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"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 ofgoing 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 doas 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 consciencewith Margaret. It is not. Friends were concerned in regard to that sadduel and considered me unwise to keep in my house one guilty of thewickedness of desiring to shed another's blood, Margaret happened to bewith me when Friend Howell opened the subject, and thou knowest howgentle he is."
"Yes. I know. What happened, Mary?"
"He said that Friends were advised that to keep in my house a young manguilty of bloodshed was, as it did appear to them, undesirable. Then, tomy surprise, Margaret said: 'But he was not guilty of bloodshed.' FriendHowell was rather amazed, as thou canst imagine; but before he couldsay a word more, Miss Impudence jumped up, very red in the face, andsaid: 'Why not talk to him instead of troubling mother? I wish he hadshed 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 herbusiness."
"And what did you say?"
"What could I say except to excuse her, because the young man was ourfriend, and at last that I was very sorry not to do as they would havehad me to do, but would hear no more. He was ill-pleased, I do assurethee."
"Were you very sorry, Mary Swanwick?"
"I was not, although I could not approve the young man nor my child'simpertinence."
"Well, my dear, I should have said worse things. I may have my way inthe matter of dress, I suppose?"
"Yes," said the widow, resigned. "An Episcopalian in Friends' dressseems to me to lack propriety; but as to thy desire to buy her finegarments, there are trunks in my garret full of the world's things Igave 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 agayer world, long laid away unused. The maid in her red bandanahead-gear was delighted, having, like her race, great pleasure in brightcolors.
The widow, standing apart, looked on, with memories which kept hersilent, as the faint smell of lavender, which seems to me always to havean ancient fragrance, hung about the garments of her youth.
Margaret watched her mother with quick sense of this being for hersomething like the turning back to a record of a girlhood like her own.De Courval had eyes for the Pearl alone. Gainor Wynne, undisturbed bysentimental 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; butthe sleeves must be loose. And lace--what is it?" She held up a filmyfabric.
"I think I could tell." And there, a little curious, having heard herson's voice, was the vicomtesse, interested, and for her mildly excited,to Rene's surprise.
Miss Gainor greeted her in French I dare not venture upon, and thiscommon interest in clothes seemed somehow to have the effect of suddenlybringing all these women into an intimacy of the minute, while the oneman stood by, with the unending wonder of the ignorant male, now, as itwere, 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--quitepriceless, Margaret, a wonder." She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl'shead, smiling as she considered the effect.
"Is this my mother?" thought her son, with increase of wonder. He hadseen her only with restricted means, and knew little of the moreluxurious 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 yourchildren, Margaret."
"No, it is not a child's doll," said Mrs. Swanwick. "Friends in Londonsent it to Marie Wynne, Hugh's mother, for a pattern of the last Quakerfashions 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, holdingthem up. "You will have to fatten, Pearl."
Upon this the young man considered it as well to retire. He wentdown-stairs unmissed, thinking of the agreeable intimacy of stays withthe fair figure he left bending over the trunk, a mass of black lace inher hand.
"She threw the fairy tissue about Pearl's head, smilingas 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, "mayI 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 toovaluable."
"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 asMrs. 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 washolding up a variety of lavender-scented delicacies of raiment, finelinens, and openwork silk stockings.
Rene, still laughing, met Schmidt in the hall.
"You were merry up-stairs."
"Indeed we were." And he gaily described his mother's unwonted mood; butof the sacred future of the stays he said no word.
"And so our gray moth has become a butterfly. I think Mother Eve wouldnot have abided long without a milliner. I should like to have been ofthe party up-stairs."
"You would have been much enlightened," said Miss Wynne on the stair. "Ishall send for the boxes, Mary." And with this she went away withMargaret, 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 Rene deCourval had heard her talk to Arthur Howell, he would have been greatlyenlightened. Her mother must have understood; or else she is more of afool 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 overthe excise tax on whisky, and more work than French translations for anable and interested young clerk, whom his mother spoke of as a secretaryto the minister.
