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

by S. Weir Mitchell

  V

  The young man's anxiety about his mother kept him long awake, and hissleep was troubled, as at times later, by a dream of Carteaux facing himwith a smile, and by that strange sense of physical impotence whichsometimes haunts the dreamer who feels the need for action and cannotstir.

  When at six in the morning De Courval went down-stairs, he met Mrs.Swanwick. She turned, and when in the hall said: "I have been with thymother all night, and now Margaret is with her, but thou wilt do no harmto enter. She does not seem to me very ill, but we must have a doctor,and one who has her language. When after a little sleep she wakens, shewanders, and then is clear again." Seeing his look of anxiety, sheadded, "Be sure that we shall care for her."

  He said no word of the pain he felt and scarce more than a word of hisgratitude, but, going up-stairs again, knocked softly at a chamber door.

  "Come in," he heard, and entered. A low voice whispered, "She is justawake," and the slight, gray figure of the girl went by him, the doorgently closing behind her. In the dim light he sat down by his mother'sbed, and taking a hot hand in his, heard her murmur: "_Mon fils_--myson. Angels--angels! I was a stranger, and they took me in; naked andthey clothed me, yes, yes, with kindness. What name did you say?Carteaux. Is he dead--Carteaux?"

  The young man had a thrill of horror. "Mother," he said, "it is I,Rene."

  "Ah," she exclaimed, starting up, "I was dreaming. These good peoplewere with me all night. You must thank them and see that they are wellpaid. Do not forget--well paid--and a tisane. If I had but a tisane _deguimauve!_"

  "Yes, yes," he said; "we shall see. Perhaps some lemonade."

  "Yes, yes; go at once and order it." She was imperative, and her voicehad lost its sweetness for a time. "I must not be made to wait."

  "Very well, _maman_." As he went out, the gray figure passed in, saying,"She is better this morning, and I am so grieved for thee."

  "Thank you," he murmured, and went down-stairs, seeing no one, and outto a seat in the garden, to think what he should do. Yes, there must bea doctor. And Carteaux--what a fool he had been to tell her his name!The name and the cropped hair of the Jacobin, the regular features, byno means vulgar, the blood-red eyes of greed for murder, he saw again asin that fatal hour. Whenever any new calamity had fallen upon him, theshrill murder-counseling voice was with him, heard at times like a noteof discord even in later days of relief from anxiety, or in some gaymoment of mirth. "He was wise," he murmured, remembering the German'scounsel, and resolutely put aside the disturbing thought. At last Nanny,the black maid, called him to breakfast. He was alone with Schmidt andMrs. Swanwick. They discussed quietly what doctor they should call; nottheir friend, Dr. Redman, as neither he nor Dr. Rush spoke French.Schmidt said: "I have sent a note to Mr. Wynne not to expect you. Setyour mind at ease."

  There was need of the advice. De Courval felt the helplessness of ayoung man in the presence of a woman's illness. He sat still in hischair at breakfast, hardly hearing the German's efforts to reassure him.

  It was near to eight. Nanny had gone up to relieve Margaret, whopresently came in, saying, "Aunt Gainor is without, back from hermorning ride."

  There was a heavy footfall in the hall and a clear, resonant voice,"Mary Swanwick, where are you?"

  In the doorway, kept open for the summer air to sweep through, the largefigure of Gainor Wynne appeared in riding skirt and low beaver hat, aheavy whip in her hand. The years had dealt lightly with the woman, nowfar past middle life. There was a mass of hair time had powdered, theflorid face, the high nose of her race, the tall, erect, massive build,giving to the observant a sense of masculine vigor. On rare occasionsthere was also a perplexing realization of infinite feminine tenderness,and, when she pleased, the ways and manners of an unmistakablegentlewoman.

  As the two men rose, Mrs. Swanwick said quietly, "Aunt Gainor, Madame deCourval is ill."

  "As much as to say, 'Do not roam through the house and shout.'"

  "This is Friend de Courval," said Mrs. Swanwick.

  "You must pardon me, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "You must pardon a rudeold woman. I am Hugh Wynne's aunt. May I ask about your mother? Is shevery ill? I meant to call on her shortly. I am heartily at yourservice."

  "I fear she is very ill," he replied.

  "Have you a doctor?"

  "We were just now thinking whom we should have," said Mrs. Swanwick."The vicomtesse speaks no English."

  "Yes, yes," said Mistress Wynne; "who shall we have? Not Dr. Rush. Hewould bleed her, and his French--la, my cat can meow better French. Ah,I have it. I will fetch Chovet. We have not spoken for a month,because--but no matter, he will come."

