"Would heaven they might!" exclaimed she. "Would that my various

friends, or the prefect of police, or heaven knows who that may have

spread the news of my acquaintance with your brother, would take me out

of that acquaintance!"

"They might hold his friendship a high honor," said Will.

"Oh, an honor! Excellent well comes this distinguished honor. Sirrah,

carriages block my street, filled with those who beseech my introduction

to John Law. I am waylaid if I step abroad, by women--persons of

quality, ladies of the realm, God knoweth what--and they beg of me the

favor of an introduction to John Law! There seems spread, I know not

how, a silly rumor of the child Kate. And though I did scarce more than

name a convent for her attendance, there are now out all manner of

reports of Monsieur John Law's child, and--what do I say--'tis

monstrous! I protest that I have come closer than I care into the public

thoughts with this prodigy, this John Law, whose favor is sought by

every one. Honor!--'tis not less than outrage!"

"'Tis but argument that my brother is a person not without note."

"But granted. 'We have seen his carriage at your curb,' they say. I

insist that it is a mistake. 'But we saw him come from your door at such

and such an hour.' If he came, 'twas but for meeting such answer as I

have always given him. Will they never believe--will your brother

himself never believe that, though did he have, as he himself says, all

France in the hollow of his hand, he could be nothing to me? Now I will

make an end to this. I will leave Paris."

"Madam, you might not be allowed to go."

"What! I not allowed to go! And what would hinder a Knollys of Banbury

from going when the hour shall arrive?"

"The regent."

"And why the regent?"

"Because of my brother."

"Your brother!"

"Assuredly. My brother is to-day king of Paris. If he liked he could

keep you prisoner in Paris. My brother does as he chooses. He could

abolish Parliament to-morrow if he chose. My brother can do all

things--except to win from you, Lady Catharine, one word of kindness, of

respect. Now, then, he has come to the end. He told me to come to you

and bear his word. He told me to say to you that this is the last time

he will importune, the last time that he will implore. Oh, Lady

Catharine! Once before I carried to you a message from John Law--from

John Law, not in distress then more than he is now, even in this hour of

his success."

Lady Catharine paled as she sank back into her seat. Her white hand

caught at the lace at her throat. Her eyes grew dark in their emotion.

"Yes, Madam," went on Will Law, tears shining in his own eyes, "'twas I,

an unfaithful messenger, who, by an error, wrought ruin for my brother

and for yourself, even as I did for myself. Madam, hear me! I would be a

better messenger to-day."

Lady Catharine sat still silent, her bosom heaving, her eyes gone wide

and straining.

"I have seen my brother weep," said Will, going on impulsively. "I have

seen him walk the floor at night, have heard him cry out to himself.

They call him crazed. Indeed he is crazed. Yet 'tis but for one word

from you."

"Sir," said Lady Catharine, struggling to gain self-control, and in

spite of herself softened by this appeal, "you speak well."

"If I do, 'tis but because I am the mouth-piece of a man who all his

life has sought to speak the truth; who has sought--yes, I say to you

even now, Lady Catharine--who has sought always to live the truth. This

I say in spite of all that we both know."

There came no reply from the woman, who sat still looking at him, not

yet moved by the voice of the proxy as she might then have been by the

voice of that proxy's principal. Vehemently the young man, ordinarily so

timid and diffident, approached her.

"Look you!" exclaimed he. "If my brother said he could lay France at

your feet, by heaven! he can well-nigh do so now. See! Here are some of

the properties he has lately purchased in the realm of France. The

Marquisat d'Effiat--'tis worth eight hundred thousand livres; the estate

of Rivière--worth nine hundred thousand livres; the estate of

Roissy--worth six hundred and fifty thousand livres; the estates of

Berville, of Fontaine, of Yville, of Gerponville, of Tancarville, of

Guermande--the tale runs near a score! Lately my brother has purchased

the Hôtel Mazarin, and the property at Rue Vivienne, paying for them one

million two hundred thousand livres. He has other city properties,

houses in Paris, estates here and there, running not into the hundreds

of thousands, but into the millions of livres in actual value. Among

these are some of the estates of the greatest nobles of France. Their

value is more than any man can compute. Is this not something? Moreover,

there goes with it all the dignity of the most stupendous personal

success ever made by a single man since the world began. 'Tis all yours,

Lady Catharine. And unless you share it, it has no value to my brother.

I know myself that he will fling it all away, calling it worthless,

since he can not have that greatest fortune which he craves!"

"Sirrah, I have entertained much speech of both yourself and your

brother, because I would not seem ungracious nor forgetful. Yet this

paying of court by means of figures, by virtue of lists of estates--do

you not know how ineffectual this must seem?"

"If you could but understand!" cried Will. "If you could but believe

that there is none on earth values these less than my brother. Under

all this he has yet greater dreams. His ambition is to awaken an old

world and to build a new one. By heaven! Lady Catharine, I am asked to

speak for my brother, and so I shall! These are his ambitions. First of

all, Lady Catharine, you. Second, America. Third, a people for

America--a people who may hope! Oh, I admit all the folly of his life.

He played deep, yet 'twas but to forget you. He drank, but 'twas to

forget you. Foolish he was, as are all men. Now he succeeds, and finds

he can not forget you. I have told you his ambitions, Madam, and though

others may never know nor acknowledge them, you, at least, must do so.

And I beg you to remember, Madam, that of all his ambitions, 'twas you,

Lady Catharine, your favor, your kindness, your mercy, that made his

first and chief desire."

"As for that," said the woman, somewhat scornfully, "if you please, I

had rather I received my protestations direct; and your brother knows I

forbid him further protestations. He has, it is true, raised some

considerable noise by way of enterprises. That I might know, even did I

not see this horde of dukes and duchesses and princes of the blood,

clamoring for the recognition of even his remotest friends. I know,

too, that he is accepted as a hero by the people."

"And well he may be. Coachmen and valets have liveries of their own

these days. Servants now eat from plate, and clerks have their own

coaches. Paris is packed with people, and, look you, they are people no

longer clamoring for bread. Who has done this? Why, my brother, John Law

of Lauriston, Lady Catharine, who loves you, and loves you dearly."

The old wrinkle of perplexity gathered between the brows of the woman

before him. Her face was clouded, the changeful eyes now deep covered by

their lids.

Lacking the precise word for that crucial moment, Will Law broke further

on into material details. "To be explicit, as I have said," resumed he,

"everything seems to center about my brother, the director-general of

finance. He took the old notes of the government, worth not half their

face, and in a week made them treble their face value. The king owes him

over one hundred million livres to-day. My brother has taken over the

farming of the royal taxes. And now he forms a little Company of the

Indies; and to this he adds the charter of the Senegal Company. Not

content, he adds the entire trade of the Indies, of China and the South

Seas. He has been given the privilege of the royal farming of tobacco,

for which he pays the king the little trifle of two hundred million

livres, and assures to the king certain interest moneys, which, I need

not say, the king will actually obtain. In addition to these things, he

has lately been given the mint of France. The whole coinage of the realm

has been made over to this Company of the Indies. My brother pays the

king fifty million livres for this privilege, and this he will do within

fifteen months. All France is indeed in the hands of my brother. Now,

call John Law an adventurer, a gambler, if you will, and if you can; but

at least admit that he has given life and hope to the poor of France,

that he has given back to the king a people which was despoiled and

ruined by the former king. He has trebled the trade of France, he has

saved her honor, and opened to her the avenues of a new world. Are these

things nothing? They have all been done by my brother, this man whom you

believe incapable of faith and constancy. Good God! It surely seems that

he has at least been constant to himself!"

"Oh, I hear talk of it all. I hear that a share in the new company

promises dividends of two hundred livres. I hear talk of shares and

'sub-shares,' called 'mothers,' and 'daughters,' and 'granddaughters,'

and I know not what. It seems as though half the coin were divided into

centimes, and as though each centime had been planted by your brother

and had grown to be worth a thousand pounds. I admit somewhat of

knowledge of these miracles."

"True, Lady Catharine. Can there not be one miracle more?"

Lady Catharine Knollys bent her face forward upon her hands, unhappiness

in every gesture.

"Sir," said she, "it grieves my heart to say it; yet this answer you

must take to your brother, John Law. That miracle hath not yet been

wrought which can give us back the past again."

"This," said Will Law, sadly, "is this all the message I may take?"

"It is all."

"Though it is the last?"

"It is the last."

CHAPTER VIII

THE LITTLE SUPPER OF THE REGENT

Paris, city of delights, Paris drunk with gold, mad with the delirium of

excesses, Paris with no aim except joy, no method but extravagance, held

within her gilded gates one citadel of sensuality which remained ever an

object of mystery, a source of curiosity even in that dissipated and

pleasure-sated city. In the Palais Royal, back of the regally beautiful

gardens, back of the noble rows of trees, beyond the gates of iron and

the guards in uniform, lived France's regent, in a city of libertines

the prince of libertines. In a city where there were more mistresses

than wives, he it was who led the list of the licentious. In a city of

unregulated vice and yet of exquisitely ordered taste, he it was who

accorded to himself daily pleasures which were admittedly beyond

approach. How unspeakably unbridled, how delightfully wicked, how

temptingly ingenious in their features the little suppers of the regent

might be--these were matters of curious interest to all, of intimate

knowledge to but few.

It was to one of these famous yet mysterious gatherings that the regent

of France had invited the master of that great and glittering bubble

house, wherein dwelt so insecurely the affairs of France. John Law,

director-general of the finances, controller of the Company of the

Indies, was chosen by Philippe of Orléans for a position not granted to

the crafty Dubois or to the shrewd D'Argenson, the last of that strange

trinity who made his council. John Law, gallant, graceful, owner of a

reputation as wit and beau scarce behind that of his sudden fame as

financier, was admitted not only to the business affairs of the gay

duke, but to his pleasures as well. To him and his brother Will, still

associated in large measure in the stupendous operations of the

director-general, there came the invitation of the regent, practically

the command of the king, to join the regent after the opera for a little

supper at the Palais Royal.

Law would have excused himself from this unsought honor. "Your Grace

will observe," said he, "that my time is occupied to the full. The

people scarcely suffer me to rest at night. Perhaps your Grace might not

care for company so dull as mine."

"Fie! my friend, my very good friend," replied Philippe. "Have you

become _dévot_? Whence this sudden change? Consider; 'tis no hardship to

meet such ladies as Madame de Sabran, or Madame de Prie--designer

though I fear De Prie is for the domestic felicity of the youthful

king--nor indeed my good friend, La Parabère, somewhat pale and pensive

though she groweth. And what shall I say for Madame de Tencin, the

_spirituelle_, who is to be with us; or Madame de Caylus, niece of

Maintenon, but the very opposite of Maintenon in every possible way?

Moreover, we are promised the attendance of Mademoiselle Aïssé. She hath

become devout of late, and thinks it a sin even to powder her hair, but

Aïssé devout is none the less Aïssé the beautiful."

"Surely your Grace hath never lacked in excellent taste, and that is the

talk of Paris," replied Law.

"Oh, well, long training bringeth perfection in due time," replied

Philippe of Orléans, composedly, it having no ill effect with him to

call attention to his numerous intrigues. "It should hardly be called a

poor privilege, after all, to witness the results of that highly

cultivated taste, as it shall be displayed this evening, not to mention

the privilege you will have of meeting one or two other gentlemen; and

lastly, of course, myself, if you be not tired of such company."

"Your Grace," replied Law, "you both honor and flatter me."

"Why, sir, you speak as if this were a new experience for you. Now, in

the days--"

"'Tis true; but of late years I have grown grave in the cares of state,

as your Grace may know."

"And most efficiently," replied the regent. "But stay! I have kept until

the last my main attraction. You shall witness there, I give you my

word, the making public of the secret of the fair unknown who is reputed

to have been especially kind to Philippe of Orléans for these some

months past. Join us at the little enterprise, my friend, and you shall

see, I promise you, the most beautiful woman in Paris, crowned with the

greatest gem of all the world. The regent's diamond, that great gem

which you have made possible for France, shall, for the first time, and

for one evening at least, adorn the forehead of the regent's queen of

beauty!"

