precious porcelain,

looking now at Miss Wynne and now at the broken deities.

The owner of the gods towered over the little doctor. Wrath and an

overwhelming sense of the comic contended for expression. "Two gods,

man! Where now do you expect to go when you die--"

"Nowhere," he said.

"I agree with you. Neither place would have you. You are not good enough

for one and not bad enough for the other." She began to enjoy the

situation. "I have half a mind to take away that check. It would not

pay, but still--"

"I regret--I apologize." He began to fear lest this terrible old woman

might have a whole mind in regard to the check.

"Oh," she laughed, "keep it. But I swear to you by all my other gods

that if you lie any more about my friends, I shall tell the story Dr.

Abernethy told me. In your greed and distrust of men whose simple word

is as sure as their bond, you threaten to tell a tale. Well, I will

exchange stories with you. I shall improve mine, too."

"Ah," he cried, "you do promise, and keep no word. You have told already

Schmidt of me."

"I did--and one other; but now the whole town shall hear. You were

ingenious, but the poor highwayman was too well hanged."

Chovet grew pale. "Oh, Madame, you would not. I should be ruined."

"Then be careful and--go away. I sometimes lose my temper, but never my

memory. Remember."

He looked up at the big woman as she stood flushed with anger, and

exclaiming under his breath, "_Quelle diablesse!_" went out scared and

uneasy.

Looking from the window, she saw him walk away. His hands hung limp at

his sides, his head was dropped on his breast; not even Ca Ira looked

more dejected.

"Good heavens! the man ought to have a bearing-rein. I much fear the

mischief is done. The little brute! He is both mean and treacherous."

She turned to look down at the wreckage of her household Lares and rang

the bell.

Caesar appeared. "Sweep up my gods, and take them away. Good heavens! I

ought to have flattered the man. I promised the blue mandarin to Darthea

Wynne because he always nodded yes to her when she wanted advice to her

liking. Well, well, I am a blundering old idiot." She had indeed made

mischief, and repentance, as usual with her, came late. She had,

however, only added to the mischief. Chovet had already said enough, and

the loss of the despatch and the attack on Carteaux by a clerk of the

Department of State aroused anew the Democrats and fed the gossip of the

card-tables, while Rene rode on his homeward way with a mind at ease.

Nothing had so disturbed the social life of the city for many a day.

Before long the matter came to the ear of the Secretary of State, who

saw at once its bearing upon his department and the weapon it would be

in the hands of party. It was, however, he said to Mr. Bingham, too wild

a story for ready credence, and De Courval would soon be at home.

A day later, Fauchet presented to the amazed and angry Secretary of

State Carteaux's formal statement, but made no explanation of its delay

except the illness of his attache. The man was near to death. He himself

believed his statement, the words of a man about to die. Randolph stood

still in thought. "Your charge, sir," he said, and he spoke French well,

"is that my clerk, the Vicomte de Courval, has stolen your despatch and

perhaps fatally wounded the gentleman commissioned to deliver it."

"You state it correctly. I am not surprised."

The tone was so insolent that Randolph said sharply: "You are not

surprised? Am I to presume that you consider me a party to the matter?"

"I have not said so, but subordinates are sometimes too zealous and--"

"And what, sir?"

"It is idle to suppose that the theft had no motive. There was some

motive, but what it was perhaps the English party may be able to

explain. My despatch is lost. Your secretary took it with the help of

one Schmidt. The loss is irreparable and of great moment. I insist, sir,

that the one man who has not fled be dealt with by you, and by the law."

"I shall wait, sir, until I hear the vicomte's story. He is a gentleman

of irreproachable character, a man of honor who has served us here most

faithfully. I shall wait to hear from him. Your secretary seems to have

lied at first and waited long to tell this amazing story."

The minister did not explain, but said sharply:

"It will be well if that despatch can be found. It was meant only for

the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

"I do not understand you."

Fauchet laughed. "I trust that you may never have occasion to understand

me better." He was angry, and lost both his prudence and what little

manners he ever possessed. "It is desirable, or at least it is to be

hoped that the thief destroyed it."

"The gentleman you condemn, sir, is not yet on trial, and this has gone

far enough and too far. I shall lay the matter in due time before the

President." Upon which he bowed out the Republican envoy.

Greatly annoyed, Mr. Randolph put the matter before the members of the

cabinet, who agreed that in justice they must wait for De Courval's

return.

Meanwhile Chovet's gossip had done its work, and there were a dozen

versions which amused many, made others angry, and fed the strife of

parties; for now Fauchet spoke of it everywhere with the utmost freedom.

"It is incredible," said Governor Penn; and the women, too, were all on

the side of De Courval, while Mr. Wynne, in great anxiety, thought fit

to call at Mrs. Swanwick's for news of the vicomte.

He saw in a moment that the widow had heard some of the stories so

freely talked about. She had found to her relief some one to whom she

could speak. "What is all this," she asked, "I hear about Friend de

Courval? My Uncle Josiah has been to tell me and I could make nothing of

it?"

"I know, Mary, only the wildest tales. But when De Courval returns, I

desire to see him at once."

"His mother heard from him to-day and we look for him possibly

to-morrow. Gainor Wynne has been here, in a fine rage. The young man

has very warm friends, Hugh. I cannot believe a word of it."

"Nor I, what I hear. But let him see me at once." The widow was

distressed. "Something there must have been. Alas, my poor Margaret!"

Her life had been for many years a constant struggle with poverty, made

harder by remembrance of early days of ease and luxury. She bore it all

with high-hearted courage and the pride which for some inexplicable

reason will accept any gift except money. It became an easier life when

Schmidt took of her his two rooms and became by degrees their friend,

while the fact that the daughter, inheriting her beauty, was like

herself of Friends, did in a measure keep their lives simple and free

from the need for many luxuries she saw in the homes of their cousins.

Mrs. Swanwick thought, too, of these strangers whom she had nursed,

of the vicomtesse, at times a little trying with her sense of what

was due to her; of her son, kindly, grave, thoughtful of others,

religious,--that was singular,--and twice, as it was said, engaged in

bloody quarrels. How could one understand that?

She knew what her bountiful nature had given these exiles. Now she was

again to be a reproach among Friends and to feel that these people had

brought into her quiet home for her child only misfortune and sorrow. If

Schmidt were but here! Margaret was at home, busy and joyful, knowing

nothing of what lay before her or of this sinister story of attempted

murder and robbery. Resolutely setting it all aside, Mrs. Swanwick went

out to provide for the wants of the day.

A half hour later De Courval crossed the city, riding along High Street

A pleasant comrade--Joy--went with him as he turned down Front Street,

past widely separated houses and gardens gay with flowers. Once they had

been country homes, but now the city was slowly crowding in on them with

need for docks. He left his horse at the stable and walked swiftly

homeward.

Mrs. Swanwick's house was still remote enough to be secure from the

greed of commerce. The dusty, gray road before him, dry with the intense

heat of August, ran southward. No one was in sight. There was something

mysteriously depressing in the long highway without sign of life, a

reminder of that terrible summer when day by day he had come out of the

house and seen no one.

As he drew near Mrs. Swanwick's door, he met Captain Biddle. "Oh, by

George!" said the sailor, "so you are come at last, and none too soon. I

have been here thrice."

"What is the matter, Captain? Is any one ill?"

"No; but there is a lot of lies about you. There is neither decency nor

charity ashore. Have you been at the State Department or seen any one?"

"No. I am this moment come back. But, for God's sake, Captain, tell me

what it is."

"A fellow named Carteaux has charged you with half killing him and

stealing his despatches. That is all I know."

"Is that all? _Diable!_ I am sorry I did not wholly kill him. I knew

this would come out soon or late. Of course he is lying; but I did shoot

him."

"There is a malignant article in the 'Aurora' to-day--there, I marked

it."

Rene looked it over as he stood. "So I am the thief, I am the agent of

the cabinet or the Federal party, and _mon Dieu_, Schmidt--"

"It is serious," said the captain. "A horsewhip is the weapon needed

here, but I am at your service in every way."

"Thank you; but first of all, I must see Mr. Randolph; and, oh, worst of

all, Schmidt is absent!" He felt that he could not meet Margaret until

he had put an end to this slander. He foresaw also that to meet with

success would, in Schmidt's absence, be difficult. Thanking his sailor

friend, he made haste to see his official superior.

"Ah," said Randolph, "I am both glad and sorry to see you. Sit down.

Have you heard of the charges against you made by Mr. Fauchet for his

secretary, Carteaux?"

"Nothing very clear, sir; but enough to bring me here instantly to have

the thing explained to me."

"Pray read this statement."

De Courval read Carteaux's deposition and, flushing with sudden anger he

threw the paper on the table. "So it seems I deliberately waylaid and

shot the secretary of an envoy in order to steal his despatches."

"That is the charge, made by a man who I am assured is dying. You can

have no objection to my asking you a few questions."

"None. I shall like it."

"Did you shoot this man?"

"I did. He was of the mock court which murdered my father at Avignon.

Any French gentleman here can tell you--Du Vallon for one, and De

Noailles. Of the direct personal part this man took in causing my

father's death I have not talked. Twice he has had the equal chance I

would have given a gentleman. Yes, I meant to kill him."

"But, Vicomte--"

"Pardon me." And he told briefly the story of Carteaux's treacherous

shot and of why for a while it seemed well to Schmidt to silence the

man.

