The Red City: A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington

by S. Weir Mitchell

  II

  When in a morning of brilliant sunshine again, with the flood and afavoring wind, the brig moved up-stream alone on the broad water, Madamede Courval came on deck for the midday meal. Her son hung over her asshe ate, and saw with gladness the faint pink in her cheeks, and,well-pleased, translated her questions to the captain as he proudlypointed out the objects of interest when they neared the city of Penn.There was the fort at Red Bank where the Hessians failed, and that wasthe Swedes' church, and there the single spire of Christ Church risinghigh over the red brick city, as madam said, of the color of Amsterdam.

  Off the mouth of Dock Creek they came to anchor, the captain advisingthem to wait on shipboard until he returned, and to be ready then to goashore.

  When their simple preparations were completed, De Courval came on deck,and, climbing the rigging, settled himself in the crosstrees to takecounsel with his pipe, and to be for a time alone and away from theboat-loads of people eager for letters and for news from France andEngland.

  The mile-wide river was almost without a sail. A few lazy fishers andthe slowly moving vans of the mill on Wind Mill Island had little tointerest. As he saw it from his perch, the city front was busy andrepresented the sudden prosperity which came with the sense ofpermanence the administration of Washington seemed to guarantee for thegreat bond under which a nation was to grow. There was the townstretching north and south along the Delaware, and beyond it woodland.What did it hold for him? The mood of reflection was no rare one for aman of twenty-five who had lived through months of peril in France, amidpeasants hostile in creed, and who had seen the fortunes of his housemelt away, and at last had aged suddenly into gravity beyond his yearswhen he beat his way heartsick out of the grim tragedy of Avignon.

  His father's people were of the noblesse of the robe, country gentles;his mother a cousin of the two dukes Rochefoucauld. He drew qualitiesfrom a long line of that remarkable judicature which through all changeskept sacred and spotless the ermine of the magistrate. From the mother'srace he had spirit, courage, and a reserve of violent passions, theinheritance of a line of warlike nobles unused to recognize any law buttheir own will.

  The quiet life of a lesser country gentleman, the absence from courtwhich pride and lessening means alike enforced, and the puritan trainingof a house which held tenaciously to the creed of Calvin, combined tofit him better to earn his living in a new land than was the case withthe greater nobles who had come to seek what contented theirambitions--some means of living until they should regain their lostestates. They drew their hopes from a ruined past. De Courval lookedforward with hope fed by youth, energy, and the simpler life.

  It was four o'clock when the captain set them ashore with their boxes onthe slip in front of the warehouse of Mr. Wynne, the ship's owner. Hewas absent at Merion, but his porters would care for their baggage, anda junior clerk would find for them an inn until they could look for apermanent home. When the captain landed them on the slip, the old clerk,Mr. Potts, made them welcome, and would have had madam wait in thewarehouse until their affairs had been duly ordered. When her sontranslated the invitation, she said: "I like it here. I shall wait foryou. The sun is pleasant." While he was gone, she stood alone, lookingabout her at the busy wharf, the many vessels, the floating windmillsanchored on the river, and the long line of red brick warehouses alongthe river front.

  On his return, De Courval, much troubled, explained that there was not ahackney-coach to be had, and that she had better wait in thecounting-house until a chaise could be found. Seeing her son's distress,and learning that an inn could be reached near by, she declared it wouldbe pleasant to walk and that every minute made her better.

  There being no help for it, they set out with the clerk, who had but amild interest in this addition to the French who were beginning to flyfrom France and the islands, and were taxing heavily the hospitality andthe charity of the city. A barrow-man came on behind, with the baggagefor their immediate needs, now and then crying, "Barrow! Barrow!" whenhis way was impeded.

  De Courval, at first annoyed that his mother must walk, was silent, butsoon, with unfailing curiosity, began to be interested and amused. When,reaching Second Street, they crossed the bridge over Dock Creek, theyfound as they moved northward a brisk business life, shops, and morevaried costumes than are seen to-day. Here were Quakers, to madam'samazement; nun-like Quaker women in the monastic seclusion of what laterwas irreverently called the "coal-scuttle" bonnet; Germans of thePalatinate; men of another world in the familiar short-clothes, long,broidered waistcoat, and low beaver; a few negroes; and the gray-cladmechanic, with now and then a man from the islands, when suddenly amurmur of French startled the vicomtesse.