As the gay words of the regent fell upon his ears, there came into Law's

heart a curious tension, a presentiment, a feeling as though some great

and curious thing were about to happen. Yet ever the challenge of danger

was one to draw him forward, not to hold him back. If for a moment he

had hesitated, his mind was now suddenly resolved.

"Your Grace," said he, "your wish is for me command, and certainly in

this instance is peculiarly agreeable."

"As I thought," replied the regent. "Had you hesitated, I should have

called your attention to the fact that the table of the Palais Royal is

considered to possess somewhat of character. The Vicomte de Béchamel is

at the very zenith of his genius, and he daily produces dishes such as

all Paris has not ever dreamed. Moreover, we have been fortunate in some

recent additions of most excellent _vin d'Ai_. I make no doubt, upon the

whole, we shall find somewhat with which to occupy ourselves."

Thus it came about that, upon that evening, there gathered at the

entrance of the Palais Royal, after an evening with Lecouvreur at the

Théâtre Français, some scattered groups of persons evidently possessing

consequence. The chairs of others, from more distant locations,

threading their way through the narrow, dark and unlighted streets of

the old, crude capital of France, brought their passengers in time to a

scene far different from that of the gloomy streets.

The little supper of the regent, arranged in the private _salle_, whose

decorations had been devised for the special purpose, was more

entrancing than even the glitter of the mimic world of the Théâtre

Français. There extended down the center of the room, though filling but

a small portion of its vast extent, the grand table provided for the

banquet, a reach of snowy linen, broken at the upper end by the arm of

an abbreviated cross. At each end of this cross-arm stood magnificent

candelabra, repeated at intervals along the greater extension of the

board. Noble epergnes, filled with the choicest plants, found their

reflections in plates of glass cunningly inlaid here and there upon the

surface of the table. Vast mirrors, framed in wreaths of roses and

surmounted by little laughing cupids, gleamed in the walls of the room,

and in the faces of these mirrors were reflected the beams of the

many-colored tapers, carried in brackets of engraved gold and silver and

many-colored glasses. The ceiling of the room was a soft mass of silken

draperies, depending edgewise from above, thousands of yards of the most

expensive fabrics of the world. From these, as they were gently swayed

by the breath of invisible fans, there floated delicious, languorous

perfumes, intoxicating to the senses. On any hand within the great room,

removed at some distance from the table, were rich, luxurious couches

and divans.

As one trod within the door of this temple of the senses, surely it must

have seemed to him that he had come into another world, which at first

glance might have appeared to be one of an unrighteous ease, an

unprincipled enjoyment and an unmanly abandonment to embowered vice.

Yet here it was that Philippe of Orléans, ruler of France, spent those

hours most dear to him. If he gave thought to affairs of state during

the day it was but that these affairs of state might give to him the

means to indulge fancies of his own. Alike shrewd and easy, alike

haughty and sensuous, here it was that Philippe held his real court.

These young gentlemen of France, these _roués_ who have come to meet

Philippe at his little supper--how different from the same beings under

the rule of the Grand Monarque. Their coats are no longer dark in hue.

Their silks and velvets have blossomed out, even as Paris has blossomed

since the death of Louis the Grand. Jabots of lace are shown in full

abundance, and so far from the abolishment of jewels from their garb,

rubies, sapphires, diamonds sparkle everywhere, from the clasp of the

high ruffles of the neck to the buckles of the red-heeled shoes. Powder

sparkles on the head coverings of these new gallants of France. They

step daintily, yet not ungracefully, into this brilliantly-lighted room,

these creatures, gracious and resplendent, sparkling, painted,

ephemeral, not unsuited to the place and hour.

For the ladies, witness the attire, for instance, of that Madame de

Tencin, the wonder of the wits of Paris. A full blue costume, with

pannier more than five yards in circumference, under a skirt of silver

gauze, trimmed with golden gauze and pink crape, and a train lying six

yards upon the floor, showing silver embroideries with white roses. The

sleeves are half-draped, as is the skirt, and each caught up with

diamonds, showing folds lying above and below the silk underneath.

Madame wears a necklace of rubies and of diamonds, and above the pannier

a belt of diamonds and rubies. Her hair is dressed, following the mental

habit of madame, in the Greek style, and abundantly trimmed with roses

and gems and bits of silver gauze. There is a little crown upon the top

of madame's coiffure. Her bodice, cut sufficiently low, is seen to be of

light silken weave. From her hair depends a veil of light gauze covered

with gold spangles, and it is secured upon the left side by a hand's

grasp of pink and white feathers, surmounted by a magnificent heron

plume of long and silken whiteness. The gloves of madame are white silk,

and so also, as she is not reluctant to advise, are her stockings,

picked out with pink and silver clocks. Her shoes, made by the

celebrated _cordonnier_, Raveneau, show heels three inches in height. As

madame enters she casts aside the camlet coat which has covered her

costume. She sweeps back the veil, endangering its confining clasp of

plumes. Madame makes a deliberate and open inspection of her face in her

little looking-glass to discover whether her _mouches_ are well placed.

She carefully arranges the patch upon the middle of her cheek. She would

be "gallant" to-night, would lay aside things _spirituelle_. She twirls

carelessly her fan, a creation of ivory and mother of pearl, elaborately

carved, tipped with gold and silver and set with precious stones.

Close at the elbow of Madame de Tencin steps a figure of different type,

a woman not accustomed to please by brilliance of mind or vivacity of

speech, but by sheer femininity of face and form. Tall, slender, yet

with figure divinely proportioned, this beautiful girl, Haideé, or

Mademoiselle Aïssé, reputed to be of Turkish or Circassian birth, and

possessed of a history as strange as her own personality is attractive,

would seem certainly as pure as angel of the skies. Not so would say the

gossips of Paris, who whisper that mademoiselle is not happy from her

_chevalier_--who speak of a certain visit to England, and a little child

born across seas and not acknowledged by its parent. Aïssé, the devout,

the beautiful, is no better than others of her sex in this gay city.

True, she has abandoned all artificial aids to the complexion and

appears distinct among her flattering rivals, the clear olive of her

skin showing in strange contrast to the heightened colors of her

sisters. Yet Aïssé, the toast of Europe and the text of poets, proves

herself not behind the others in the loose gaiety of this occasion.

And there came others: Madame de Prie, later to hold such intimate

relations with the fortunes of France in the selection of a future queen

for the boy king; De Sabran, plain, gracious and good-natured; Parabère,

of delicately oval face, of tiny mouth, of thin high nose and large

expressive eyes, her soft hair twined with a deep flushed rose, and over

her corsage drooping a continuous garland of magnificent flowers. Also

Caylus the wit, Caylus the friend of Peter the Great, by duty and by

devotion a _religieuse_, but by thought and training a gay woman of the

world--all these butterflies of the bubble house of Paris came swimming

in as by right upon this exotic air.

And all of these, as they advanced into the room, paused as they met,

coming from the head of the apartment, the imposing figure of their

host. Philippe of Orléans, his powdered wig drawn closely into a

half-bag at the nape of the neck, his full eye shining with merriment

and good nature, his soft, yet not unmanly figure appearing to good

advantage in his well-chosen garments, advances with a certain dignity

to meet his guests. He is garbed in a coat made of watered silk, its

straight collar faced with dark-green material edged with gold. A green

and gold shoulder knot sets off the garment, which is provided with

large opal buttons set in brilliants, this same adornment appearing on

the hilt of his sword, which he lays aside as he approaches. From the

sides of his wig depend two carefully-arranged locks, dusted with a

tan-colored powder. His small-clothes, of lighter hue than the coat,

display fitly the proportions of his lower limbs. The high-heeled shoes

blaze with the glare of reflected lights as the diamonds change their

angles during the calm advance down the room.

"Welcome, my very dear ladies," exclaimed Philippe, advancing to the

head of the board and at once setting all at ease, if any there needed

such encouragement, by the grace and good feeling of his air. "You do me

much honor, ladies. If I be not careful, the fair Adrienne will become

jealous, since I fear you have deserted the pomp of the play full early

for the table of Philippe. Ladies, as you know, I am your devoted slave.

Myself and the Vicomte de Béchamel have labored, seriously labored, for

your welfare this day. I promise you something of the results of those

painstaking efforts, which we both hope will not disappoint you.

Meantime, that the moments may not lag, let me recommend, if I am

allowed, this new vintage of Ai, which Béchamel advises me we have

never yet surpassed in all our efforts. Madame de Tencin, let me beg of

you to be seated close to my arm. Not upon this side, Mademoiselle

Haidée, if you please, for I have been wheedled into promising that

station this night to another. Who is it to be, my dear Caylus? Ah, that

is my secret! Presently we shall see. Have I not promised you an

occasion this evening? And did Philippe ever fail in his endeavors to

please? At least, did he ever cease to strive to please his angels? Now,

my children, accept the blessing of your father Philippe, your friend,

who, though years may multiply upon him, retains in his heart, none the

less, for each and all of you, those sentiments of passion and of

admiration which constitute for him his dearest memories! Ladies, I pray

you be seated. I pray you tarry not too long before proving the judgment

of Béchamel in regard to this new vintage of Ai."

"Ah, your Grace," exclaimed De Tencin, "were it not Philippe of Orléans,

we women might not be apt to sit in peace together. Yet, as we have

earlier proved your hospitality, we may perhaps not scruple to

continue."

Philippe smiled blandly. The remark was not ill-fitted to the actual

case. Though the regent counted his sweethearts by scores, he dismissed

the one with the same air of interest as he welcomed the other, and

indeed ended by retaining all as his friends.

"Madame de Tencin, in admiration there can be no degrees," said he. "In

love there can be no rank."

"Why, then, do you place as your chief guest this other, this unknown?"

pouted Mademoiselle Aïssé, as she seated herself, turning upon her host

the radiance of her large, dark eyes. "Is this stranger, then, so

passing fair?"

"Not so fair as you, my lovely Haidée, that I may swear, and safely,

since she is not yet present. Yet I announce to you that she is _très

intéressante_, my unknown queen of beauty, my _belle sauvage_ from

America. But see! Here she comes. 'Tis time for her to appear, and not

keep our guests in waiting."

There sounded at the back of the great hall the tinkle of a little bell

of some soft metal. It approached, and with it the sweeping stir of

heavy silken garb. The door opened, admitting a still greater blaze of

light, and there swept into the hall, as though swimming upon the flood

of this added brilliance, a figure striking enough to arouse attention

even at that time and place, even among the beauties of the court of

France. There advanced, calm and stately, with the gliding ease of a

perfect carriage, the figure of a woman, slender, with full bright eyes

and somber hair--so much might be seen at a glance. Yet the newcomer

left somewhat of query in the mind of womankind accustomed to view in

detail any costume.

The stranger was enveloped in a wide and undefining garment, a sweeping

robe fit for any duchess of the realm, whose flowing folds showed a

magnificent tissue of silver embroidery covered with golden flowers,

below the plum-color and green. The high corsage of the white robe

covered the bosom fully, and was caught at the throat with a bunch of

blazing jewels. Under these soft draperies, tinkling in time with the

movements of an otherwise noiseless tread, there sounded ever the faint

note of the little bell. At the toe of shoes otherwise silent, there

peeped in and out the flash of diamonds, and in the dark masses of her

hair, shifting as she trod beneath each new sconce in turn, and catching

more and more brilliance as she advanced, there smoldered the flame of a

mass of scintillating gems. A queen's raiment was that of this unknown

beauty, and she herself might have been a queen as she swept down the

great hall, scornfully careless of the eyes of those other beauties.

She stepped to the place at the regent's right hand, with head high and

eyes undrooping. For a dramatic instant she paused, as though in the

rehearsal of a part--a part of which it might be said that the regent

was not alone the author. This triumph of woman over other women, this

triumph of vice over other vice, of effrontery over effrontery

akin--this could not have been so planned and executed by any but a

woman. One another these beauties might tolerate, knowing one another's

frailties as they did; yet the elegance, the disdain, the indifference

of this newcomer--this they could not support. Hatred sat in the bosom

of each woman there as she swept her courtesy to the new guest of the

regent, who took her place as of right at the head of the board and near

the regent's arm.