"It was unwise. A strange and sad affair," said the secretary, "but,

Monsieur, it is only this recent matter which concerns me, and the fact,

the unfortunate fact, that your enemy was a bearer of despatches. Who

can substantiate your statement as against that of a man said to be

dying? Who can I call upon?"

"No one. Mr. Schmidt saw it. He is in Europe. The man lies. It is his

word or mine. He says here nothing of its being only a personal quarrel;

and why did he wait? Ah, clearly until Schmidt, who saw it all, had gone

to Europe and I was absent."

"Why he waited I cannot say. The rest concerns me greatly. Did you

destroy his despatches?"

"_Mon Dieu!_ I? No. Mr. Schmidt, in cutting open his clothes to get at

his wound, found those papers, and then seeing what I had done, and how

the department might be credited with it, or at least the English party,

I myself carried the despatch to its address, the captain of the _Jean

Bart_."

"Did you get a receipt?"

"I asked for it. It was refused. The captain was angry at what he said

had been dangerous delay, and refused unless I would come on board and

talk to him. I of course declined to do so. I would certainly have been

carried to France."

"She has sailed, the _Jean Bart?_"

"Yes, sir."

"Then what proof have you as against the deposition of a man _in

extremis?_"

"None but my word, that I gave to an officer of the corvette a package

of papers."

"The minister was insolent enough to hint that this was a robbery in the

interest of my service and a plot of the Federalist English

sympathizers. In fact, he implied even more. I am asked to dismiss you

as proof that we at least are in no way a party to the matter."

"One moment, Mr. Secretary--would that be proof?"

"No, sir. Pardon me. This affair has been twice before the cabinet,

where, to be frank, some difference of opinion existed. The

President--but no matter. You admit the fact of the assault and, well,

the taking of the paper. You do not deny either. You have no evidence in

favor of your explanation,--none."

"Pardon me; I have said De Noailles could assure you that I had cause

for a personal quarrel."

"Admit the personal motive, it does not help you. The Republicans are

using this scandal freely, and we have quite enough complications, as

you know. If these people urge it, the law may be appealed to. To

conclude, this is not a cabinet matter, and it was so decided. It

affects the honor of my own department."

"Sir, the honor!" De Courval rose as he spoke. "You have said what I

could permit no one but my official superior to say."

"I regret to have been so unpleasant, but having duly considered the

matter, I must reluctantly ask you not to return to the office until you

can clear yourself by other evidence than your own. I deeply regret it."

"You are plain enough, sir, and I most unfortunate. It does seem to me

that my life here might at least give my word value as against that of

this lying Jacobin."

The Secretary made no reply. Randolph, although a kindly man and

courteous, had nothing more to say to the young clerk. He was but one of

many _emigre_ nobles cast on our shores, and his relations with the

Secretary had been simply official, although, as the latter would have

admitted, the service rendered had been of the best.

Still standing, Rene waited a moment after his personal appeal for

justice, but, as I have said, the Secretary did not see fit to answer.

To have bluntly refused Fauchet's demand would have been his desire and

decision; but as a matter of policy he must do something to disarm party

criticism. With this in mind he had offered the young man a compromise;

and not quite sure that he should not have dismissed him, he seemed to

himself, considering all things, to have acted with moderation.

[Illustration: "'Then I beg to resign my position'"]

De Courval, who had waited on the Secretary's silence, said at last, "I

judge, sir, that you have no more to say."

"No. I am sorry that nothing you have told me changes this very painful

situation."

"Then I beg to resign my position. I have many friends and time will do

me justice."

The Secretary would have preferred the young vicomte to have accepted

his offer. He was not assured that Carteaux's story was correct; but

what else could he do? "Are you not hasty?" he said.

"No. You believe me to have lied, and my sole witness, Mr. Schmidt, is

in Germany. It is he who is slandered as well as I. I shall come here no

more. Here is my report on the condition of the frontier counties."

"No, Vicomte. I did not doubt your word, but only your power to prove

your truth for others who do not know you."

"It amounts to the same thing," said De Courval, coldly. "Good morning."

He went to his own office, and stood a moment in the small, whitewashed

room, reflecting with indignant anger on the sudden ending of a career

he had enjoyed. Then he gathered his personal belongings and calling the

old negro caretaker, bade him carry them to Mrs. Swanwick's.

As for the last time he went down the steps, he said to himself: "So I

am thrown to the wolves of party! I knew I should be, and I said so,"

which was hardly just to the man he left, who would have been pleased if

his compromise had been accepted. Little could Randolph have imagined

that the remote agency of the man he had thus thrown over would result

for himself in a situation not unlike that which he had created for his

subordinate.

"I am ruined," murmured De Courval. "Who will believe me? and Margaret!

My God! that is at an end! And my mother!"

He walked slowly homeward, avoiding people and choosing the alley

by-ways so numerous in Penn's city.

The hall door was usually open in the afternoon to let the breeze pass

through. He went into Schmidt's room, and then into the garden, seeing

only Nanny and black Cicero, with whom he was a favorite. No one was in

but madame, his mother. Mr. Girard had been to ask for him and Mr.

Bingham and Mr. Wynne, and others. So it was to be the mother first.

He was used to the quiet, unemotional welcome. He kissed her hand and

her forehead, saying, "You look well, mother, despite the heat."

"Yes, I am well. Tell me of your journey. Ah, but I am glad to see you!

I have had but one letter. You should have written more often." The

charm of his mother's voice, always her most gracious quality, just now

affected him almost to tears.

"I did write, mother, several times. The journey may wait. I have bad

news for you."

"None is possible for me while you live, my son."

"Yes, yes," he said. "The man Carteaux, having heard of Schmidt's

absence and mine, has formally charged me with shooting him without

warning in order to steal his despatches."

"Ah, you should have killed him. I said so."

"Yes, perhaps. The charge is clearly made on paper, attested by

witnesses. He is said to be dying."

"Thank God."

"I have only my word." He told quietly of the weakness of his position,

of the political aspect of the affair, of his interview and his

resignation.

"Did you ask Mr. Randolph to apologize, Rene?"

"Oh, mother, one cannot do that with a cabinet minister."

"Why not? And is this all? You resign a little clerkship. I am surprised

that it troubles you."

"Mother, it is ruin."

"Nonsense! What is there to make you talk of ruin?"

"The good word of men lost; the belief in my honor. Oh, mother, do you

not see it? And it is a case where there is nothing to be done, nothing.

If Randolph, after my long service, does not believe me, who will?"

She was very little moved by anything he said. She lived outside of the

world of men, one of those island lives on which the ocean waves of

exterior existence beat in vain. The want of sympathy painfully affected

him. She had said it was of no moment, and had no helpful advice to

give. The constantly recurring thought of Margaret came and went as they

talked, and added to his pain. He tried to make her see both the shame

and even the legal peril of his position. It was quite useless. He was

for her the Vicomte de Courval, and these only common people whom a

revolution had set in high places. Never before had he fully realized

the quality of his mother's unassailable pride. It was a foretaste of

what he might have to expect when she should learn of his engagement to

Margaret; but now that, too, must end. He went away, exhausted as from a

bodily struggle.

In the hall he met Margaret just come in, the joy of time-nurtured love

on her face. "Oh, Rene!" she cried. "How I have longed for thee! Come

out into the garden. The servants hear everything in the house."

They went out and sat down under the trees, she talking gaily, he

silent.

"What is the matter?" she inquired at last, of a sudden anxious.

"Pearl," he said, "I am a disgraced and ruined man."

"Rene, what dost thou mean? Disgraced, ruined!"

He poured out this oft-repeated story of Avignon, the scene on the

Bristol road, the despatch, and last, his talk with Randolph and his

resignation.

"And this," she said, "was what some day I was to hear. It is terrible,

but--ruined--oh, that thou art not. Think of the many who love thee! And

disgraced? Thou art Rene de Courval."

"Yes; but, Pearl, dear Pearl, this ends my joy. How can I ask you to

marry a man in my position?"

For a moment she said no word. Then she kissed him. "There is my answer,

Rene."

"No, no. It is over. I cannot. As a gentleman, I cannot."

Again the wholesome discipline of Friends came to her assistance. It was

a serious young face she saw. He it was who was weak, and she strong.

"Trouble comes to all of us in life, Rene. I could not expect always to

escape. It has come to us in the morning of our love. Let us meet it

together. It is a terrible story, this. How can I, an inexperienced

girl, know how to regard it? I am sure thou hast done what was right in

thine own eyes. My mother will say thou shouldst have left it to God's

justice. I do not know. I am not sure. I suppose it is because I so love

thee that I do not know. We shall never speak of it again, never. It is

the consequences we--yes, we--have to deal with."

"There is no way to deal with them." He was in resourceless despair.

"No, no. Friend Schmidt will return. He is sure to come, and this will

all be set right. Dost thou remember how the blessed waters washed away

thy care? Is not love as surely good?"

"Oh, yes; but this is different. That was a trifle."

"No; it is the waiting here for Friend Schmidt that troubles me. What is

there but to wait? Thou art eager to do something; that is the man's

way, and the other is the woman's way. Take thy daily swim, ride, sail;

the body will help the soul. It will all come right; but not marry me!

Then, Rene de Courval, I shall marry thee."