  "What a busy life, _maman_," her son said; "not like that dark London,and no fog, and the sun--like the sun of home."

  "We have no home," she replied, and for a moment he was silent. Then,still intent upon interesting her, he said:

  "How strange! There is a sign of a likely black wench and two childrenfor sale. 'Inquire within and see them. Sold for want of use.' Andlotteries, _maman_. There is one for a canal between the Delaware andthe Schuylkill rivers; and one to improve the Federal City. I wonderwhere that is." She paid little attention, and walked on, a tall, dark,somber woman, looking straight before her, with her thoughts far away.

  The many taverns carried names which were echoes from the motherland,which men, long after the war, were still apt, as Washington wrote, tocall "home." The Sign of the Cock, the Dusty Miller, the Pewter Plate,and--"Ah, _maman_," he cried, laughing, "The Inn of the Struggler. Thatshould suit us."

  The sullen clerk, stirred at last by the young fellow's gay interest,his eager questions, and his evident wish to distract and amuse a tiredwoman who stumbled over the loose bricks of the sidewalk, declared thatwas no place for them. Her tall figure in mourning won an occasionalglance, but no more. It was a day of strange faces and varied costumes."And, _maman_," said her son, "the streets are called for trees and thelanes for berries." Disappointed at two inns of the better class, therebeing no vacant rooms, they crossed High Street; the son amused at themarket stands for fruit, fish, and "garden truck, too," the clerk said,with blacks crying, "Calamus! sweet calamus!" and "Pepper pot, smokinghot!" or "Hominy! samp! grits! hominy!" Then, of a sudden, as theypaused on the farther corner, madam cried out, "_Mon Dieu!_" and her sona half-suppressed "_Sacre!_" A heavy landau coming down Second Streetbumped heavily into a deep rut and there was a liberal splash of muddywater across madam's dark gown and the young man's clothes. In aninstant the owner of the landau had alighted, hat in hand, a middle-agedman in velvet coat and knee-breeches.

  "Madam, I beg a thousand pardons."

  "My mother does not speak English, sir. These things happen. It is theywho made the street who should apologize. It is of small moment."

  "I thank you for so complete an excuse, sir. You surely cannot beFrench. Permit me,"--and he turned to the woman, "_mille pardons_," andwent on in fairly fluent French to say how much he regretted, and wouldnot madam accept his landau and drive home? She thanked him, butdeclined the offer in a voice which had a charm for all who heard it. Hebowed low, not urging his offer, and said, "I am Mr. William Bingham. Itrust to have the pleasure of meeting madam again and, too, this younggentleman, whose neat excuse for me would betray him if his perfectFrench did not. Can I further serve you?"

  "No, sir," said De Courval, "except to tell me what inn near by mightsuit us. We are but just now landed. My guide seems in doubt. I shouldlike one close at hand. My mother is, I fear, very tired."

  "I think,"--and he turned to the clerk,--"yes, St. Tammany would serve.It is clean and well kept and near by." He was about to add, "Use myname," but, concluding not to do so, added: "It is at the corner ofChancery Lane. This young man will know." Then, with a further word ofcourtesy, he drove away, while madam stood for a moment sadlycontemplating the additions to her toilet.

  Mr. Bingham, senator for Pennsylvania, reflected with mild curiosity onthe t
wo people he had annoyed, and then murmured: "I was stupid. That iswhere the Federal Club meets and the English go. They will never takethose poor French with their baggage in a barrow."

  He had at least the outward manners of a day when there was leisure tobe courteous, and, feeling pleased with himself, soon forgot the peoplehe had unluckily inconvenienced. De Courval went on, ruefully glancingat his clothes, and far from dreaming that he was some day to beindebted to the gentleman they had left.

  The little party, thus directed, turned into Mulberry Street, or, as mencalled it, Arch, and, with his mother, De Courval entered a cleanlyfront room under the sign of St. Tammany. There was a barred tap in onecorner, maids in cap and apron moving about, many men seated at tables,with long pipes called churchwardens, drinking ale or port wine. Somelooked up, and De Courval heard a man say, "More French beggars." Heflushed, bit his lip, and turned to a portly man in a white jacket, whowas, as it seemed, the landlord. The mother shrank from the rude looksand said a few words in French.

  The host turned sharply as she spoke, and De Courval asked if he couldhave two rooms. The landlord had none.

