Least of all did De Courval like the change to the busy life of the city. A growing love, which he knew would arouse every prejudice his mother held dear, occupied his mind when he was not busy with Schmidt's affairs or still indecisively on the outlook for his enemy. Genêt, dismissed, had gone to New York to live, where later he married De Witt Clinton's sister, being by no means willing to risk his head in France. His secretary, as De Courval soon heard, was traveling until the new minister arrived. Thus for the time left more at ease, De Courval fenced, rode, and talked with Schmidt.
December of this calamitous year went by and the rage of parties increased. Neither French nor English spared our commerce. The latter took the French islands, and over a hundred and thirty of our ships were seized as carriers of provisions and ruthlessly plundered, their crews impressed and many vessels left to rot, uncared for, at the wharves of San Domingo and Martinique. A nation without a navy, we were helpless. There was indeed enough wrong done by our old ally and by the mother-country to supply both parties in America with good reasons for war.
The whole land was in an uproar and despite the news of the Terror in France, the Jacobin clubs multiplied in many cities North and South, andbroke out in the wildest acts of folly. In Charleston they pulled down the statue of the great statesman Pitt. The Democratic Club of that city asked to be affiliated with the Jacobin Club in Paris, while the city council voted to use no longer the absurd titles "Your Honour" and "Esquire."
Philadelphia was not behindhand in folly, but it took no official form. The astronomer Rittenhouse, head of the Republican Club, appeared one day at the widow's and showed Schmidt a copy of a letter addressed to the Vestry of Christ Church. He was full of it, and when, later, Mr. Jefferson appeared, to get the chocolate and the talk he dearly liked, Rittenhouse would have had him sign the appeal.
"This, Citizen," said the astronomer, "will interest and please you."
The Secretary read, with smiling comments: "'To the Vestry of Christ Church: It is the wish of the respectable citizens that you cause to be removed the image of George the Second from the gable of Christ Church.' Why not?" said the Secretary, as he continued to read aloud: "'These marks of infamy cause the church to be disliked.'"
"Why not remove the church, too?" said Schmidt.
"'T is of as little use," said Jefferson, and this Mrs. Swanwick did not like. She knew of his disbelief in all that she held dear.
"Thou wilt soon get no chocolate here," she said; for she feared no one and at times was outspoken.
"Madame, I shall go to meeting next First Day with the citizen Friends. My chocolate, please." He read on, aloud: "'It has a tendency to keep theyoung and virtuous away.' That is you and I, Rittenhouse—'the young and virtuous.'" But he did not sign, and returned this amazing document, remarking that his name was hardly needed.
"They have refused," said the astronomer, "actually refused, and it is to be removed by outraged citizens to-day, I hear. A little more chocolate, Citess, and a bun—please."
"Citess, indeed! When thou art hungry enough to speak the King's English," said Mrs. Swanwick, "thou shall have thy chocolate; and if thy grammar be very good, there will be also a slice of sally-lunn."
The philosopher repented, and was fed, while Schmidt remarked on the immortality a cake may confer; but who Sally was, no one knew.
"You will be pleased to hear, Rittenhouse, that Dr. Priestly is come to the city," said the Secretary. "He is at the Harp and Crown on Third Street."
"I knew him in England," said Schmidt; "I will call on him to-day. A great chemist, René, and the finder of a new gas called oxygen."
When the star-gazer had gone away the Secretary, after some talk about the West Indian outrages, said: "I shall miss your chocolate, Madame, and my visits. You have heard, no doubt, of the cabinet changes."
"Some rumors, only," said Schmidt.
"I have resigned, and go back to my home and my farming. Mr. Hamilton will also fall out this January, and General Knox, no very great loss. Colonel Pickering takes his place."
"And who succeeds Hamilton, sir?"
"Oh, his satellite, Wolcott. The ex-Secretary means to pull the wires of his puppets. He loves power, as I do not. But the chocolate, alas!"
"And who, may I ask," said Mrs. Swanwick, "is to follow thee, Friend Jefferson?"
"Edmund Randolph, I believe. Bradford will have his place of Attorney-General. And now you have all my gossip, Madame, and I leave next week. I owe you many thanks for the pleasant hours in your home. Good-by, Mr. Schmidt; and Vicomte, may I ask to be remembered to your mother? I shall hope to be here now and then."
"We shall miss thee, Friend Jefferson," said the widow.
"I would not lessen thy regrets," he said. "Ah, one lingers." He kissed the hand he held, his bright hazel eyes aglow. "Good-by, Miss Margaret." And bowing low, he left them.
Schmidt looked after him, smiling.
"Now thou art of a mind to say naughty things of my friend," said Mrs. Swanwick. "I know thy ways."
"I was, but I meant only to criticize his politics. An intelligent old fox with golden eyes. He is of no mind to accept any share of the trouble this English treaty will make, and this excise tax."