A divine hopefulness was in her words, and for the first time he knew

what a firm and noble nature had been given the woman at his side, what

power to trust, what tenderness, what common sense, and, too, what

insight; for he knew she was right. The contrast to his mother was

strange, and in a way distressing.

"I must think it over," he said.

"Thou wilt do no such thing. Thou, indeed! As if it were thy business

alone! I am a partner thou wilt please to remember. Thou must see thy

friends, and, above all, write to Mr. Hamilton at once, and do as I have

said. I shall speak to my mother. Hast thou--of course thou hast seen

thy mother?"

"I have; and she takes it all as a matter of no moment, really of not

the least importance."

"Indeed, and so must we. Now, I am to be kissed--oh, once, for the good

of thy soul--I said once. Mr. Bingham has been here. See him and Mr.

Wynne, and swim to-night, Rene, and be careful, too, of my property,

thy--dear self."

Even in this hour of mortification, and with the memory of Randolph's

doubt in mind, Rene had some delightful sense of being taken in hand and

disciplined. He had not said again that the tie which bound them

together must be broken. He had tacitly accepted the joy of defeat, a

little ashamed, perhaps.

Every minute of this talk had been a revelation to the man who had lived

near Margaret for years. An older man could have told him that no length

of life will reveal to the most observant love all the possibilities of

thought or action in the woman who may for years have been his wife.

There will always remain surprises of word and deed.

Although Rene listened and said that he could do none of the things she

urged, the woman knew that he would do all of them.

At last she started up, saying: "Why, Rene, thou hast not had thy

dinner, and now, as we did not look for thee, it is long over. Come in

at once."

"Dear Pearl," he said, "I am better let alone. I do not need anything."

He wished to be left by himself to brood over the cruel wrong of the

morning, and with any one but Pearl he would have shown some sense of

irritation at her persistence.

The wild creatures are tamed by starvation, the animal man by good

feeding. This fact is the sure possession of every kindly woman; and so

it was that De Courval went meekly to the house and was fed,--as was

indeed needed,--and having been fed, with the girl watching him, was

better in body and happier in mind.

He went at once into Schmidt's study and wrote to Hamilton, while

Margaret, sitting in her room at the eastward window, cried a little and

smiled between the tears and wondered at the ways of men.

What she said to her mother may be easily guessed. The vicomtesse was as

usual at the evening meal, where Rene exerted himself to talk of his

journey to Mrs. Swanwick, less interested than was her way.

The day drew to a close. The shadows came with coolness in the air. The

endless embroidery went on, the knitting needles clicked, and a little

later in the dusk, Margaret smiled as Rene went down the garden to the

river, a towel on his arm.

"I did him good," she murmured proudly.

Later in the evening they were of one mind that it was well to keep

their engagement secret, above all, not to confide it to their relatives

or to Miss Wynne until there was some satisfactory outcome of the

serious charge which had caused Randolph to act as he had done.

XXVI

Mr. Hamilton's reply came in five days. He would come at once. De

Courval's friends, Bingham and Wynne, had heard his story, and thought

he did well to resign, while Wynne advised him to come to Merion for a

week or two. His other adviser would not have even the appearance of

flight.

"Above all," said Margaret, "go about as usual. Thou must not avoid

people, and after Mr. Hamilton comes and is gone, think of Merion if it

so please thee, or I can let thee go. Aunt Gainor was here in one of her

fine tempers yesterday. I am jealous of her, Monsieur de Courval. And

she has her suspicions."

He took her advice, and saw too easily that he was the observed of many;

for in the city he had long been a familiar personality, with his

clean-shaven, handsome face and the erect figure, which showed the

soldier's training. He was, moreover, a favorite, especially with the

older men and women, so that not all the looks he met were either from

hostile, cockaded Jacobins or from the merely curious.

Mr. Thomas Cadwalader stopped him, and said that at need he was at his

service, if he desired to call out the minister or the Secretary. Mrs.

Byrd, both curious and kind, would have him to come and tell her all

about it, which he was little inclined to do.

He took Margaret's wholesome advice, and swam and rode, and was in a

calmer state of mind, and even happy at the greetings of those in the

fencing school, where were some whom, out of his slender means, he had

helped. They told him gleefully how de Malerive had given up the

ice-cream business for a morning to quiet for a few weeks an Irish

Democrat who had said of the vicomte unpleasant things; and would he not

fence! "Yes, now," he said smiling, and would use the pistol no more.

Mr. Hamilton came as he had promised. "I must return to New York," he

said, "to-morrow. I have heard from Schmidt. He may not come very soon;

but I wrote him fully, on hearing from you. He will be sure to come soon

or late, but meanwhile I have asked General Washington to see you with

me. It may, indeed, be of small present use, but I want him to hear

you--your own account of this affair. So far he has had only what Mr.

Randolph has been pleased to tell him. I made it a personal favor. Let

us go. The cabinet meeting will be over."

Rene thanked him and not altogether assured that any good would result

from this visit, walked away with Hamilton, the two men attracting some

attention. The President at this time lived on High Street, in the

former house of Robert Morris, near to Sixth Street. They were shown

into the office room on the right, which De Courval knew well, and

where Genet, the Jacobin minister, had been insulted by the medallions

of the hapless king and queen.

In a few minutes the President entered. He bowed formally, and said,

"Pray be seated, Vicomte. I have been asked, sir, by Mr. Hamilton to

hear you. As you are not now in the service, I am pleased to allow

myself the pleasure to do so, although I have thought it well to advise

Mr. Randolph of my intention. Your case has been before the cabinet, but

as yours was a position solely in the gift of the Secretary of State,

I--or we, have felt that his appointments should lie wholly within his

control."

"And of disappointments, also, I suppose," said Hamilton, smiling, a

privileged person.

Little open to appreciation of humor, no smile came upon the worn face

of the President. He turned to Hamilton as he spoke, and then went on

addressing De Courval, and speaking, as was his way, with deliberate

slowness. "I have given this matter some personal consideration because,

although Mr. Secretary Randolph has acted as to him seemed best, you

have friends who, to be frank with you, feel desirous that I should be

informed by you in person of what took place. I am willing to oblige

them. You are, it seems, unfortunate. There are two serious charges, an

assault and--pardon me--the seizure of a despatch. May I be allowed to

ask you certain questions?"

"I shall be highly honored, sir."

"This, I am given to understand, was a personal quarrel."

"Yes, your Excellency."

"What the law may say of the matter, I do not know. What concerns us

most is the despatch. In what I say I desire, sir, to be considered open

to correction. When, as I am told, you followed Mr. Carteaux, intending

a very irregular duel, did you know that he carried a despatch?"

"I did not until Mr. Schmidt found it. Then the man was cared for, and I

delivered his papers to their destination."

"I regret, sir, to hear that of this you have no proof. Here your word

suffices. Outside of these walls it has been questioned."

"I have no proof,--none of any value,--nor can I ever hope to prove that

I did what my own honor and my duty to the administration required."

Hamilton listened intently while the aging, tired face of the President

for a moment seemed lost in reflection. Then the large, blue eyes were

lifted as he said, "At present this matter seems hopeless, sir, but time

answers many questions." Upon this he turned to Hamilton. "There are two

persons involved. Who, sir, is this Mr. Schmidt? I am told that he has

left the country; in fact, has fled."

For a moment Hamilton was embarrassed. "I can vouch for him as my

friend. He was called to Germany on a matter of moment. At present I am

not at liberty to reply to you more fully. He is sure to return, and

then I may,--indeed, I am sure, will be more free to answer you

frankly.

"But if so, what value will his evidence have? None, I conceive, as

affecting the loss of the despatch. If that charge were disproved, the

political aspect of the matter would become unimportant. The affair, so

far as the duel is concerned, would become less serious."

"It seems so to me," said Hamilton. "The Democrats are making the most

of it, and the English Federalists are doing harm by praising my young

friend for what he did not do and never would have done. They were mad

enough in New York to propose a dinner to the vicomte."

The President rose. "I do not think it advisable, Mr. Hamilton, to

pursue this matter further at present; nor, sir, do I apprehend that any

good can result for this gentleman from my willingness to gratify your

wish that I should see him."

"We shall detain your Excellency no longer."

The President was never fully at ease when speaking, and owing to a

certain deliberateness in speech, was thought to be dull when in company

and, perhaps through consciousness of a difficulty in expression, was

given to silence, a disposition fostered, no doubt, by the statesman's

long disciplined need for reticence.

After Hamilton had accepted the President's rising as a signal of their

audience being over, Rene, seeing that the general did not at once move

toward the door, waited for Hamilton. The ex-Secretary, however, knew

well the ways of his friend and stood still, aware that the President

was slowly considering what further he desired to say.

The pause was strange to De Courval as he stood intently watching the

tall figure in black velvet, and the large features on which years of

war and uneasy peace had left their mark.

Then with more than his usual animation, the President came nearer to De

Courval: "I have myself, sir, often had to bide on time for full

justification of my actions. While you are in pursuit of means to deal

with the suspicions arising, permit me to say, from your own imprudence

you will have to bear in silence what men say of you. I regret, to

conclude, that I cannot interfere in this matter. I discover it to be

more agreeable to say to you that personally I entirely believe you. But

this you must consider as spoken 'under the rose'"--a favorite

expression. De Courval flushed with joy, and could say no more than: "I

thank you. You have helped me to wait."