  "Then may my mother sit down while I inquire without?"

  A man rose and offered his chair as he said civilly: "Oeller's Tavernmight suit you. It is the French house--a hotel, they call it. You willget no welcome here."

  "Thank you," said De Courval, hearing comments on their muddy garmentsand the damned French. He would have had a dozen quarrels on his handshad he been alone. His mother had declined the seat, and as he followedher out, he lingered on the step to speak to his guide. They were atonce forgotten, but he heard behind him scraps of talk, the freely usedoaths of the day, curses of the demagogue Jefferson and the manWashington, who was neither for one party nor for the other. He listenedwith amazement and restrained anger.

  He had fallen in with a group of middle-class men, Federalists in name,clamorous for war with Jacobin France, and angry at their nominalleader, who stood like a rock against the double storm of opinion whichwas eager for him to side with our old ally France or to conciliateEngland. It was long before De Courval understood the strife of parties,felt most in the cities, or knew that back of the mischievous diversityof opinion in and out of the cabinet was our one safeguard--the beliefof the people in a single man and in his absolute good sense andintegrity. Young De Courval could not have known that the thoughtlessviolence of party classed all French together, and as yet did notrealize that the _emigre_ was generally the most deadly foe of thepresent rule in France.

  Looking anxiously at his mother, they set out again up Mulberry Street,past the meeting-house of Friends and the simple grave of the greatFranklin, the man too troubled, and the mother too anxious, to heed orquestion when they moved by the burial-ground where Royalist and Whiglay in the peace of death and where, at the other corner, Wetherill withthe free Quakers built the home of a short-lived creed.

  Oeller's Tavern--because of its French guests called a hotel--was onChestnut Street, west of Fifth, facing the State House. A civil Frenchservant asked them into a large room on the right of what was known as adouble house. It was neat and clean, and the floor was sanded. Presentlyappeared Maxim Oeller. Yes, he had rooms. He hoped the citizen wouldlike them, and the citizeness. De Courval was not altogether amused. Hehad spoken English, saying, however, that he was of France, and thelandlord had used the patois of Alsace. The mother was worn out, andsaid wearily: "I can go no farther. It will do. It must do, until we canfind a permanent lodging and one less costly."

  Mr. Oeller was civil and madam well pleased. For supper in her room, onextra payment, were fair rolls and an omelet. De Courval got the mud offhis clothes and at six went down-stairs for his supper.

  At table, when he came in, were some twenty people, all men. Only two orthree were of French birth and the young man, who could not conceive ofJacobin clubs out of France, sat down and began to eat with keen relisha well-cooked supper.

  By and by his neighbors spoke to him. Had he just come over the seas, asthe landlord had reported? What was doing in France? He replied, ofcourse, in his very pure English. News in London had come of Mirabeau'sdeath. Much interested, they plied him at once with questions. And theking had tried to leave Paris, and there had been mobs in the provinces,bloodshed, and an attack on Vincennes--which was not quite true. Herewere Americans who talked like the Jacobins he had left at home. Theirviolence surprised him. Would he like to come to-morrow to the JacobinClub? The king was to be dealt with. Between amusement and indignationthe grave young vicomte felt as though he were among madmen. One manasked if the decree of death to all _emigres_ had been carried out."No," he laughed; "not while they were wise enough to stay away."Another informed him that Washington and Hamilton were on the way tocreate a monarchy. "Yes, Citizen, you are in a land of titles--YourExcellency, Their Honors of the supreme court in gowns--scarlet gowns."His discreet silence excited them. "Who are you for? Speak out!"

  "I am a stranger here, with as yet no opinions."

  "A neutral, by Jove!" shouted one.

  At last the young man lost patience and said: "I am not, gentlemen, aJacobin. I am of that noblesse which of their own will gave up theirtitles. I am--or was--the Vicomte de Courval."

  There was an uproar. "We are citizens, we would have you to know. Damnyour titles! We are citizens, not gentlemen."

  "That is my opinion," said De Courval, rising. Men hooted at him andshook fists in his face. "Take care!" he cried, backing away from thetable. In the midst of it came the landlord. "He is a royalist," theycried; "he must go or we go."

  The landlord hurried him out of the room. "Monsieur," he said--"Citizen,these are fools, but I have my living to think of. You must go. I amsorry, very sorry."