René, who was beginning to understand the difficulties in a cabinet where there was seldom any unanimity of opinion, said: "There will be more peace for the President."
"And less helpful heads," said Schmidt. "Hamilton is a great loss, and Jefferson in some respects.They go not well in double harness. Come, René, let us go and see the philosopher. I knew him well. Great men are rare sights. A Jacobin philosopher! But there are no politics in gases."
The chemist was not at home, and hearing shouts and unusual noise on Second Street, they went through Church Alley to see what might be the cause. A few hundred men and boys of the lower class were gathered in front of Christ Church, watched by a smaller number of better-dressed persons, who hissed and shouted, but made no attempt to interfere when, apparently unmolested, a man, let down from the roof of the gable, tore off the leaden medallion of the second George[1]amid the cheering and mad party cries of the mob.
[1]The leaden bas-relief has since been replaced.
[1]The leaden bas-relief has since been replaced.
Schmidt said: "Now they can say their prayers in peace, these Jacobin Christians."
In one man's mind there was presently small thought of peace. When the crowd began to scatter, well pleased, Schmidt saw beside him De la Forêt, consul-general of France, and with him Carteaux. He threw his great bulk and broad shoulders between De Courval and the Frenchmen, saying: "Let us go. Come, René."
As he spoke, Carteaux, now again in the service, said: "We do it better in France, Citizen Consul. The Committee of Safety and Père Couthon would have shortened the preacher by a head. Oh, they are leaving. Have you seen the caricature of the aristocrat Washington on the guillotine? It has made the President swear, I am told."
As he spoke, De Courval's attention was caught by the French accents and something in the voice, and he turned to see the stranger who spoke thus insolently.
"Not here, René. No! no!" said Schmidt. He saw De Courval's face grow white as he had seen it once before.
"Let us go," said De la Forêt.
"A feeble mob of children," returned Carteaux.
As he spoke, De Courval struck him a single savage blow full in the face.
"A fight! a fight!" cried the crowd. "Give them room! A ring! a ring!"
There was no fight in the slighter man, who lay stunned and bleeding, while René struggled in Schmidt's strong arms, wild with rage.
"You have done enough," said the German; "come!" René, silent, himself again, stared at the fallen man.
"What is the meaning of this outrage!" said De la Forêt. "Your name, sir?"
"I am the Vicomte de Courval," said René, perfectly cool. "You will find me at Madame Swanwick's on Front Street."
Carteaux was sitting upon the sidewalk, still dazed and bleeding. The crowd looked on. "He hits hard," said one.
"Come, René," said the German, and they walked away, René still silent.
"I supposed it would come soon or late," said Schmidt. "We shall hear from them to-morrow."
"René struggled in Schmidt's arms, wild with rage""René struggled in Schmidt's arms, wild with rage"
"Mon Dieu, but I am glad. It is a weight off my mind. I shall kill him."
Schmidt was hardly as sure. Neither man spoke again until they reached home.
"Come to my room, René," said the German after supper. "I want to settle that ground-rent business."
As they sat down, he was struck with the young man's look of elation. "Oh, my pipe first. Where is it? Ah, here it is. What do you mean to do?"
"Do? I do not mean to let him think it was only the sudden anger of a French gentleman at a Jacobin's vile speech. He must know why I struck."
"That seems reasonable."
"But I shall not involve in my quarrel a man of your rank. I shall ask Du Vallon."
"Shall you, indeed! There is wanted here a friend and an older head. What rank had I when you saw me through my deadly duel with El Vomito? Now, no more of that." De Courval yielded.
"I shall write to him and explain my action. He may put it as he pleases to others."
"I see no better way. Write now, and let me see your letter."
René sat at the table and wrote while Schmidt smoked, a troubled and thoughtful man. "He is no match for that fellow with the sword; and yet"—and he moved uneasily—"it will be, on the whole, better than the pistol." Any thought of adjustment or of escape from final resort to the duel he did not consider. It would have been out of thequestion for himself and, as he saw it, for any man of his beliefs and training.
"Here it is, sir," said René. The German gentleman laid down his long pipe and read:
Sir: I am desirous that you should not consider my action as the result of what you said in my hearing to M. de la Forêt. I am the Vicomte de Courval. In the massacre at Avignon on the twelfth of September, 1791, when my father was about to be released by Jourdan, your voice alone called for his condemnation. I saw him die, butchered before my eyes. This is why I struck you.Louis René de Courval.
Sir: I am desirous that you should not consider my action as the result of what you said in my hearing to M. de la Forêt. I am the Vicomte de Courval. In the massacre at Avignon on the twelfth of September, 1791, when my father was about to be released by Jourdan, your voice alone called for his condemnation. I saw him die, butchered before my eyes. This is why I struck you.
Louis René de Courval.