The general bowed, and at the door, as they were passing out, said: "I

shall hope to see you again in the service, and you must not think of

retiring permanently from the work which you have done so well. I remind

myself that I have not yet thanked you for your report. It has greatly

relieved my mind." On this he put out his hand, over which Rene bowed in

silent gratitude, and with a last look at the weary face of the man

whose life had been one long sacrifice to duty, he went away, feeling

the strengthening influence of a great example.

As they reached the street, Rene said, "How just he is, and how clear!"

"Yes. A slowly acting mind, but sure--and in battle, in danger, swift,

decisive, and reckless of peril. Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, I am. I shall be, even though this matter is never cleared up."

"It will be. He said so, and I have long since learned to trust his

foresight. In all my long experience of the man, I have scarcely ever

heard him speak at such length. You may live to see many men in high

places; you will never see a greater than George Washington. I know him

as few know him."

He was silent for a moment, and then added, "When I was young and hasty,

and thought more of Alexander Hamilton than I do to-day, he forgave me

an outburst of youthful impertinence which would have made a vainer man

desire to see no more of me." De Courval, a less quick-tempered

character, wondered that any one should have taken a liberty with the

man they had just left.

"But now I must leave you," said Hamilton. "If Schmidt returns, he will

land in New York, and I shall come hither with him. Have you seen the

new paper, the 'Aurora'? Mr. Bache has taken up the task Freneau

dropped--of abusing the President."

"No, I have not seen it. I suppose now it is the English treaty. It will

interest me no longer."

"Oh, for a time, for a time. Between us, the President has sent it to

the Senate. It will leak out. He will sign it with a reservation as

concerns the English claim to seize provisions meant for French ports.

Do not speak of it. Randolph is striving to strengthen the President's

scruples with regard to a not altogether satisfactory treaty, but, on

the whole, the best we can get. It will be signed and will be of great

service. Keep this to yourself, and good-by. Randolph is too French for

me. I may have said to you once that if we had a navy, it is not peace

that the President would desire."

De Courval hastened home to pour into the ear of Margaret so much of his

interview as he felt free to speak of.

"My mother," she said, "would speak to thee of me, Rene." But he asked

that she would wait, and his sense of satisfaction soon gave place, as

was natural, to a return of depression, which for a time left him only

when in the company of Margaret. Her mother, usually so calm, did most

uneasily wait while the days went by, but made no effort to interfere

with the lovers.

On the 9th of August, at evening, Margaret and Rene were seated in the

garden when of a sudden Rene leaped up with a cry of joyous welcome, as

he saw Schmidt, large, bronzed and laughing, on the porch.

"_Du Guter Himmel!_" he cried, "but I am content to be here. I have good

news for you. _Ach_, let me sit down. Now listen. But first, is it all

right, children!"

"May I tell him in my way, Rene?"

"Yes, of course; but what is your way?"

"This is my way," said Margaret, and bending over, as the German sat on

the grass at her feet, she kissed him, saying, "as yet no one knows."

"I am answered, Pearl, and now listen. This morning I met Mr. Randolph

and Mr. Hamilton with the President. That was best before seeing you.

Mr. Randolph was silent while I told the general plainly the story of

your duel. _Ach_, but he has the trick of silence! A good one, too. When

I had ended, he said, 'I am to be pardoned, sir, if I ask who in turn

will vouch for you as a witness?'"

"Then I said, 'With my apologies to these gentlemen, may I be allowed a

brief interview alone with your Excellency, or, rather, may I ask also

for Mr. Hamilton to be present?' 'With your permission, Mr. Randolph,'

the President said, and showed us into a small side room. There I told

him."

"Told him what?" asked Margaret.

"Your husband may tell you, my dear, when you are married. I may as well

permit it, whether I like it or not. You would get it out of him."

"I should," she said; "but--it is dreadful to have to wait."

"On our return, his Excellency said, 'Mr. Randolph, I am satisfied as

regards the correctness of the Vicomte de Courval's account of Mr.

Carteaux's treachery and of the vicomte's ignorance of his errand. Mr.

Gouverneur sends me by Mr. Schmidt a letter concerning the despatch.'

"Then Randolph asked quietly: 'Did he see it, sir?'

"'He knows that the vicomte delivered a packet of papers to the _Jean

Bart_.'

"'And without receipt for them or other evidence?'

"'Yes. It so seems.'

"'Then I regret to say that all we have heard appears to me, sir, to

leave the matter where it was.'

"'Not quite. Mr. Fauchet is out of office and about to go home.

Carteaux, as Mr. Hamilton can tell you, refused to be questioned, and

has sailed for France. Adet, the new minister, will not urge the matter.

You must pardon me, but, as it appears to me, an injustice has been

done.'

"Randolph said testily: 'It is by no means clear to me, and until we

hear of that despatch, it never will be.'

"This smileless old man said, 'I am not free to speak of what Mr.

Schmidt has confided to me, but it satisfies me fully.' Then he waited

to hear what Randolph would say."

"And he?" said Rene, impatient.

"Oh, naturally enough he was puzzled and I thought annoyed, but said, 'I

presume, Mr. President, it is meant that I ought to offer this young man

the position he forfeited?'

"'That, sir,' said the President, 'is for you to decide.'

"Then Mr. Hamilton, who can be as foxy as Jefferson, said in a careless

way, 'I think I should wait a little.'

"The moment he said that, I knew what would happen. Randolph said,

'Pardon me, Mr. Hamilton, I prefer to conduct the affairs of my

department without aid.' They love not one another, these two. 'I am of

the President's opinion. I shall write to the Vicomte de Courval.'

"Mr. Hamilton did seem to me to amuse himself. He smiled a little and

said: 'A pity to be in such a hurry. Time will make it all clearer.'

Randolph made no reply. You will hear from him to-morrow."

"I shall not accept," said Rene.

"Yes, you must. It is a full answer to all criticism, and after what the

President has said, you cannot refuse."

"Mr. Schmidt is right, Rene," said Margaret. "Thou must take the place."

"Good, wise little counselor!" said the German. "He will write you a

courteous note, Rene. He has had, as Hamilton says, enough differences

with the chief to make him willing to oblige him in a minor matter. You

must take it."

At last, it being so agreed, Schmidt went in to see Mrs. Swanwick and to

relieve her as concerned a part, at least, of her troubles. The rest he

would talk about later.

Even the vicomtesse was so good as to be pleased, and the evening meal

was more gay than usual.

The next morning Rene received the following note:

DEAR SIR: My opinion in regard to the matter under discussion of

late having been modified somewhat, and the President favoring my

action, it gives me pleasure to offer you the chance to return to

the office.

I have the honor to be,

Your obedient friend and servant,

EDMUND RANDOLPH.

Schmidt laughed as he read it. "He does not like it. The dose is bitter.

He thinks you will say no. But you will write simply, and accept with

pleasure."

"Yes, I see. I shall do as you say." He sent a simple note of

acceptance. A visit to the office of state settled the matter, and on

the day but one after receipt of the letter, Rene was well pleased to be

once more at his desk and busy.

Meanwhile Schmidt had been occupied with long letters to Germany and his

affairs in the city, but in the evening of the 12th of August, they

found time for one of their old talks.

"This matter of yours, and in fact of mine, Rene, does not fully satisfy

me. I still hear much about it, and always of that infernal despatch."

"It does not satisfy me, sir."

"Well, it seems to me that it will have to. Long ago that despatch must

be in Paris; but Mr. Monroe, our minister, could learn nothing about it.

And so you two young folks have arranged your affairs. I can tell you

that Miss Gainor will be sorry to have had no hand in this business, and

Uncle Josiah, too."

"That is droll enough. I am glad to have pleased somebody. We have

thought it better not as yet to speak of it."

"Have you told your mother, Rene? You may be sure that she will know, or

guess at the truth, and resent being left in the dark."

"That is true; but you may very well imagine that I dread what she will

say of Margaret. We have never had a serious difference, and now it is

to come. I shall talk to her to-morrow."

"No, now. Get it over, sir. Get it over. I must go home again soon, and

I want to see you married. Go now at once and get it over."

"I suppose that will be as well."

He went slowly up the winding staircase which was so remarkable a

feature of the finer Georgian houses. Suddenly he was aware in the

darkness of Margaret on the landing above him.

"Don't stop me," she said.

"What is wrong!" he asked.

"Everything. I told thee thy mother would know. She sent for me. I went.

She was cruel--cruel--hard."

"What, dear, did she say?"

"I shall not tell thee. She insulted me and my mother. Ah, but she

said--no, I shall not tell thee, nor mother. She sent for me, and I

went. I had to tell her. Oh, I said that--that--I told her--I do not

know what I told her." She was on the edge of her first almost

uncontrollable loss of self-government. It alarmed her pride, and at

once becoming calm, she added, "I told her that it was useless to talk

to me, to say that it must end, that thou wouldst obey her. I--I just

laughed; yes, I did. And I told her she did not yet know her own

son--and--that some day she would regret what she had said to me, and,

Rene, of my mother. I do not care--"

"But I care, Margaret. I was this moment on my way to tell her."

"Let me pass. I hope thou art worth what I have endured for thy sake.

Let me pass." He went by her, troubled and aware that he too needed to

keep himself in hand. When he entered his mother's room he found her

seated by the feeble candle-light, a rose of the never-finished

embroidery growing under her thin, skilful fingers.

For her a disagreeable matter had been decisively dealt with and put

aside; no trace of emotion betrayed her self-satisfaction at having

finally settled an unpleasant but necessary business.

