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

by S. Weir Mitchell

  XIX

  The only man known to me who remembered Schmidt is said to have heardAlexander Hamilton remark that all the German lacked of being great wasinterest in the noble game of politics. It was true of Schmidt. The warof parties merely amused him, with their honest dread of a monarchy,their terror of a bonded debt, their disgust at the abominableimposition of a tax on freemen, and, above all, an excise tax on whisky.Jefferson, with keen intellect, was trying to keep the name Republicanfor the would-be Democrats, and while in office had rebuked Genet andkept Fauchet in order, so that, save for the smaller side of him and theblinding mind fog of personal and party prejudice, he would have beenstill more valuable in the distracted cabinet he had left.

  Schmidt looked on it all with tranquillity, and while he heard of thehorrors of the Terror with regret for individual suffering, regardedthat strange drama much as an historian looks back on the records of thepast.

  Seeing this and the man's interest in the people near to him, inflowers, nature, and books, his attitude of mind in regard to the vastworld changes seemed singular to the more intense character of DeCourval. It had for him, however, its value in the midst of the turmoilof a new nation and the temptations an immense prosperity offered to apeople who were not as yet acclimated to the air of freedom.

  In fact Schmidt's indifference, or rather the neutrality of a mind notreadily biased, seemed to set him apart, and to enable him to see withsagacity the meaning and the probable results of what appeared to somein America like the beginning of a fatal evolution of ruin.

  Their companionship had now the qualities of one of those rare anduseful friendships between middle age and youth, seen now and thenbetween a father and son, with similar tastes. They were much together,and by the use of business errands and social engagements the elder mandid his share in so occupying De Courval as to limit his chances ofseeing Margaret Swanwick; nor was she entirely or surely displeased. Herinstincts as a woman made her aware of what might happen at any time.She knew, too, what would then be the attitude of the repellent Huguenotlady. Her pride of caste was recognized by Margaret with thedistinctness of an equal but different pride, and with some resentmentat an aloofness which, while it permitted the expression of gratitude,seemed to draw between Mrs. Swanwick and herself a line of impassableformality of intercourse.

  One of the lesser accidents of social life was about to bring for DeCourval unlooked-for changes and materially to affect his fortunes. Hehad seemed to Schmidt of late less troubled, a fact due to a decisionwhich left him more at ease.

  The summer of 1794 was over, and the city gay and amusing. He had seenCarteaux more than once, and seeing him, he had been but littledisturbed. On an evening in September, Schmidt and he went as usual tothe fencing-school. There were some new faces. Du Vallon said, "Here,Schmidt, is an old friend of mine, and Vicomte, let me present MonsieurBrillat-Savarin."

  The new-comer greeted De Courval and his face expressed surprise as hebowed to the German. "I beg pardon," he said--"Monsieur Schmidt?"

  "Yes, at your service."

  He seemed puzzled. "It seems to me that we have met before--in Berne, Ithink."

  "Berne. Berne," said Schmidt, coldly. "I was never in Berne."

  "Ah, I beg pardon. I must be mistaken."

  "Are you here for a long stay?"

  "Only for a few days. I am wandering in a land of lost opportunities."

  "Of what?" asked Schmidt.

  "Oh, of the cook. Think of it, these angelic reed-birds, the divineterrapin, the duck they call canvas, the archangelic wild turkey,unappreciated, crudely cooked; the Madeira--ah, _mon Dieu!_ I would talkof them, and, behold, the men talk politics! I have eaten of that dishat home, and it gave me the colic of disgust."

  "But the women?" said a young _emigre_.

  "Ah, angels, angels. But can they make an omelet? The divine Miss Morriswould sing to me when I would speak seriously of my search fortruffles. Oh, she would sing the 'Yankee Dudda'[1] and I must hear the'Lament of Major Andre.' Who was he?"

  [1] He so writes it in his "Physiologie du gout."

  De Courval explained.

  "It is the truffle I lament. Ah, to marry the truffle to the wildturkey."

  The little group laughed. "Old gourmand," cried Du Vallon, "you arestill the same."