"That will do," said Schmidt. "He shall have it to-night. You will have a week to spend with Du Vallon. No prudent man would meet you in the condition in which you left him."
"I suppose not. I can wait. I have waited long. I regret the delay chiefly because in this city everything is known and talked about, and before we can end the matter it will be heard of here."
"Very probably; but no one will speak of it before your mother, and you may be sure that these good people will ask no questions, and only wonder and not realize what must come out of it."
"Perhaps, perhaps." He was not so sure and wished to end it at once.
It had been in his power to have made the social life of the better republicans impossible for his father's murderer; but this might have driven Carteaux away and was not what he desired. The constant thought of his mother had kept him asundecided as Hamlet, but now a sudden burst of anger had opened the way to what he longed for. He was glad.
When, that night, Jean Carteaux sat up in bed and read by dim candlelight De Courval's letter, he, too, saw again the great hall at Avignon and recalled the blood madness. His Jacobin alliances had closed to him in Philadelphia the houses of the English party and the Federalists, and in the society he frequented, at the official dinners of the cabinet officers, he had never seen De Courval, nor, indeed, heard of him, or, if at all casually, without his title and as one of the manyémigrésnobles with whom he had no social acquaintance. It was the resurrection of a ghost of revenge. He had helped to send to the guillotine others as innocent as Jean de Courval, and then, at last, not without fear of his own fate, had welcomed the appointment of commissioner to San Domingo and, on his return to France, had secured the place of secretary to Genêt's legation. The mockery of French sentiment in the clubs of the American cities, the cockades, and red bonnets, amused him. It recoiled from personal violence, and saying wild things, did nothing of serious moment. The good sense and the trust of the great mass of the people throughout the country in one man promised little of value to France, as Carteaux saw full well when the recall of Genêt was demanded. He felt the chill of failure in this cooler air, but was of no mind to return to his own country. He was intelligent, and, having some means, meant that his handsome face should secure for him an Americanwife, and with her a comfortable dowry; for who knew of his obscure life in Paris? And now here was that affair at Avignon and the ruin of his plans. He would at least close one mouth and deny what it might have uttered. There was no other way, and for the rest—well, a Frenchémigréhad heard him speak rashly and had been brutal. The Jacobin clubs would believe and stand by him. De la Forêt must arrange the affair, and so far this insolentci-devantcould have said nothing else of moment.
De la Forêt called early the next day, and was referred to Schmidt as René left the room. No pacific settlement was discussed or even mentioned. The consul, well pleased, accepted the sword as the weapon, and this being Sunday, on Thursday at 7A.M.there would be light enough, and they would cross on the ice to New Jersey; for this year one could sleigh from the city to the capes, and from New York to Cape Cod—or so it was said.
Meanwhile the Jacobin clubs rang with the insult to a French secretary, and soon it was the talk in the well-pleased coffee-houses and at the tables of the great merchants. René said nothing, refusing to gratify those who questioned him.
"A pity," said Mrs. Chew to Penn, the Governor, as men still called him. "And why was it? The young man is so serious and so quiet and, as I hear, religious. I have seen him often at Christ Church with his mother, or at Gloria Dei."
"One can get a good deal of religion into a blow," remarked Hamilton, "or history lies. The man insultedhim, I am told, and the vicomte struck him." Even Hamilton knew no more than this.
"Still, there are milder ways of calling a man to account," said young Thomas Cadwalader, while Hamilton smiled, remembering that savage duel in which John Cadwalader, the father, had punished the slanderer, General Conway.
"Will there be a fight?" said Mrs. Byrd.
"Probably," said Penn, and opinion among the Federals was all for the vicomte. Meanwhile no one spoke of the matter at the widow's quiet house, where just now the severe winter made social visits rare.
As for De Courval he fenced daily with Du Vallon, who was taken into their confidence and shared Schmidt's increasing anxiety.
On Thursday, at the dawn of a gloomy winter morning, the two sleighs crossed over a mile of ice to the Jersey shore. Large flakes of snow were falling as Schmidt drove, the little doctor, Chovet, beside him, De Courval silent on the back seat. Nothing could keep Chovet quiet very long. "I was in the duel of Laurens, the President of the Congress. Oh, it was to be on Christmas Day and near to Seven Street. Mr. Penn—oh, not the fat governor but the senator from Georgia—he slipped in the mud on the way, and Laurens he help him with a hand, and they make up all at once and no further go, and I am disappoint." It was an endless chatter. "And there was the Conway duel, too. Ah, that was good business!"
Schmidt, out of patience, said at last, "If you talk any more, I will throw you out of the sleigh."
"Oh,le diable!and who then will heal these which go to stick one the other? Ha! I ask of you that?"
"The danger will be so much the less," said Schmidt. Chovet was silenced.
On the shore they met De la Forêt and Carteaux, and presently found in the woods an open space with little snow. The two men stripped to the shirt, and were handed the dueling-swords, Schmidt whispering: "Be cool; no temper here. Wait to attack."