"It is the first strain upon the new Constitution," said Schmidt; "butthere is a man with bones to his back, this President." And by Novemberthe militia had put down the riots, and the first grave trial of thecentral government was well over; so that the President was free at lastto turn to the question of the treaty with England, already signed inLondon.
Then once more the clamor of party strife b
roke out. Had not Jay kissedthe hand of the queen? "He had prostrated at the feet of royalty thesovereignty of the people."
Fauchet was busy fostering opposition long before the treaty came backfor decision by the Senate. The foreign office was busy, and Randolphill pleased with the supposed terms of the coming document.
To deal with the causes of opposition to the treaty in and out of thecabinet far into 1795 concerns this story but indirectly. No one wasaltogether satisfied, and least of all Fauchet, who at every opportunitywas sending despatches home by any French war-ship seeking refuge in ourports.
A little before noon, on the 29th of November, of this year, 1794, adate De Courval was never to forget, he was taking the time for hiswatch from the clock on the western wall of the State House. As hestood, 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." Asusual, the doctor, safe in his chaise, was as impertinent as he dared tobe.
Too disturbed to notice anything but this startling information inregard to his enemy, De Courval said: "Who told you that? It cannot betrue. He was at the State Department yesterday, and we were to meet thisafternoon over the affair of a British ship captured by a Frenchprivateer."
"Oh, I met him on Fifth Street on horseback just now--a little whileago."
"Well, what then?"
"'I am for New York,' he said. I asked: 'How can I send letters toFrance?' He said: 'I cannot wait for them. I am in a hurry. I mustcatch that corvette, the _Jean Bart_, in New York.' Then I cried afterhim: 'Are you for France?' And he: 'Do you not wish you, too, weregoing? Adieu. Wish me _bon 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 truethat his enemy was about to escape him? The thought that he could notleave 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. Hismother, Margaret, the possible remonstrance from Schmidt, each in turnhad the thought of a moment and then were dismissed in turn as hehurried homeward. Again he saw Avignon and Carteaux' dark face, andheard the echoing memory of his father's death-cry, "Yvonne! Yvonne!" Hemust tell Schmidt if he were in; if not, so much the better, and hewould go alone. He gave no thought to the unwisdom of such a course. Hiswhole mind was on one purpose, and the need to give it swift anddefinite fulfilment.
He was not sorry that Schmidt was not at home. He sat down and wrote tohim that Carteaux was on his way to embark for France and that he meantto overtake him. Would Schmidt explain to his mother his absence onbusiness? Then he took Schmidt's pistols from their place over themantel, loaded and primed them, and put half a dozen bullets and asmall powder-horn in his pocket. To carry the pistols, he took Schmidt'ssaddle-holsters. What next? He wrote a note to the Secretary that he wascalled out of town on business, but would return next day, and wouldSchmidt send it as directed. He felt sure that he would return. As hestood at the door of Schmidt's room, Mrs. Swanwick said from the foot ofthe stairs: "The dinner is ready."
"Then it must wait for me until to-morrow. I have to ride on a businessmatter to Bristol."
"Thou hadst better bide for thy meal."
"No, I cannot." As Mrs. Swanwick passed into the dining-room, Margaretcame from the withdrawing-room, and stood in the doorway opposite tohim, a china bowl of the late autumnal flowers in her hands. Seeing himcloaked 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 fora glove, a tress of hair, to carry on his helmet, he said: "Give me aflower 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 saytoo much.
"Good-by!" he added, and went out the hall door, and made haste to reachthe stables of the Bull and Bear, where Schmidt kept the horses DeCourval was free to use. He was about to do a rash and, as men would seeit, a foolish thing. He laughed as he mounted. He knew that now he hadno more power to stop or hesitate than the stone which has left thesling.
