The Crossing

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER XIV. “TO UNPATHED WATERS, UNDREAMED SHORES”

  Monsieur and Madame de St. Gré themselves came with me to my chamber offthe gallery, where everything was prepared for my arrival with themost loving care,--Monsieur de St. Gré supplying many things fromhis wardrobe which I lacked. And when I tried to thank them for theirkindness he laid his hand upon my shoulder.

  “Tenez, mon ami,” he said, “you got your illness by doing things forother people. It is time other people did something for you.”

  Lindy brought me the daintiest of suppers, and I was left to mymeditations. Nick looked in at the door, and hinted darkly that I had tothank a certain tyrant for my abandonment. I called to him, but he paidno heed, and I heard him chuckling as he retreated along the gallery.The journey, the excitement into which I had been plunged by the news Ihad heard, brought on a languor, and I was between sleeping and wakinghalf the night. I slept to dream of her, of the Vicomte, her husband,walking in his park or playing cards amidst a brilliant company in agreat candle-lit room like the drawing-room at Temple Bow. Doubt grew,and sleep left me. She was free now, indeed, but was she any nearerto me? Hope grew again,--why had she left me in New Orleans? She hadreceived a letter, and if she had cared she would not have remained. Butthere was a detestable argument to fit that likewise, and in the lightof this argument it was most natural that she should return to Les Îles.And who was I, David Ritchie, a lawyer of the little town of Louisville,to aspire to the love of such a creature? Was it likely that Hélène,Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour, would think twice of me? The powers ofthe world were making ready to crush the presumptuous France of theJacobins, and the France of King and Aristocracy would be restored.Châteaux and lands would be hers again, and she would go back again tothat brilliant life among the great to which she was born, for whichnature had fitted her. Last of all was the thought of the Englishmanwhom I resembled. She would go back to him.

  Nick was the first in my room the next morning. He had risen early (sohe ingenuously informed me) because Antoinette had a habit of gettingup with the birds, and as I drank my coffee he was emphatic in hisdenunciations of the customs of the country.

  “It is a wonderful day, Davy,” he cried; “you must hurry and get out.Monsieur de St. Gré sends his compliments, and wishes to know if youwill pardon his absence this morning. He is going to escort Antoinetteand me over to see some of my prospective cousins, the Bertrands.” Hemade a face, and bent nearer to my ear. “I swear to you I have nothad one moment alone with her. We have been for a walk, but Madame laVicomtesse must needs intrude herself upon us. Egad, I told her plainlywhat I thought of her tyranny.”

  “And what did she say?” I asked, trying to smile.

  “She laughed, and said that I belonged to a young nation which had donemuch harm in the world to everybody but themselves. Faith, if I wasn’tin love with Antoinette, I believe I’d be in love with her.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” I answered.

  “The Vicomtesse is as handsome as a queen this morning,” he continuedpaying no heed to this remark. “She has on a linen dress that puzzlesme. It was made to walk among the trees and flowers, it is as simple asyou please; and yet it has a distinction that makes you stare.”

  “You seem to have stared,” I answered. “Since when did you take suchinterest in gowns?”

  “Bless you, it was Antoinette. I never should have known,” said he.“Antoinette had never before seen the gown, and she asked the Vicomtessewhere she got the pattern. The Vicomtesse said that the gown had beenmade by Léonard, a court dressmaker, and it was of the fashion the Queenhad set to wear in the gardens of the Trianon when simplicity became thecraze. Antoinette is to have it copied, so she says.”

  Which proved that Antoinette was human, after all, and happy once more.

  “Hang it,” said Nick, “she paid more attention to that gown than to me.Good-by, Davy. Obey the--the Colonel.”

  “Is--is not the Vicomtesse going with you?” I asked.

  “No, I’m sorry for you,” he called back from the gallery.

  He had need to be, for I fell into as great a fright as ever I had hadin my life. Monsieur de St. Gré knocked at the door and startled me outof my wits. Hearing that I was awake, he had come in person to make hisexcuses for leaving me that morning.

  “Bon Dieu!” he said, looking at me, “the country has done you goodalready. Behold a marvel! Au revoir, David.”