  "Gourmet," corrected Savarin. "Congratulate me. I have found here acook--Marino, a master, French of course, from San Domingo. You willdine with me at four to-morrow; and you, Monsieur Schmidt, certainly youresemble--"

  "Yes," broke in the German. "A likeness often remarked, not veryflattering."

  "Ah, pardon me. But my dinner--Du Vallon, you will come, and thevicomte, and you and you, and there will be Messieurs Bingham and Rawleand Mr. Meredith, and one Jacobin,--Monsieur Girard,--as I hear a loverof 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, butthe crab, ah! the crab 'which is soft.'"

  All of them accepted, the _emigres_ gladly, being, alas! none too wellfed.

  "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 FrontStreet then becoming fashionable.

  "I have taken the liberty," said Bingham, "to send half a dozen ofMadeira, 1745, and two decanters of grape juice, what we call thewhite. The rest--well, of our best, all of it."

  They sat down expectant. "The turkey I have not," said Savarin; "but thesoup--ah, you will see,--soup _a la reine_. Will Citizen Girarddecline?"

  The dinner went on with talk and laughter. Savarin talking brokenEnglish, or more volubly French.

  "You are to have the crabs which are soft, Monsieur Girard, _enpapillotte_, more becoming crabs than women, and at the closereed-birds. Had there been these in France, and the crab which is soft,and the terrapin, there would have been no Revolution. And theMadeira--perfect, perfect, a revelation. Your health, Mr. Bingham."

  Bingham bowed over his glass, and regretted that canvasback ducks andterrapin were not yet in season. The _emigres_ used well this rarechance, and with talk of the wine and jest and story (anything butpolitics), the dinner went on gaily. Meanwhile Girard, beside DeCourval, spoke of their sad experiences in the fever, and of what wasgoing on in the murder-scourged West Indian Islands, and of the ruin ofour commerce. Marino in his white cap and long apron stood behind thehost, 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 the host to a gentleman at thefarther end of the table. "Your salad is past praise. Your health. Youmust teach me this dressing."

  "A secret," laughed the guest, as he bowed over his glass, "andvaluable."

  "That is droll," said De Courval to Bingham.

  "No; he comes to my house and to Willing's to dress salad for ourdinners. Ten francs he gets, and lives on it, and saves money."

  "Indeed! I am sorry for him," said Rene.

  Then Mr. Bingham, being next to Girard, said to him: "At the StateDepartment yesterday, Mr. Secretary Randolph asked me, knowing I was tosee you to-day, if you knew of any French gentleman who could act astranslating clerk. Of course he must know English."

  "Why not my neighbor De Courval?" said the merchant. "But he is hardlyof Mr. Randolph's politics."

  "And what are they?" laughed Mr. Bingham. "Federal, I suppose; but asfor De Courval, he is of no party. Besides, ever since Freneau left onaccount of the fever, the Secretaries are shy of any more clerks whowill keep them in hot water with the President. For a poet he was amaster of rancorous abuse."

  "And who," said Girard, "have excelled the poets in malignancy? Havingyour permission, I will ask our young friend." And turning to Rene, herelated what had passed between him and Mr. Bingham.

  Somewhat surprised, Rene said: "I might like it, but I must cons
ult Mr.Schmidt. I am far from having political opinions, or, if any, they arewith the Federals. But that would be for the Secretary to decide upon.An exile, Mr. Girard, should have no political opinions unless he meansto 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 whitegrape juice. And if the place please you, let it be a receipt in fullfor my early contribution of mud." And laughing, he told Girard thestory.

  "Indeed, sir, it was a very personal introduction," returned Rene.

  "I should like well to have that young man myself," said Girard in anaside to Bingham. "This is a poor bit of advancement you offer--allhonor and little cash. I like the honor that attends to a draft."

  The senator laughed. "Oh, Schmidt has, I believe, adopted De Courval orsomething 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 thekings and queens will come. But Schmidt is a man to trust, that I doknow."

  "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 fattenamiability. Come, Rene, we shall get on even terms of praise with themas we walk home."

  The party broke up, joyous at having dined well.