"Our gentlemen are somewhat late this evening," exclaimed Philippe.

"'Tis too bad the Abbé Dubois could not be with us to-night to

administer clerical consolation."

"Ah! _le drôle_ Dubois!" exclaimed Madame de Tencin.

"And that vagabond, the Due de Richelieu--but we may not wait. Again

ladies, the glasses, or Béchamel will be aggrieved. And finally, though

I perceive most of you have graciously unmasked, let me say that the

moment has now arrived when we make plain all secrets."

He turned his gaze upon the woman at his right. As though at a signal,

she half rose, unclasped the circlet of gems at her throat, and swept

back across the arm of her chair the soft garment which enveloped her.

A sigh, a long breath of amazement broke from those other dames of

Paris. Not one of them but was sated with the blaze of diamonds, the

rich, red light of rubies and the fathomless radiance of sapphires.

Silks and satins and cloth of gold and silver had few novelties for

them. The costumers of Paris, center of the world of art, even in those

times of unrivaled extravagance and unbridled self-gratification, held

no new surprise for these beauties, possessed so long of all that their

imagination required or that princely liberality could supply. Yet here

indeed was a surprise.

As she stood at the regent's right, calmly and composedly looking down

the long board as she arranged her drapery before reseating herself,

this new favorite of the regent appeared in the full costume of the

American native! A long soft tunic of exquisitely dressed white leather

fell below her hips, intricately embroidered in the native bead work of

America, and stained with great blotches of colors done in the quills of

the porcupine--heavy reds, sprightly yellows, and deep blues. Down the

seams of this loose-fitting tunic depended little waving fringes. The

belt which caught it at the waist was wrought likewise in beads. Beneath

the level of the table, as she stood, the inquiring eyes might not so

clearly see; yet the white leggings, fringed and beaded, and covered by

a sweeping blanket of snowy buckskin, might have been seen to finish at

the ankle and blend in texture and ornamentation with tiny shoes, which

covered the smallest foot yet seen in Paris--shoes at the side of which

there dangled the little bells of metal whose tones had told her coming.

Here and there upon the bead work of the native artist, who had made

this attire at the expense of so much patient effort, there blazed the

changing rays of real gems, diamonds, rubies, emeralds--every stone

known as precious. As the full bosom of the scornful beauty rose and

fell there were cast about in sprays of light the reflections of these

gems. Bracelets of dull, beaten metal hung about her wrists. In her hair

were ornaments of some dull blue stone. Barbaric, beautiful,

fascinating, savage she surely seemed as she met unruffled the startled

gaze of these beautiful women of the court, who never, at even the most

fanciful _bal masque_ in all Paris, had seen costume like to this.

"Ladies, _la voilà_!" spoke the regent. "_Ma belle sauvage_!"

The newcomer swept a careless courtesy as she took her seat. As yet she

had spoken no word. The door at the lower end of the hall opened.

"His Grace le Duc de Richelieu," announced the attendant, who stood

beneath the board.

There advanced into the room, with slouchy, ill-bred carriage, a young

man whose sole reputation was that of being the greatest rake in Paris,

the Duc de Richelieu, half-gamin, half-nobleman, who counted more

victims among titled ladies than he had fingers on his hands, whose sole

concern of living was to plan some new impassioned avowal, some new and

pitiless abandonment. This creature, meeting the salute of the regent,

and catching at the same moment a view of the regent's guest, found eyes

for nothing else, and stood boldly gazing at the face of her whom Paris

knew for the first time and under no more definite title than that of

"_Belle Sauvage_."

"Pray you, be seated, Monsieur le Duc," said the regent, calmly, and the

latter was wise enough to comply.

"Your Grace," said Madame de Sabran, "was it not understood that we were

to meet to-night none less than the wizard, Monsieur L'as?"

"Monsieur L'as will be with us, and his brother," replied Philippe.

"But now I ask you to bear witness to the shrewdness of your friend

Philippe in entertainment. I bethought me that, as we were to have with

us the master of the Messasebe, it were well to have with us also the

typified genius of that same Messasebe. 'Twas but a little conceit of my

own. And why--_mon enfant_, what is it to you? What do you know of our

controller of finance?"

The face of the woman at his right had suddenly gone white with a pallor

visible even beneath its rouge and patches. She half turned, as though

to push back her chair from the board, would have arisen, would have

spoken perhaps; yet act and gesture were at the time unnoticed.

"His Excellency, Monsieur Jean L'as, _le contrôleur-général_," came the

soft tones of the attendant near the door. "Monsieur Guillaume L'as,

brother of the _contrôleur-général_."

The eyes of all were turned toward the door. Every petted belle of

Paris there assembled shifted bodily in her seat, turning her gaze upon

that man whose reputation was the talk of all the realm of France.

There appeared now the tall, erect and vigorous form of a man owning a

superb physical beauty. Powerful, yet not too heavy for ease, his figure

retained that elasticity and grace which had won him favor in more than

one court of Europe. He himself might have been king as he advanced

steadily up the brilliantly-illuminated room. His costume, simply made,

yet of the richest materials of the time; his wig, highly powdered

though of modest proportions; his every item of apparel appeared alike

of great simplicity and barren of pretentiousness. As much might be said

for the garb of his brother, who stepped close behind him, a figure less

self-contained than that of the man who now occupied the absorbed

attention of the public mind, even as he now filled the eager eyes of

those who turned to greet his entrance.

"Ah, Monsieur L'as, Monsieur L'as!" exclaimed Philippe of Orléans,

stepping forward to welcome him and taking the hand of Law in both his

own. "You are welcome, you are very welcome indeed. The soup will be

with us presently, and the wine of Ai is with us now. You and your

brother are with us; so all at last is well. These ladies are, as I

believe, all within your acquaintance. You have been present at the

_salon_ of Madame de Tencin. You know her Grace the Duchesse de Falari,

recently Madame d'Artague? Mademoiselle de Caylus you know very well,

and of course also Mademoiselle Aïssé, _la belle Circassienne_--But

what? _Diable_! Have you too gone mad? Come, is the sight of my guest

too much for you also, Monsieur L'as?"

There was irritation in the tone with which the regent uttered this

protest, yet he continued.

"Monsieur L'as, 'tis but a little surprise I had planned for you.

Mademoiselle, my princess of the Messasebe, let me present Monsieur Jean

L'as, king of the Messasebe, and hence your sovereign! This is my fair

unknown, whose face I have promised you should see to-night--this,

Monsieur L'as, is my princess, the one whom I have seen fit to honor

this evening by the wearing of the chief gem of France."

The regent fumbled for an instant at his fob. He stepped to the side of

the faltering figure which stood arrayed in all its savage finery. One

movement, and upon the dark locks which fell about her brow there blazed

the unspeakable fires of a stone whose magnificence brought forth

exclamations of awe from every person present.

"See!" cried Philippe of Orléans. "'Twas on the advice and by the aid of

Monsieur L'as that I secured the gem, whose like is not known in all the

world. 'Tis chief of the crown jewels of the realm of France, this

stone, now to be known as the regent's diamond. And now, as regent of

France and master for a day of her jewels, I place this gem upon the

brow of her who for this night is to be your queen of beauty!"

The wine of Ai had already done part of its work. There were brightened

eyes, easy gestures and ready compliance as the guests arose to quaff

the toast to this new queen.

As for the queen herself, she stood faltering, her eyes averted, her

limbs trembling. John Law, tall, calm, self-possessed, did not take his

seat, but stood with set, fixed face, gazing at the woman who held the

place of honor at the table of the regent.

"Come! Come!" cried the latter, testily, his wine working in his brain.

"Why stand you there, Monsieur L'as, gazing as though spellbound?

Salute, sir, as I do, the chief gem of France, and her who is most fit

to wear it!"

John Law stood, as though he had not heard him speak. There swept

through the softly brilliant air, over the flash and glitter of the

great banquet board, across the little group which stood about it, a

sudden sense of a strange, tense, unfamiliar situation. There came to

all a presentiment of some unusual thing about to happen. Instinctively

the hands paused, even as they raised the bright and brimming glasses.

The eyes of all turned from one to the other, from the stern-faced man

to the woman decked in barbaric finery, who now stood trembling,

drooping, at the head of the table.

Law for a moment removed his gaze from the face of the regent's guest.

He flicked lightly at the deep cuff of lace which hung about his hands.

"Your Grace is not far wrong," said he. "I regret that you do not have

your way in planning for me a surprise. Yet I must say to you, that I

have already met this lady."

"What?" cried the regent. "You have met her? Impossible! Incredible!

How, Monsieur L'as? We will admit you wizard enough, and owner of the

philosopher's stone--owner of anything you like, except this secret of

mine own. According to mademoiselle's own words, it would have been

impossible."

"None the less, what I have said is true," said John Law, calmly, his

voice even and well-modulated, vibrating a little, yet showing no trace

of anger nor of emotional uncontrol.

"But I tell you it could not be!" again exclaimed the regent.

"No, it is impossible," broke in the young Duc de Richelieu. "I would

swear that had such beauty ever set foot in Paris before now, the news

would so have spread that all France had been at her feet."

Law looked at the impudent youth with a gaze that seemed to pass

through him, seeing him not. Then suddenly this scene and its

significance, its ultimate meaning seemed to take instant hold upon him.

He could feel rising within his soul a flood of irresistible emotions.

All at once his anger, heritage of an impetuous youth, blazed up hot and

furious. He trod a step farther forward, after his fashion advancing

close to that which threatened him.

"This lady, your Grace," said he, "has been known to me for years. Mary

Connynge, what do you masquerading here?"

A sudden silence fell, a silence broken at length by the voice of the

regent himself.

"Surely, Monsieur L'as," said Philippe, "surely we must accept your

statements. But Monsieur must remember that this is the table of the

regent, that these are the friends of the regent. We bring no

recollections here which shall cut short the joy of any person. Sir, I

would not reprimand you, but I must beg that you be seated and be calm!"

Yet the imperious nature of the other brooked not even so pointed a

rebuke. As though he had not heard, Law stepped yet a pace nearer to the

woman, upon whom he now bent the blaze of his angered eyes. He looked

neither to right nor left, but visually commanded the woman until in

turn her eyes sought his own.

"This woman, your Grace," said Law, at length, "was for some time in

effect my wife. This I do not offer as matter of interest. What I would

say to your Grace is this--she was also my slave!"

"Sirrah!" cried the regent.

"Ah, Dame!" exclaimed the Duc de Richelieu. And even from the women

about there came little murmurs of expostulation. Indeed there might

have been pity, even in this assemblage, for the agony now visible upon

the brow of Mary Connynge.

"Monsieur, the wine has turned your head," said the regent scornfully.

"You boast!"

"I boast of nothing," cried Law, savagely, his voice now ringing with a

tone none present had ever known it to assume. "I say to you again, this

woman was my slave, and that she will again do as I shall choose. Your

Grace, she would come and wipe the dust from my shoes if I should

command it! She would kneel at my feet, and beg of me, if I should

command it! Shall I prove this, your Grace?"

"Oh, assuredly!" replied the regent, with a sarcasm which now seemed his

only relief. "Assuredly, if Monsieur L'as should please. We here in

Paris are quite his humble servants."

Law said nothing. He stood with his biting blue eyes still fixed upon

Mary Connynge, whose own eyes faltered, trying their utmost to escape

from his; whose fingers, resting just lightly on the snowy Hollands of

the table cloth, moved tremulously; whose limbs appeared ready to sink

beneath her.

"Come, then, Mary Connynge!" cried Law at last, his teeth setting

savagely together. "Come, then, traitress and slave, and kneel before

me, as you did once before!"