In the sweet, low voice which seemed so out of relation to her severity

of aspect, she said: "Sit down. I have been left to learn from the young

woman of this entanglement. I should have heard it from you, or never

have had to hear it at all."

"Mother, I have been in very great trouble of late. That my disaster did

trouble you so little has been painful to me. But this is far worse. I

waited to feel at ease about the other affair before I spoke to you of

my intention to marry Miss Swanwick. I was on my way just now when I met

her on the stair. I desire to say, mother--"

She broke in: "It is useless to discuss this absurd business. It is

over. I have said so to the young woman. That ends it. Now kiss me. I

wish to go to bed."

"No," he said; "this does not end it."

"Indeed, we shall see--a quite ordinary Quaker girl and a designing

mother. It is all clear enough. Neither of you with any means, not a

louis of dot--a nice wife to take home. Oh, I have expressed myself

fully, and it was needed. She presumed to contradict me. _Ciel!_ I had

to be plain."

"So it seems; but as I count for something, I beg leave to say,

_maman_, that I mean to marry Margaret Swanwick."

"You, the Vicomte de Courval!"

He laughed bitterly. "What are titles here, or in France, to-day? There

are a dozen starving nobles in this city, exiles and homeless. As to

money, I have charge of Mr. Schmidt's affairs, and shall have. I am not

without business capacity."

"Business!" she exclaimed.

"Well, no matter, mother. I pray you to be reasonable, and to remember

what these people have done for us: in health no end of kindness; in

sickness--mother, I owe to them my life."

"They were paid, I presume."

"_Mon Dieu_, mother! how can you say such things? It is incredible."

"Rene, do you really mean to disobey me?"

"I hope not to have to do so."

"If you persist, you will have to. I shall never consent, never."

"Then, mother,--and you force me to say it,--whether you agree to it or

not, I marry Margaret. You were hard to her and cruel."

"No; I was only just and wise."

"I do not see it; but rest assured that neither man nor woman shall part

us. Oh, I have too much of you in me to be controlled in a matter where

both love and honor are concerned."

"Then you mean to make this _mesalliance_ against my will."

"I mean, and that soon, to marry the woman I think worthy of any man's

love and respect."

"She is as bad as you--two obstinate fools! I am sorry for your

children."

"Mother!"

"Well, and what now?"

"It is useless to resist. It will do no good. It only hurts me. Did your

people want you to marry Jean de Courval, my father?"

"No."

"You did. Was it a _mesalliance?_"

"They said so."

"You set me a good example. I shall do as you did, if, after this, her

pride does not come in the way."

"Her pride, indeed! Will it be to-morrow, the marriage?"

"Ah, dear mother, why will you hurt me so?"

"I know you as if it were myself. I take the lesser of two evils." And

to his amazement, she said, "Send the girl up to me."

"If she will come."

"Come? Of course she will come." He shook his head and left her, but

before he was out of the room, her busy hands were again on the

embroidery-frame.

"No, I will not go," said Margaret when he delivered his message.

"For my sake, dear," said Rene, and at last, reluctant and still angry,

Margaret went up-stairs.

"Come in," said madame; "you have kept me waiting." The girl stood still

at the open door.

"Do not stand there, child. Come here and sit down."

"No," said Margaret, "I shall stand."

"As you please, Mademoiselle. My son has made up his mind to an act of

folly. I yield because I must. He is obstinate, as you will some day

discover to your cost. I cannot say I am satisfied, but as you are to be

my daughter, I shall say no more. You may kiss me. I shall feel better

about it in a few years, perhaps."

Never, I suppose, was Margaret's power of self-command more sorely

tried. She bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the

embroidery, and kissed it, saying, "Thou art Rene's mother, Madame,"

and, turning, left the room.

Rene was impatiently walking in the hall when Margaret came down the

stair from this brief interview. She was flushed and still had in her

eyes the light of battle. "I have done as you desired. I cannot talk any

more. I have had all I can stand. No, I shall not kiss thee. My kisses

are spoilt for to-night." Then she laughed as she went up the broad

stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: "There will be two for

to-morrow. They will keep. Good night."

The vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had

the worst of the skirmish.

"I hate it. I hate it," she said, "but that was well done of the maid.

Where did she get her fine ways?" She was aware, as Rene had said in

some wrath, that she could not insult these kind people and continue to

eat their bread. The dark lady with the wan, ascetic face, as of a saint

of many fasts, could abide poverty and accept bad diet, but nevertheless

did like very well the things which make life pleasant, and had been

more than comfortable amid the good fare and faultless cleanliness of

the Quaker house.

She quite well understood that the matter could not remain in the

position in which she had left it. She had given up too easily; but now

she must take the consequences. Therefore it was that the next day after

breakfast she said to Margaret, "I desire to talk to you a little."

"Certainly, Madame. Will the withdrawing-room answer?"

"Yes, here or there." Margaret closed the door as she followed the

vicomtesse, and after the manner of her day stood while the elder woman

sat very upright in the high-backed chair prophetically designed for her

figure and the occasion.

"Pray be seated," she said. "I have had a white night, Mademoiselle, if

you know what that is. I have been sleepless." If this filled Margaret

with pity, I much doubt. "I have had to elect whether I quarrel with my

son or with myself. I choose the latter, and shall say no more than

this--I am too straightforward to avoid meeting face to face the

hardships of life."

"Bless me, am I the hardship?" thought Margaret, her attitude of defiant

pride somewhat modified by assistant sense of the comic.

"I shall say only this: I have always liked you. Whether I shall ever

love you or not, I do not know. I have never had room in my heart for

more than one love. God has so made me," which the young woman thought

did comfortably and oddly shift responsibility, and thus further aided

to restore her good humor.

"We shall be friends, Margaret." She rose as she spoke, and setting her

hands on Margaret's shoulders as she too stood, said: "You are

beautiful, child, and you have very good manners. There are things to be

desired, the want of which I much regret; otherwise--" She felt as if

she had gone far enough. "Were these otherwise, I should have been

satisfied." Then she kissed her coldly on the forehead.

Margaret said, "I shall try, Madame, to be a good daughter," and,

falling back, courtesied, and left the tall woman to her meditations.

Madame de Courval and Mary Swanwick knew that soon or late what their

children had settled they too must discuss. Neither woman desired it,

the vicomtesse aware that she might say more than she meant to say, the

Quaker matron in equal dread lest things might be said which would make

the future difficult. Mary Swanwick usually went with high courage to

meet the calamities of life, and just at present it is to be feared that

she thus classified the stern puritan dame. But now she would wait no

longer, and having so decided on Saturday, she chose Sunday morning,

when--and she smiled--the vicomtesse having been to Gloria Dei and she

herself to Friends' meeting, both should be in a frame of mind for what

she felt might prove a trial of good temper.

Accordingly, having heard the gentle Friend Howell discourse, and bent

in silent prayer for patience and charity, she came home and waited

until from the window of Schmidt's room she saw the tall, black figure

approach.

She went out to the hall and let in Madame de Courval, saying: "I have

waited for thee. Wilt thou come into the withdrawing-room? I have that

to say which may no longer be delayed."

"I myself had meant to talk with you of this unfortunate matter. It is

as well to have it over." So saying she followed her hostess. Both women

sat upright in the high-backed chairs, the neat, gray-clad Quaker lady,

tranquil and rosy; the black figure of the Huguenot dame, sallow, with

grave, unmoved features, a strange contrast.

"I shall be pleased to hear you, Madame Swanwick."

"It is simple. I have long seen that there was a growth of attachment

between our children. I did not--I do not approve it."

"Indeed," said Madame de Courval, haughtily. What was this woman to sit

in judgment on the Vicomte de Courval?

"I have done my best to keep them apart. I spoke to Margaret, and sent

her away again and again as thou knowest. It has been in vain, and now

having learned that thou hast accepted a condition of things we do

neither of us like, I have thought it well to have speech of thee."

"I do not like it, and I never shall. I have, however, yielded a

reluctant consent. I cannot quarrel with my only child; but I shall

never like it--never."

"Never is a long day."

"I am not of those who change. There is no fitness in it, none. My son

is of a class far above her. They are both poor." A sharp reply to the

reference to social distinctions was on Mary Swanwick's tongue. She

resisted the temptation, and said quietly:

"Margaret will not always be without means; my uncle will give her, on

his death, all he has; and as to class, Madame, the good Master to whom

we prayed this morning, must--"

"It is not a matter for discussion," broke in the elder woman.

"No; I agree with thee. It is not, but--were it not as well that two

Christian gentlewomen should accept the inevitable without reserve and

not make their children unhappy?"

"Gentlewomen!"

Mary Swanwick reddened. "I said so. We, too, are not without the pride

of race you value. A poor business, but,"--and she looked straight at

the vicomtesse, unable to resist the temptation to retort--"we are not

given to making much of it in speech."

Madame de Courval had at times entertained Margaret with some of the

grim annals of her father's people. Now, feeling the thrust, and not

liking it, or that she had lost her temper, she shifted her ground, and

being at heart what her hostess described as a gentlewoman, said

stiffly: "I beg pardon; I spoke without thought." At this moment

Margaret entered, and seeing the signals of discomposure on both faces,

said: "Oh, you two dear people whom I love and want to love more and

more, you are talking of me and of Rene. Shall I give him up, Madame,

and send him about his business."