"And now," said the consul, as the seconds fell back, "on guard, Messieurs!"
Instantly the two blades rang sharp notes of meeting steel as they crossed and clashed in the cold morning air. "He is lost!" murmured Schmidt. The slighter man attacked furiously, shifting his ground, at first imprudently sure of his foe. A prick in the chest warned him. Then there was a mad interchange of quick thrusts and more or less competent defense, when De Courval, staggering, let fall his rapier and dropped, while Carteaux, panting, stood still.
Schmidt knelt down. It was a deep chest wound and bled but little outwardly. De Courval, coughing up foamy blood, gasped, "It is over for a time—over." Chovet saw no more to do than to get his man home, and so strangely does associative memory play her tricks that Schmidt, as he rose in dismay, recalled the words of the dyingMercutio. Then, with apparent ease, he lifted René, and, carrying him to the sleigh, wrapped him in furs, and drove swiftly over the ice to the foot of the garden. "Fasten the horse, Doctor," he said, "and follow me." René smiled as the German carried him. "The second time of home-coming wounded. How strange! Don't be troubled, sir. I do not mean to die. Tell my mother yourself."
"If you die," murmured Schmidt, "he shall follow you. Do not speak, René."
He met Margaret on the porch. "What is it?" she cried, as he went by her with his burden. "What is the matter?"
"A duel. He is wounded. Call your mother." Not waiting to say more, he went carefully up-stairs, and with Chovet's help René was soon in his bed. It was quietly done, Mrs. Swanwick, distressed, but simply obeying directions, asked no questions and Margaret, below-stairs, outwardly calm, her Quaker training serving her well, was bidding Nanny to cease crying and to get what was needed.
Once in bed, René said only, "My mother—tell her, at once." She had heard at last the quick haste of unwonted stir and met Schmidt at her chamber door.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"Certainly, Monsieur. Something has happened to René. Is he dead?"
"No; but, he is hurt—wounded."
"Then tell me the worst at once. I am not of those to whom you must break ill news gently. Sit down." He obeyed her.
"René has had a duel. He is badly wounded in the lung. You cannot see him now. The doctor insists on quiet."
"And who will stop me?" she said.
"I, Madame," and he stood between her and the door. "Just now you can only do him harm. I beg of you to wait—oh, patiently—for days, perhaps. If he is worse, you shall know it at once."
For a moment she hesitated. "I will do as you say. Who was the man?"
"Carteaux, Madame."
"Carteaux here!Mon Dieu!Does he live?"
"Yes. He was not hurt."
"And men say there is a God! Christ help me; what is it I have said? How came he here, this man?"
He told her the whole story, she listening with moveless, pale, ascetic face. Then she rose: "I am sorry I did not know of this beforehand. I should have prayed for my son that he might kill him. I thank you, Monsieur. I believe you love my René."
"As if he were my son, Madame."
Days went by, darkened with despair or brightened with faint hope. Alas! who has not known them? The days grew to weeks. There were no longer guests, only anxious inquirers and a pale, drooping young woman and two mothers variously troubled.
But if here there were watching friendship and love and service and a man to die to-day or to-morrow to live, in the darkened room were spirits twain ever whispering love or hate. Outside of the house where De Courval lay, the Jacobin clubs rejoiced and feasted Carteaux, who burned De Courval's note and held his tongue, while Fauchet complained of the insult to his secretary, and Mr. Randolph neither would nor could do anything.
The February of 1794 passed, and March and April, while Glentworth, Washington's physician, came, and afterward Dr. Rush, to Chovet's disgust. Meanwhile the young man lay in bed wasting away with grim doubts of phthisis in the doctors' minds until in May there was a gain, and, as once before, he was allowed a settle, and soon was in the air on the upper porch, and could see visitors.
Schmidt, more gaunt than ever, kissed the hand of the vicomtesse in his German fashion, as for the first time through all the long vigils they had shared with Mary Swanwick she thanked him for positive assurance of recovery.
"He is safe, you tell me. May the God who has spared my son remember you and bless you through all your days and in all your ways!"
He bent low. "I have my reward, Madame."
Some intuitive recognition of what was in his mind was perhaps naturally in the thought of both. She said, "Will it end here?"
Seeing before him a face which he could not read, he replied, "It is to be desired that it end here, or that some good fortune put the sea between these two."
"And can you, his friend, say that? Not if he is the son I bore. I trust not," and, turning away, she left him; while he looked after her and murmured: "There is more mother in me than in her," and going out to where René lay, he said gaily: "Out of prison at last, my boy. A grim jail is sickness."
"Ah, to hear the birds who are so free," said René. "Are they ever ill, I wonder?"
"Mr. Hamilton is below, René—just come from New York. He has been here twice."