Then there ensued a strange and horrible spectacle. A hush as of death

fell upon the group. Mary Connynge, trembling, halting, yet always

advancing, did indeed as her master had bidden! She passed from the head

of the table, back of the chair of the regent, who stood gazing with

horror in his eyes; she passed the chair of Aïssé, near which Law now

stood; she paused in front of him, and stood as though in a dream. Her

knees would have indeed sunk beneath her. She drew from her bosom a

silken kerchief, as though she would indeed have performed the ignoble

service which had been threatened for her. There came neither voice nor

motion to those who saw this thing. The sheer force of one strong

nature, terrible in the intensity of one supreme moment--this might have

been the spell which commanded at the table of the regent. Yet this did

occur.

There came a sound which broke the silence, which caused all to start as

with swift relief. A sob, short, dry, hard, as from one whose heart is

broken, came from beyond the place where Law stood facing the trembling

woman. The eyes of all turned upon Will Law, from whom had burst this

irrepressible exclamation of agony. Will Law, as one grown swiftly old,

haggard, broken-down, stood gazing in wide-eyed horror at this woman, so

humiliated in the presence of all in this brilliantly-lighted hall;

before the blazing mirrors which should have reflected back naught but

beauty and joy; under the twining roses, which should have been the

signs manual of undying love; under the smiling cherubs, which should

have typified the deities of happy love. Will Law, too, had loved.

Perhaps still he loved.

This sharp sound served to break also the spell under which Law himself

seemed held. He cast aloft his arms, as in remorse or in despair. Then

he extended a hand to the woman who would have sunk before him.

"God forgive me! Madam," he cried. "I had forgot. Savage indeed you are

and have been, but 'tis not for me to treat you brutally."

"Your Grace," said he, turning toward the regent, "I crave your

pardon. Our explanations shall reach you on the morrow."

[Illustration]

He turned, and taking his brother by the arm, advanced toward the door

at which he had recently entered, pausing not to look behind him. Had

his eye been more curious as he and his half-fainting brother bowed

before passing through the door, it might have seen that which he must

long have borne in memory.

Mary Connynge, trembling, pallid, utterly broken, never found her way

back to the right hand of the regent. She half stumbled into a chair

near the foot of the table. Her bosom fluttered at the base of the

throat. Half blindly she reached out her hand toward a glass of wine

which stood near by, foaming and sparkling, its gem-like drops of keen

pungency swimming continuously up to the surface. Her hand caught at the

slender stem of the glass. Leaning upon her left arm, she half rose as

though to put it to her lips. Her head moved, as though she would follow

the retreating figure of the man who had thus scornfully used her. All

at once, slowly, and then with a sudden crash, she sank down upon her

seat and fell forward across the table. The fragile glass snapped in her

fingers. The amber wine rushed in swift flood across the linen. In the

broadening stain there fell and lay blazing the great gem of France.

CHAPTER IX

THE NEWS

"Lady Kitty! Lady Kitty! Have you heard the news?"

Thus, breathless, the Countess of Warrington, Lady Catharine's English

neighbor in exile, who burst into the drawing-room early in the morning,

not waiting for announcement of her presence.

"Nay, not yet, my dear," said Lady Catharine, advancing and embracing

her. "What is it, pray? Has the poodle swallowed a bone, or the baby

perhaps cut another tooth? And, forsooth, how is the little one?"

Lady Emily Warrington, slender, elegant, well clad, and for the most

part languorously calm, was in a state of excitement quite without her

customary _aplomb_. She sank into a seat, fanning herself with a vigor

which threatened ruin to the precious slats of a fan which bore the

handiwork of Watteau.

"The streets are full of it," said she. "Have you not heard, really?"

"I must say, not yet. But what is it?"

"Why, the quarrel between the regent and his director-general, Mr.

Law."

"No, I have not heard of it." Lady Catharine sought refuge behind her

own fan. "But tell me" she continued.

"But that is not all. 'Twas the reason for the quarrel. Paris is all

agog. 'Twas about a woman!"

"You mean--there was--a woman?"

"Yes, it all happened last night, at the Palais Royal. The woman is

dead--died last night. 'Tis said she fell in a fit at the very

table--'twas at a little supper given by the regent--and that when they

came to her she was quite dead."

"But Mr. Law--"

"'Twas he that killed her!"

"Good God! What mean you?" cried Lady Catharine, her own face blanching

behind her protecting fan. The blood swept back upon her heart, leaving

her cold as a statue.

"Why," continued the caller, in her own excitement to tell the news

scarce noting what went on before her, "it seems that this mysterious

beauty of the regent's, of whom there has been so much talk, proved to

be none other than a former mistress of this same Mr. Law, who is

reputed to have been somewhat given to that sort of thing, though of

late monstrous virtuous, for some cause or other. Mr. Law came suddenly

upon her at the table of the regent, arrayed in some kind of savage

finery--for 'twas in fashion a mask that evening, as you must know. And

what doth my director-general do, so high and mighty? Why, in spite of

the regent and in spite of all those present, he upbraids her, taunts

her, reviles her, demanding that she fall on her knees before him, as it

seems indeed she would have done--as, forsooth, half the dames of Paris

would do to-day! Then, all of a sudden, my Lord Director changes, and he

craves pardon of the woman and of the regent, and so stalks off and

leaves the room! And now then the poor creature walks to the table,

would lift a glass of wine, and so--'tis over! 'Twas like a play! Indeed

all Paris is like a play nowadays. Of course you know the rest."

A gesture of negative came from the hand that lay in Lady Catharine's

lap. The busy gossip went on.

"The regent, be sure, was angry enough at this cheapening of his own

wares before all, and perhaps 'tis true he had a fancy for the woman. At

any rate, 'tis said that this very morning he quarreled hotly with Mr.

Law. The latter gave back words hot as he received, and so they had it

violent enough. 'Tis stated on the Quinquempoix that another must take

Mr. Law's place. But if Mr. Law goes, what will become of the System?

And what would the System be without Mr. Law? And what would Paris be

without the System? Why, listen, Lady Catharine! I gained fifty thousand

livres yesterday, and my coachman, the rascal, in some manner seems to

have done quite as well for himself. I doubt not he will yet build a

mansion of his own, and perhaps my husband may drive for him! These be

strange days indeed. I only hope they may continue, in spite of what my

husband says."

"And what says he?" asked Lady Catharine, her own voice sounding to her

unfamiliar and far away.

"Why, that the city is mad, and that this soon must end--this

Mississippi bubble, as my Lord Stair calls it at the embassy."

"Yet I have heard all France is prosperous."

"Oh, yes indeed. 'Tis said that but yesterday the kingdom paid four

millions of its debt to Bavaria, three millions of its debt to

Sweden--yet these are not the most pressing debts of France."

"Meaning--"

"Why, the debts of the regent to his friends--those are the important

things. But the other day he gave eighty thousand livres to Madame

Châteauthiers, as a little present. He gave two hundred thousand livres

to the Abbé Something-or-other, who asked for it, and another thousand

livres to that rat Dubois. The thief D'Argenson ever counsels him to

give in abundance now that he hath abundance, and the regent is ready

with a vengeance with his compliance. Saint Simon, that priggish duke,

has had a million given him to repay a debt his father took on for the

king a generation ago. To the captain of the guard the regent gives six

hundred thousand livres, for carrying the fan of the regent's forgotten

wife; to the Prince Courtenay, two hundred thousand, most like because

the prince said he had need of it; a pension of two hundred thousand

annually to the Marquise de Bellefonte, the second such sum, because

perhaps she once made eyes at him; a pension of sixty thousand livres to

a three-year-old relative to the Prince de Conti, because Conti cried

for it; one hundred thousand livres to Mademoiselle Haidée, because she

has a consumption; and as much more to the Duchesse de Falari, because

she has not a consumption. Bah! The credit of France might indeed, as my

husband says, be called leaking through the slats of fans."

"But, look you!" she went on, "how Mr. Law feathers his own nest. He

bought lately, for a half million livres, the house of the Comte de

Tesse; and on the same day, as you know, the Hôtel Mazarin. There is no

limit to his buying of estates. This, so says my husband, is the great

proof of his honesty. He puts his money here in France, and does not

send it over seas. He seems to have no doubt, and indeed no fear, of

anything."

Lady Warrington paused, half for want of breath. Silence fell in the

great room. A big and busy fly, deep down in the crystal _cylindre_

which sheltered a taper on a near-by table, buzzed out a droning

protest. The face of Lady Catharine was averted.

"You did not tell me, Lady Emily," said she, with woman's feigned

indifference, "what was the name of this poor woman of the other

evening."

"Why, so I had forgot--and 'tis said that Mr. Law, after all, comported

himself something of the gentleman. No one knows how far back the affair

runs, nor how serious it was. And indeed I have seen no one who ever

heard of the woman before."

"And the name?"

"'Twas said Mr. Law called her Mary Connynge."

The big fly, deep down in the crystal cage, buzzed on audibly; and to

one who heard it, the drone of the lazy wings seemed like the roars of a

thousand tempests.

CHAPTER X

MASTER AND MAN

John Law, idle, preoccupied, sat gazing out at the busy scenes of the

street before him. The room in which he found himself was one of a suite

in that magnificent Hôtel de Soisson, bought but recently of the Prince

de Carignan for the sum of one million four hundred thousand livres,

which had of late been chosen as the temple of Fortuna. The great

gardens of this distinguished site were now filled with hundreds of

tents and kiosks, which offered quarters for the wild mob of speculators

which surged and swirled and fought throughout the narrow avenues,

contending for the privilege of buying the latest issue of the priceless

shares of the Company of the Indies.

The System was at its height. The bubble was blown to its last limit.

The popular delirium had grown to its last possible degree.

From the window these mad mobs of infuriated human beings might have

seemed so many little ants, running about as though their home had been

destroyed above their heads. They hastened as though fleeing from the

breath of some devouring flame. Surely the point of flame was there, at

that focus of Paris, this focus of all Europe; and thrice refined was

the quality of this heat, burning out the hearts of those distracted

ones.

Yet it was a scene not altogether without its fascinations. Hither came

titled beauties of Paris, peers of the realm, statesmen, high officials,

princes of the blood; all these animated but by one purpose--to bid and

outbid for these bits of paper, which for the moment meant wealth,

luxury, ease, every imaginable desire. It seemed indeed that the world

was mad. Tradesmen, artisans, laborers, peasants, jostled the princes

and nobility, nor met reproof. Rank was forgotten. Democracy, for the

first time on earth, had arrived. All were equal who held equal numbers

of these shares. The mind of each was blank to all but one absorbing

theme.

Law looked over this familiar scene, indifferent, calm, almost moody,

his cheek against his hand, his elbow on his chair. "What was the call,

Henri," asked he, at length, of the old Swiss who had, during these

stormy times, been so long his faithful attendant. "What was the last

quotation that you heard?"

"Your Honor, there are no quotations," replied the attendant. "'Tis

only as one is able to buy. The _actions_ of the last issue, three

hundred thousand in all, were swept away at a breath at fifteen thousand

livres the share."

"Ninety times what their face demands," said Law, impassively.

"True, some ninety times," said the Swiss. "'Tis said that of this issue

the regent has taken over one-third, or one hundred thousand, himself.

'Tis this that makes the price of the other two-thirds run the higher,

since 'tis all that the public has to buy."

"Lucky regent," said Law, sententiously. "Plenty would seem to have been

his fortune!"

He grimly turned again to his study of the crowds which swarmed among

the pavilions before his window. Outside his door he heard knockings and

cries, and impatient footfalls, but neither he nor the impassive Swiss

paid to these the least attention. It was to them an old experience.

"Your Honor, the Prince de Conti is in the antechamber and would see

you," at length ventured the attendant, after listening for some time

with his ear at an aperture in the door.

"Let the Prince de Conti wait," said Law, "and a plague take him for a

grasping miser! He has gained enough. Time was when I waited at his

door."

"The Abbé Dubois--here is his message pushed beneath the door."

"My dearest enemy," replied Law, calmly. "The old rat may seek another

burrow."

"The Duchesse de la Rochefoucauld."

"Ah, then, she hath overcome her husband's righteousness of resolution,

and would beg a share or so? Let her wait. I find these duchesses the

most tiresome animals in the world."

"The Madame de Tencin."

"I can not see the Madame de Tencin."

"A score of dukes and foreign princes. My faith! master, we have never

had so large a line of guests as come this morning." The stolid

impassiveness of the Swiss seemed on the point of giving way.