"Do, dear," laughed her mother, relieved.

There was no mirth to be had out of it for Yvonne de Courval.

"It is not a matter for jesting," she said. "He is quite too like me to

be other than obstinate, and this, like what else of the trials God has

seen fit to send, is to be endured. He is too like me to change."

"Then," said Margaret, gaily, "thou must be like him."

"I suppose so," said the vicomtesse, with a note of melancholy in her

tones.

"Then if thou art like him, thou wilt have to love me," cried Margaret.

The mother smiled at this pretty logic, but the Huguenot dame sat up on

her chair, resentful of the affectionate familiarity of the girl's

gaiety.

"Your mother and I have talked, and what use is it? I shall try to care

for you, and love may come. But I could have wished--"

"Oh, no!" cried Margaret. "Please to say no more. Thou will only hurt

me."

"I remain of the same opinion; I am not of a nature which allows me to

change without reason."

"And as for me," said Mrs. Swanwick, smiling as she rose, "I yield when

I must."

"I, too," said the dark lady; "but to yield outwardly is not to give up

my opinions, nor is it easy or agreeable to do so. We will speak of it

another time, Madame Swanwick." But they never did, and so this

interview ended with no very good result, except to make both women feel

that further talk would be of no use, and that the matter was settled.

As the two mothers rose, Miss Gainor entered, large, smiling, fresh from

Christ Church. Quick to observe, she saw that something unusual had

occurred, and hesitated between curiosity and the reserve which good

manners exacted.

"Good morning," she said. "I heard that Mr. Schmidt had come back, and

so I came at once from church to get all the news from Europe for the

Penns, where I go to dine."

"Europe is unimportant," cried Margaret, disregarding a warning look

from her mother. "I am engaged to be married to Monsieur de

Courval--and--everybody--is pleased. Dear Aunt Gainor, I like it

myself."

"I at least am to be excepted," said the vicomtesse, "as Mademoiselle

knows. I beg at present to be saved further discussion. May I be

excused--"

"It seems, Madame," returned Miss Wynne, smiling, "to have got past the

need for discussion. I congratulate you with all my heart."

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the vicomtesse, forgetful of her Huguenot

training, and swept by Miss Gainor's most formal courtesy and was gone.

"Dear child," cried Mistress Wynne, as she caught Margaret in her arms,

"I am glad as never before. The vicomte has gone back to the service

and--you are to marry--oh, the man of my choice. The poor vicomtesse,

alas! Where is the vicomte?"

"He is out just now. We did mean to tell thee this evening."

"Ah! I am glad it came earlier, this good news. May I tell them at the

governor's?"

"I may as well say yes," cried Margaret. "Thou wouldst be sure to tell."

"I should," said Gainor.

XXVII

Both mothers had accepted a situation which neither entirely liked; but

the atmosphere was cleared, and the people most concerned were well

satisfied and happy. Miss Gainor joyously distributed the news. Gay

cousins called, and again the late summer afternoons saw in the garden

many friends who had sturdily stood by De Courval in his day of

discredit.

If Randolph was cool to him, others were not, and the office work and

the treaty were interesting, while in France affairs were better, and

the reign of blood had passed and gone.

The warm days of August went by, and De Courval's boat drifted on the

river at evening, where he lay and talked to Margaret, or listened, a

well-contented man. There were parties in the country, dinners with the

Peters at Belmont, or at historic Cliveden. Schmidt, more grave than

usual, avoided these festivities, and gave himself to lonely rides, or

to long evenings on the river when De Courval was absent or otherwise

occupied, as was commonly the case.

When late one afternoon he said to Rene, "I want you to lend me Margaret

for an hour," she cried, laughing, "Indeed, I lend myself; and I make my

lord vicomte obey, as is fitting before marriage. I have not yet

promised to obey after it, and I am at thy service, Friend Schmidt."

Rene laughed and said, "I am not left much choice," whereupon Schmidt

and Margaret went down to the shore, and soon their boat lay quiet far

out on the river.

"They are talking," said the young lover. "I wonder what about."

In fact they had not exchanged even the small current coin of

conventional talk; both were silent until Schmidt laid down his oars,

and the boat silently drifted upward with the tide. It was the woman who

spoke first.

"Ah, what a true friend thou hast been!"

"Yes, I have that way a talent. Why did you bring me out here to flatter

me?"

"I did think it was thou proposed it; but I do wish to talk with thee.

My mother is not well pleased because the other mother is ill pleased. I

do want every one I love to feel that all is well with Rene and me, and

that the love I give is good for him."

"It is well for you and for him, my child, and as for that grim fortress

of a woman, she will live to be jealous of your mother and of Rene. An

east wind of a woman. She will come at last to love you, Pearl."

"Ah, dost thou really think so?"

"Yes."

"And thou art pleased. We thought thou wert grave of late and less--less

gay."

"I am more than pleased, Margaret. I am not sad, but only grieved over

the coming loss out of my life of simple days and those I love, because

soon, very soon, I go away to a life of courts and idle ceremonies, and

perhaps of strife and war."

For a moment or two neither spoke. The fading light seemed somehow to

the girl to fit her sense of the gravity of this announcement of a vast

loss out of life. Her eyes filled as she looked up.

"Oh, why dost thou go? Is not love and reverence and hearts that thank

thee--oh, are not these enough? Why dost thou go?"

"You, dear, who know me will understand when I answer with one

word--duty."

"I am answered," she said, but the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Rene will some day tell you more, indeed, all; and you will know why I

must leave you." Then, saying no more, he took up the oars and pulled

into the shore. Rene drew up the boat.

"Will you go out with me now, Margaret?"

"Not this evening, Rene," she said, and went slowly up to the house.

On one of these later August days, Mr. Hammond, the English minister, at

his house in the country was pleased, being about to return home, to ask

the company of Mr. Wolcott of the Treasury. There were no other guests,

and after dinner the minister, to add zest to his dessert, handed to

Wolcott the now famous intercepted Despatch No. 10, sent back by Lord

Grenville after its capture, to make still further mischief. Having been

told the story of the wanderings of this fateful document, the Secretary

read it with amazement, and understood at once that it was meant by

Hammond to injure Randolph, whose dislike of the Jay treaty and what it

yielded to England was well known in London. Much disturbed by what he

gathered, Wolcott took away the long document, agreeing to give a

certified copy to Hammond, who, having been recalled, was well pleased

to wing this Parthian arrow.

The next day Wolcott showed it to his colleagues, Pickering and the

Attorney-General. As it seemed to them serious, they sent an urgent

message to the President, which brought back the weary man from his rest

at Mount Vernon. On his return, the President, despite Randolph's desire

for further delay, called a cabinet meeting, and with a strong

remonstrance against the provision clause which yielded the hated rights

of search, decided to ratify the treaty with England.

The next day he was shown the long-lost, intercepted Despatch No. 10.

Greatly disturbed, he waited for several days, and then again called

together his advisers, naming for Randolph a half-hour later.

On this, the 19th of August, De Courval, being at his desk, was asked to

see an express rider who had come with a report of Indian outrages on

the frontier. The Secretary of State having gone, as he learned, to a

cabinet meeting, De Courval made haste to find him, being well aware of

the grave import of the news thus brought. Arriving at the house of the

President, he was shown as usual into the drawing-room, and sat down to

wait among a gay party of little ones who were practising the minuet

with the young Custis children under the tuition of a sad-looking, old

_emigre_ gentleman. The small ladies courtesied to the new-comer, the

marquis bowed. The violin began again, and Rene sat still, amused.

Meanwhile in the room on the farther side of the hall, Washington

discussed with Pickering and Oliver Wolcott the fateful, intercepted

despatch. A little later Randolph entered the hall, and desiring De

Courval to wait with his papers, joined the cabinet meeting.

As he entered, the President rose and said, "Mr. Randolph, a matter has

been brought to my knowledge in which you are deeply concerned." He

spoke with great formality, and handing him Fauchet's despatch, added,

"Here is a letter which I desire you to read and make such explanation

in regard to it as you choose."

Randolph, amazed, ran his eye over the long report of Fauchet to his

home office, the other secretaries watching him in silence. He flushed

with sudden anger as he read on, while no one spoke, and the President

walked up and down the room. This is what the Secretary of State saw in

Fauchet's despatch:

Mr. Randolph came to see me with an air of great eagerness just

before the proclamation was made in regard to the excise

insurrection, and made to me overtures of which I have given you

an account in my despatches No. 6 and No. 3. Thus with some

thousands of dollars the French Republic could have decided on

war or peace. Thus the consciences of the pretended patriots of

America have already their prices [_tarif_].

Then followed abuse of Hamilton and warm praise of Jefferson and

Madison.

"The despatches No. 6 and No. 3 are not here," said the Secretary. Again

he read on. Then at last, looking up, he said, "If I may be permitted to

retain this letter a short time, I shall be able to answer everything in

it in a satisfactory manner." He made no denial of its charges.

The President said: "Very well. You may wish at present, sir, to step

into the back room and further consider the matter." He desired to do

so, the President saying that he himself wished meanwhile to talk of it

with his other advisers. Mr. Randolph, assenting, retired, and in half

an hour returned. What passed in this interval between the chief and his

secretaries no one knows, nor what went on in the mind of Washington.