  I heard the horses being brought around, and laughter and voices. Howeasily I distinguished hers! Then I heard the hoof-beats on the softdirt of the drive. Then silence,--the silence of a summer morning whichis all myriad sweet sounds. Then Lindy appeared, starched and turbaned.

  “Marse Dave, how you feel dis mawnin’? Yo’ ‘pears mighty peart, sholy.Marse Dave, yo’ chair is sot on de gallery. Is you ready? I’ll fotch datyaller nigger, André.”

  “You needn’t fetch André,” I said; “I can walk.”

  “Lan sakes, Marse Dave, but you is bumptious.”

  I rose and walked out on the gallery with surprising steadiness. A greatcushioned chair had been placed there, and beside it a table with books,and another chair. I sat down. Lindy looked at me sharply, but I did notheed her, and presently she retired. The day, still in its early goldenglory, seemed big with prescience. Above, the saffron haze was lifted,and there was the blue sky. The breeze held its breath; the fragrance ofgrass and fruit and flowers, of the shrub that vied with all, languishedon the air. Out of these things she came.

  I knew that she was coming, but I saw her first at the gallery’s end,the roses she held red against the white linen of her gown. Then I felta great yearning and a great dread. I have seen many of her kind since,and none reflected so truly as she the life of the old régime. Herdress, her carriage, her air, all suggested it; and she might, as Nicksaid, have been walking in the gardens of the Trianon. Titles I carednothing for. Hers alone seemed real, to put her far above me. Had allwho bore them been as worthy, titles would have meant much to mankind.

  She was coming swiftly. I rose to my feet before her. I believe I shouldhave risen in death. And then she was standing beside me, looking upinto my face.

  “You must not do that,” she said, “or I will go away.”

  I sat down again. She went to the door and called, I following her withmy eyes. Lindy came with a bowl of water.

  “Put it on the table,” said the Vicomtesse.

  Lindy put the bowl on the table, gave us a glance, and departedsilently. The Vicomtesse began to arrange the flowers in the bowl, andI watched her, fascinated by her movements. She did everything quickly,deftly, but this matter took an unconscionable time. She did not so muchas glance at me. She seemed to have forgotten my presence.

  “There,” she said at last, giving them a final touch. “You are lesstalkative, if anything, than usual this morning, Mr. Ritchie. You havenot said good morning, you have not told me how you were--you have noteven thanked me for the roses. One might almost believe that you aresorry to come to Les Îles.”

  “One might believe anything who didn’t know, Madame la Vicomtesse.”

  She put her hand to the flowers again.

  “It seems a pity to pick them, even in a good cause,” she said.

  She was so near me that I could have touched her. A weakness seizedme, and speech was farther away than ever. She moved, she sat down andlooked at me, and the kind of mocking smile came into her eyes that Iknew was the forerunner of raillery.

  “There is a statue in the gardens of Versailles which seems always aboutto speak, and then to think better of it. You remind me of that statue,Mr. Ritchie. It is the statue of Wisdom.”

  What did she mean?

  “Wisdom knows the limitations of its own worth, Madame,” I replied.

  “It is the one particular in which I should have thought wisdom waslacking,” she said. “You have a tongue, if you will deign to use it. Orshall I read to you?” she added quickly, picking up a book. “I have readto the Queen, when Mad
ame Campan was tired. Her Majesty, poor dear lady,did me the honor to say she liked my English.”

  “You have done everything, Madame,” I said.

  “I have read to a Queen, to a King’s sister, but never yet--to a King,”she said, opening the book and giving me the briefest of glances. “Youare all kings in America are you not? What shall I read?”

  “I would rather have you talk to me.”

  “Very well, I will tell you how the Queen spoke English. No, I will notdo that,” she said, a swift expression of sadness passing over herface. “I will never mock her again. She was a good sovereign and a bravewoman, and I loved her.” She was silent a moment, and I thought therewas a great weariness in her voice when she spoke again. “I have everyreason to thank God when I think of the terrors I escaped, of thefriends I have found. And yet I am an unhappy woman, Mr. Ritchie.”

  “You are unhappy when you are not doing things for others, Madame,” Isuggested.

