[1]He so writes it in his "Physiologie du goût."
[1]He so writes it in his "Physiologie du goût."
De Courval explained.
"It is the truffle I lament. Ah, to marry the truffle to the wild turkey."
The little group laughed. "Old gourmand," cried Du Vallon, "you are still the same."
"Gourmet," corrected Savarin. "Congratulate me. I have found here a cook—Marino, a master, French of course, from San Domingo. You will dine with me at four to-morrow; and you, Monsieur Schmidt, certainly you resemble—"
"Yes," broke in the German. "A likeness often remarked, not very flattering."
"Ah, pardon me. But my dinner—Du Vallon, you will come, and the vicomte, and you and you, and there will be Messieurs Bingham and Rawle and Mr. Meredith, and one Jacobin,—Monsieur Girard,—as I hear a lover of good diet—ah, he gave me the crab which is soft, the citizen crab. Monsieur Girard—I bless him. I have seen women, statesmen, kings, but the crab, ah! the crab 'which is soft.'"
All of them accepted, theémigrésgladly, being, alas! none too well fed.
"And now, adieu. I must go and meditate on my dinner."
The next day at four they met at Marino's, the new restaurant in Front Street then becoming fashionable.
"I have taken the liberty," said Bingham, "to send half a dozen of Madeira, 1745, and two decantersof grape juice, what we call the white. The rest—well, of our best, all of it."
They sat down expectant. "The turkey I have not," said Savarin; "but the soup—ah, you will see,—soupa la reine. Will Citizen Girard decline?"
The dinner went on with talk and laughter. Savarin talking broken English, or more volubly French.
"You are to have the crabs which are soft, Monsieur Girard,en papillotte, more becoming crabs than women, and at the close reed-birds. Had there been these in France, and the crab which is soft, and the terrapin, there would have been no Revolution. And the Madeira—perfect, perfect, a revelation. Your health, Mr. Bingham."
Bingham bowed over his glass, and regretted that canvasback ducks and terrapin were not yet in season. Theémigrésused well this rare chance, and with talk of the wine and jest and story (anything but politics), the dinner went on gaily. Meanwhile Girard, beside De Courval, spoke of their sad experiences in the fever, and of what was going on in the murder-scourged West Indian Islands, and of the ruin of our commerce. Marino in his white cap and long apron stood behind the host, quietly appreciative of the praise given to his dinner.
Presently Savarin turned to him. "Who," he asked, "dressed this salad. It is a marvel, and quite new to me."
"I asked Monsieur de Beauvois to do me the honor."
"Indeed! Many thanks, De Beauvois," said thehost to a gentleman at the farther end of the table. "Your salad is past praise. Your health. You must teach me this dressing."
"A secret," laughed the guest, as he bowed over his glass, "and valuable."
"That is droll," said De Courval to Bingham.
"No; he comes to my house and to Willing's to dress salad for our dinners. Ten francs he gets, and lives on it, and saves money."
"Indeed! I am sorry for him," said René.
Then Mr. Bingham, being next to Girard, said to him: "At the State Department yesterday, Mr. Secretary Randolph asked me, knowing I was to see you to-day, if you knew of any French gentleman who could act as translating clerk. Of course he must know English."
"Why not my neighbor De Courval?" said the merchant. "But he is hardly of Mr. Randolph's politics."
"And what are they?" laughed Mr. Bingham. "Federal, I suppose; but as for De Courval, he is of no party. Besides, ever since Freneau left on account of the fever, the Secretaries are shy of any more clerks who will keep them in hot water with the President. For a poet he was a master of rancorous abuse."
"And who," said Girard, "have excelled the poets in malignancy? Having your permission, I will ask our young friend." And turning to René, he related what had passed between him and Mr. Bingham.
Somewhat surprised, René said: "I might like it, but I must consult Mr. Schmidt. I am far fromhaving political opinions, or, if any, they are with the Federals. But that would be for the Secretary to decide upon. An exile, Mr. Girard, should have no political opinions unless he means to become a citizen, as I do not."
"That seems reasonable," said Bingham, the senator for Pennsylvania, overhearing him. "Your health, De Courval, I commend to you the white grape juice. And if the place please you, let it be a receipt in full for my early contribution of mud." And laughing, he told Girard the story.
"Indeed, sir, it was a very personal introduction," returned René.
"I should like well to have that young man myself," said Girard in an aside to Bingham. "This is a poor bit of advancement you offer—all honor and little cash. I like the honor that attends to a draft."
The senator laughed. "Oh, Schmidt has, I believe, adopted De Courval or something like it. He will take the post for its interest. Do you know," he added, "who this man Schmidt may be?"
"I—no; but all Europe is sending us mysterious people. By and by the kings and queens will come. But Schmidt is a man to trust, that I do know."
"A good character," cried Schmidt, coming behind them. "My thanks."
"By George! It was lucky we did not abuse you," said Bingham.
"Oh, Madeira is a gentle critic, and a good dinner does fatten amiability. Come, René, we shall get on even terms of praise with them as we walk home."
The party broke up, joyous at having dined well.
As they went homeward, Schmidt said: "Our host, René, is not a mere gourmet. He is a philosophic student of diet, living in general simply, and, I may add, a gentleman of courage and good sense, as he showed in France."
"It seems difficult, sir, to judge men. He seemed to me foolish."
"Yes; and one is apt to think not well of a man who talks much of what he eats. He recognized me, but at once accepted my obvious desire not to be known. He will be sure to keep my secret."
When having reached home, and it was not yet twilight—they sat down with their pipes, René laid before his friend this matter of the secretaryship.
Schmidt said: "My work is small just now, and the hours of the State Department would release you at three. You would be at the center of affairs, and learn much, and would find the Secretary pleasant. But, remember, the work may bring you into relations with Carteaux."