  "I cannot go now," said De Courval. "I shall do so to-morrow at myleisure." It was so agreed. He talked quietly a while with his mother,saying nothing of this new trouble, and then, still hot with anger, hewent to his room, astonished at his reception, and anxious that hismother should find a more peaceful home.

  He slept the sleep of the healthy young, rose at early dawn, and wasable to get milk and bread and thus to escape breakfast with thecitizen-boarders, not yet arisen. Before he went out, he glanced at thebook of guests. He had written Vicomte de Courval, with his mother'sname beneath it, La Vicomtesse de Courval, without a thought on socasual a matter, and now, flushing, he read "Citizen" above his titlewith an erasure of de and Vicomte. Over his mother's title was writtenthe last affectation of the Jacobins, "Citizeness" Courval. It was soabsurd that, the moment's anger passing into mirth, he went out into theair, laughing and exclaiming: "_Mais qu'ils sont betes! Quelleenfantillage!_ What childishness!" The servant, a man of middle age, whowas sweeping the steps, said in French, "What a fine day, monsieur."

  "_Bon jour, Citizen_," returned De Courval, laughing. The man laughedalso, and said, "_Canailles, Monsieur_," with a significant gesture ofcontempt. "_Bon jour, Monsieur le Vicomte_," and then, hearing stepswithin, resumed his task with: "But one must live. My stomach has theopinions of my appetite." For a moment he watched the serious face andwell-knit figure of the vicomte as he turned westward, and then wentinto the house, remarking, "_Qu'il est beau_"--"What a handsome fellow!"

  De Courval passed on. Independence Hall interested him for a moment.Many people went by him, going to their work, although it was early. Hesaw the wretched paving, the few houses high on banks of earth beyondSixth Street, and then, as he walked westward on Chestnut Street,pastures, cows, country, and the fine forest to the north known as theGovernor's Wood. At last, a mile farther, he came upon the bank of ariver flowing slowly by. What it was he did not know. On the farthershore were farms and all about him a thinner forest. It was as yetearly, and, glad of the lonely freshness, he stood still a little whileamong the trees, saw bees go by on early business bent, and heard in theedge of the wood the love song of a master singer, the cat-bird. Naturehad taken him in hand. He was already happier when, with shock of joy herealized what sh
e offered. No one was in sight. He undressed in the edgeof the wood and stood a while in the open on the graveled strand, thetide at full of flood. The morning breeze stirred lightly the pale-greenleaves of spring with shy caress, so that little flashes of warm lightfrom the level sun-shafts coming through the thin leafage of May fleckedhis white skin. He looked up, threw out his arms with the naked man'sinstinctive happiness in the moment's sense of freedom from all form ofbondage, ran down the beach, and with a shout of pure barbarian delightplunged into the river. For an hour he was only a young animal alonewith nature--diving, swimming, splashing the water, singing bits oflove-songs or laughing in pure childlike enjoyment of the use of easystrength. At last he turned on his back and floated luxuriously. Hepushed back his curly hair, swept the water from his eyes, and saw witha cry of pleasure that which is seen only from the level of the wateryplain. On the far shore, a red gravel bank, taking the sun, wasreflected a plain of gold on the river's breadth. The quickened windrolled the water into little concave mirrors which, dancing on the goldsurface, gathered the clear azure above him in cups of intense indigoblue. It was new and freshly wonderful. What a sweet world! How good tobe alive!

  When ashore he stood in a flood of sunshine, wringing the water frombody and limbs and hair, and at last running up and down the beach untilhe was dry and could dress. Then, hat in hand, he walked away, feelingthe wholesome languor of the practised swimmer and gaily singing a songof home:

  "Quand tout renait a l'esperance, Et que l'hiver fuit loin de nous, Sous le beau ciel de notre France, Quand le soleil revient plus doux; Quand la nature est reverdie, Quand l'hirondelle est de retour, J'aime a revoir ma Normandie, C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour!"

  The cares and doubts and worries of yesterday were gone--washed out ofhim, as it were, in nature's baptismal regeneration of mind and body.All that he himself recognized was a glad sense of the return ofcompetence and of some self-assurance of capacity to face the new worldof men and things.