  “I am a discontented woman,” she said; “I always have been. And I amunhappy when I think of all those who were dear to me and whom I loved.Many are dead, and many are scattered and homeless.”

  “I have often thought of your sorrows, Madame,” I said.

  “Which reminds me that I should not burden you with them, my goodfriend, when you are recovering. Do you know that you have been verynear to death?”

  “I know, Madame,” I faltered. “I know that had it not been for you Ishould not be alive to-day. I know that you risked your life to save myown.”

  She did not answer at once, and when I looked at her she was gazing outover the flowers on the lawn.

  “My life did not matter,” she said. “Let us not talk of that.”

  I might have answered, but I dared not speak for fear of saying whatwas in my heart. And while I trembled with the repression of it, she waschanged. She turned her face towards me and smiled a little.

  “If you had obeyed me you would not have been so ill,” she said.

  “Then I am glad that I did not obey you.”

  “Your cousin, the irrepressible Mr. Temple, says I am a tyrant. Comenow, do you think me a tyrant?”

  “He has also said other things of you.”

  “What other things?”

  I blushed at my own boldness.

  “He said that if he were not in love with Antoinette, he would be inlove with you.”

  “A very safe compliment,” said the Vicomtesse. “Indeed, it sounds toocautious for Mr. Temple. You must have tampered with it, Mr. Ritchie,”she flashed. “Mr. Temple is a boy. He needs discipline. He will have tooeasy a time with Antoinette.”

  “He is not the sort of man you should marry,” I said, and sat amazed atit.

  She looked at me strangely.

  “No, he is not,” she answered. “He is more or less the sort of man Ihave been thrown with all my life. They toil not, neither do they spin.I know you will not misunderstand me, for I am very fond of him. Mr.Temple is honest, fearless, lovable, and of good instincts. One cannotsay as much for the rest of his type. They go through life fighting,gaming, horse-racing, riding to hounds,--I have often thought that itwas no wonder our privileges came to an end. So many of us were steepedin selfishness and vice, were a burden on the world. The early nobles,with all their crimes, were men who carved their way. Of such were thelords of the Marches. We toyed with politics, with simplicity, we wastedthe land, we played cards as our coaches passed through famine-strickenvillages. The reckoning came. Our punishment was not given into thehands of the bourgeois, who would have dealt justly, but to the scum,the canaille, the demons of the earth. Had our King, had our nobility,been men with the old fire, they would not have stood it. They were wornout with centuries of catering to themselves. Give me a man who willshape his life and live it with all his strength. I am tired of shamand pretence, of cynical wit, of mocking at the real things of life, ofpride, vain-glory, and hypocrisy. Give me a man whose existence meanssomething.”

  Was she thinking of the Englishman of whom she had spoken? Delicacyforbade my asking the question. He had been a man, according to her owntestimony. Where was he now? Her voice had a ring of earnestness in it Ihad never heard before, and this arraignment of her own life and of herold friends surprised me. Now she seemed lost in a revery, from which Iforebore to arouse her.

  “I have often tried to picture your life,” I said at last.

  “You?” she answered, turning her head quickly. “Often?”

  “Ever since I first saw the miniature,” I said. “Monsieur de St. Grétold me some things, and afterwards I read ‘Le Mariage de Figaro,’and some novels, and some memoirs of the old courts which I got inPhiladelphia last winter. I used to think of you as I rode over themountains, as I sat reading in my room of an evening. I used to pictureyou in the palaces amusing the Queen and making the Cardinals laugh. Andthen I used to wonder--what became of you--and whether--” I hesitated,overwhelmed by a sudden confusion, for she was gazing at me fixedly witha look I did not understand.

  “You used to think of that?” she said.

  “I never thought to see you,” I answered.

  Laughter came into her eyes, and I knew that I had not vexed her. But Ihad spoken stupidly, and I reddened.