Mr. Randolph finally left the meeting, saying, "Your Excellency will

hear from me." As he was passing the door of the parlor De Courval came

forward to meet him and said, "These papers are of moment, sir. They

have just come." The violin ceased, the marquis bowed. The Secretary

saluted the small dames and said hastily: "I cannot consider these

papers at present. I must go. Give them to the President." Upon this he

went away, leaving De Courval surprised at the agitation of his manner.

In a few moments Mr. Wolcott also came out, leaving the office door

open. Meanwhile De Courval waited, as he had been desired to do, until

the President should be disengaged.

The violin went on, the small figures, as he watched them, moved in the

slow measures of the dance. Then during a pause one little dame

courtesied to him, and the old violinist asked would Monsieur le Vicomte

walk a minuet with Miss Langdon. De Courval, rising, bowed to the

anticipative partner, and said, "No; the President may want me." And

again the low notes of the violin set the small puppets in motion. Of a

sudden, heard through the open door across the hall, came a voice

resonant with anger. It was Washington who spoke. "Why, Colonel

Pickering, did he say nothing of moment? He was my friend Peyton

Randolph's nephew and adopted son, my aide, my Secretary. I made him

Attorney-General, Secretary of State. I would have listened, sir. Never

before have I allowed friendship to influence me in an appointment." The

voice fell; he heard no more, but through it all the notes of the violin

went on, a strange accompaniment, while the children moved in the

ceremonious measures of the minuet, and Rene crossed the room to escape

from what he was not meant to hear. A full half hour went by while De

Courval sat amazed at the words he had overheard. At last the Secretary

of War, entering the hall, passed out of the house.

Then De Courval asked a servant in the gray and red of the Washington

livery to take the papers to the President. Hearing him, Washington,

coming to the door, said: "Come in, sir. I will see you." The face De

Courval saw had regained its usual serenity. "Pray be seated." He took

the papers and deliberately considered them. "Yes, they are of

importance. You did well to wait. I thank you." Then smiling kindly he

said, "Here has been a matter which concerns you. The despatch you were

charged with taking was captured at sea by an English frigate and sent

to us by Mr. Hammond, the British minister. It has been nine months on

the way. I never, sir, had the least doubt of your honor, and permit me

now to express my pleasure. At present this affair of the despatch must

remain a secret. It will not be so very long. Permit me also to

congratulate you on your new tie to this country. Mistress Wynne has

told Mrs. Washington of it. Will you do me the honor to dine with us at

four to-morrow? At four."

Coming out of the room with De Courval, he paused in the hall, having

said his gracious words. The violin ceased. The little ladies in

brocades and slippers came to the drawing-room door, a pretty dozen or

so, Miss Langdon, Miss Biddle, Miss Morris, and the Custis children.

They courtesied low, waiting expectant. Like most shy men, Washington

was most at ease with children, loving what fate had denied him. He was

now and then pleased, as they knew, to walk with one of them the slow

measure of the minuet, and then to lift up and kiss his small partner in

the dance. Now looking down on them from his great height he said: "No,"

with a sad smile at their respectful appeal--"no, not to-day, children.

Not to-day. Good-by, Vicomte." As the servant held the door open, Rene

looked back and saw the tall figure, the wreck of former vigor, go

wearily up the broad staircase.

[Illustration: "'Not to-day, children, not to-day'"]

"What has so troubled him?" thought De Courval. "What is this that

Edmund Randolph has done?" Standing on the outer step and taking off his

hat, he murmured, "My God, I thank thee!" He heard faintly through the

open window as he walked away the final notes of the violin and the

laughter of childhood as the lesson ended.

It was only a little way, some three blocks, from the house of the

President to the State Department, where, at 287 High Street, half a

dozen clerks now made up the slender staff. De Courval walked slowly to

the office, and setting his business in order, got leave from his

immediate superior to be absent the rest of the day.

As he went out, Mr. Randolph passed in. De Courval raised his hat, and

said, "Good morning, sir." The Secretary turned back. In his hour of

humiliation and evident distress his natural courtesy did not desert

him.

"Monsieur," he said in ready French, "the despatch which you sent on its

way has returned. I desire to ask you to forget the injustice I did

you." He was about to add, "My time to suffer has come." He refrained.

"I thank you," said De Courval; "you could hardly have done otherwise

than you did." The two men bowed, and parted to meet no more. "What does

it all mean?" thought the young man. Thus set free, he would at once

have gone home to tell of the end of the troubles this wandering paper

had made for him. But Margaret was at Merion for the day, and others

might wait. He wished for an hour to be alone, and felt as he walked

eastward the exaltation which was natural to a man sensitive as to the

slightest reflection on his honor. Thus surely set at ease, with the

slow pace of the thoughtful, he moved along what we now call Market

Street. Already at this time it had its country carts and wide market

sheds, where Schmidt liked to come, pleased with the colors of the fruit

and vegetables. Rene heard again with a smile the street-cries,

"Calamus! sweet calamus!" and "Peaches ripe! ripe!" as on his first sad

day in the city.

Aimlessly wandering, he turned northward into Mulberry Street, with its

Doric portals, and seeing the many Friends coming out of their

meeting-house, was reminded that it was Wednesday. "I should like," he

thought, "to have said my thanks with them." Moving westward at Delaware

Fifth Street, he entered the burial-ground of Christ Church, and for a

while in serious mood read what the living had said of the dead.

"Well, Rene," said Schmidt, behind him, "which are to be preferred,

those underneath or those above ground?"

"I do not know. You startled me. To-day, for me, those above ground."

"When a man has had both experiences he may be able to answer--or not. I

once told you I liked to come here. This is my last call upon these

dead, some of whom I loved. What fetched you hither?"

"Oh, I was lightly wandering with good news," and he told him of the

lost Despatch No. 10, and that it was to be for the time a secret.

"At last!" said Schmidt. "I knew it would come. The world may

congratulate you. I am not altogether grieved that you have been through

this trial. I, too, have my news. Edmund Randolph has resigned within an

hour or so. Mr. Wolcott has just heard it from the President. Oh, the

wild confusion of things! If you had not sent that despatch on its way,

Randolph would not have fallen. A fatal paper. Let us go home, Rene."

"But how, sir, does it concern Mr. Randolph?"

"Pickering has talked of it to Bingham, whom I have seen just now, and I

am under the impression that Fauchet's despatch charged Randolph with

asking for money. It was rather vague, as I heard it."

"I do not believe it," said Rene.

"A queer story," said Schmidt. "A wild Jacobin's despatch ruins his

Secretary for life, disgraces for a time an _emigre_ noble, turns out a

cabinet minister--what fancy could have invented a stranger tale? Come,

let us leave these untroubled dead."

Not until December of that year, 1795, did Randolph's pamphlet, known as

his "Vindication," appear. This miserable business concerns us here

solely as it affected the lives of my characters. It has excited much

controversy, and even to this day, despite Fauchet's explanations to

Randolph and the knowledge we now have of the papers mentioned as No. 3

and No. 6, it remains in a condition to puzzle the most astute

historian. Certainly few things in diplomatic annals are more

interesting than the adventures of Despatch No. 10. The verdict of "not

proven" has been the conclusion reached by some writers, while despite

Randolph's failure to deny the charges at once, as he did later, it is

possible that Fauchet misunderstood him or lied, although why he should

have done so is difficult to comprehend.

The despatch, as we have seen, affected more persons than the

unfortunate Secretary. Dr. Chovet left the city in haste when he heard

of Schmidt's return, and Aunt Gainor lamented as among the not minor

consequences the demise of her two gods and the blue china mandarin. She

was in some degree comforted by the difficult business of Margaret's

marriage outfit, for Schmidt, overjoyed at the complete justification of

De Courval, insisted that there must be no delay, since he himself was

obliged to return to Germany in October.

Mrs. Swanwick would as usual accept no money help, and the preparations

should be simple, she said, nor was it a day of vulgar extravagance in

bridal presents. Margaret, willing enough to delay, and happy in the

present, was slowly making her way to what heart there was in the

Huguenot dame. Margaret at her joyous best was hard to resist, and now

made love to the vicomtesse, and, ingenuously ready to serve, wooed her

well and wisely in the interest of peace.

What Madame de Courval most liked about Margaret was a voice as low and

as melodious in its changes as her own, so that, as Schmidt said, "It is

music, and what it says is of the lesser moment." Thus one day at

evening as they sat on the porch, Margaret murmured in the ear of the

dark lady: "I am to be married in a few days; wilt not thou make me a

little wedding gift?"

"My dear Margaret," cried Rene, laughing, "the jewels all went in

England, and except a son of small value, what can my mother give you?"

"But, him I have already," cried Margaret. "What I want, madame has--oh,

and to spare."

"Well, and what is it I am to give?" said madame, coldly.

"A little love," she whispered.

"Ah, do you say such things to Rene?"

"No, never. It is he who says them to me. Oh, I am waiting. A lapful I

want of thee," and she held up her skirts to receive the gift.

"How saucy thou art," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"It is no affair of thine, Friend Swanwick," cried the Pearl. "I wait,

Madame."

"I must borrow of my son," said the vicomtesse. "It shall be ready at

thy wedding. Thou wilt have to wait."

"Ah," said Rene, "we can wait. Come, let us gather some peaches,

Margaret," and as they went down the garden, he added: "My mother said

'thou' to you. Did you hear?"

"Yes, I heard. She was giving me what I asked, and would not say so."