  He wandered into the wood and said good morning to two men who, as theytold him, were "falling a tree." He gathered flowers, white violets, thestar flower, offered tobacco for their pipes, which they accepted, andasked them what flower was this. "We call them Quaker ladies." He wentaway wondering what poet had so named them. In the town he bought tworolls and ate them as he walked, like the great Benjamin. About nineo'clock, returning to the hotel, he threw the flowers in his mother'slap as he kissed her. He saw to her breakfast, chatted hopefully, andwhen, about noon, she insisted on going with him to seek for lodgings,he was pleased at her revived strength. The landlord regretted that theymust leave, and gave addresses near by. Unluckily, none suited theirwants or their sense of need for rigid economy; and, moreover, thevicomtesse was more difficult to please than the young man thought quitereasonable. They were pausing, perplexed, near the southwest corner ofChestnut and Fifth streets when, having passed two gentlemen standing atthe door of a brick building known as the Philosophical Society, DeCourval said, "I will go back and ask where to apply for information."He had been struck with the unusual height of one of the speakers, andwith the animation of his face as he spoke, and had caught as he went bya phrase or two; for the stouter man spoke in a loud, strident voice,as if at a town meeting. "I hope, Citizen, you liked the last 'Gazette.'It is time to give men their true labels. Adams is a monarchist andHamilton is an aristocrat."

  The taller man, a long, lean figure, returned in a more refined voice:"Yes, yes; it is, I fear, only too true. I hope, Citizen, to live to seethe end of the titles they love, even Mr.; for who is the master of afreeman?"

  "How droll is that, _maman!_" said De Courval, half catching thissingular interchange of sentiment.

  "Why, Rene? What is droll?"

  "Oh, nothing." He turned back, and addressing the taller man said:"Pardon me, sir, but we are strangers in search of some reasonablelodging-house. May I ask where we could go to find some one to directus?"

  The gentleman appealed to took off his hat, bowing to the woman, andthen, answering the son, said, "My friend, Citizen Freneau, may know."The citizen had small interest in the matter. The taller man, suddenlystruck by the woman's grave and moveless face and the patient dignity ofher bearing, began to take an interest in this stranded couple,considering them with his clear hazel eyes. As he stood uncovered, hesaid: "Tell them, Freneau! Your paper must have notices--advertisements.Where shall they inquire?"

  Freneau did not know, but quick to note his companion's interest, saidpresently: "Oh, yes, they might learn at the library. They keep there alist of lodging-houses."

  "That will do," said the lean man. Madame, understanding that they wereto be helped by this somber-looking gentleman, said, "_Je vous remercie,messieurs_."

  "My mother thanks you, sir."

  Then there was of a sudden cordiality. Most of the few French known toFreneau were Republicans and shared his extreme opinions. The greateremigration from the islands and of the beggared nobles was not as yetwhat it was to become.

  "You are French?" said Freneau.

  "Yes, we are French."

  "I was myself about to go to the library," said the taller man, and,being a courteous gentleman gone mad with "gallic fever," added inimperfect French, "If madame will permit me; it is near by, and I shallhave the honor to show the way."

  Then Citizen Freneau of the new "National Gazette," a clerk in theDepartment of State, was too abruptly eager to help; but at last saying"Good-by, Citizen Jefferson," went his way as the statesman, talking hisbest French to the handsome woman at his side, went down ChestnutStreet, while De Courval, relieved, followed them and reflected withinterest--for he had learned many things on the voyage--that the tallman in front must be the former minister to France, the idol of theDemocratic party, and the head of that amazing cabinet of diverseopinions which the great soldier president had gathered about him. Eastof Fourth Street, Mr. Jefferson turned into a court, and presentlystood for a moment on the front step of a two-story brick building knownas Carpenter's Hall, over which a low spire still bore a forgottencrown. Not less forgotten were Jefferson's democratic manners. He was atonce the highly educated and well-loved Virginian of years ago.

  He had made good use of his time, and the woman at his side, well awareof the value of being agreeable, had in answer to a pleasant questiongiven her name, and presently had been told by the ex-minister his ownname, with which she was not unfamiliar.

  "Here, madame," he said, "the first Congress met. I had the misfortunenot to be of it."

  "But later, monsieur--later, you can have had nothing to regret."

  "Certainly not to-day," said the Virginian. He paused as a tall,powerfully built man, coming out with a book in his hand, filled thedoorway.

  "Good morning, Mr. Wynne," said Jefferson. "Is the librarian within?"

  "Yes; in the library, up-stairs."

  Hearing the name of the gentleman who thus replied, the young vicomtesaid:

  "May I ask, sir, if you are Mr. Hugh Wynne?"