  “I had a quick tongue,” she said, as though to cover my confusion.“I have it yet. In those days misfortune had not curbed it. I had notlearned to be charitable. When I was a child I used to ride with myfather to the hunts at St. Gré, and I was too ready to pick out theweaknesses of his guests. If one of the company had a trick or amannerism, I never failed to catch it. People used to ask me what Ithought of such and such a person, and that was bad for me. I saw theirfailings and pretensions, but I ignored my own. It was the same atAbbaye aux Bois, the convent where I was taught. When I was presented toher Majesty I saw why people hated her. They did not understand her. Shewas a woman with a large heart, with charity. Some did not suspect this,others forgot it because they beheld a brilliant personage with keenperceptions who would not submit to being bored. Her Majesty made manyenemies at court of persons who believed she was making fun of them.There was a dress-maker at the French court called Mademoiselle Bertin,who became ridiculously pretentious because the Queen allowed thewoman to dress her hair in private. Bertin used to put on airs with thenobility when they came to order gowns, and she was very rude to me whenI went for my court dress. There was a ball at Versailles the day I waspresented, and my father told me that her Majesty wished to speak withme. I was very much frightened. The Queen was standing with her back tothe mirror, the Duchesse de Polignac and some other ladies beside her,when my father brought me up, and her Majesty was smiling.

  “‘What did you say to Bertin, Mademoiselle?’ she asked.

  “I was more frightened than ever, but the remembrance of the woman’simpudence got the better of me.

  “‘I told her that in dressing your Majesty’s hair she had acquired allthe court accomplishments but one.’

  “‘I’ll warrant that Bertin was curious,’ said the Queen.

  “‘She was, your Majesty.’

  “‘What is the accomplishment she lacks?’ the Queen demanded; ‘I shouldlike to know it myself.’

  “‘It is discrimination, your Majesty. I told the woman there were somepeople she could be rude to with impunity. I was not one of them.’

  “‘She’ll never be rude to you again, Mademoiselle,’ said the Queen.

  “‘I am sure of it, your Majesty,’ I said.

  “The Queen laughed, and bade the Duchesse de Polignac invite me tosupper that evening. My father was delighted,--I was more frightenedthan ever. But the party was small, her Majesty was very gracious andspoke to me often, and I saw that above all things she liked to beamused. Poor lady! It was a year after that terrible affair of thenecklace, and she wished to be distracted from thinking of the calumnieswhich were being heaped upon her. She used to send for me often duringthe years that followed, and I might have had a place at court nearher person. But my father
was sensible enough to advise me not toaccept,--if I could refuse without offending her Majesty. The Queen wasnot offended; she was good enough to say that I was wise in my request.She had, indeed, abolished most of the ridiculous etiquette of thecourt. She would not eat in public, she would not be followed around thepalace by ladies in court gowns, she would not have her ladies in theroom when she was dressing. If she wished a mirror, she would not waitfor it to be passed through half a dozen hands and handed her by aPrincess of the Blood. Sometimes she used to summon me to amuse her andwalk with me by the water in the beautiful gardens of the Petit Trianon.I used to imitate the people she disliked. I disliked them, too. Ihave seen her laugh until the tears came into her eyes when I talked ofMonsieur Necker. As the dark days drew nearer I loved more and more tobe in the seclusion of the country at Montméry, at the St. Gré of mygirlhood. I can see St. Gré now,” said the Vicomtesse, “the thatchedhouses of the little village on either side of the high-road, thehonest, red-faced peasants courtesying in their doorways at our berline,the brick wall of the park, the iron gates beside the lodge, the longavenue of poplars, the deer feeding in the beechwood, the bridge overthe shining stream and the long, weather-beaten château beyond it. Parisand the muttering of the storm were far away. The mornings on the sunnyterrace looking across the valley to the blue hills, the walks in thevillage, grew very dear to me. We do not know the value of things, Mr.Ritchie, until we are about to lose them.”

  “You did not go back to court?” I asked.

  She sighed.

  “Yes, I went back. I thought it my duty. I was at Versailles thatterrible summer when the States General met, when the National Assemblygrew out of it, when the Bastille was stormed, when the King wasthrowing away his prerogatives like confetti. Never did the gardens ofthe Trianon seem more beautiful, or more sad. Sometimes the Queen wouldlaugh even then when I mimicked Bailly, Des Moulins, Mirabeau. Iwas with her Majesty in the gardens on that dark, rainy day when thefishwomen came to Versailles. The memory of that night will haunt me aslong as I live. The wind howled, the rain lashed with fury againstthe windows, the mob tore through the streets of the town, sacked thewine-shops, built great fires at the corners. Before the day dawnedagain the furies had broken into the palace and murdered what was leftof the Guard. You have heard how they carried off the King and Queen toParis--how they bore the heads of the soldiers on their pikes. I saw itfrom a window, and I shall never forget it.”