"Let them wait," replied Law, evenly as before. "Not one of them would

listen to me five years ago. Now I shall listen to them--shall listen to

them knocking at my door, as I have knocked at theirs. To-day I am

aweary, and not of mind to see any one. Let them wait."

"But what shall I say? What shall I tell them, my master?"

"Tell them nothing. Let them wait."

Thus the crowd of notables packed into the anterooms waited at the

door, fuming and execrating, yet not departing. They all awaited the

magician, each with the same plea--some hope of favor, of advancement,

or of gain.

At last there arose yet a greater tumult in the hall which led to the

door. A squad of guardsmen pushed through the packed ranks with the cry:

"For the king!" The regent of France stood at the closed door of the man

who was still the real ruler of France.

"Open, open, in the name of the king!" cried one, as he beat loudly on

the panels.

Law turned languidly toward the attendant. "Henri," said he, "tell them

to be more quiet."

"My master, 'tis the regent!" expostulated the other, with somewhat of

anxiety in his tones.

"Let him wait," replied Law, coolly. "I have waited for him."

"But, my master, they protest, they clamor--"

"Very well. Let them do so--but stay. If it is indeed the regent, I may

as well meet him now and say that which is in my mind. Open the door."

The door swung open and there entered the form of Philippe of Orléans,

preceded by his halberdiers and followed close by a rush of humanity

which the guards and the Swiss together had much pains to force back

into the anteroom.

"How now, Monsieur L'as, how now?" fumed the regent, his heavy face

glowing a dull red, his prominent eyes still more protruding, his

forehead bent into a heavy frown. "You deny entrance to our person, who

are next to the body of his Majesty?"

"Did you have delay?" asked Law, sweetly. "'Twas unfortunate."

"'Twas execrable!"

"True. I myself find these crowds execrable."

"Nay, execrable to suffer this annoyance of delay!"

"Your Grace's pardon," said Law, coolly. "You should have made an

appointment a few days in advance."

"What! The regent of France need to arrange a day when he would see a

servant!"

"Your Grace is unfortunate in his choice of words," replied Law,

blandly. "I am not your servant. I am your master."

The regent sank back into a chair, gasping, his hand clutching at the

hilt of his sword.

"Seize him! Seize him! To the Bastille with him! The presumer! The

impostor!"

Yet even the guards hesitated before the commanding presence of that man

whom all had been so long accustomed to obey. With hand upraised, Law

gazed at them for one instant, and then gave them no further attention.

"Yet these words I must hasten to qualify," resumed he. "True, I am at

this moment your master, your Grace, but two minutes hence, and for all

time thereafter, I shall no longer be your master. Your Grace was once

so good as to make me head of certain financial matters, and to give me

control of them. The fabric of this Messasebe, which you see without,

was all my own. It was this which made me master of Paris, and of every

man within the gates of Paris. So far, very well. My plans were honest,

and the growth of France--nay, let us say the resurrection of

France--the new life of France--shows how my own plans were made and how

well I knew that which was to happen. I made you rich, your Grace. I

gave you funds to pay off millions of your private debts, millions to

gratify your fancies. I gave you more millions to pay the debts of

France. France and her regent have again taken a position of honor in

the eyes of the world. You may well call me master of your fate, who

have been able to accomplish these things. So long as you knew your

master, you did well. Now your Grace has seen fit to change masters. He

would be his own master again. There can not be two in control of a

concern like this. Sir, the two minutes have elapsed. I am your very

humble servant!"

The regent still sat staring from his chair, and speech was yet denied

him.

"There are your people. There is your France," said Law, beckoning as he

turned toward the window and pointing to the crowd without. "There is

your France. Now handle it, my master! Here are the reins! Now drive;

but see that you be careful how you drive. Come, your Grace," said he,

mockingly, over his shoulder. "Come, and see your France!"

The audacity of John Law was a thing without parallel, as had been

proved a hundred times in his strange life and in a hundred places. His

sheer contemptuous daring brought Philippe of Orléans to his senses. He

relaxed now in his purpose, changeable as was his wont, and advanced

towards Law with hand outstretched.

"There, there, Monsieur L'as, I did you wrong, perhaps," said he. "But

as to these hasty words, pray reconsider them at once. 'Twill have a bad

effect should a breath of this get afloat. Indeed, 'twas because of some

such thing that I came to see you this morning. A most unspeakable, a

most incredible thing hath occurred. It comes to me with certain

confirmation that there have been shares sold upon the street at twelve

thousand livres to the _action_, whereas, as you very well know,

fifteen thousand should be the lowest price to-day."

"And what of that, your Grace?" said Law, calmly. "Is it not what you

planned? Is it not what you have been expecting?"

"How, sirrah! What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean this, your Grace," said Law, calmly, "that since you have

taken the reins, it is you who must drive the chariot. I shall suggest

no plans, shall offer no remedy. But, if you still lack ability to see

how and why this thing has attained this situation, I will take so much

trouble as to make it plain."

"Go on, then, sir," said the regent. "Is not all well? Is there any

danger?"

"As to danger," said Law, "we can not call it a time of danger after the

worst has happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that the worst has happened. But, as I was about to say, I shall

tell you how it happened."

The gaze of the regent fell. His hand trembled as he fumbled at his

sword hilt.

"Your Grace," said Law, calmly, "will do me the kindness to remember

that when I first asked of you the charter of the Banque Générale, to be

taken privately in the name of myself and my brother, I told you that

any banker merited the punishment of death if he issued notes or bills

of exchange without having their effective value safe in his own strong

boxes."

"Well, what of that?" queried the regent, weakly.

"Nothing, your Grace, except that your Grace deserves the punishment of

death."

"How, sir! Good God!"

"If the truth of this matter should ever become known, those people out

there, that France yonder, would tear your Grace limb from limb, and

trample you in the dust!"

The livid face of the regent went paler as the other spoke. There was

conviction in those tones which could not fail to reach even his heavy

wits.

"Let me explain," went on Law. "I beg your Grace to remember again, that

when your Grace was good enough to take out of the hands of my brother

and myself our little bank--which we had run honorably and

successfully--you changed at one sweep the whole principle of honest

banking. You promised to pay something which was unstipulated. You

issued a note back of which there was no value, no fixed limit of

measurement. Twice you have changed the coinage of the realm, and twice

assigned a new value to your specie. No one can tell what one of your

shares in the stock of the Indies means in actual coin. It means

nothing, stands for nothing, is good for nothing. Now, think you, when

these people, when this France shall discover these facts, that they

will be lenient with those who have thus deceived them?"

"Yet your theory always was that we had too great a scarcity of money

here in France," expostulated the regent.

"True, so I did. We had not enough of good money. We can not have too

little of false money, of money such as your Grace--as you thought

without my knowledge--has been so eager to issue from the presses of our

Company. It had been an easy thing for the regent of France to pay off

all the debts of the world from now until the verge of eternity, had not

his presses given out. Money of that sort, your Grace, is such as any

man could print for himself, did he but have the linen and the ink."

The regent again dropped to his chair, his head falling forward upon his

breast.

"But what does it all mean? What shall be done? What will be the

result?" he asked, his voice showing well enough the anxiety which had

swiftly fallen upon his soul.

"As to that," replied Law, laconically, "I am no longer master here. I

am not controller of finance. Appoint Dubois, appoint D'Argenson. Send

for the Brothers Paris. Take them to this window, your Grace, and show

them your people, show them your France, and then ask them to tell you

what shall be done. Cry out to all the world, as I know you will, that

this was the fault of an unknown adventurer, of a Scotch gambler, of one

John Law, who brought forth some pretentious schemes to the detriment of

the realm. Saddle upon me the blame for all this ruin which is coming.

Malign me, misrepresent me, imprison me, exile me, behead me if you

like, and blame John Law for the discomfiture of France! But when you

come to seek your remedies, why, ask no more of John Law. Ask of Dubois,

ask of D'Argenson, ask of the Paris Frères; or, since your Grace has

seen fit to override me and to take these matters in his own hands, let

your Grace ask of himself! Tell me, as regent of France, as master of

Paris, as guardian of the rights of this young king, as controller of

the finances of France, as savior or destroyer of the welfare of these

people of France and of that America which is greater than this

France--tell me, what will you do, your Grace? What do you suggest as

remedy?"

"You devil! you arch fiend!" exclaimed the regent, starting up and

laying his hand on his sword. "There is no punishment you do not

deserve! You will leave me in this plight--you--you, who have supplanted

me at every turn; you who made that horrible scene but last night at my

own table, within the very gates of the Palais Royal; you, the murderer

of the woman I adored! And now, you mocker and flouter of what may be my

bitterest misfortune--why, sir, no punishment is sharp enough for you!

Why do you stand there, sir? Do you dare to mock me--to mock us, the

person of the king?"

"I mock not in the least, your Grace," said John Law, "nor do aught else

that ill beseems a gentleman. I should have been proud to be known as

the friend of Philippe of Orléans, yet I stand before that Philippe of

Orléans and tell him that that man doth not live, nor that set of

terrors exist, which can frighten John Law, nor cause him to depart from

that stand which he once has taken. Sir, if you seek to frighten me, you

fail."

"But, look you--consider," said the regent. "Something must be done."

"As I said," replied Law.

"But what is going to happen? What will the people do?"

"First," said Law, judicially, flicking at the deep lace of his cuff as

though he were taking into consideration the price of a wig or cane,

"first, the price of a share having gone to twelve thousand livres this

morning, by two o'clock will be so low as ten thousand. By three

o'clock this afternoon it will be six thousand. Then, your Grace, there

will be panic. Then the spell will be broken. France will rub her eyes

and begin to awaken. Then, since the king can do no wrong, and since the

regent is the king, your Grace can do one of two things. He can send a

body-guard to watch my door, or he can see John Law torn into fragments,

as these people would tear the real author of their undoing, did they

but recognize him."

"But can nothing be done to stop this? Can it not be accommodated?"

"Ask yourself. But I must go on to say what these people will do. All at

once they will demand specie for their notes. The Prince de Conti will

drive his coaches to the door of your bank, and demand that they be

loaded with gold. Jacques and Raoul and Pierre, and every peasant and

pavior in Paris will come with boxes and panniers, and each of them will

also demand his gold. Make edicts, your Grace. Publish broadcast and

force out into publicity, on every highway of France, your decree that

gold and silver are not so good as your bank notes; that no one must

have gold or silver; that no one must send his gold and silver out of

France, but that all must bring it to the king and take for it in

exchange these notes of yours. Try that. It ought to succeed, ought it

not, your Grace?" His bantering tone sank into one of half plausibility.

"Why, surely. That would be the solution."

"Oh, think you so? Your Grace is wondrous keen as a financier! Now take

the counsel of Dubois, of D'Argenson, my very good friends. This is what

they will counsel you to do. And I will counsel you at the same time to

avail yourself of their advice. Tell all France to bring in its gold, to

enable you to put something essential under the value of all this paper

money which you have been sending out so lavishly, so unthinkingly, so

without stint or measure."

"Yes. And then?"

"Why, then, your Grace," said Law, "then we shall see what we shall

see!"

The regent again choked with anger. Law continued. "Go on. Smooth down

the back of this animal. Continue to reduce these taxes. The specie of

the realm of France, as I am banker enough to know, is not more than

thirteen hundred millions of livres, allowing sixty-five livres to the

marc. Yet long before this your Grace has crowded the issue of our

_actions_ until there are out not less than twenty-six hundred millions

of livres in the stock of our Company. Your Brothers Paris, your

D'Argenson, your Dubois will tell you how you can make the people of

France continue to believe that twice two is not four, that twice

thirteen is not twenty-six!"