"I have thought of that; but my mother will like this work for me. The business she disliked."
"Then take it, if it is offered, as I am sure it will be." "He is very quiet about Carteaux," thought Schmidt. "Something will happen soon. I did say from the first that I would not desire to be inside of that Jacobin's skin."
The day after, a brief note called De Courval to the Department of State.
The modest building which then housed the Secretary and his affairs was a small dwelling-house on High Street, No. 379, as the old numbers ran.
No mark distinguished it as the vital center of a nation's foreign business. René had to ask a passer-by for the direction.
For a brief moment De Courval stood on the outer step before the open door. A black servant was asleep on a chair within the sanded entry.
The simplicity and poverty of a young nation, just of late having set up housekeeping, were plainly to be read in the office of the Department of State. Two or three persons went in or came out.
Beside the step an old black woman was selling peanuts. René's thoughts wandered for a moment from his Norman home to a clerk's place in the service of a new country.
"How very strange!"—he had said so to Schmidt, and now recalled his laughing reply: "We think we play the game of life, René, but the banker Fate always wins. His dice are loaded, his cards are marked." The German liked to puzzle him. "And yet," reflected De Courval, "I can go in or go home." He said to himself: "Surely I am free,—and, after all, how little it means for me! I am to translate letters." He roused the snoring negro, and asked, "Where can I find Mr. Randolph?" As the drowsy slave was assembling his wits, a notably pleasant voice behind René said: "I am Mr. Randolph, at your service. Have I not the pleasure to see the Vicomte de Courval?"
"Yes, I am he."
"Come into my office." René followed him, and they sat down to talk in the simply furnished front room.
The Secretary, then in young middle age, was a largely built man and portly, dark-eyed, with refined features and quick to express a certain conciliatory courtesy in his relations with others. He used gesture more freely than is common with men of our race, and both in voice and manner there was something which René felt to be engaging and attractive.
He liked him, and still more after a long talk in which the duties of the place were explained and his own indisposition to speak of his past life recognized with tactful courtesy.
Randolph said at last, "The office is yours if it please you to accept."
"I do so, sir, most gladly."
"Very good. I ought to say that Mr. Freneau had but two hundred and fifty dollars a year. It is all we can afford."
As René was still the helper of Schmidt, and well paid, he said it was enough. He added: "I am not of any party, sir. I have already said so, but I wish in regard to this to be definite."
"That is of no moment, or, in fact, a good thing. Your duties here pledge you to no party. I want a man of honor, and one with whom state secrets will be safe. Well, then, you take it? We seem to be agreed."
"Yes; and I am much honored by the offer."
"Then come here at ten to-morrow. There is much to do for a time."
Madame was pleased. This at least was not commerce. But now there was little leisure, and no timefor visits to the Hill, at which the two conspiring cupids, out of business and anxious, smiled, doubtful as to what cards Fate would hold in this game: and thus time ran on.
The work was easy and interesting. The Secretary, courteous and well-pleased, in that simpler day, came in person to the little room assigned to De Courval and brought documents and letters which opened a wide world to a curious young man, who would stay at need until midnight, and who soon welcomed duties far beyond mere French letter-writing.
By and by there were visits with papers to Mr. Wolcott at the Treasury Department, No. 119 Chestnut Street, and at last to Fauchet at Oeller's Hotel.
He was received with formal civility by Le Blanc, a secretary, and presently Carteaux, entering, bowed. De Courval did not return the salute, and, finishing his business without haste, went out.
He felt the strain of self-control the situation had demanded, but, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, knew with satisfaction that the stern trials of the years had won for him the priceless power to be or to seem to be what he was not.
"Theci-devanthas had his little lesson," said Le Blanc. "It will be long before he insults another good Jacobin."
Carteaux, more intelligent, read otherwise the set jaw and grave face of the Huguenot gentleman. He would be on his guard.
The news of the death of Robespierre, in July, 1794, had unsettled Fauchet, and his subordinate,sharing his uneasiness, meant to return to France if the minister were recalled and the Terror at an end, or to find a home in New York, and perhaps, like Genêt, a wife. For the time he dismissed De Courval from his mind, although not altogether self-assured concerning the future.
"And now about this matter of dress," said Miss Gainor.
"Thou art very good, Godmother, to come and consult me," said Mrs. Swanwick. "I have given it some thought, and I do not see the wisdom of going half-way. The good preacher White has been talking to Margaret, and I see no reason why, if I changed, she also should not be free to do as seems best to her."
"You are very moderate, Mary, as you always are."
"I try to be; but I wish that it were altogether a matter of conscience with Margaret. It is not. Friends were concerned in regard to that sad duel and considered me unwise to keep in my house one guilty of the wickedness of desiring to shed another's blood, Margaret happened to be with me when Friend Howell opened the subject, and thou knowest how gentle he is."
"Yes. I know. What happened, Mary?"
"He said that Friends were advised that to keep in my house a young man guilty of bloodshed was, as it did appear to them, undesirable. Then, to my surprise, Margaret said: 'But he was not guilty of bloodshed.' Friend Howell was rather amazed, asthou canst imagine; but before he could say a word more, Miss Impudence jumped up, very red in the face, and said: 'Why not talk to him instead of troubling mother? I wish he had shed more blood than his own.'"
"Ah, the dear minx! I should like to have been there," said Gainor.
"He was very near to anger—as near as is possible for Arthur Howell; but out goes my young woman in a fine rage about what was none of her business."
"And what did you say?"
"What could I say except to excuse her, because the young man was our friend, and at last that I was very sorry not to do as they would have had me to do, but would hear no more. He was ill-pleased, I do assure thee."
"Were you very sorry, Mary Swanwick?"
"I was not, although I could not approve the young man nor my child's impertinence."
"Well, my dear, I should have said worse things. I may have my way in the matter of dress, I suppose?"