  Her voice faltered, and there were tears on her lashes. Some quality inher narration brought before me so vividly the scenes of which she spokethat I started when she had finished. There was much more I would haveknown, but I could not press her to speak longer on a subject that gaveher pain. At that moment she seemed more distant to me than ever before.She rose, went into the house, and left me thinking of the presumptionsof the hopes I had dared to entertain, left me picturing sadly theexistence of which she had spoken. Why had she told me of it? Perchanceshe had thought to do me a kindness!

  She came back to me--I had not thought she would. She sat down with herembroidery in her lap, and for some moments busied herself with it insilence. Then she said, without looking up:--

  “I do not know why I have tired you with this, why I have saddenedmyself. It is past and gone.”

  “I was not tired, Madame. It is very difficult to live in the presentwhen the past has been so brilliant,” I answered.

  “So brilliant!” She sighed. “So thoughtless,--I think that is thesharpest regret.” I watched her fingers as they stitched, wondering howthey could work so rapidly. At last she said in a low voice, “Antoinetteand Mr. Temple have told me something of your life, Mr. Ritchie.”

  I laughed.

  “It has been very humble,” I replied.

  “What I heard was--interesting to me,” she said, turning over her frame.“Will you not tell me something of it?”

  “Gladly, Madame, if that is the case,” I answered.

  “Well, then,” she said, “why don’t you?”

  “I do not know which part you would like, Madame. Shall I tell you aboutColonel Clark? I do not know when to begin--”

  She dropped her sewing in her lap and looked up at me quickly.

  “I told you that you were a strange man,” she said. “I almost losepatience with you. No, don’t tell me about Colonel Clark--at leastnot until you come to him. Begin at the beginning, at the cabin in themountains.”

  “You want the whole of it!” I exclaimed.

  She picked up her embroidery again and bent over it with a smile.

  “Yes, I want the whole of it.”

  So I began at the cabin in the mountains. I cannot say that I everforgot she was listening, but I lost myself in the narrative. Itpresented to me, for the first time, many aspects that I had not thoughtof. For instance, that I should be here now in Louisiana telling it toone who had been the companion and friend of the Queen of France. Oncein a while the Vicomtesse would look up at me swiftly, when I paused,and then go on with her work again. I told her of Temple Bow, and howI had run away; of Polly Ann and Tom, of the Wilderness Trail and how Ishot Cutcheon, of the fight at Crab Orchard, of the life in Kentucky, ofClark and his campaign. Of my doings since; how I had found Nick andhow he had come to New Orleans with me; of my life as a lawyer inLouisville, of the conventions I had been to. The morning wore on tomidday, and I told her more than I believed it possible to tell any one.When at last I had finished a fear grew upon me that I had told her toomuch. Her fingers still stitched, her head was bent and I could not seeher face,--only the knot of her hair coiled with an art that struck mesuddenly. Then she spoke, and her voice was very low.

  “I love Polly Ann,” she said; “I should like to know her.”

  “I wish that you could know her,” I answered, quickening.

  She raised her head, and looked at me with an expression that was not asmile. I could not say what it was, or what it meant.

  “I do not think you are stupid,” she said, in the same tone, “but I donot believe you know how remarkable your life has been. I can scarcelyrealize that you have seen all this, have done all this, have felt allthis. You are a lawyer, a man of affairs, and yet you could guide meover the hidden paths of half a continent. You know the mountain ranges,the passes, the rivers, the fords, the forest trails, the towns and themen who made them!” She picked up her sewing and bent over it once more.“And yet you did not think that this would interest me.”

  Perchance it was a subtle summons in her voice I heard that bade me openthe flood-gates of my heart,--I know not. I know only that no power onearth could have held me silent then.