  As they went homeward, Schmidt said: "Our host, Rene, is not a meregourmet. 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 inFrance."

  "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 whathe eats. He recognized me, but at once accepted my obvious desire not tobe known. He will be sure to keep my secret."

  When having reached home, and it was not yet twilight--they sat downwith their pipes, Rene laid before his friend this matter of thesecretaryship.

  Schmidt said: "My work is small just now, and the hours of the StateDepartment would release you at three. You would be at the center ofaffairs, 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. Thebusiness she disliked."

  "Then take it, if it is offered, as I am sure it will be." "He is veryquiet about Carteaux," thought Schmidt. "Something will happen soon. Idid say from the first that I would not desire to be inside of thatJacobin's skin."

  The day after, a brief note called De Courval to the Department ofState.

  The modest building which then housed the Secretary and his affairs wasa 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 foreignbusiness. Rene had to ask a passer-by for the direction.

  For a brief moment De Courval stood on the outer step before the opendoor. 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 uphousekeeping, were plainly to be read in the office of the Department ofState. Two or three persons went in or came out.

  Beside the step an old black woman was selling peanuts. Rene's thoughtswandered for a moment from his Norman home to a clerk's place in theservice of a new country.

  "How very strange!"--he had said so to Schmidt, and now recalled hislaughing reply: "We think we play the game of life, Rene, but the bankerFate always wins. His dice are loaded, his cards are marked." The Germanliked to puzzle him. "And yet," reflected De Courval, "I can go in or gohome." He said to himself: "Surely I am free,--and, after all, howlittle it means for me! I am to translate letters." He roused thesnoring negro, and asked, "Where can I find Mr. Randolph?" As the drowsyslave was assembling his wits, a notably pleasant voice behind Renesaid: "I am Mr. Randolph, at your service. Have I not the pleasure tosee the Vicomte de Courval?"

  "Yes, I am he."

  "Come into my office." Rene followed him, and they sat down to talk inthe simply furnished front room.

  The Secretary, then in young middle age, was a largely built man andportly, dark-eyed, with refined features and quick to express a certainconciliatory courtesy in his relations with others. He used gesture morefreely than is common with men of our race, and both in voice and mannerthere was something which Rene felt to be engaging and attractive.

  He liked him, and still more after a long talk in which the duties ofthe place were explained and his own indisposition to speak of his pastlife 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 andfifty dollars a year. It is all we can afford."

  As Rene was still the helper of Schmidt, and well paid, he said it wasenough. 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 herepledge you to no party. I want a man of honor, and one with whom statesecrets 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 waslittle leisure, and no time for visits to the Hill, at which the twoconspiring cupids, out of business and anxious, smiled, doubtful as towhat cards Fate would hold in this game: and thus time ran on.

  The work was easy and interesting. The Secretary, courteous andwell-pleased, in that simpler day, came in person to the little roomassigned to De Courval and brought documents and letters which opened awide world to a curious young man, who would stay at need untilmidnight, and who soon welcomed duties far beyond mere Frenchletter-writing.

  By and by there were visits with papers to Mr. Wolcott at the TreasuryDepartment, No. 119 Chestnut Street, and at last to Fauchet at Oeller'sHotel.

  He was received with formal civility by Le Blanc, a secretary, andpresently Carteaux, entering, bowed. De Courval did not return thesalute, and, finishing his business without haste, went out.

  He felt the strain of self-control the situation had demanded, but, ashe wiped the sweat from his forehead, knew with satisfaction that thestern trials of the years had won for him the priceless power to be orto seem to be what he was not.

  "The _ci-devant_ has had his little lesson," said Le Blanc. "It will belong before he insults another good Jacobin."

  Carteaux, more intelligent, read otherwise the set jaw and grave face ofthe Huguenot gentleman. He would be on his guard.

  The news of the death of Robespierre, in July, 1794, had unsettledFauchet, and his subordinate, sharing his uneasiness, meant to returnto France if the minister were recalled and the Terror at an end, or tofind a home in New York, and perhaps, like Genet, a wife. For the timehe dismissed De Courval from his mind, although not altogetherself-assured concerning the future.