  There was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. "I will sendfor him at once, Aunt Gainor," said Mrs. Swanwick.

  To De Courval's surprise, it was Margaret who answered. "He will comethe quicker for Aunt Gainor, mother. Every one does as she wants." Thiswas to De Courval.

  "Except you, you demure little Quaker kitten. I must go," and themasterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followedby Schmidt and De Courval.

  "A chair. I can't mount as I used to." Her black groom brought out achair. In a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallionand clattering up Front Street with perilous indifference to anill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-passenger. She struck up SpruceStreet and the unpaved road then called Delaware Fifth Street and sodown Arch. It was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles andpeople a-foot. Suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horseas she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrownback, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. Within sat a man whowould have served for the English stage presentation of a Frenchman--aspare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he wasdressed in the height of the most extravagant fashion of a day fond ofcolor. The conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay betweenhis legs. At sight of Mistress Wynne he applied the whip and called outto his horse in a shrill voice, "_Allez_. Get on, Ca Ira!"

  The spinster cried to him as they came near: "Stop, stop, Doctor! I wantyou. Stop--do you hear me?"

  He had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political passage ofarms, and turned to go by her. With a quick movement she threw the bigstallion in front of Ca Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast thedoctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. "_Sacrebleu!_" he cried, "I might have been killed. _Quelle femme!_ What awoman! And my wig--" It was in the street dust.

  "Why did you not stop? Get the man's wig, Tom." The groom, grinning,dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in hishand.

  "With a quick movement she threw the big stallion infront of Ca Ira"]

  "My wig--give it to me."

  "No, don't give it to him." The doctor looked ruefully from the black tothe angry spinster.

  "What means this, madame? My wig--"

  "I want you to go at once to see a sick woman at Mrs. Swanwick's."

  "I will not. I am sent for in haste. In an hour or two I will go, orthis afternoon."

  "I don't believe you. You must go now--now. Who is it is ill?" Peoplepaused, astonished and laughing.

  "It is Citizen Jefferson. He is ill, very ill."

  "I am glad of it. He must wait--this citizen."

  "But he has a chill--_un diable_ of a chill."

  "If the devil himself had a chill,--Lord, but it would refresh him!--hewould have to wait."

  He tried to pass by. She seized the rein of his horse. Her blood was up,and at such times few men cared to face her.

  "You will go," she cried, "and at once, or--there is a tale I heardabout you last year in London from Dr. Abernethy. That highwayman--youknow the story. Your wig I shall keep. It is freshly powdered. Lord,man, how bald you are!"

  He grew pale around his rouge. "You would not, surely."

  "Would I not? Come, now, I won't tell--oh, not every one. Be a gooddoctor. I have quarreled with Dr. Rush--and come and see me to-morrow. Ihave a
horrid rheum. And as to Citizen Jefferson, he won't die, more'sthe pity."

  He knew from the first he must go, and by good luck no one he knew wasin sight to turn him into ridicule for the pleasure of the greatFederalist dames.

  "Give him his wig, Tom." The little doctor sadly regarded the dusty wig.Then he readjusted his head-gear and said he would go.

  "Now, that's a good doctor. Come," and she rode off again after him, byno means inclined to set him free to change his mind.

  At Mrs. Swanwick's door, as he got out of his chaise, she said: "Thislady speaks only French. She is the Vicomtesse de Courval. And now, mindyou, Doctor, no citizenesses or any such Jacobin nonsense."

  "_A votre service, madame_," he said, and rapped discreetly low, feelingjust at present rather humble and as meek as Ca Ira.

  Mistress Wynne waited until the door closed behind him, and then rodeaway refreshed. Turning to her black groom, she said, "If you tell, Tom,I will kill you."

  "Yes, missus."

  "At all events, he won't bleed her," she reflected, "and he has moregood sense than most of them. That young fellow is a fine figure of aman. I wonder what kind of clerk Hugh will make of him. I must have himto dine."

  In the hall Dr. Chovet met Schmidt, who knew him, as, in fact, he knewevery one of any importance in the city.

  "These are to me friends, Doctor," he said. "I beg of you to comeoften," a request to the doctor's liking, as it seemed to carry betterassurance of pay than was the usual experience among his emigrantcountrymen. He was at once a little more civil. He bowed repeatedly, wasmuch honored, and after asking a few questions of De Courval, wentup-stairs with Mrs. Swanwick, reflecting upon how some day he couldavenge himself on Gainor Wynne.