"Then I shall hear of the world. You have starved me of news." There was little good to tell him. The duke, their cousin, had fled from France, and could write to madame only of the Terror and of deaths and ruin.
The Secretary came up fresh with the gaiety of a world in which he was still battling fiercely with the Republican party, glad of the absence of his rival, Jefferson, who saw no good in anything he did or said.
"You are very kind," said De Courval, "to spare me a little of your time, sir." Indeed he felt it. Hamilton sat down, smiling at the eagerness with which René questioned him.
"There is much to tell, Vicomte. The outrages on our commerce by the English have become unendurable, and how we are to escape war I do not see. An embargo has been proclaimed by the President; it is for thirty days, and will be extended to thirty more. We have many English ships in our ports. No one of them can leave."
"That ought to bring them to their senses," said René.
"It may," returned Hamilton.
"And what, sir, of the treaty with England?"
Hamilton smiled. "I was to have been sent, but there was too much opposition, and now, as I think, wisely, Chief-Justice Jay is to go to London."
"Ah, Mr. Hamilton, if there were but war with England,—and there is cause enough,—some of us poor exiles might find pleasant occupation."
The Secretary became grave. "I would do much, yield much, to escape war, Vicomte. No man of feeling who has ever seen war desires to see it again. If the memory of nations were as retentive as the memory of a man, there would be an end of wars."
"And yet, sir," said René, "I hardly see how you—how this people—endure what you so quietly accept."
"Yes, yes. No man more than Washington feels the additions of insult to injury. If to-day you could give him a dozen frigates, our answer to England would not be a request for a treaty which will merely secure peace, and give us that with contempt, and little more. What it personally costs that proud gentleman, our President, to preserve his neutral attitude few men know."
René was pleased and flattered by the thoughtful gravity of the statesman's talk.
"I see, sir," he said. "There will be no war."
"No; I think not. I sincerely hope not. But now I must go. My compliments to your mother; and I am glad to see you so well."
As he went out, he met Schmidt in the hall. "Ah, why did you not prevent this duel?" he said.
"No man could, sir. It is, I fear, a business to end only when one of them dies. It dates far back of the blow. Some day we will talk of it, but I do not like the outlook."
"Indeed." He went into the street thoughtful. In principle opposed to duels, he was to die in the prime of life a victim to the pistol of Burr.
The pleasant May weather and the open air brought back to De Courval health and the joys of life. The girl in the garden heard once more his bits of French song, and when June came with roses he was able to lie on the lower porch, swinging at ease in a hammock sent by Captain Biddle, and it seemedas if the world were all kindness. As he lay, Schmidt read to him, and he missed only Margaret, ordered out to the country in the care of Aunt Gainor, while, as he grew better, he had the strange joy of senses freshened and keener than in health, as if he were reborn to a new heritage of tastes and odors, the priceless gift of wholesome convalescence.
He asked no questions concerning Carteaux or what men said of the duel; but as Schmidt, musing, saw him at times gentle, pleased, merry, or again serious, he thought how all men have in them a brute ancestor ready with a club. "Just now the devil is asleep." He alone, and the mother, fore-looking, knew; and so the time ran on, and every one wanted him. The women came with flowers and strawberries, and made much of him, the gray mother not ill-pleased.
In June he was up, allowed to walk out or to lie in the boat while Schmidt caught white perch or crabs and talked of the many lands he had seen. Then at last, to René's joy, he might ride.
"Here," said Schmidt, "is a note from Mistress Gainor. We are asked to dine and stay the night. No, not you. You are not yet fit for dinners and gay women. These doctors are cruel. There will be, she writes, Mr. Jefferson, here for a week; Mr. Langstroth, and a woman or two; and Wolcott of the Treasury, 'if Hamilton will let him come,' she says." For perhaps wisely the new official followed the ex-Secretary's counsels, to the saving of much needless thinking. "A queer party that!" said Schmidt. "What new mischief are she and the ex-QuakerJosiah devising?" He would be there at three, he wrote, the groom having waited a reply.
"Have you any message for Miss Margaret, René?" he asked next day.
"Tell her that all that is left of me remembers her mother's kindness." And, laughing, he added: "That there is more of me every day."
"And is that all?"
"Yes; that is all. Is there any news?"
"None of moment. Oh, yes, I meant to tell you. The heathen imagine a vain thing—a fine republican mob collected in front of the Harp and Crown yesterday. There was a picture set up over the door in the war—a picture of the Queen of France. A painter was made to paint a ring of blood around the neck and daub the clothes with red. If there is a fool devil, he must grin at that."
"Canaille!" said René. "Poor queen! We of the religion did not love her; but to insult the dead! Ah, a week in Paris now, and these cowards would fly in fear."
"Yes; it is a feeble sham." And so he left René to his book and rode away with change of garments in his saddle-bags.