  “Hélène!” I said, and stopped. My heart beat so wildly that I couldhear it. “I do not know why I should dare to think of you, to look upto you--Hélène, I love you, I shall love you till I die. I love you withall the strength that is in me, with all my soul. You know it, and ifyou did not I could hide it no more. As long as I live there will neverbe another woman in the world for me. I love you. You will forgive mebecause of the torture I have suffered, because of the pain I shallsuffer when I think of you in the years to come.”

  Her sewing dropped to her lap--to the floor. She looked at me, andthe light which I saw in her eyes flooded my soul with a joy beyond mybelief. I trembled with a wonder that benumbed me. I would have got tomy feet had she not come to me swiftly, that I might not rise. Shestood above me, I lifted up my arms; she bent to me with a movement thatconferred a priceless thing.

  “David,” she said, “could you not tell that I loved you, that you werehe who has been in my mind for so many years, and in my heart since Isaw you?”

  “I could not tell,” I said. “I dared not think it. I--I thought therewas another.”

  She was seated on the arm of my chair. She drew back her head with asmile trembling on her lips, with a lustre burning in her eyes like avigil--a vigil for me.

  “He reminded me of you,” she answered.

  I was lost in sheer, bewildering happiness. And s
he who created it, whoherself was that happiness, roused me from it.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I was thinking that a star has fallen,--that I may have a jewel beyondother men,” I said.

  “And a star has risen for me,” she said, “that I may have a guide beyondother women.”

  “Then it is you who have raised it, Hélène.” I was silent a moment,trying again to bring the matter within my grasp. “Do you mean that youlove me, that you will marry me, that you will come back to Kentuckywith me and will be content,--you, who have been the companion of aQueen?”

  There came an archness into her look that inflamed me the more.

  “I, who have been the companion of a Queen, love you, will marry you,will go back to Kentucky with you and be content,” she repeated. “Andyet not I, David, but another woman--a happy woman. You shall be myrefuge, my strength, my guide. You will lead me over the mountains andthrough the wilderness by the paths you know. You will bring me to PollyAnn that I may thank her for the gift of you,--above all other gifts inthe world.”

  I was silent again.

  “Hélène,” I said at last, “will you give me the miniature?”

  “On one condition,” she replied.

  “Yes,” I said, “yes. And again yes. What is it?”

  “That you will obey me--sometimes.”

  “It is a privilege I long for,” I answered.

  “You did not begin with promise,” she said.

  I released her hand, and she drew the ivory from her gown and gave itme. I kissed it.

  “I will go to Monsieur Isadore’s and get the frame,” I said.

  “When I give you permission,” said Hélène, gently.

  I have written this story for her eyes.

  CHAPTER XV. AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A MAN

  Out of the blood and ashes of France a Man had arisen who moved realkings and queens on his chess-board--which was a large part of theworld. The Man was Napoleon Buonaparte, at present, for lack of a bettername, First Consul of the French Republic. The Man’s eye, sweeping theworld for a new plaything, had rested upon one which had excited thefancy of lesser adventurers, of one John Law, for instance. It was alarge, unwieldy plaything indeed, and remote. It was nothing less thanthat vast and mysterious country which lay beyond the monster yellowRiver of the Wilderness, the country bordered on the south by the Gulfswamps, on the north by no man knew what forests,--as dark as those theRomans found in Gaul,--on the west by a line which other generationsmight be left to settle.

  This land was Louisiana.

  A future king of France, while an émigré, had been to Louisiana. Thisis merely an interesting fact worth noting. It was not interesting toNapoleon.

  Napoleon, by dint of certain screws which he tightened on his CatholicMajesty, King Charles of Spain, in the Treaty of San Ildefonso onthe 1st of October, 1800, got his plaything. Louisiana was Frenchagain,--whatever French was in those days. The treaty was a profoundsecret. But secrets leak out, even the profoundest; and this was waftedacross the English Channel to the ears of Mr. Rufus King, AmericanMinister at London, who wrote of it to one Thomas Jefferson, Presidentof the United States. Mr. Jefferson was interested, not to say alarmed.