  De Courval, relieved by his presence and a little amused, said, smiling,"I hope he is a good doctor."

  "Yes, he is competent. He manufactures his manners for the moment'sneed."

  The doctor came down in half an hour, and, speaking French of the best,said: "Madame has had troubles, I fear, and the long voyage and noappetite for sea diet--bad, bad. It is only a too great strain on mindand body. There needs repose and shortly wine,--good Bordeauxclaret,--and soon, in a week or two, to drive out and take the air.There is no cause for alarm, but it will be long, long."

  Schmidt went with him to the door. De Courval sat down. Wine, drives, adoctor, and for how long? And perhaps additions to the simple diet ofthis modest household. Well, he must use some of the small means inWynne's hands. And these women, with their cares, their braveself-denial of all help, how could he ever repay this unlooked-forkindness?

  His mother soon grew better, and, having again seen Mr. Wynne, he feltthat he might shortly take up the work which awaited him.

  Meanwhile, the gentle nursing was effective, and went on withoutcomplaint and as a matter of course. Miss Wynne came at odd hours toinquire or to fetch some luxury, and soon the vicomte must call to seeher.

  The days went by, and there were strawberries for madame from Mr.Langstroth and from Merion, walks for De Courval, or a pull on the waterwith Schmidt, and anxiously desired news from France. At last, after afortnight or more, well on into June, the doctor insisted on claret, andDe Courval asked of Schmidt where it could be had. The German laughed."I might lie to you, and I should at need, but I have already for themother's use good Bordeaux in the cellar."

  De Courval colored, and, hesitating, asked, "How much am I in yourdebt?"

  "Six months of the five years. It is I shall be long in debt, I fear. Itcannot be all on one side. The life of a man! What credit hath it in theaccount of things? Suppose it had gone the other way, would youcontented bide?"

  "Not I," laughed De Courval.

  "Let us say, then, I have paid a score of thanks; credit me withthese--one should be prudent. Only in the Bible it is a thank,--one. Becareful of the coin. Let it rest there. So you go to work to-morrow. Itis well; for you have been anxious of late, and for that exacting workis no bad remedy."

  The next day De Courval found himself before seven-thirty in thecounting-house. "It is hard in winter," said the clerk who was toinstruct him. "Got to make the fires then. Mr. Potts is particular. Youmust leave no dust, and here are brooms in the closet." And so, perchedon a high stool, the clerk, well amused, watched his successor, LouisRene, Vicomte de Courval, sweep out the counting-house.

  "By George!" said the critic, "you will wear out a broom a day. What adust! Sweep it up in the dust-pan. Sprinkle it first with thewatering-pot. Lord, man, don't deluge it! And now a little sand. Don'tbuild a sea-beach. Throw out the dust on the ash-heap behind the house."It was done at last.

  "Take your coat off next time. The clerks will be here soon, but we havea few minutes. Come out and I will show you the place. Oh, this is yourdesk, quills, paper, and sand, and 'ware old man Potts."

  They went on to the broad landing between the warehouse and Dock Creek."There are two brigs from Madeira in the creek, partly unloaded."

  The great tuns of Madeira wine filled the air with vinous odors, and onone side, under a shed, were staves and salt fish from the North forreturn cargoes, and potatoes, flour, and onions in ropes for the Frenchislands.

  "The ship outside," said the clerk, "is from the Indies with tea andsilks, and for ballast cheap blue Canton china."

  The vessels and the thought of far-away seas pleased the young man. Thebig ship, it seemed, had been overhauled by a small British privateer.

  "But there is no war?"

  "No, but they claim to take our goods billed for any French port, and asmany men as they choose to call English."

  "And she beat them off?"

  "Yes; Mr. Wynne gave the master a silver tankard, and a hundred dollarsfor the men."

  De Courval was excited and pleased. It was no day of tame, peacefulcommerce. Malayan pirates in the East, insolent English cruisers to beoutsailed, the race home of rival ships for a market, made every voyagewhat men fitly called a venture. Commerce had its romance. Strangethings and stranger stories came back from far Indian seas.

  After this introduction, he thanked his instructor, and returning to thecounting-house, was gravely welcomed and asked to put in French two longletters for Martinique and to translate and write out others. He wentaway for his noonday meal, and, returning, wrote and copied andresolutely rewrote, asking what this and that term of commerce meant,until his back ached when he went home at six. He laughed as he gave hismother a humorous account of it all, but not of the sweeping.

  Then she declared the claret good, and what did it cost? Oh, not much.He had not the bill as yet.