"Yes," said the widow, resigned. "An Episcopalian in Friends' dress seems to me to lack propriety; but as to thy desire to buy her fine garments, there are trunks in my garret full of the world's things I gave up long ago."
"Were you sorry?"
"A little, Aunt Gainor. Wilt thou see them?"
"Oh, yes, Margaret," she called, "come in."
She entered with De Courval, at home by good luck. "And may I come, too?" he asked.
"Why not?" said Mistress Gainor, and they went up-stairs, where Nanny, delighted, opened the trunks and took out one by one the garments of a gayer world, long laid away unused. The maid in her red bandana head-gear was delighted, having, like her race, great pleasure in bright colors.
The widow, standing apart, looked on, with memories which kept her silent, as the faint smell of lavender, which seems to me always to have an ancient fragrance, hung about the garments of her youth.
Margaret watched her mother with quick sense of this being for her something like the turning back to a record of a girlhood like her own. De Courval had eyes for the Pearl alone. Gainor Wynne, undisturbed by sentimental reflections, enjoyed the little business.
"Goodness, my dear, what brocade!" cried Miss Wynne. "How fine you were, Mary! And a white satin, with lace and silver gimp."
"It was my mother's wedding-gown," said the widow.
"And for day wear this lutestring will fit you to a hair, Margaret; but the sleeves must be loose. And lace—what is it?" She held up a filmy fabric.
"I think I could tell." And there, a little curious, having heard her son's voice, was the vicomtesse, interested, and for her mildly excited, to René's surprise.
Miss Gainor greeted her in French I dare not venture upon, and this common interest in clothes seemed somehow to have the effect of suddenly bringing all these women into an intimacy of the minute, while the one man stood by, with the unending wonderof the ignorant male, now, as it were, behind the scenes. He fell back and the women left him unnoticed.
"What is it, Madame?" asked Margaret.
"Oh, French point, child, and very beautiful."
"And this other must be—"
"It is new to me," cried Miss Wynne.
"Permit me," said the vicomtesse. "Venetian point, I think—quite priceless, Margaret, a wonder." She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect.
"Is this my mother?" thought her son, with increase of wonder. He had seen her only with restricted means, and knew little of the more luxurious days and tastes of her youth.
"Does you remember this, missus?" said Nanny.
"A doll," cried Gainor, "and in Quaker dress! It will do for your children, Margaret."
"No, it is not a child's doll," said Mrs. Swanwick. "Friends in London sent it to Marie Wynne, Hugh's mother, for a pattern of the last Quaker fashions in London—a way they had. I had quite forgotten it."
"And very pretty, quite charming," said the vicomtesse.
"And stays, my dear, and a modesty fence," cried Miss Wynne, holding them up. "You will have to fatten, Pearl."
Upon this the young man considered it as well to retire. He went down-stairs unmissed, thinking of the agreeable intimacy of stays with the fair figure he left bending over the trunk, a mass of black lace in her hand.
"She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect""She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smiling as she considered the effect"
"Spanish, my dear," said Madame, with animation; "quite a wonder. Oh, rare, very rare. Not quite fit for a young woman—a head veil."
"Are they all mine, Mother?" cried Margaret.
"Yes, my child."
"Then, Madame," she said, with rising color and engaging frankness, "may I not have the honor to offer thee the lace?"
"Why not?" said Gainor, pleased at the pretty way of the girl.
"Oh, quite impossible, child," said the vicomtesse. "It is quite too valuable."
"Please!" said Pearl. "It would so become thee."
"I really cannot."
"Thy roquelaure," laughed Mrs. Swanwick, "was—well—I did remonstrate. Why may not we too have the pleasure of extravagance?"
"I am conquered," said Madame, a trace of color in her wan cheeks as Mrs. Swanwick set the lace veil on her head, saying: "We are obliged, Madame. And where is the vicomte? He should see thee."
"Gone," said Miss Gainor; "and just as well, too," for now Nanny was holding up a variety of lavender-scented delicacies of raiment, fine linens, and openwork silk stockings.
René, still laughing, met Schmidt in the hall.
"You were merry up-stairs."
"Indeed we were." And he gaily described his mother's unwonted mood; but of the sacred future of the stays he said no word.
"And so our gray moth has become a butterfly. Ithink Mother Eve would not have abided long without a milliner. I should like to have been of the party up-stairs."
"You would have been much enlightened," said Miss Wynne on the stair. "I shall send for the boxes, Mary." And with this she went away with Margaret, as the doctor had declared was still needful.
"Why are you smiling, Aunt?" said Margaret.
"Oh, nothing." Then to herself she said: "I think that if René de Courval had heard her talk to Arthur Howell, he would have been greatly enlightened. Her mother must have understood; or else she is more of a fool than I take her to be."
"And thou wilt not tell me?" asked the Pearl.
"Never," said Gainor, laughing—"never."
Meanwhile there was trouble in the western counties of Pennsylvania over the excise tax on whisky, and more work than French translations for an able and interested young clerk, whom his mother spoke of as a secretary to the minister.
"It is the first strain upon the new Constitution," said Schmidt; "but there is a man with bones to his back, this President." And by November the militia had put down the riots, and the first grave trial of the central government was well over; so that the President was free at last to turn to the question of the treaty with England, already signed in London.
Then once more the clamor of party strife broke out. Had not Jay kissed the hand of the queen? "He had prostrated at the feet of royalty the sovereignty of the people."
Fauchet was busy fostering opposition long before the treaty came back for decision by the Senate. The foreign office was busy, and Randolph ill pleased with the supposed terms of the coming document.
To deal with the causes of opposition to the treaty in and out of the cabinet far into 1795 concerns this story but indirectly. No one was altogether satisfied, and least of all Fauchet, who at every opportunity was sending despatches home by any French war-ship seeking refuge in our ports.