"But this they are doing," broke in the regent, with a ray of hope in

his face. "This they are doing. We have provided for that. In the

council not an hour ago the Abbé Dubois and Monsieur d'Argenson decided

that the time had come to make some fixed proportion between the specie

and these notes. We have to-day framed an edict, which the Parliament

will register, stating that the interests of the subjects of the king

require that the price of these bank notes should be lessened, so that

there may be some sort of accommodation between them and the coin of the

realm. We have ordered that the shares shall, within thirty days, drop

to seventy-five hundred livres, in another thirty days to seven thousand

livres, and so on, at five hundred livres a month, until at last they

shall have a value of one-half what they were to-day. Then, tell me, my

wise Monsieur L'as, would not the issue of our notes and the total of

our specie be equal, one with the other? The only wrong thing is this

insulting presumption of these people, who have sold _actions_ at a

price lower than we have decreed."

Law smiled as he replied. "You say excellently well, my master. These

plans surely show that you and your able counselors have studied deeply

the questions of finance! I have told you what would happen to-day

without any decree of the king. Now go you on, and make your decrees.

You will find that the people are much more eager for values which are

going up than values which are going down. Start your shares down hill,

and you will see all France scramble for such coin, such plate, such

jewels as may be within the ability of France to lay her hands upon.

Tell me, your Grace, did Monsieur d'Argenson advise you this morning as

to the total issue of the _actions_ of this Company?"

"Surely he did, and here I have it in memorandum, for I was to have

taken it up with yourself," replied the regent.

"So," exclaimed Law, a look of surprise passing over his countenance,

until now rigidly controlled, as he gazed at the little slip of paper.

"Your Grace advises me that there are issued at this time in the shares

of the Company no less than two billion, two hundred and thirty-five

million, eighty-five thousand, five hundred and ninety livres in notes!

Against this, as your Grace is good enough to agree with me, we have

thirteen hundred millions of specie. Your Grace, yourself and I have

seen some pretty games in our day. Look you, the merriest game of all

your life is now but just before you!"

"And you would go and leave me at this time?"

"Never in my life have I forsaken a friend at the time of distress,"

replied Law. "But your Grace absolved me when you forsook me, when you

doubted and hesitated regarding me, and believed the protestations of

those not so able as myself to judge of what was best. And now it is too

late. Will your Grace allow me to suggest that a place behind stout

gates and barred doors, deep within the interior of the Palais Royal,

will be the best residence for him to-night--perhaps for several nights

to come?"

"And yourself?"

"As for myself, it does not matter," replied Law, slowly and

deliberately. "I have lived, and I thought I had succeeded. Indeed,

success was mine for some short months, though now I must meet failure.

I have this to console me--that 'twas failure not of my own fault. As

for France, I loved her. As for America, I believe in her to-day, this

very hour. As for your Grace in person, I was your friend, nor was I

ever disloyal to you. But it sometimes doth seem that, no matter how

sincere be one in one's endeavors, no matter how cherished, no matter

how successful for a time may be his ambitions, there is ever some

little blight to eat the face of the full fruit of his happiness.

To-morrow I shall perhaps not be alive. It is very well. There is

nothing I could desire, and it is as well to-morrow as at any time."

"But surely, Monsieur L'as," interrupted the regent, with a trace of his

old generosity, "if there should be outbreak, as you fear, I shall, of

course, give you a guard. I shall indeed see you safe out of the city,

if you so prefer, though I had much liefer you would remain and try to

help us undo this coil, wherein I much misdoubt myself."

"Your Grace, I am a disappointed man, a man with nothing in the world to

comfort him. I have said that I would not help you, since 'twas yourself

brought ruin on my plans, and cast down that work which I had labored

all my life to finish. Yet I will advise this, as being your most

immediate plan. Smooth down this France as best you may. Remit more

taxes, as I said. Depreciate the value of these shares gently, but

rapidly as you can. Institute great numbers of perpetual annuities.

Juggle, temporize, postpone, get for yourself all the time you can.

Trade for the people's shares all you have that they will take. You can

never strike a balance, and can never atone for the egregious error of

this over-issue of stock which has no intrinsic value. Eventually you

may have to declare void many of these shares and withdraw from the

currency these _actions_ for which so recently the people have been

clamoring."

"That means repudiation!" broke in the regent.

"Certainly, your Grace, and in so far your Grace has my extremest

sympathy. I know it was your resolve not to repudiate the debts of

France, as those debts stood when I first met you some years ago. That

was honorable. Yet now the debts of France are immeasurably greater,

rich as France thinks herself to be. Not all France, were the people and

the produce of the commerce counted in the coin, could pay the debt of

France as it now exists. Hence, honorable or not, there is nothing

else--it is repudiation which now confronts you. France is worse than

bankrupt. And now it would seem wise if your Grace took immediate steps,

not only for the safety of his person, but for the safety of the

Government."

"Sir, do you mean that the people would dare, that they would presume--"

"The people are not what they were. There hath come into Europe the

leaven of the New World. I had looked there to see a nobler and a better

France. It is too late for that, and surely it is too late for the old

ways of this France which we see about us. You can not presume now upon

the temper of these folk as you might have done fifty years ago. The

Messasebe, that noble stream, it hath swept its purifying flood

throughout the world! Look you, at this moment there is tumbling this

house which we have built of bubbles, one bubble upon another, blowing

each bubble bigger and thinner than the last. Mine is not the only

fault, nor yet the greatest fault. I was sincere, where others cared

naught for sincerity. Another day, another people, may yet say the world

was better for my effort, and that therefore at the last I have not

failed."

CHAPTER XI

THE BREAKING OF THE BUBBLE

It was the evening of the day following that on which John Law and the

regent of France had met in their stormy interview. During the morning

but little had transpired regarding the significant events of the

previous day. In these vast and excited crowds, divided into groups and

cliques and factions, aided by no bulletins, counseled by no printed

page, there was but little cohesion of purpose, since there was little

unity of understanding. The price of shares at one kiosk might be

certain thousands of livres, whereas a square away, the price might vary

by half as many livres; so impetuous was the advance of these

continually rising prices, and so frenzied and careless the temper of

those who bargained for them.

Yet before noon of the day following the decree of the regent, which

fixed the value of _actions_ upon a descending scale, the news, after a

fashion of its own, spread rapidly abroad, and all too swiftly the truth

was generally known. The story started in a rumor that shares had been

offered and declined at a price which had been current but a few moments

before. This was something which had not been known in all these

feverish months of the Messasebe. Then came the story that shares could

not be counted upon to realize over eight thousand livres. At that the

price of all the _actions_ dropped in a flash, as Law had prophesied. A

sudden wave of sanity, a panic chill of sober understanding swept over

this vast multitude of still unreasoning souls who had traded so long

upon this impossible supposition of an ever-advancing market. Reason

still lacked among them, yet fear and sudden suspicion were not wanting.

Man after man hastened swiftly away to sell privately his shares before

greater drop in the price might come. He met others upon the same

errand.

Precisely the reverse of the old situation now obtained. As all Paris

had fought to buy, so now all Paris fought to sell. The streets were

filled with clamoring mobs. If earlier there had been confusion, now

there was pandemonium. Never was such a scene witnessed. Never was there

chronicled so swift and utter reversion of emotion in the minds of a

great concourse of people. Bitter indeed was the wave of agony that

swept over Paris. It began at the Messasebe, in the gardens of the Hôtel

de Soisson, at that focus hard by the temple of Fortuna. It spread and

spread, edging out into all the remoter portions of the walled city. It

reached ultimately the extreme confines of Paris. Into the crowded

square which had been decreed as the trading-place of the Messasebe

System, there crowded from the outer purlieus yet other thousands of

excited human beings. The end had come. The bubble had burst. There was

no longer any System of the Messasebe!

It was late in the day, in fact well on toward night, when the knowledge

of the crash came into the neighborhood where dwelt the Lady Catharine

Knollys. To her the news was brought by a servant, who excitedly burst

unannounced into her mistress's presence.

"Madame! Madame!" she cried. "Prepare! 'Tis horrible! 'Tis impossible!

All is at an end!"

"What mean you, girl!" cried Lady Catharine, displeased at the

disrespect. "What is happening? Is there fire? And even if there were,

could you not remember your duty more seemly than this?"

"Worse, worse than fire, Madame! Worse than anything! The bank has

failed! The shares of the System are going down! 'Tis said that we can

get but three thousand livres the share, perhaps less--perhaps they will

go down to nothing. I am ruined, ruined! We are all ruined! And within

the month I was to have been married to the footman of the Marquis

d'Allouez, who has bought himself a title this very week!"

"And if it has fallen so ill," said Lady Catharine, "since I have not

speculated in these things like most folk, I shall be none the worse for

it, and shall still have money to pay your wages. So perhaps you can

marry your marquis after all."

"But we shall not be rich, Madame! We are ruined, ruined! _Mon Dieu_! we

poor folk! We had the hope to be persons of quality. 'Tis all the work

of this villain Jean L'as. May the Bastille get him, or the people, and

make him pay for this!"

"Stop! Enough of this, Marie!" said the Lady Catharine, sternly. "After

this have better wisdom, and do not meddle in things which you do not

understand."

Yet scarce had the girl departed before there appeared again the sound

of running steps, and presently there broke, equally unannounced, into

the presence of his mistress, the coachman, fresh from his stables and

none too careful of his garb. Tears ran down his cheeks. He flung out

his hands with gestures as of one demented.

"The news!" cried he. "The news, my Lady! The horrible news! The System

has vanished, the shares are going down!"

"Fellow, what do you here?" said Lady Catharine. "Why do you come with

this same story which Marie has just brought to me? Can you not learn

your place?"

"But, my Lady, you do not understand!" reiterated the man, blankly.

"'Tis all over. There is no Messasebe; there is no longer any System, no

longer any Company of the Indies. There is no longer wealth for the

stretching out of the hand. 'Tis all over. I must go back to horses--I,

Madame, who should presently have associated with the nobility!"

"Well, and if so," replied his mistress, "I can say to you, as I have to

Marie, that there will still be money for your wages."

"Wages! My faith, what trifles, my Lady! This Monsieur L'as, the

director-general, he it is who has ruined us! Well enough it is that the

square in front of his hotel is filled with people! Presently they will

break down his doors. And then, pray God they punish him for this that

he has done!"

The cheek of Lady Catharine paled and a sudden flood of contending

emotions crossed her mind. "You do not tellme that Monsieur L'as is in

danger, Pierre?" said she.

"Assuredly. Perhaps within the very hour they will tear down his doors

and rend him limb from limb. There is no punishment which can serve him

right--him who has ruined our pretty, pretty System. _Mon Dieu_! It was

so beautiful!"

"Is this news certain?"

"Assuredly, most certain. Why should it not be? The entire square in

front of the Hôtel de Soisson is packed. Unless my Lady needs me, I

myself must hasten thither to aid in the punishment of this Jean L'as!"

"You will stay here," said Lady Catharine. "Wait! There may be need! For

the present, go!"

Left alone, Lady Catharine stood for a moment pale and motionless, in

the center of the room. She strode then to the window and stood looking

fixedly out. Her whole figure was tense, rigid. Yonder, over there,

across the gabled roofs of Paris, they were clamoring at the door of him

who had given back Paris to the king, and Franceagain to its people.

They were assailing him--this man so long unfaltering, so insistent on

his ambitions, so--so steadfast! Could she call him steadfast? And they

would seize him in spite of the courage which she knew would never fail.

They would kill, they would rend, they would trample him! They would

crush that glorious body, abase the lips that had spoke so well of love!

The clenched fingers of Lady Catharine broke apart, her arms were flung

wide in a gesture of resolution. She turned from the window, looking

here and there about the room. Unconsciously she stopped before the

great cheval-glass that hung against the wall. She stood there, looking

at her own image, keenly, deeply.

She saw indeed a woman fit for sweet usages of love, comely and rounded,

deep-bosomed, her oval face framed in the piled masses of glorious

red-brown hair. But her wide, blue eyes, scarce seeing this outward

form, stared into the soul of that other whom she witnessed.

It was as though the Lady Catharine Knollys at last saw another self and

recognized it! A quick, hard sob broke from her throat. In haste she

flew, now to one part of the room, now to another, picking up first this

article and then that which seemed of need. And so at last she hurried

to the bell-cord.

"Quick," cried she, as the servant at length appeared. "Quick! Do not

delay an instant! My carriage at once!"