Miss Gainor being busy at her toilette, Schmidt was received at the Hill Farm by the black page, in red plush for contrast, and shown up to his room. He usually wore clothes of simple character and left the changing fashions to others. But this time he dressed as he did rarely, and came down with powdered hair, in maroon-colored velvet with enameled buttons, ruffles at the wrists, and the full lace neck-gear still known as a Steenkirk.
Miss Gainor envied him the gold buckles of the broidered garters and shoes, and made her best courtesy to the stately figure which bent low before her.
"They are late," she said. "Go and speak to Margaret in the garden." He found her alone under a great tulip-tree.
"Ach!" he cried, "you are looking better. You were pale." She rose with a glad welcome as he saw and wondered. "How fine we are, Pearl!"
"Are we not? But Aunt Gainor would have it. I must courtesy, I suppose."
The dress was a compromise. There were still the gray silks, the underskirt, open wider than common in front, a pale sea-green petticoat, and, alas! even powder—very becoming it seemed to the German gentleman. I am helpless to describe the prettinessof it. Aunt Gainor had an artist's eye, though she herself delighted in too gorgeous attire.
He gave Margaret the home news and his message from René, and no; she was not yet to come to town. It was too hot, and not very healthy this summer.
"Why did not the vicomte write?" she said with some hesitation. "That would have been nicer."
"Ach, guter Himmel!Young men do not write to young women."
"But among Friends we are more simple."
"Ach, Friends—and in this gown! Shall we be of two worlds? That might have its convenience."
"Thou art naughty, sir," she said, and they went in.
There was Colonel Lennox and his wife, whom Schmidt had not met, and Josiah. "You know Mrs. Byrd, Mr. Schmidt? Mrs. Eager Howard, may I present to you Mr. Schmidt?" This was the Miss Chew who won the heart of the victor of the Cowpens battle; and last came Jefferson, tall, meager, red-cheeked, and wearing no powder, a lean figure in black velvet, on a visit to the city.
"There were only two good noses," said Gainor next day to a woman with the nose of a pug dog—"mine and that man Schmidt's—Schmidt, with a nose like a hawk and a jaw most predacious."
For mischief she must call Mr. Jefferson "Excellency," for had he not been governor of his State?
He bowed, laughing. "Madame, I have no liking for titles. Not even those which you confer."
"Oh, but when you die, sir," cried Mrs. Howard,"and you want to read your title clear to mansions in the skies?"
"I shall want none of them; and there are no mansions in the skies."
"And no skies, sir, I suppose," laughed Mrs. Byrd. "Poor Watts!"
"In your sense none," he returned. "How is De Courval?"
"Oh, better; much better."
"He seems to get himself talked about," said Mrs. Howard. "A fine young fellow, too."
"You should set your cap for him, Tacy," said Gainor to the blond beauty, Mrs. Lennox.
"It was set long ago for my Colonel," she cried.
"I am much honored," said her husband, bowing.
"She was Dr. Franklin's last love-affair," cried Gainor. "How is that, Tacy Lennox?"
"Fie, Madam! He was dying in those days, and, yes, I loved him. There are none like him nowadays."
"I never thought much of his nose," said Gainor, amid gay laughter; and they went to dinner, the Pearl quietly attentive, liking it well, and still better when Colonel Howard turned to chat with her and found her merry and shyly curious concerning the great war she was too young to remember well, and in regard to the men who fought and won. Josiah, next to Mrs. Lennox, contributed contradictions, and Pickering was silent, liking better the company of men.
At dusk, having had their Madeira, they rode away, leaving only Margaret and Schmidt. Theevening talk was quiet, and the girl, reluctant, was sent to bed early.
"I have a pipe for you," said Gainor. "Come out under the trees. How warm it is!"
"You had a queer party," said Schmidt, who knew her well, and judged better than many her true character.
"Yes; was it not? But the women were to your liking, I am sure."
"Certainly; but why Josiah, and what mischief are you two after?"
"I? Mischief, sir?"
"Yes; you do not like him. You never have him here to dine if you can help it."
"No; but now I am trying to keep him out of mischief, and to-day he invited himself to dine."
"Well!" said Schmidt, blowing great rings of smoke.
"General Washington was here yesterday. His horse cast a shoe, and he must needs pay me a visit. Oh, he was honest about it. He looked tired and aged. I shall grow old; but aged, sir, never. He is deaf, too. I hope he may not live to lose his mind. I thought of Johnson's lines about Marlborough."
"I do not know them. What are they?"
"From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,And Swift expires, a driv'ler and a show."
"From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,And Swift expires, a driv'ler and a show."
"Yes," said Schmidt thoughtfully—"yes; that is the ending I most should fear."
"He is clear-headed enough to-day; but the menaround him think too much of their own interests, and he of his country alone."
"It may be better with this new cabinet."
"No; there will be less head."
"And more heart, I hope," said Schmidt.
"I could cry when I think of that man's life."