"Yes, it was not like her," said the vicomte, well pleased.

The September days went by, and to all outward appearance Madame de

Courval accepted with no further protest what it was out of her power

to control. Uncle Josiah insisted on settling upon Margaret a modest

income, and found it the harder to do so because, except Mistress Gainor

Wynne, no one was disposed to differ with him. That lady told him it was

shabby. To which he replied that there would be the more when he died.

"Get a permanent ground-rent on your grave," said Gainor, "or never will

you lie at rest."

"It is our last ride," said Schmidt, on October the first, of this, the

last year of my story. They rode out through the busy Red City and up

the Ridge Road, along which General Green led the left wing of the army

to the fight at Germantown, and so to the Wissahickon Creek, where,

leaving their horses at an inn, they walked up the stream.

"_Ach, lieber Himmel_, this is well," said Schmidt as they sat down on a

bed of moss above the water. "Tell me," he said, "more about the

President. Oh, more; you were too brief." He insisted eagerly. "I like

him with the little ones. And, ah, that tragedy of fallen ambition and

all the while the violin music and the dance. It is said that sometimes

he is pleased to walk a minuet with one of these small maids, and then

will kiss the fortunate little partner."

"He did not that day; he told them he could not. He was sad about

Randolph."

"When they are old, they will tell of it, Rene." And, indeed, two of

these children lived to be great-grandmothers, and kissing their

grandchildren's children, two of whom live to-day in the Red City, bade

them remember that the lips which kissed them had often been kissed by

Washington.

"It is a good sign of a man to love these little ones," said Schmidt.

"What think you, Rene? Was Randolph guilty?"

"I do not think so, sir. Fauchet was a quite irresponsible person; but

what that silent old man, Washington, finally believed, I should like to

know. I fear that he thought Randolph had been anything but loyal to his

chief."

For a little while the German seemed lost in thought. Then he said: "You

will have my horses and books and the pistols and my rapier. My life

will, I hope, need them no more. I mean the weapons; but who can be sure

of that? Your own life will find a use for them, if I be not mistaken.

When I am gone, Mr. Justice Wilson will call on you, and do not let the

Pearl refuse what I shall leave for her. I have lived two lives. One of

my lives ends here in this free land. Mr. Wilson has, as it were, my

will. In Germany I shall have far more than I shall ever need. Keep my

secret. There are, there were, good reasons for it."

"It is safe with me."

"Ah, the dear life I have had here, the freedom of the wilderness, the

loves, the simple joys!" As he spoke, he gathered and let fall the

autumn leaves strewn thickly on the forest floor. "We shall meet no more

on earth, Rene, and I have loved you as few men love." Again he was long

silent.

"I go from these wonder woods to the autumn of a life with duties and,

alas! naught else. Sometimes I shall write to you; and, Rene, you will

speak of me to your children."

The younger man said little in reply. He, too, was deeply moved, and

sorrowful as never before. As they sat, Schmidt put his hand on Rene's

shoulder. "May the good God bless and keep you and yours through length

of honorable days! Let us go. Never before did the autumn woodlands seem

to me sad. Let us go." He cast down as he rose the last handful of the

red and gold leaves of the maple.

They walked down the creek, still beautiful to-day, and rode home in

silence amid the slow down-drift of the early days of the fall.

In the house Margaret met them joyous. "Oh, Rene, a letter of

congratulation to me! Think of it--to me, sir, from General Washington!

And one to thee!" These letters were to decide in far-away after days a

famous French law-suit.

* * * * *

The sun shone bright on the little party which passed among the graves

into the modest Gloria Dei, the church of the Swedes. Here were the many

kinsfolk; and Washington's secretary, Colonel Lear, Alexander Hamilton

and Gouverneur Morris, with Binghams and Morrises; Whartons and Biddles,

the forefathers of many lines of men since famous in our annals, whether

of war or peace. Women there were also. Mistress Gainor in the front pew

with Mrs. Swanwick and Lady Washington, as many called her, and the gay

Federalist dames, who smiled approval of Margaret in her radiant

loveliness.

Schmidt, grave and stately in dark velvet, gave away the bride, and the

good Swedish rector, the Reverend Nicholas Cullin, read the service of

the church.

Then at last they passed into the vestry, and, as Margaret decreed, all

must sign the marriage-certificate after the manner of Friends. De

Courval wrote his name, and the Pearl, "Margaret Swanwick," whereat

arose merriment and an erasure when, blushing, she wrote, "De Courval."

Next came Schmidt. He hesitated a moment, and then wrote "Johan Graf von

Ehrenstein," to the surprise of the curious many who followed, signing

with laughter and chatter of young tongues. Meanwhile the German

gentleman, unnoticed, passed out of the vestry, and thus out of my

story.

"What with all these signatures, it does look, Vicomte," said young Mr.

Morris, "like the famous Declaration of Independence."

"Humph!" growled Josiah Langstroth, "if thee thinks, young man, that it

is a declaration of independence, thee is very much mistaken."

"Not I," said Rene, laughing; and they went out to where Mistress

Gainor's landau was waiting, and so home to the mother's house.

Here was a note from Schmidt.

DEAR CHILDREN,

To say good-by is more than I will to bear. God bless you both! I

go at once.

JOHAN GRAF VON EHRENSTEIN.

There were tears in the Pearl's eyes.

"He told me he would not say good-by. And is that his real name, Rene?

No, it is not; I know that much."

Rene smiled. "Some day," he said, "I shall tell you."

In a few minutes came his honor, Mr. Justice Wilson, saying: "I feared

to be late. Madame," to Margaret, "here is a remembrance for you from

our friend."

"Oh, open it!" she cried. "Ah, if only he were here!"

There was a card. It said, "Within is my kiss of parting," and as she

stood in her bridal dress, Rene fastened the necklace of great pearls

about her neck, while Madame de Courval looked on in wonder at the

princely gift.

Then the Judge, taking them aside into Schmidt's room, said: "I am to

give you, Vicomte, these papers which make you for your wife the trustee

of our friend's estate, a large one, as you may know. My

congratulations, Vicomtesse."

"He told me!" said Margaret. "He told me, Rene." She was too moved to

say more.

In an hour, for this was not a time of wedding breakfasts, they were on

their way to Cliveden, which Chief-Justice Chew had lent for their

honeymoon.

* * * * *

So ends my story, and thus I part with these, the children of my mind.

Many of them lived, and have left their names in our history; others,

perhaps even more real to me, I dismiss with regret, to become for me,

as time runs on, but remembered phantoms of the shadow world of

fiction.

_L'envoi_

Before De Courval and his wife returned to France, the Directory had

come and gone, the greatest of soldiers had taken on the rule, and the

grave Huguenot mother had gone to her grave in Christ Church yard.

Mrs. Swanwick firmly refused to leave her country. "Better, far better,"

she said, "Margaret, that thou shouldst be without me. I shall live to

see thee again and the children."

In after years in Penn's City men read of Napoleon's soldier, General

the Comte de Courval and of the American beauty at the Emperor's court,

while over their Madeira the older men talked of the German gentleman

who had been so long among them, and passed so mysteriously out of the

knowledge of all.

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

1. All punctuation inconsistencies between the "List of Illustrations"

and the "Illustrations" themselves have been retained as printed.

2. Footnotes have been moved to the end of the paragraph where the

footnote anchor appears.

3, Punctuation corrections:

p. 72, removed leading double quote (In the hall Dr. Chovet....)

p. 121, changed comma to period (of what was to come.)

p. 145, changed period to comma (will laugh, and soon it will be)

p. 345, added closing quote ("...waiting in New York Harbor.")

p. 375, changed comma to period (I do not need anything.)

p. 394, removed ending double quote (figure and the occasion.)

p. 415, changed period to comma (I want of thee,)

4. Spelling corrections: (number in parentheses) indicate the number of

times the word was spelled correctly in the original text.

p. 22, "Mon dieu!" to "Mon Dieu!" (26) (translated: my God!)

p. 73, "himslf" to "himself" (86) (he could avenge himself)

p. 169, "mon dieu" to "mon Dieu" (26)

p. 275, "mon dieu!" to "mon Dieu!" (26)

p. 320, "Angles" to "Angels" (the Angels find the marge)

5. Word variations used in this text which have been retained:

"Ach" (unitalicized p. 1-95) and "Ach" (always italicized thereafter)

"a-foot" (1) and "afoot" (2)

"appal" (1), "appalled" (4), "appalling" (2)

"bed-room" (1) and "bedroom" (1)

"candle-light" (1) and "candlelight" (2)

"match-making" (1) and "matchmaking" (1)

"practice" (2) and "practise(ed)" (2)

"Shakspere" (1) and "Shakespeare" (2)

"ship-master" (1) and "shipmaster" (1)

"vandoo" (1) and "vendue" (1) (in W.E.D. "auction")

"vendue-master" (1) and "vendue master" (1)

6. Words using the [oe] ligature in the original text are: [OE]il

de B[oe]uf, c[oe]ur, and man[oe]uvered. This ligature has been

replaced with "oe".

7. General notes:

All punctuation inconsistencies between the "List of Illustrations"

and the "Illustrations" themselves have been retained as printed.

p. 120, in the phrase (..., Who will shew us) the capitalization of

"Who" after a comma has been retained as printed. Used as a noun.

The printer inconsistently italicized phrases and names. All have

been retained as printed in the original text.