CHAPTER XII

THAT WHICH REMAINED

As for John Law, all through that fatal day which meant for him the ruin

of his ambitions, he continued in the icy calm which, for days past, had

distinguished him. He discontinued his ordinary employments, and spent

some hours in sorting and destroying numbers of papers and documents.

His faithful servant, the Swiss, Henri, he commanded to make ready his

apparel for a journey.

"At six this evening," said he, "Henri, we shall be ready to depart. Let

us be quite ready well before that time."

"Monsieur is leaving Paris?" asked the Swiss, respectfully.

"Quite so."

"Perhaps for a stay of some duration?"

"Quite so, indeed, Henri."

"Then, sir," expostulated the Swiss, "it would require a day or so for

me to properly arrange your luggage."

"Not at all," replied Law. "Two valises will suffice, not more, and I

shall perhaps not need even these."

"Not all the apparel, the many coats, the jewels--"

"Do not trouble over them."

"But what disposition shall I make--?"

"None at all. Leave all these things as they are. But stay--this package

which I shall prepare for you--take it to the regent, and have it marked

in his care and for the Parliament of France."

Law raised in his hands a bundle of parchments, which one by one he tore

across, throwing the fragments into a basket as he did so.

"The seat of Tancarville," he said. "The estate of Berville; the Hôtel

Mazarin; the lands of Bourget; the Marquisat of Charleville; the lands

of Orcher; the estate of Roissy--Gad! what a number of them I find."

"But, Monsieur," expostulated the Swiss, "what is that you do? Are these

not your possessions?"

"Not so, _mon ami_," replied Law. "They once were mine. They are estates

in France. Take back these deeds. Dead Sully may have his own again, and

each of these late owners of the lands. I wished them for a purpose.

That purpose is no longer possible, and now I wish them no more. Take

back your deeds, my friends, and bear in your minds that John Law tore

them in two, and thus canceled the obligation."

"But the moneys you have paid--they are enormous. Surely you will exact

restitution?"

"Sirrah, could I not afford these moneys?"

"Admirably at the time," replied the Swiss, with the freedom of long

service. "But for the future, what do we know? Besides, it is a matter

of right and justice."

"Ah, _mon ami_" said Law, "right and justice are no more. But since you

speak of money, let us take precautions as to that. We shall need some

money for our journey. See, Henri! Take this note and get the money

which it calls for. But no! The crowd may be too great. Look in the

drawer of my desk yonder, and take out what you find."

The Swiss did as he was bidden, but at length returned with troubled

face.

"Monsieur," said he, "I can find but a hundred louis."

"Put half of it back," said Law. "We shall not need so much."

"But, Monsieur, I do not understand."

"We shall not need more than fifty louis. That is enough. Leave the

rest," said Law. "Leave it where you found it."

"But for whom? Does Monsieur soon return?"

"No. Leave it for him who may be first to find it. These dear people

without, these same people whom I have enriched, and who now will claim

that I have impoverished them--these people will demand of me everything

that I have. As a man of honor I can not deny them. They shall have

every jot and stiver of the property of John Law, even the million or so

of good coin which he brought here to Paris with him. The coat on my

back, the wheels beneath me, gold enough to pay for the charges of the

inns through France--that is all that John Law will take away with him."

The arms of the old servant fell helpless at his side. "Sir, this is

madness," he expostulated.

"Not so, Henri," replied Law, leniently. "Madness enough there has been

in Paris, it is true, but madness not mine nor of my making. For

madness, look you yonder."

He pointed a finger through the window where the stately edifice of the

Palais Royal rose.

"My good friend the regent--it is he who hath been mad," continued Law.

"He, holding France in trust, has ruined France forever."

"Monsieur, I grieve for you," said the Swiss. "I have seen your success

in these years and, as you may imagine, have understood something of

your affairs as time went on."

"And have you not profited by your knowledge in these times?"

"I have had the salary your Honor has agreed to pay me," replied the

Swiss.

"And no more?"

"No more."

"Why, there are serving folk in France by the hundreds who have grown

millionaires by the knowledge of their employers' affairs these last two

years in Paris. Never was such a time in all the world for making money.

Have you been more blind than they? Why did you not tell me? Why did you

not ask?"

"I was content with your employment. Monsieur L'as. I would ask no

better master."

"It is not so with certain others. They think me a hard master enough,

and having displaced me, will do all they can to punish me. But now,

Henri, you will perhaps need to look elsewhere for a master. I am going

far away--perhaps across the seas. It may be--but I know not where and

care not where my foot may wander hereafter, nor will I seek now to plan

for it. As for you, Henri, since you admit you have been thus blind to

your own interests, let us look to that. Go to the desk again. Take out

the drawer--that one on the left hand. So--bring it to me."

The servant obeyed. Law took from his hand the receptacle, and with a

sweep of his hand poured out on the table its contents. A mass of

glittering gems, diamonds, sapphires, pearls, emeralds, fell and spread

over the table top. The light cast out by their thousand facets lit up

the surroundings with shimmering, many-colored gleams. The wealth of a

kingdom might have been here in the careless possession of this man,

whose resources had been absolutely without measure.

"Help yourself, Henri," said Law, calmly, and turned about to his

employment among the papers. A moment later he turned again to see his

servant still standing motionless.

"Well?" said Law.

"I do not understand," said the Swiss.

"Take what you like," said Law. "I have said it, and I mean it. It is

for your pay, because you have been honest, because I understand you as

a faithful man."

"But, Monsieur, these things have very great value," said the Swiss.

"Let me ask how is it that you yourself take so little gold along? Does

Monsieur purpose to take with him his fortune in gems and jewels

instead?"

"By no means. I purpose taking but fifty louis, as I have said."

"Monsieur would have me replace the drawer?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, I want none of them."

"Why?"

"Because Monsieur wants none of them."

"Fie! Your case is quite different from mine."

"Perhaps, but I want none of them."

"Are you afraid?"

"Monsieur!"

"Do you not think them genuine stones?"

"Assuredly," said the Swiss, "else why should we have cared for them

among our gems?"

"Well, then, I command you as your master, to take forth some of these

jewels and keep them for your own."

"But no," replied the Swiss. "It is only after Monsieur."

"What? Myself?"

"Assuredly."

"Then, for the sake of precedent," said Law, "let me see. Well, then, I

will take one gem, only one. Here, Henri, is the diamond which I brought

with me when I came to Paris years ago. It was the sole jewel owned then

by my brother and myself, though we had somewhat of gold between us,

thanks to this same diamond. It was once my sole capital, in years gone

by. Perhaps we may need a carriage through France, and this may serve to

pay the hire of a vehicle from one of my late dukes or marquises. Or

perhaps at best I may send this same stone across the channel to my

brother Will, who has wisely gone to Scotland, or should have departed

before this. So, very well, Henri, to oblige you I will take this single

stone. Now, do you help yourself."

"Since Monsieur limits himself to so little," said the Swiss, sturdily,

"I shall not want more. This little pin will serve me, and I shall wear

it long in memory of your many kindnesses."

Law rose to his feet and caught the good fellow by the hand.

"By heaven, I find you of good blood!" said he. "My friend, I thank you.

And now put up the box. I shall not counsel you to take more than this.

We shall leave the rest for those who will presently come to claim it."

For some time silence reigned in the great room, as Law, deeply engaged

in the affairs before him, buried himself in the mass of scattered books

and papers. Hour after hour wore on, and at last he turned from his

employment. His face showed calm, pale, and furrowed with a sadness

which till now had been foreign to it. He arose at last, and with a

sweep of his arm pushed back the papers which lay before him.

"There," said he. "This should conclude it all. It should all be plain

enough now to those who follow."

"Monsieur is weary," mentioned the faithful attendant. "He would have

some refreshment."

"Presently, but I think not here, Henri. My household is not all so

faithful as yourself, and I question if we could find cook or servants

for the table below. No, we are to leave Paris to-night, Henri, and it

is well the journey should begin. Get you down to the stables, and, if

you can, have my best coach brought to the front door."

"It may not be quite safe, if Monsieur will permit me to suggest."

"Perhaps not. These fools are so deep in their folly that they do not

know their friends. But safe or not, that is the way I shall go. We

might slip out through the back door, but 'tis not thus John Law will go

from Paris."

The servant departed, and Law, left alone, sat silent and motionless,

buried in thought. Now and again his head sank forward, like that of one

who has received a deep hurt. But again he drew himself up sternly, and

so remained, not leaving his seat nor turning toward the window, beyond

which could now be heard the sound of shouting, and cries whose confused

and threatening tones might have given ground for the gravest

apprehension. At length the Swiss again reported, much agitated and

shaken from his ordinary self-control.

"Monsieur," said he, "come. I have at last the coach at the door.

Hasten, Monsieur; a crowd is gathering. Indeed, we may meet violence."

Law seemed not to hear him, but sat for a time, his head still bowed,

his eyes gazing straight before him.

"But, Monsieur," again broke in the Swiss, anxiously, "if I may

interrupt, there is need to hasten. There will be a mob. Our guard is

gone."

"So," said Law. "They were afraid?"

"Surely. They fled forthwith when they heard the people below crying out

at the house. They are indeed threatening death to yourself. They cry

that they will burn the house--that should you appear, they will have

your blood at once."

"And are you not afraid?" asked Law.

"I am here. Does not Monsieur fear for himself?"

Law shrugged his shoulders. "There are many of them, and we are but

two," said he. "For yourself, go you down the back way and care for your

own safety. I will go out the front and meet these good people. Are we

quite ready for the journey?"

"Quite ready, as you have directed."

"Have you the two valises, with the one change of clothing?"

"They are here."

"And have you the fifty louis, as I stated?"

"Here in the purse."

"And I think you have also the single diamond."

"It is here."

"Then," said Law, "let us go."

He rose, and scarce looking behind him, even to see that his orders to

the servant had been obeyed, he strode down the vast stairway of the

great hôtel, past many precious works of art, between walls hung with

richest tapestries and noble paintings. The click of his heel on a

chance bit of exposed marble here and there echoed hollow, as though

indeed the master of the palace had been abandoned by all his people.

The great building was silent, empty.

"What! Are you, then, here?" he said, seeing the servant had disobeyed

his instructions and was following close behind him. He alone out of

those scores of servants, those hundreds of fawning nobles, those

thousands of sycophant souls who had but lately cringed before him, now

accompanied the late master of France as he turned to leave the house

in which he no longer held authority.

Without, but the door's thickness from where he stood, there arose a

tumult of sound, shouts, cries, imprecations, entreaties, as though the

walls of some asylum for the unfortunate had broken away and allowed its

inmates to escape unrestrained, irreclaimable, impossible to control.

"Down with Jean L'as! Down with Jean L'as!" rose a cadenced, rhythmic

shout, the accord of a mob of Paris beating into its tones. And this

steady burden was broken by the cries of "Enter! Enter! Break down the

door! Kill the monster! Assassin! Thief! Traitor!" No word of the

vocabulary of scorn and loathing was wanting in their cries.

Hearing these cries, the face of this fighting man now grew hot with

anger, and now it paled with grief and sorrow. Yet he faltered not, but

stepped on, confidently. The Swiss opened the door and stood at the head

of the flight of stairs. Tall, calm, pale, fearless, John Law stood

facing the angry mob, his eyes shining brightly. He laid his hand for an

instant upon his sword, yet it was but to unbuckle the belt. The weapon

he left leaning against the wall, and so stepped on down toward the

crowd.

He was met by a rush of excited men and women, screaming, cursing,

giving vent to inarticulate and indistinguishable speech. A man laid his

hand upon his shoulder. Law caught the hand, and with a swift wrench of

the wrist, threw the owner of it to the ground. At this the others gave

back, and for half a moment silence ensued. The mob lacked just the

touch of rage to hurl themselves upon him. He raised his hand and

motioned them aside.

"Are you not Jean L'as?" cried one dame, excitedly, waving in his face a

handful of the paper shares of the latest issue in the Company of the

Indies. "Are you not Jean L'as? Tell me, then, where is my money for

these things? What shall I get for this rotten paper?"