A little before noon, on the 29th of November, of this year, 1794, a date De Courval was never to forget, he was taking the time for his watch from the clock on the western wall of the State House. As he stood, he saw Dr. Chovet stop his chaise.
"Bonjour, citizen," cried the doctor. "Your too intimate friend, Monsieur Carteaux, is off for France. He will trouble you no more." As usual, the doctor, safe in his chaise, was as impertinent as he dared to be.
Too disturbed to notice anything but this startling information in regard to his enemy, De Courval said: "Who told you that? It cannot be true. He was at the State Department yesterday, and we were to meet this afternoon over the affair of a British ship captured by a French privateer."
"Oh, I met him on Fifth Street on horseback just now—a little while ago."
"Well, what then?"
"'I am for New York,' he said. I asked: 'How can I send letters to France?' He said: 'I cannotwait for them. I am in a hurry. I must catch that corvette, theJean Bart, in New York.' Then I cried after him: 'Are you for France?' And he: 'Do you not wish you, too, were going? Adieu. Wish mebon voyage.'"
"Was he really going? We would have heard of it."
"Le diable, I think so; but he has a mocking tongue. I think he goes. My congratulations that you are rid of him. Adieu!"
"Insolent!" muttered De Courval. Was it only insolence, or was it true that his enemy was about to escape him? The thought that he could not leave it in doubt put an instant end to his indecisions.
"I shall not risk it," he said, and there was no time to be lost. His mother, Margaret, the possible remonstrance from Schmidt, each in turn had the thought of a moment and then were dismissed in turn as he hurried homeward. Again he saw Avignon and Carteaux' dark face, and heard the echoing memory of his father's death-cry, "Yvonne! Yvonne!" He must tell Schmidt if he were in; if not, so much the better, and he would go alone. He gave no thought to the unwisdom of such a course. His whole mind was on one purpose, and the need to give it swift and definite fulfilment.
He was not sorry that Schmidt was not at home. He sat down and wrote to him that Carteaux was on his way to embark for France and that he meant to overtake him. Would Schmidt explain to his mother his absence on business? Then he took Schmidt's pistols from their place over the mantel, loaded andprimed them, and put half a dozen bullets and a small powder-horn in his pocket. To carry the pistols, he took Schmidt's saddle-holsters. What next? He wrote a note to the Secretary that he was called out of town on business, but would return next day, and would Schmidt send it as directed. He felt sure that he would return. As he stood at the door of Schmidt's room, Mrs. Swanwick said from the foot of the stairs: "The dinner is ready."
"Then it must wait for me until to-morrow. I have to ride on a business matter to Bristol."
"Thou hadst better bide for thy meal."
"No, I cannot." As Mrs. Swanwick passed into the dining-room, Margaret came from the withdrawing-room, and stood in the doorway opposite to him, a china bowl of the late autumnal flowers in her hands. Seeing him cloaked and booted to ride, she said:
"Wilt thou not stay to dine? I heard thee tell mother thou wouldst not."
"No; I have a matter on hand which requires haste."
She had learned to read his face.
"It must be a pleasant errand," she said. "I wish thee success." Thinking as he stood how some ancestor going to war would have asked for a glove, a tress of hair, to carry on his helmet, he said: "Give me a flower for luck."
"No; they are faded."
"Ah, I shall think your wish a rose—a rose that will not fade."
She colored a little and went by him, saying nothing, lest she might say too much.
"Good-by!" he added, and went out the hall door, and made haste to reach the stables of the Bull and Bear, where Schmidt kept the horses De Courval was free to use. He was about to do a rash and, as men would see it, a foolish thing. He laughed as he mounted. He knew that now he had no more power to stop or hesitate than the stone which has left the sling.
He had made the journey to New York more than once, and as he rode north up the road to Bristol in a heavy downfall of rain he reflected that Carteaux would cross the Delaware by the ferry at that town, or farther on at Trenton.
If the doctor had been correct as to the time, Carteaux had started at least an hour and a half before him.
It was still raining heavily as he rode out of the city, and as the gray storm-clouds would shorten the daylight, he pushed on at speed, sure of overtaking his enemy and intently on guard. He stayed a moment beside the road to note the distance, as read on a mile-stone, and knew he had come seven miles. That would answer. He smiled as he saw on the stone the three balls of the Penn arms, popularly known as the three apple dumplings. A moment later his horse picked up a pebble. It took him some minutes to get it out, the animal being restless. Glancing at his watch, he rode on again, annoyed at even so small a loss of time.
When, being about three miles from Bristol town, and looking ahead over a straight line of road, he suddenly pulled up and turned into the shelter of awood. Some two hundred yards away were two or three houses. A man stood at the roadside. It was Carteaux. René heard the clink of a hammer on the anvil.
To be sure of his man, he fastened his horse and moved nearer with care, keeping within the edge of the wood. Yes, it was Carteaux. The doctor had not lied. If the secretary were going to France, or only on some errand to New York, was now to De Courval of small moment. His horse must have cast a shoe. As Carteaux rode away from the forge. De Courval mounted, and rode on more rapidly.
Within two miles of Bristol, as he remembered, the road turned at a sharp angle toward the river. A half mile away was an inn where the coaches for New York changed horses. It was now five o'clock, and nearing the dusk of a November day. The rain was over, the sky darkening, the air chilly, the leaves were fluttering slowly down, and a wild gale was roaring in the great forest which bounded the road. He thought of the gentler angelus of another evening, and, strange as it may seem, bowed his head, and like many a Huguenot noble of his mother's race, prayed God that his enemy should be delivered into his hands. Then he stopped his horse and for the first time recognized that it had been raining heavily and that it were well to renew the priming of his pistols. He attended to this with care, and then rode quickly around the turn of the road, and came upon Carteaux walking his horse.