He had made the journey to New York more than once, and as he rode northup the road to Bristol in a heavy downfall of rain he reflected thatCarteaux would cross the Delaware by the ferry at that town, or fartheron at Trenton.
If the doctor had been correct as to the time, Carteaux had started atleast an hour and a half before him.
It was still raining heavily as he rode out of the city, and as the graystorm-clouds would shorten the daylight, he pushed on at speed, sure ofovertaking his enemy and intently on guard. He stayed a moment besidethe road to note the distance, as read on a mile-stone, and knew he hadcome seven miles. That would answer. He smiled as he saw on the stonethe three balls of the Penn arms, popularly known as the three appledumplings. A moment later his horse picked up a pebble. It took him someminutes 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 overa straight line of road, he suddenly pulled up and turned into theshelter of a wood. Some two hundred yards away were two or threehouses. A man stood at the roadside. It was Carteaux. Rene heard theclink 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 doctorhad not lied. If the secretary were going to France, or only on someerrand to New York, was now to De Courval of small moment. His horsemust have cast a shoe. As Carteaux rode away from the forge. De Courvalmounted, and rode on more rapidly.
Within two miles of Bristol, as he remembered, the road turned at asharp angle toward the river. A half mile away was an inn where thecoaches for New York changed horses. It was now five o'clock, andnearing the dusk of a November day. The rain was over, the skydarkening, the air chilly, the leaves were fluttering slowly down, and awild gale was roaring in the great forest which bounded the road. Hethought of the gentler angelus of another evening, and, strange as itmay seem, bowed his head, and like many a Huguenot noble of his mother'srace, prayed God that his enemy should be delivered into his hands. Thenhe stopped his horse and for the first time recognized that it had beenraining heavily and that it were well to renew the priming of hispistols. He attended to this with care, and then rode quickly around theturn 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 isit?"--and then at once knew the man at his side.
He was himself unarmed, and for a moment alarmed as he saw De Courval'shand on the pistol in his holster. He called out, "Do you mean to murderme?"
"Not I. You will dismount, and will take one of my pistols--either; theyare loaded. You will walk to that stump, turn, and yourself give theword, an advantage, as you may perceive."
"And if I refuse?"
"In that case I shall kill you with no more mercy than you showed myfather. 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. Carteauxhesitated a moment, with a glance up and down the lonely highway.
"Monsieur," said De Courval, "I am not here to wait on your decision. Ipurpose to give you the chance I should give a gentleman; but takecare--at the least sign of treachery I shall kill you."
/>
Carteaux looked down at the stern face of the Huguenot and knew that hehad no choice.
"I accept," he said, and dismounted. De Courval struck the horseslightly, and having seen them turn out of the road, faced Carteaux, apistol in each hand.
"I have just now renewed the primings," he said. As he spoke, he heldout the weapons. For an instant the Jacobin hesitated, and then saidquickly:
"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. Itis 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 youperceive."
The Jacobin turned and moved away, followed by the eye of a mandistrustfully on the watch.
Rene stood still, not yet cocking his weapon. Carteaux walked away. Whenhe had gone not over half the distance Rene heard the click of a cockedpistol and at the instant Carteaux, turning, fired.
Rene threw himself to right and felt a sharp twinge of pain where theball grazed the skin of his left shoulder. "Dog of a Jacobin!" he cried,and as Carteaux extended his pistol hand in instinctive protest, DeCourval 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 Rene stood still, quicklyreloading, he heard behind him a wild gallop, and, turning, saw Schmidtbreathless at his side, and in an instant out of the saddle. "_LieberHimmel!_" cried the German, "have you killed him?"
"I do not know; but if he is not dead. I shall kill him; not even youcan stop me."
"_Ach!_ but I will, if I have to hold you." As he spoke he set himselfbetween Rene and the prostrate man. "I will not let you commit murder.Give me that pistol."
For a moment Rene stared at his friend. Then a quick remembrance of allthis 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 willnever forgive you, never!"