"You are Jean L'as, the director-general!" cried a man, pushing up to

his side. "'Twas you that ruined the Company. See! Here is all that I

have!" He wept as he shook his bunch of paper in John Law's face. "Last

week I was worth half a million!" He wept, and tore across, with

impotent rage, the bundle of worthless paper.

"Down with Jean L'as! Down with Jean L'as!" came the recurrent cry. A

rush followed. The carriage, towering above the ring of the surrounding

crowd, showed its coat of arms, and thus was recognized. A paving-stone

crashed through its heavy window. A knife ripped up the velvets of the

cushions.

The coachman was pulled from his box. The horses, plunging with terror,

were cut loose from the pole and led away. With shouts and cries of rage

and busy zeal, one madman vied with another in tearing, cutting and

destroying the vehicle, until it stood there ruined, without means of

locomotion, defaced and useless. And still the ring of desperate

humanity closed around him who had late been master of all France.

"What do you want, my friends?" asked he, calmly, as for an instant

there came a lull in the tumult. He stood looking at them curiously now,

his dulling eyes regarding them as though they presented some new and

interesting study. "What is it that you desire?" he repeated.

"We want our money," cried a score of voices. "We want back that which

you have stolen."

"You are not exact," replied Law, calmly. "I have not your money, nor

yet have I stolen it. If you have suffered by this foolish panic, you do

not mend matters by thus treating me. By heaven, you go the wrong way to

get anything from me! Out of the way, you _canaille_! Do you think to

frighten me? I made your city. I made you all. Now, do you think to

frighten me, John Law?"

"Oh! You would go away, you want to escape!" cried the voices of those

near at hand. "We will see as to that!"

Again they fell upon the carriage, and still they hemmed him in the

closer.

"True, I am going away," said Law. "But you can not say that I tried to

steal away without your knowing it. There, up the stairs, are my papers.

You will see in time that I have concealed nothing. Now I am going to

leave Paris, it is true; but not because I am afraid to stay here. 'Tis

for other reason, and reason of mine own."

"'Twas you who ruined Paris--this city which you now seek to leave!"

shrieked the dame who had spoken before, still shaking her useless

bank-notes in her hand.

"Oh, very well, my friend. For the argument, let us agree upon that,"

said Law.

"You ruined our Company, our beautiful Company!" cried another.

"Certainly. Since I was the originator of it, that follows as matter of

reason," replied Law.

"Ah, he admits it! He admits it!" cried yet another. "Don't let him

escape. Kill him! Down with Jean L'as!"

"We are going to kill you precisely here!" cried a huge fellow,

brandishing a paving-stone before his eyes. "You are not fit to live."

"As to that," said Law, "I agree with you perfectly. My hand upon it; I

am not fit to live. I have found that I made mistakes. I have found that

there is nothing left to desire. I have found out that all this money is

not worth the having. I have found out so many things, my very dear

friends, that I quite agree with you. For if one must want to live

before he is fit to live, then indeed I am not fit. But what then?"

"Kill him! Kill him! Strike him down!" cried out a voice back of the

giant with the menacing paving-stone.

"Oh, very well, my friends," resumed the object of their fury, flicking

again with his old, careless gesture at the deep cuff of his wrist. "As

you like in regard to that. More than one man has offered me that

happiness in the past, yet it was many a long year since, any man could

trouble me by announcing that he was about to kill me."

Something in the attitude of the man stayed the hands of the most

dangerous members of the mob. Yet ever there came the cry from back of

them. "Down with Jean L'as! He has ruined everything!"

"Friends," responded Law to this cry, bitterly, "you little know how

true you speak. It was indeed John Law who brought ruin to everything.

It was indeed he who threw away what was worth more than all the gold in

France. It is indeed he who has failed, and failed most utterly. You can

not frighten John Law, but you may do as you like with him, for surely

he has failed!"

The bitterness of despair was in his tones. Then, perhaps, the sullen,

savage crowd had wrought their last act of anger and revenge on him, had

it not been for a sudden change in that tide of ill fortune that now

seemed to carry him forward to his doom. There came a sound of far-off

cries, a distant clacking of hoofs, the clatter of steel, many shouts,

entreaties and commands. The close-packed crowd which filled the open

space in front of the hôtel writhed, twisted, turned and would have

sought to resolve itself into groups and individuals. Some cried out

that the troops were coming. A detachment of the king's household, sent

out to disperse these dangerous gatherings, came full front down the

street, as had so often come the arm of the military in this turbulent

old city of Paris. Remorselessly they rode over and through the mob,

driving them, dispersing them. A moment later, and Law stood almost

alone at the steps of his own house. The squadron wheeled, headed by an

officer, who rode upon him with sword uplifted as though to cut him

down. Law raised his hand at this new menace.

"Stop!" he cried. "I am the cause of this rioting. I am John Law."

"What! Monsieur L'as?" cried the lieutenant. "So the people have found

you, have they?"

"It would so seem. They have destroyed my carriage, and they would have

killed me," replied Law. "But I perceive it is Captain Mirabec. 'Twas I

who got you your commission, as you may remember."

"Is it so?" replied the other, with a grin. "I have no recollection.

Since you are Jean L'as, the late director-general, the pity is I did

not let the people kill you. You are the cause of the ruin of us all,

the cause of my own ruin. Three days more, and I had been a

major-general. I had nearly the sum in _actions_ ready to pay over at

the right place. By our Lady of Grace, I am minded to run you through

myself, for a greater villain never set foot in France!"

"Monsieur, I am about to leave France," said Law.

"Oh, you would leave us? You would run away?"

"As you like. But most of all, I am now very weary. I would not remain

here longer talking. Henri, where are you?"

The faithful Swiss, who had remained close to his employer all the time,

and who had been not far from his side during the scenes just concluded,

was in a moment at his side. He hardly reached his master too soon, for

as he passed his arm about him, the head of Law sank wearily forward. He

might, perhaps, have sunk to the ground had he lacked a supporting arm.

At this moment there came again the sound of hoofs upon the pavement.

There was the rush of a mounted outrider, and hard after him sped the

horses of a carriage, whose driver pulled up close at the curb and

scarce clear of the little group gathered there. The door of the coach

was opened, and at it appeared the figure of a woman, who quickly

descended from the step.

"What is it?" she cried. "Is not this the residence of Monsieur Law?"

The officer saluted, and the few loiterers gave back and made room, as

she stepped fully into the street and advanced with decision towards

those whom she saw.

"Madam," replied the Swiss, "this is the residence of Monsieur L'as, and

this is Monsieur L'as himself. I fear he is taken suddenly ill."

The lady stepped quickly to his side. As she did so, Law, as one not

fully hearing, half raised his head. He looked full into her face, and

releasing himself from the arms of his servant, stood thus, staring

directly at the visitor, his face haggard, his fixed eyes bearing no

sign of actual recognition.

"Catharine! Catharine!" he exclaimed. "Oh God, how cruel of you too to

mock me! Catharine!"

The unspeakable yearning of the cry went to the heart of her who heard

it. She put out a hand and laid it on his forehead. The Swiss motioned

toward the house. And even as the officer wheeled his troop to depart,

these two again ascended the steps, half carrying between them a

stumbling man, who but repeated mumblingly to himself the same words:

"Mockery! Mockery!"

CHAPTER XIII

THE QUALITY OF MERCY

Within the great house there was silence, for the vistas of the wide

interior led far back from the street and its tumult; nor did there

arise within the walls any sound of voice or footfall. Of the entire

household there was but one left to do the master service.

They entered the great hall, passed the foot of the wide stairway, and

turned at the first _entresol_, where were seats and couches. The

servant paused for a moment and looked inquiringly at the lady with whom

he now found himself in company.

"The times are serious," he began. "I would not intrude, Madame, yet

perhaps you are aware--"

"I am a friend of monsieur," replied Lady Catharine. "He is ill. See, he

is not himself. Tell me, what is this illness?"

"Madame," said the Swiss, gravely, "his illness is that of grief.

Monsieur's failure sits heavily upon him."

[Illustration]

"How long is it since he slept?" asked the lady, for she noted the

drooping head of the man now reclining upon the couch.

"Not for many days and nights," replied the Swiss. "He has for the last

few days been under much strain. But shall I not assist you, Madame? You

are, perhaps--pardon me, since I do not know your relationship with

monsieur--"

"A friend of years ago. I knew Mr. Law when he lived in England."

"I perceive. Perhaps Madame would be alone for a time? If you please, I

will seek aid."

They approached the side of the couch. Law's head lay back upon the

cushions. His breath came deeply and slowly, not stertorously nor

labored.

"How strange," whispered the Swiss, "he sleeps!"

Such was indeed the truth. The iron nature, so long overwrought, now

utterly unstrung, had yielded for the first time to the stress of nature

and of events. The relief from what he had taken to be death had come

swiftly, and the reaction brought a lethal calm of its own. If he had

indeed recognized the face of the woman who had touched him with her

hand, it was as though he had witnessed her in a vision, a dream bitter

and troubled, since it was a dream impossible to be true.

The Swiss looked still hesitatingly at the lady who had thus strangely

come upon the scene, noticing her sweet and tender mouth, her cheeks

just faintly tinged with pink, her eyes shining with a soft, mysterious

radiance. She approached the couch and laid both her hands upon the face

of the unconscious man. Tears sprang within her eyes and fell from her

dark lashes. The old servant looked up at her, simply.

"Madame would be alone with monsieur?" asked he. "It will be better."

Lady Catharine Knollys, left alone, gazed upon the sleeper. John Law,

the failure, lay there, supine, abased, cast-down, undone, shorn utterly

of his old arrogance of mind and mien. Fortune, wealth, even the boon of

physical well-being--all had fled from him. The pride of a superb

manhood had departed from the lines of this limp figure. The cheeks were

lined and sunken, the eye, even had the lid not covered it, lacked the

late convincing fire. No longer commanding, no longer strong, no longer

gay and debonair, he lay, a man whose fate was failure, as he himself

had said.

The woman who stood with clasped hands, gazing at him, tears welling in

her eyes--she, so closely linked to his every thought for these many

years--well enough she knew the story of his boundless ambitions, now so

swiftly ended. Well enough, too, she knew the shortcomings of this

mortal man before her. Even as she had in her mirror looked into her own

soul, so now she saw deep into his heart as he lay there, helpless,

making no further plea for himself, urging no claim, making no

explanations nor denials, no asseverations, no promises. Did she indeed

see and recognize again, as sometimes gloriously happens in this poor

life of ours, that other and inner man, the only one fit to touch a

woman's hand--the man who might have been? Did she see this, and greet

again the friend of long ago? God, who hath given mercy, remedy alone

sufficing for the ill that men may do, He alone may know these things.

Could John Law failing be John Law succeeding, and in his most sublime

success? Upon the wreck and ruin of the old nature could there grow

another and a better man? Mayhap the answer to this was what the eye of

woman saw. How else could there have come into this great room, so late

the scene of turbulent activities, this vast and soothing calm? How else

could this man's breath come now so deep and regular and content? The

angels of God may know, they who drop down the gentle dew of heaven.

An hour passed by. A soft tread came to the door, but Henri heard no

sound, and saw only the prone figure of the sleeper, and beside it the

form of the woman, who still held his hand in her own. Still the hours

wore on, and still the watch continued, there under the mysteries of

Life and of Love, of Mercy and of Forgiveness. And so at last the gray

dawn broke again. The panes of the high mullioned windows were tinged

with splashes of color. The pale light crept into the room, slowly

revealing and lighting up its splendors.

With the dawn there came into the heart of Catharine Knollys a flood of

light and joy. Why, she knew not; how, she cared not; yet she knew that

the shadows were gone. The same tide of peace and calm might have swept

into the bosom of the man before her. He stirred, moved. His eyes opened

wide, in their gaze wonder and disbelief, yet hope and longing.

"Catharine," he murmured, "Catharine! Is it you? Catharine! Dear Kate!"

She bent over and softly kissed his face. "Dear heart," she whispered,

"I have loved you always. Awake. The day has come. There is another

world before us. See, I have come to you, dear heart, for Faith, and for

Love, and for Hope!"