"Stop, Monsieur!" he called, and in an instant he was beside him.
Carteaux turned at the call, and, puzzled for a moment, said: "What is it?"—and then at once knew the man at his side.
He was himself unarmed, and for a moment alarmed as he saw De Courval's hand on the pistol in his holster. He called out, "Do you mean to murder me?"
"Not I. You will dismount, and will take one of my pistols—either; they are loaded. You will walk to that stump, turn, and yourself give the word, an advantage, as you may perceive."
"And if I refuse?"
"In that case I shall kill you with no more mercy than you showed my father. You have your choice. Decide, and that quickly."
Having dismounted as he spoke, he stood with a grip on Carteaux' bridle, a pistol in hand, and looking up at the face of his enemy. Carteaux hesitated a moment, with a glance up and down the lonely highway.
"Monsieur," said De Courval, "I am not here to wait on your decision. I purpose to give you the chance I should give a gentleman; but take care—at the least sign of treachery I shall kill you."
Carteaux looked down at the stern face of the Huguenot and knew that he had no choice.
"I accept," he said, and dismounted. De Courval struck the horses lightly, and having seen them turn out of the road, faced Carteaux, a pistol in each hand.
"I have just now renewed the primings," he said. As he spoke, he held out the weapons. For an instant the Jacobin hesitated, and then said quickly:
"I take the right-hand pistol."
"When you are at the stump, look at the priming," said De Courval, intently on guard. "Now, Monsieur, walk to the stump beside the road. It is about twelve paces. You see it?"
"Yes, I see it."
"Very good. At the stump, cock your pistol, turn, and give the word, 'Fire!' Reserve your shot or fire at the word—an advantage, as you perceive."
The Jacobin turned and moved away, followed by the eye of a man distrustfully on the watch.
René stood still, not yet cocking his weapon. Carteaux walked away. When he had gone not over half the distance René heard the click of a cocked pistol and at the instant Carteaux, turning, fired.
René threw himself to right and felt a sharp twinge of pain where the ball grazed the skin of his left shoulder. "Dog of a Jacobin!" he cried, and as Carteaux extended his pistol hand in instinctive protest, De Courval fired. The man's pistol fell, and with a cry of pain he reeled, and, as the smoke blew away, was seen to pitch forward on his face.
At the moment of the shot, and while René stood still, quickly reloading, he heard behind him a wild gallop, and, turning, saw Schmidt breathless at his side, and in an instant out of the saddle. "Lieber Himmel!" cried the German, "have you killed him?"
"I do not know; but if he is not dead. I shall kill him; not even you can stop me."
"Ach!but I will, if I have to hold you." As he spoke he set himself between René and the prostrateman. "I will not let you commit murder. Give me that pistol."
For a moment René stared at his friend. Then a quick remembrance of all this man had been to him, all he had done for him, rose in his mind.
"Have your way, sir!" he cried, throwing down his weapon; "but I will never forgive you, never!"
"Ach!that is better," said Schmidt. "To-morrow you will forgive and thank me. Let us look at the rascal."
Together they moved forward, and while De Courval stood by in silence, Schmidt, kneeling beside Carteaux, turned over his insensible body.
"He is not dead," he said, looking up at René.
"I am sorry. Your coming disturbed my aim. I am sorry he is alive."
"And I am not; but not much,der Teufel!The ball has torn his arm, and is in the shoulder. If he does live, he is for life a maimed man. This is vengeance worse than death." As he spoke, he ripped open Carteaux' sleeve. "Saprement!how the beast bleeds! He will fence no more." The man lay silent and senseless as the German drew from Carteaux' pocket a handkerchief and tied it around his arm. "There is no big vessel hurt.Ach, der Teufel!What errand was he about?" A packet of paper had fallen out with the removal of the handkerchief. "It is addressed to him. We must know. I shall open it."
"Oh, surely not!" said René.
Schmidt laughed. "You would murder a man, but respect his letters."
"Yes, I should."
"My conscience is at ease. This is war." As he spoke, he tore open the envelop. Then he whistled low. "Here is a devil of a business, René!"
"What is it, sir?"
"A despatch from Fauchet to the minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris. Here is trouble, indeed. You waylay and half-kill the secretary of an envoy—you, a clerk of the State Department—"
"Mon Dieu!Must he always bring me disaster?" cried René. He saw with utter dismay the far-reaching consequences of his rash act.
"It is to the care of the captain of theJean Bart, New York Harbor. The Jacobin party will have a fine cry. The State Department will have sent a man to rob a bearer of despatches. Who will know or believe it was a private quarrel?"
"How could I know his errand?"
"That will not save you. Your debt is paid with interest, but at bitter cost. And what now to do?" He stood in the road, silent for a moment, deep in thought. "If he dies, it must all be told."
"I should tell it myself. I do not care."
"But I very much care. If he lives, he will say you set upon him, an unarmed man, and stole his despatches."
"Then leave them."
"That were as bad. I saw his treachery; but who will believe me? I must stay by him, and see what I can do."
Meanwhile the man lay speechless. René looked down at him and then at Schmidt. He, too, wasthinking. In a moment he said: "This at least is clear. I am bound in honor to go on this hound's errand, and to see that these papers reach theJean Bart."
"You are right," said Schmidt; "entirely right. But you must not be seen here. Find your way through the woods, and when it is dark—in an hour it will be night—ride through Bristol to Trenton, cross the river there at the ferry. No one will be out of doors in Trenton or Bristol on a night like this. Listen to the wind! Now go. When you are in New York, see Mr. Nicholas Gouverneur in Beaver Street. At need, tell him the whole story; but not if you can help it. Here is money, but not enough. He will provide what you require. Come back through the Jerseys, and cross at Camden. I shall secure help here, go to town, get a doctor, and return. I must talk to this man if he lives, else he will lie about you."