  Mr. Robert Livingston was about to depart on his mission from the littleRepublic of America to the great Republic of France. Mr. Livingston wastold not to make himself disagreeable, but to protest. If Spain was togive up the plaything, the Youngest Child among the Nations ought tohave it. It lay at her doors, it was necessary for her growth.

  Mr. Livingston arrived in France to find that Louisiana was a merepawn on the chess-board, the Republic he represented little more. Heprotested, and the great Talleyrand shrugged his shoulders. What wasMonsieur talking about? A treaty. What treaty? A treaty with Spainceding back Louisiana to France after forty years. Who said there wassuch a treaty? Did Monsieur take snuff? Would Monsieur call again whenthe Minister was less busy?

  Monsieur did call again, taking care not to make himself disagreeable.He was offered snuff. He called again, pleasantly. He was offered snuff.He called again. The great Talleyrand laughed. He was always so happy tosee Monsieur when he (Talleyrand) was not busy. He would give Monsieura certificate of importunity. He had quite forgotten what Monsieur wastalking about on former occasions. Oh, yes, a treaty. Well, supposethere was such a treaty, what then?

  What then? Mr. Livingston, the agreeable but importunate, went home andwrote a memorial, and was presently assured that the inaccessible Manwho was called First Consul had read it with interest--great interest.Mr. Livingston did not cease to indulge in his enjoyable visits toTalleyrand--not he. But in the intervals he sat down to think.

  What did the inaccessible Man himself have in his mind?

  The Man had been considering the Anglo-Saxon race, and in particularthat portion of it which inhabited the Western Hemisphere. He perceivedthat they were a quarrelsome people, which possessed the lust for landand conquest like the rest of their blood. He saw with astonishmentsomething that had happened, something that they had done. Unperceivedby the world, in five and twenty years they had swept across a thousandmiles of mountain and forest wilderness in ever increasing thousands,had beaten the fiercest of savage tribes before them, stolidly unmindfulof their dead. They had come at length to the great yellow River, andfinding it closed had cried aloud in their anger. What was beyond it tostop them? Spain, with a handful of subjects inherited from the Franceof Louis the Fifteenth.

  Could Spain stop them? No. But he, the Man, would stop them. He wouldraise up in Louisiana as a monument to himself a daughter of France tocurb their ambition. America should not be all Anglo-Saxon.

  Already the Americans had compelled Spain to open the River. How longbefore they would overrun Louisiana itself, until a Frenchman or aSpaniard could scarce be found in the land?

  Sadly, in accordance with the treaty which Monsieur Talleyrand had knownnothing about, his Catholic Majesty instructed his Intendant at NewOrleans to make ready to deliver Louisiana to the French Commission.That was in July, 1802. This was not exactly an order to close the Riveragain--in fact, his Majesty said nothing about closing the River. Markthe reasoning of the Spanish mind. The Intendant closed the River as hisplain duty. And Kentucky and Tennessee, wayward, belligerent infants whohad outgrown their swaddling clothes, were heard from again. The Nationhad learned to listen to them. The Nation was very angry. Mr. Hamiltonand the Federalists and many others would have gone to war and seizedthe Floridas.

  Mr. Jefferson said, “Wait and see what his Catholic Majesty has tosay.” Mr. Jefferson was a man of great wisdom, albeit he had mistakenJacobinism for something else when he was younger. And he knew thatNapoleon could not play chess in the wind. The wind was rising.

  Mr. Livingston was a patriot, able, importunate, but getting on in yearsand a little hard of hearing. Importunity without an Army and a Navybehind it is not effective--especially when there is no wind. ButMr. Jefferson heard the wind rising, and he sent Mr. Monroe to Mr.Livingston’s aid. Mr. Monroe was young, witty, lively, popular withpeople he met. He, too, heard the wind rising, and so now did Mr.Livingston.

  The ships containing the advance guard of the colonists destined forthe new Louisiana lay in the roads at Dunkirk, their anchors readyto weigh,--three thousand men, three thousand horses, for the Man didthings on a large scale. The anchors were not weighed.

  His Catholic Majesty sent word from Spain to Mr. Jefferson that he wassorry his Intendant had been so foolish. The River was opened again.