"_Ach!_ that is better," said Schmidt. "To-morrow you will forgive andthank 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 Rene.
"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 openCarteaux' sleeve. "_Saprement!_ how the beast bleeds! He will fence nomore." The man lay silent and senseless as the German drew fromCarteaux' pocket a handkerchief and tied it around his arm. "There is nobig vessel hurt. _Ach, der Teufel!_ What errand was he about?" A packetof paper had fallen out with the removal of the handkerchief. "It isaddressed to him. We must know. I shall open it."
"Oh, surely not!" said Rene.
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 theenvelop. Then he whistled low. "Here is a devil of a business, Rene!"
"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 anenvoy--you, a clerk of the State Department--"
"_Mon Dieu!_ Must he always bring me disaster?" cried Rene. He saw withutter dismay the far-reaching consequences of his rash act.
"It is to the care of the captain of the _Jean Bart_, New York Harbor.The Jacobin party will have a fine cry. The State Department will havesent a man to rob a bearer of despatches. Who will know or believe itwas a private quarrel?"
"How could I know his errand?"
"That will not save you. Your debt is paid with interest, but at bittercost. 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, anunarmed man, and stole his despatches."
"Then leave them."
"That were as bad. I saw his treachery; but who will believe me? I muststay by him, and see what I can do."
Meanwhile the man lay speechless. Rene looked down at him and then atSchmidt. He, too, was thinking. In a moment he said: "This at least isclear. I am bound in honor to go on this hound's errand, and to see thatthese papers reach the _Jean Bart_."
"You are right," said Schmidt; "entirely right. But you must not be seenhere. Find your way through the woods, and when it is dark--in an hourit will be night--ride through Bristol to Trenton, cross the river thereat the ferry. No one will be out of doors in Trenton or Bristol on anight 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 thewhole 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, andcross at Camden. I shall secure help here, go to town, get a doctor, andreturn. I must talk to this man if he lives, else he will lie aboutyou."
"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," hesaid as he knelt down to give the fallen man brandy from the flask hefound in his saddle-bag.
Within an hour Carteaux, still insensible, was at Bisanet's Inn, aneighboring doctor found, and that good Samaritan Schmidt, after a finetale of highwaymen, was in the saddle and away to town, leaving Carteauxdelirious.
He went at once to the house of Chovet and found him at home. It wasessential 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 youbecause you speak French. Can you hold your tongue, if to hold it meansmoney? Oh, a good deal. If you breathe a word of what you hear or see, Iwill half-kill you."
"Oh, Monsieur, I am the soul of honor."
"Indeed. Why, then, does it trouble you? Owing to your damnedmischief-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 toknow. 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 anote to Randolph, for Rene'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 betold. The despatch would never be heard of, or if its singular fortunein going on its way were ever known and discussed, that was far in thefuture, and Schmidt had a strong belief in many things happening or nothappening.
And if, too, despite his presumed power to close Carteaux' lips, theinjured man should sooner or later charge Rene with his wound and thetheft of the despatch, Schmidt, too, would have a story to tell.
Finally--and this troubled his decisions--suppose that at once hefrankly told Fauchet and the Secretary of State what had happened. Wouldhe be believed by Fauchet in the face of what Carteaux would say, orwould Rene be believed or that he had honorably gone on his enemy'serrand? The _Jean Bart_ would have sailed. Months must pass before thenews of the reception of the despatch could in the ordinary state ofthings be heard of, and now the sea swarmed with British cruisers, andthe French frigates were sadly unsafe.
To-morrow he must see Carteaux,and at once let Fauchet learn the condition of his secretary. Hereturned to his trust in the many things that may happen, and, lightinga pipe, fell upon his favorite Montaigne.
He might have been less at ease could he have dreamed what mischief thatdespatch was about to make or what more remote trouble it was to createfor the harassed President and his cabinet.
The Red City: A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington Page 22