"You will excuse me to the Secretary?"
"Yes; yes, of course. Now go. These people at the inn must not see you."
He watched him ride away into the wood. "It is a sorry business," he said as he knelt down to give the fallen man brandy from the flask he found in his saddle-bag.
Within an hour Carteaux, still insensible, was at Bisanet's Inn, a neighboring doctor found, and that good Samaritan Schmidt, after a fine tale of highwaymen, was in the saddle and away to town, leaving Carteaux delirious.
He went at once to the house of Chovet and foundhim at home. It was essential to have some one who could talk French.
"At your service," said the doctor.
"Why the devil did you send De Courval after Carteaux this morning?"
"I never meant to."
"But you did. You have made no end of mischief. Now listen. I need you because you speak French. Can you hold your tongue, if to hold it means money? Oh, a good deal. If you breathe a word of what you hear or see, I will half-kill you."
"Oh, Monsieur, I am the soul of honor."
"Indeed. Why, then, does it trouble you? Owing to your damned mischief-making, De Courval has shot Carteaux. You are to go to the inn, Bisanet's, near Bristol, to-night, and as often afterward as is needed. I shall pay, and generously, if he does not—but, remember, no one is to know. A highwayman shot him. Do you understand? I found him on the road, wounded."
"Yes; but it is late."
"You go at once."
"I go, Monsieur."
Then Schmidt went home, and ingeniously accounted to Madame, and in a note to Randolph, for René's absence in New York.
As he sat alone that night he again carefully considered the matter. Yes, if Carteaux died not having spoken, the story would have to be told. The despatch would never be heard of, or if its singular fortune in going on its way were ever known and discussed, that was far in the future, and Schmidthad a strong belief in many things happening or not happening.
And if, too, despite his presumed power to close Carteaux' lips, the injured man should sooner or later charge René with his wound and the theft of the despatch, Schmidt, too, would have a story to tell.
Finally—and this troubled his decisions—suppose that at once he frankly told Fauchet and the Secretary of State what had happened. Would he be believed by Fauchet in the face of what Carteaux would say, or would René be believed or that he had honorably gone on his enemy's errand? TheJean Bartwould have sailed. Months must pass before the news of the reception of the despatch could in the ordinary state of things be heard of, and now the sea swarmed with British cruisers, and the French frigates were sadly unsafe. To-morrow he must see Carteaux, and at once let Fauchet learn the condition of his secretary. He returned to his trust in the many things that may happen, and, lighting a pipe, fell upon his favorite Montaigne.
He might have been less at ease could he have dreamed what mischief that despatch was about to make or what more remote trouble it was to create for the harassed President and his cabinet.
At noon next day a tired rider left his horse at an inn in Perth Amboy and boarded the sloop which was to take him to New York, if tide and wind served. Both at this time were less good to him than usual, and he drifted the rest of the afternoon and all night on the bay.
At length, set ashore on the Battery, he was presently with a merchant, in those days of leisurely ventures altogether a large personage, merchant and ship-master, capable, accurate, enterprising, something of the great gentleman, quick to perceive a slight and at need to avenge it, a lost type to-day—a Dutch cross on Huguenot French. Mr. Nicholas Gouverneur was glad to see once more the Vicomte de Courval. His own people, too, had suffered in other days for their religion, and if René's ancestors had paid in the far past unpleasant penalties for the respectable crime of treason to the king, had not one of Mr. Gouverneur's ancestors had a similar distinction, having been hanged for high treason? "Ah, of course he told you the story, René," said Schmidt when he heard of this interview.
Mr. Gouverneur, having offered the inevitable hospitality of his sideboard, was in no hurry.
René, although in hot haste to be done with hisstrange errand, knew better than to disturb the formalities of welcome. He must inquire after Mrs. Gouverneur, and must answer for his mother. At last his host said: "You do small justice to my rum, Vicomte. It is as unused to neglect as any young woman. But, pardon me, you look tired, and as if you had made a hard journey. I see that you are anxious and too polite to interrupt a garrulous man. What can I do for you or our friend Schmidt!"
"I have this packet of papers which should go at once to the corvetteJean Bart. One François-Guillaume Need is the Captain."
"And I have been delaying you. Pray pardon me. Despatches, I suppose, for my cousin Gouverneur Morris." René did not contradict him. "We will see to it at once, at once. TheJean Bartsails to-night, I hear. She has waited, we knew not why."
"For these despatches, sir. Can I not be set aboard of her at once?"
"Surely," said Gouverneur; "come with me."
As they walked toward the water Mr. Gouverneur said: "You have, I think you told me, a despatch for the captain of the corvette. Let me urgently advise you not to board that vessel. My boat shall take you to the ship,—deliver your despatch,—but let nothing tempt you to set foot on her deck. We are not on very good terms with France; you are still a French citizen. Several of the corvette's officers have been in Philadelphia. If you are recognized as a French noble, you will never see America again. You know what fate awaits an émigré in Paris; not evenyour position in the Department of State would save you."
De Courval returned: "You are no doubt right, sir. I had already thought of the risk—"
"There need be none if you are prudent."
"But I ought to receive a receipt for the papers I deliver."
"That is hardly needed—unusual, I should say; Mr. Randolph will scarcely expect that."
De Courval was not inclined to set the merchant right in regard to the character of the despatches, for it might then be necessary to tell the whole story. He made no direct reply, but said merely: "I am most grateful—I shall have the honor to take your advice. Ah, here is the boat."
"It is my own barge," said Gouverneur. "Be careful. Yonder is the corvette, a short pull. I shall wait for you here."
In a few minutes De Courval was beside the gangway of the corvette. He called to a sailor on the deck that he wished to see an officer. Presently a young lieutenant came down the steps. De Courval said in French, as he handed the officer the packet of papers:
"This is a despatch, Citizen, from Citizen Minister Fauchet, addressed to the care of your captain. Have the kindness to give it to him and ask for a receipt."