"Yes, it is sad enough; but suppose," said Schmidt, "we return to Josiah."
"Well, if you must have it, Josiah has one honest affection outside of a love-affair with Josiah—Margaret, of course."
"Yes; and what more?"
"He thinks she should be married, and proposes to arrange the matter."
The idea of Uncle Josiah as a matchmaker filled the German with comic delight. He broke into Gargantuan laughter. "I should like to hear his plan of campaign."
"Oh, dear Aunt Gainor," cried a voice from an upper window, "what is the joke? Tell me, or I shall come down and find out."
"Go to bed, minx!" shouted Miss Gainor. "Mr. Schmidt is going to be married, and I am to be bridesmaid. To bed with you!"
"Fie, for shame, Aunt! He will tell me to-morrow." The white figure disappeared from the window.
"Oh, Josiah is set on it—really set on it, and you know his possibilities of combining folly with obstinacy."
"Yes, I know. And who is the happy man?"
"The Vicomte de Courval, please."
Schmidt whistled low. "I beg your pardon, Mistress Gainor. Cannot you stop him? The fool! What does he propose to do?"
"I do not know. He has an odd admiration for De Courval, and that is strange, for he never contradicts him."
"The admiration of a coward for a brave man—I have known that more than once. He will do Heaven knows what, and end in making mischief enough."
"I have scared him a little. He talked, the idiot, about his will, and what he would or would not do. As if that would help, or as if the dear child cares or would care. I said I had money to spare at need. He will say nothing for a while. I do not mean to be interfered with. I told him so."
"Did you, indeed?"
"I did."
"Mistress Gainor, you had better keep your own hands off and let things alone. Josiah would be like an elephant in a rose garden."
"And I like—"
"A good, kindly woman about to make a sad mistake. You do not know the mother's deep-seated prejudices, nor yet of what trouble lies like a shadow on René's life. I should not dare to interfere."
"What is it?" she said, at once curious and anxious.
"Mistress Gainor, you are to be trusted, else you would go your way. Is not that so?"
"Yes; but I am reasonable and Margaret is dear to me. I like the vicomte and, as for his mother, she thinks me a kind, rough old woman; and for hernonsense about rank and blood, stuff! The girl's blood is as good as hers."
"No doubt; but let it alone. And now I think you ought to hear his story and I mean to tell it." And sitting in the darkness, he told her of Avignon and Carteaux and the real meaning of the duel and how the matter would go on again some day, but how soon fate alone could determine. She listened, appalled at the tragic story which had come thus fatefully from a far-away land into the life of a quiet Quaker family.
"It is terrible and sad," she said. "And he has spoken to no one but you of this tragedy? It must be known to many."
"The death, yes. Carteaux's share in it, no. He was an unknown youngavocatat the time."
"How reticent young De Courval must be! It is singular at his age."
"He had no reason to talk of it; he is a man older than his years. He had in fact his own good reason for desiring not to drive this villain out of his reach. He is a very resolute person. If he loves this dear child, he will marry her, if a dozen mothers stand in the way."
"There will be two. I see now why Mary Swanwick is always sending Margaret to me or to Darthea Wynne. I think the maid cares for him."
"Ah, my dear Miss Gainor, if I could keep them apart for a year, I should like it. God knows where the end will be. Suppose this fellow were to kill him! That they will meet again is sadly sure, if I know De Courval."
"You are right," she returned. "But if, Mr. Schmidt, this shadow did not lie across his path, would it please you? Would you who have done so much for him—would you wish it?"
"With all my heart. But let it rest here, and let time and fate have their way."
"I will," she said, rising. "It is cool. I must go in. It is a sad tangle, and those two mothers! I am sometimes glad that I never married and have no child. Good night. I fear that I shall dream of it."
"I shall have another pipe before I follow you. We are three old cupids," he added, laughing. "We had better go out of business."
"There is a good bit of cupidity about one of us, sir."
"A not uncommon quality," laughed Schmidt.
Pleased with her jest, she went away, saying, "Tom will take care of you."
To the well-concealed satisfaction of the vicomtesse, it was settled that Margaret's health required her to remain all summer at the Hill; but when June was over, De Courval was able to ride, and why not to Chestnut Hill? And although Gainor never left them alone, it was impossible to refuse permission for him to ride with them.
They explored the country far and wide with Aunt Gainor on her great stallion, a rash rider despite her years. Together they saw White Marsh and the historic lines of Valley Forge, and heard of Hugh Wynne's ride, and, by good luck, met General Wayne one day and were told the story of that dismalwinter when snow was both foe and friend. Aunt Gainor rode in a riding-mask, and the Quaker bonnet was worn no longer, wherefore, the code of lovers' signals being ingeniously good, there needed no cupids old or young. The spring of love had come and the summer would follow in nature's course. Yet always René felt that until his dark debt was paid he could not speak.