  "Yes, I am; and, if I am not mistaken, you are the Vicomte de Courval,and this, your mother. Ah, madame," he said in French, far other thanthat of the secretary, "I missed you at Oeller's, and I am now at yourservice. What can I do for you?"

  The vicomtesse replied that they had been guided hither by Mr.Jefferson to find a list of lodging-houses.

  "Then let us go and see about it."

  "This way, Vicomte," said Jefferson. "It is up-stairs, madame." Ah,where now were the plain manners of democracy and the scorn of titles? Alow, sweet voice had bewitched him, the charm of perfect French at itsbest.

  The United States bank was on the first floor, and the clerks looked upwith interest at the secretary and his companions as they passed theopen door. De Courval lingered to talk with Wynne, both in their waysilently amused at the capture by the vicomtesse of the gentleman withJacobin principles.

  The room up-stairs was surrounded with well-filled book-shelves. Midway,at a table, sat Za
chariah Poulson, librarian, who was at onceintroduced, and who received them with the quiet good manners of hissect. A gentleman standing near the desk looked up from the book in hishand. While Mr. Poulson went in search of the desired list, Mr. Wynnesaid: "Good morning, James. I thought, Mr. Secretary, you knew Mr.Logan. Permit me to add agreeably to your acquaintance." The twogentlemen bowed, and Wynne added: "By the way, do you chance to know,Mr. Secretary, that Mr. Logan is hereditary librarian of the LoganianLibrary, and every Logan in turn if he pleases--our only inheritedtitle."

  "Not a very alarming title," said the Quaker gentleman, demurely.

  "We can stand that much," said Jefferson, smiling as he turned toMadame de Courval, while her son, a little aside, waited for the listand surveyed with interest the Quakers, the statesman, and the merchantwho seemed so friendly.

  At this moment came forward a woman of some forty years; rose-red hercheeks within the Quaker bonnet, and below all was sober gray, with aslight, pearl-colored silk shawl over her shoulders.

  "Good morning, Friend Wynne. Excuse me, Friend Jefferson," she said."May I be allowed a moment of thy time, James Logan?" The gentlemen drewback. She turned to the vicomtesse. "Thou wilt permit me. I must forhome shortly. James Logan, there is a book William Bingham has praisedto my daughter. I would first know if it be fitting for her to read. Itis called, I believe, 'Thomas Jones.'"

  Mr. Jefferson's brow rose a little, the hazel eyes confessed somemerriment, and a faint smile went over the face of Hugh Wynne as Logansaid: "I cannot recommend it to thee, Mary Swanwick."

  "Thank thee," she said simply. "There is too much reading of vain booksamong Friends. I fear I am sometimes a sinner myself; but thy aunt,Mistress Gainor, Hugh, laughs at me, and spoils the girl with books--toomany for her good, I fear."

  "Ah, she taught me worse wickedness than books when I was young," saidWynne; "but your girl is less easy to lead astray. Oh, a word, Mary,"and he lowered his voice. "Here are two French people I want you to takeinto your house."

  "If it is thy wish, Hugh; but although there is room and to spare, welive, of need, very simply, as thou knowest."

  "That is not thy Uncle Langstroth's fault or mine."

  "Yes, yes. Thou must know how wilful I am. But Friend Schmidt is onlytoo generous, and we have what contents me, and should content Margaret,if it were not for the vain worldliness Gainor Wynne puts into thechild's head. Will they like Friend Schmidt?"

  "He will like them, Mary Swanwick. You are a fair French scholaryourself. Perhaps they may teach you--they are pleasant people." He,too, had been captured by the sweet French tongue he loved.

  "They have some means," he added, "and I shall see about the young man.He seems more English than French, a staid young fellow. You may make aQuaker of him, Mary."

  "Thou art foolish, Hugh Wynne; but I will take them."

  Then the perverted Secretary of State went away. Mrs. Swanwick, still insearch of literature, received an innocent book called "The HauntedPriory, or the Fortunes of the House of Almy." There were pleasantintroductions, and, to De Courval's satisfaction, their baggage would betaken in charge, a chaise sent in the afternoon for his mother andhimself, and for terms--well, that might bide awhile until they saw ifall parties were suited. The widow, pleased to oblige her old friend,had still her reserve of doubt and some thought as to what might be saidby her permanent inmate, Mr. Johann Schmidt.