The lieutenant went on deck and very soon returned.
"The receipt, please," said De Courval.
"Captain Need desires me to say that, although itis unusual to give a receipt for such papers, he will do so if you will come to the cabin. He wishes to ask questions about the British cruisers, and may desire to send a letter to Citizen Minister Fauchet."
"I cannot wait. I am in haste to return," said De Courval.
"Le diable, Citizen! He will be furious. We sail at once—at once; you will not be delayed."
René thought otherwise.
"Very well; I can but give your reply. It seems to me strange. You will hear of it some day, Citizen."
As soon as the officer disappeared, René said to his boatman: "Quick! Get away—get me ashore as soon as you can!"
Pursuit from a man-of-war boat was possible, if one lay ready on the farther side of the corvette. He had, however, only a ten minutes' row before he stood beside Mr. Gouverneur on the Battery slip.
"I am a little relieved," said the older man. "Did you get the acknowledgment of receipt you wanted?"
"No, sir. It was conditioned upon my going aboard to the captain's cabin."
"Ah, well, I do not suppose that Mr. Randolph will care."
"Probably not." René had desired some evidence of his singular mission, but the immense importance of it as proof of his good faith was not at the time fully apprehended. The despatch had gone on its way, and he had done honorably his enemy's errand.
"And now," said the merchant, "let us go to myhouse and see Mrs. Gouverneur, and above all have dinner."
René had thought that flight might be needed if he carried out his fatal purpose, and he had therefore put in his saddle-bags enough garments to replace the muddy dress of a hard ride. He had said that he must leave at dawn, and having laid aside the cares of the last days, he gave himself up joyously to the charm of the refined hospitality of his hosts.
As they turned away, the corvette was setting her sails and the cries of the sailors and the creak of the windlass showed the anchor was being raised. Before they had reached Gouverneur's house she was under way, with papers destined to make trouble for many.
As René lay at rest that night within the curtained bed, no man on Manhattan Island could have been more agreeably at ease with his world. The worry of indecision was over. He felt with honest conviction that his prayer for the downfall of his enemy had been answered, and in this cooler hour he knew with gratitude that his brute will to kill had been wisely denied its desire. It had seemed to him at the time that to act on his instinct was only to do swift justice on a criminal; but he had been given a day to reflect and acknowledged the saner wisdom of the morrow.
Further thought should have left him less well pleased at what the future might hold for him. But the despatch had gone, his errand was done. An image of Margaret in the splendor of brocadeand lace haunted the dreamy interval between the waking state and the wholesome sleep of tired youth. Moreover, the good merchant's Madeira had its power of somnolent charm, and, thus soothed, De Courval passed into a world of visionless slumber.
He rode back through the Jerseys to avoid Bristol and the scene of his encounter, and, finding at Camden a flat barge returning to Philadelphia, was able, as the river was open and free of ice, to get his horse aboard and thus to return with some renewal of anxiety to Mrs. Swanwick's house. No one was at home; but Nanny told him that Mr. Schmidt, who had been absent, had returned two days before, but was out. Miss Margaret was at the Hill, and June, the cat, off for two days on love-affairs or predatory business.
He went up-stairs to see his mother. Should he tell her? On the whole, it was better not to speak until he had seen Schmidt. He amused her with an account of having been sent to New York on business and then spoke of the Gouverneur family and their Huguenot descent. He went away satisfied that he had left her at ease, which was not quite the case. "Something has happened," she said to herself. "By and by he will tell me. Is it the girl? I trust not. Or that man? Hardly."
The supper passed in quiet, with light talk of familiar things, the vicomtesse, always a taciturn woman, saying but little.
As De Courval sat down, her black dress, the silvery quiet of Mrs. Swanwick's garb, her notably gentle voice, the simple room without colors, thesanded floor, the spotless cleanliness of the table furniture, of a sudden struck him as he thought of the violence and anger of the scene on the Bristol road. What would this gentle Friend say, and the Pearl? What, indeed!
Supper was just over when, to René's relief, Schmidt appeared. He nodded coolly to René and said, laughing: "Ah, Frau Swanwick, I have not had a chance to growl; but when I go again to the country, I shall take Nanny. I survive; but the diet!" He gave an amusing account of it. "Pork—it is because of the unanimous pig. Pies—ach!—cabbage, a sour woman and sour bread, chicken rigged with hemp and with bosoms which need not stays." Even the vicomtesse smiled. "I have dined at Mr. Morris's, to my relief. Come, René, let us smoke."
When once at ease in his room, he exclaimed: "Potstausend, René, I am out of debt. The years I used to count to be paid are settled. Two days' watching that delirious swine and bottling up the gossiping little demon Chovet! A pipe, a pipe, and then I shall tell you."
"Indeed, I have waited long."
"Chovet told Fauchet at my request of this regrettable affair. He is uneasy, and he well may be, concerning all there is left of his secretary."
"Then he is alive," said René; "and will he live?"
"Alive? Yes, very much alive, raving at times like a madman haunted by hell fiends. I had to stay. After a day he was clear of head, but as weak as a man can be with the two maladies of a ball in apalsied shoulder and a doctor looking for it. Yes, he will live; and alive or dead will make mischief."
"Did he talk to you?"
"Yes. He has no memory of my coming at the time he was shot. I think he did not see me at all."
"Well, what else?"
"I told him the whole story, and what I had seen him do. I was plain, too, and said that I had found his despatch, and you, being a gentleman, must needs see that it went. He saw, I suspect, what other motive you had—if he believed me at all."
"But did he believe you? Does he?"