Therefore, sometimes he refrained from turning his horse toward the Hill and went to see his mother, now again, to her pleasure, with Darthea, or else he rode with Schmidt through that bit of Holland on the Neck and saw sails over the dikes and the flour windmills turning in the breeze. Schmidt, too, kept him busy, and he visited Baltimore and New York, and fished or shot.
"You are well enough now. Let us fence again," said Schmidt, and once more he was made welcome by theémigréslate in the evening when no others came.
He would rarely touch the foils, but "Mon Dieu, Schmidt," said de Malerive, "he has with the pistol skill."
Du Vallon admitted it. But: "Mon ami, it is no weapon for gentlemen. The Jacobins like it. There is no tierce or quarte against a bullet."
"Do they practise with the pistol here?"
"No. Carteaux, thy lucky friend, ah, very good,—of the best with the foil,—but no shot." René smiled, and Schmidt understood.
"Can you hit that, René?" he said, taking from his pocket the ace of clubs, for playing-cards wereoften used as visiting-cards, the backs being white, and other material not always to be had.
René hit the edge of the ace with a ball, and then the center. The gay crowd applauded, and Du Vallon pleased to make a little jest in English, wished it were a Jacobin club, and, again merry, they liked the jest.
The only man known to me who remembered Schmidt is said to have heard Alexander Hamilton remark that all the German lacked of being great was interest in the noble game of politics. It was true of Schmidt. The war of parties merely amused him, with their honest dread of a monarchy, their terror of a bonded debt, their disgust at the abominable imposition of a tax on freemen, and, above all, an excise tax on whisky. Jefferson, with keen intellect, was trying to keep the name Republican for the would-be Democrats, and while in office had rebuked Genêt and kept Fauchet in order, so that, save for the smaller side of him and the blinding mind fog of personal and party prejudice, he would have been still more valuable in the distracted cabinet he had left.
Schmidt looked on it all with tranquillity, and while he heard of the horrors of the Terror with regret for individual suffering, regarded that strange drama much as an historian looks back on the records of the past.
Seeing this and the man's interest in the people near to him, in flowers, nature, and books, his attitude of mind in regard to the vast world changes seemed singular to the more intense character of De Courval. It had for him, however, its value in themidst of the turmoil of a new nation and the temptations an immense prosperity offered to a people who were not as yet acclimated to the air of freedom.
In fact Schmidt's indifference, or rather the neutrality of a mind not readily biased, seemed to set him apart, and to enable him to see with sagacity the meaning and the probable results of what appeared to some in America like the beginning of a fatal evolution of ruin.
Their companionship had now the qualities of one of those rare and useful friendships between middle age and youth, seen now and then between a father and son, with similar tastes. They were much together, and by the use of business errands and social engagements the elder man did his share in so occupying De Courval as to limit his chances of seeing Margaret Swanwick; nor was she entirely or surely displeased. Her instincts as a woman made her aware of what might happen at any time. She knew, too, what would then be the attitude of the repellent Huguenot lady. Her pride of caste was recognized by Margaret with the distinctness of an equal but different pride, and with some resentment at an aloofness which, while it permitted the expression of gratitude, seemed to draw between Mrs. Swanwick and herself a line of impassable formality of intercourse.
One of the lesser accidents of social life was about to bring for De Courval unlooked-for changes and materially to affect his fortunes. He had seemed to Schmidt of late less troubled, a fact due to a decision which left him more at ease.
The summer of 1794 was over, and the city gay and amusing. He had seen Carteaux more than once, and seeing him, he had been but little disturbed. On an evening in September, Schmidt and he went as usual to the fencing-school. There were some new faces. Du Vallon said, "Here, Schmidt, is an old friend of mine, and Vicomte, let me present Monsieur Brillat-Savarin."
The new-comer greeted De Courval and his face expressed surprise as he bowed to the German. "I beg pardon," he said—"Monsieur Schmidt?"
"Yes, at your service."
He seemed puzzled. "It seems to me that we have met before—in Berne, I think."
"Berne. Berne," said Schmidt, coldly. "I was never in Berne."
"Ah, I beg pardon. I must be mistaken."
"Are you here for a long stay?"
"Only for a few days. I am wandering in a land of lost opportunities."
"Of what?" asked Schmidt.
"Oh, of the cook. Think of it, these angelic reed-birds, the divine terrapin, the duck they call canvas, the archangelic wild turkey, unappreciated, crudely cooked; the Madeira—ah,mon Dieu!I would talk of them, and, behold, the men talk politics! I have eaten of that dish at home, and it gave me the colic of disgust."
"But the women?" said a youngémigré.
"Ah, angels, angels. But can they make an omelet? The divine Miss Morris would sing to me when I would speak seriously of my search for truffles.Oh, she would sing the 'Yankee Dudda'[1]and I must hear the 'Lament of Major André.' Who was he?"