"No, he does not. I said, 'You are scamp enough to swear that we set on you to steal your papers, a fine tale for our Jacobin mobocrats.' A fellow can't lie with his whole face. I saw his eyes narrow, but I told him to try it if he dared, and out comes my tale of his treachery. We made a compact at last, and he will swear he was set upon and robbed. I left him to invent his story. But it is plainly his interest to keep faith, and not accuse you."
"He will not keep faith. Sometime he will lie about me. The despatch has gone by theJean Bart, but that part of our defense is far to reach."
"Well, Chovet is gold dumb, and as for the Jacobin, no man can tell. If he be wise, he will stick to his tale of highwaymen. Of course I asked Chovet to let the minister learn of this sad accident, but he did not arrive until after I had the fellow well scared."
"Is that all?"
"No. The man is in torment. Damn! if I werein pain like that, I should kill myself. Except that fever, I never had anything worse than a stomachache in all my life. The man is on the rack, and Chovet declares that he will never use the arm again, and will have some daily reminder of you so long as he lives. Now, René, a man on the rack may come to say things of the gentleman who turned on the torture."
"Then some day he will lie, and I,mon Dieu, will be ruined. Who will believe me? The State Department will get the credit of it, and I shall be thrown over—sacrificed to the wolves of party slander."
"Not if I am here."
"If you are here?"
"Yes. At any time I may have to go home."
"Then let us tell the whole story."
"Yes, if we must; but wait. Why go in search of trouble? For a time, perhaps always, he will be silent. Did you get a receipt for the despatch?"
"No. The captain would not give one unless I went to his cabin and that I dared not do."
"I, as the older man, should have pointed out to you the need of using every possible means to get an acknowledgment from the captain; but you were right. Had you gone on board the ship, you would never have left her. Well, then there is more need to play a silent, waiting game until we know, as we shall, of the papers having reached their destination. In fact, there is nothing else to do. There will be a nice fuss over the papers, and then it will all be forgotten."
"Yes, unless he speaks."
"If he does, there are other cards in my hand. Meanwhile, being a good Samaritan, I have again seen Carteaux. He will, I think, be silent for a while. Be at ease, my son; and now I must go to bed. I am tired."
This was one of many talks; none of them left René at ease. How could he as yet involve a woman he loved in his still uncertain fate! He was by no means sure that she loved him; that she might come to do so he felt to be merely possible, for the modesty of love made him undervalue himself and see her as far beyond his deserts. His mother's prejudices troubled him less. Love consults no peerage and he had long ago ceased to think as his mother did of a title which had no legal existence.
It was natural enough that an event as grave as this encounter with Carteaux should leave on a young man's mind a deep impression; nor had his talk with Schmidt, the night before, enabled him, as next day he walked to the State Department, to feel entirely satisfied. The news of the highway robbery had been for two days the city gossip, and already the gazettes were considering it in a leisurely fashion; but as no journals reached the widow's house unless brought thither by Schmidt, the amenities of the press in regard to the assault and the administration were as yet unseen by De Courval. On the steps of the Department of State he met the Marquis de Noailles, who greeted him cheerfully, asking if he had read what Mr. Bache and the "Aurora" said of the attack on Carteaux.
René felt the cold chill of too conscious knowledge as he replied: "Not yet, Marquis. I am but yesterday come from New York."
"Well, it should interest Mr. Randolph. It does appear to Mr. Bache that no one except the English party and the Federals could profit by the theft. How they could be the better by the gossip of thissacréJacobin actor in the rôle of a minister thebon Dieualone knows."
René laughed. "You are descriptive, Marquis."
"Who would not be? But, my dear De Courval, you must regret that you were not the remarkable highwayman who stole Fauchet's eloquence and left a gold watch and seals; but here comes Mr. Randolph. He may explain it; at all events, if he confides to you the name of that robber, send the man to me. I will pay five dollars apiece for Jacobin scalps.Adieu.My regrets that you are not the man."
Mr. Randolph was cool as they went in together, and made it plain that absence without leave on the part of a clerk was an embarrassment to the public service of the State Department, in which were only three or four clerks. De Courval could only say that imperative private business had taken him out of town. It would not occur again. Upon this Mr. Randolph began to discuss the amazing assault and robbery with which town gossip was so busy. Mr. Fauchet had been insolent, and, asking aid in discovering the thief, had plainly implied that more than he and his government would suffer if the despatch were not soon restored to the minister. Mr. Randolph had been much amused, a little angry and alsopuzzled. "It had proved," he said, "a fine weapon in the hands of the Democrats." The young man was glad to shift the talk, but wherever he went for a few days, people, knowing of his duel, were sure to talk to him of this mysterious business. Later the "Aurora" and Mr. Bache, who had taken up the rôle in which Mr. Freneau had acted with skill and ill temper, made wild use of the story and of the value of the stolen papers to a criminal cabinet. Over their classic signatures Cato and Aristides challenged Democratic Socrates or Cicero to say how General Washington would be the better for knowledge of the rant of the strolling player Fauchet. Very soon, however, people ceased to talk of it. It was an unsolved mystery. But for one man torment of body and distress of mind kept ever present the will and wish to be without risk revenged. He was already, as he knew,persona non grata, and to have Schmidt's story told and believed was for the secretary to be sent home in disgrace. He waited, seeing no way as yet to acquit himself of this growing debt.
January of 1795 came in with the cabinet changes already long expected. Carteaux was still very ill in bed, with doctors searching for the bullet. As yet he told only of being robbed of his despatches and that he had lost neither watch nor purse, which was conclusive. Whereupon Fauchet talked and insulted Randolph, and the Democratic clubs raved with dark hints and insinuations, while the despatch went on its way, not to be heard of for months to come. René, who was for a time uneasy and disliked thesecrecy thrown about an action of which he was far from ashamed, began at last to feel relieved, and thus the midwinter was over and the days began noticeably to lengthen.