  The Treaty of Amiens was a poor wind-shield. It blew down, and thechessmen began to totter. One George of England, noted for his frugaltable and his quarrelsome disposition, who had previously fought withFrance, began to call the Man names. The Man called George names, andsat down to think quickly. George could not be said to be on the best ofterms with his American relations, but the Anglo-Saxon is unsentimental,phlegmatic, setting money and trade and lands above ideals. George meantto go to war
again. Napoleon also meant to go to war again. ButGeorge meant to go to war again right away, which was inconvenient andinconsiderate, for Napoleon had not finished his game of chess. Theobvious outcome of the situation was that George with his Navy wouldget Louisiana, or else help his relations to get it. In either caseLouisiana would become Anglo-Saxon.

  This was the wind which Mr. Jefferson had heard.

  The Man, being a genius who let go gracefully when he had to, decidedbetween two bad bargains. He would sell Louisiana to the Americans asa favor; they would be very, very grateful, and they would go on hatingGeorge. Moreover, he would have all the more money with which to fightGeorge.

  The inaccessible Man suddenly became accessible. Nay, he becamegracious, smiling, full of loving-kindness, charitable. Certaindickerings followed by a bargain passed between the American Ministerand Monsieur Barbé-Marbois. Then Mr. Livingston and Mr. Monroe dinedwith the hitherto inaccessible. And the Man, after the manner ofContinental Personages, asked questions. Frederick the Great has startedthis fashion, and many have imitated it.

  Louisiana became American at last. Whether by destiny or chance, whetherby the wisdom of Jefferson or the necessity of Napoleon, who can say? Itseems to me, David Ritchie, writing many years after the closing wordsof the last chapter were penned, that it was ours inevitably. For I haveseen and known and loved the people with all their crudities and faults,whose inheritance it was by right of toil and suffering and blood.

  And I, David Ritchie, saw the flags of three nations waving over it inthe space of two days. And it came to pass in this wise.

  Rumors of these things which I have told above had filled Kentucky fromtime to time, and in November of 1803 there came across the mountainsthe news that the Senate of the United States had ratified the treatybetween our ministers and Napoleon.

  I will not mention here what my life had become, what my fortune, saveto say that both had been far beyond my expectations. In worldly goodsand honors, in the respect and esteem of my fellow-men, I had been happyindeed. But I had been blessed above other men by one whose power it wasto lift me above the mean and sordid things of this world.

  Many times in the pursuit of my affairs I journeyed over that countrywhich I had known when it belonged to the Indian and the deer and theelk and the wolf and the buffalo. Often did she ride by my side,making light of the hardships which, indeed, were no hardships to her,wondering at the settlements which had sprung up like magic inthe wilderness, which were the heralds of the greatness of theRepublic,--her country now.

  So, in the bright and boisterous March weather of the year 1804, wefound ourselves riding together along the way made memorable by thefootsteps of Clark and his backwoodsmen. For I had an errand in St.Louis with Colonel Chouteau. A subtle change had come upon Kaskaskiawith the new blood which was flowing into it: we passed Cahokia, fullof memories to the drummer boy whom she loved. There was the church, thegarrison, the stream, and the little house where my Colonel and I hadlived together. She must see them all, she must hear the story from mylips again; and the telling of it to her gave it a new fire and a newlife.

  At evening, when the March wind had torn the cotton clouds to shreds,we stood on the Mississippi’s bank, gazing at the western shore, atLouisiana. The low, forest-clad hills made a black band against the sky,and above the band hung the sun, a red ball. He was setting, and manmight look upon his face without fear. The sight of the waters of thatriver stirred me to think of many things. What had God in store for thevast land out of which the waters flowed? Had He, indeed, saved it for aPeople, a People to be drawn from all nations, from all classes? Wasthe principle of the Republic to prevail and spread and change thecomplexion of the world? Or were the lusts of greed and power toincrease until in the end they had swallowed the leaven? Who could say?What man of those who, soberly, had put his hand to the Paper whichdeclared the opportunities of generations to come, could measure theForce which he had helped to set in motion.

  We crossed the river to the village where I had been so kindly receivedmany years ago--to St. Louis. The place was little changed. The wind wasstilled, the blue wood smoke curled lazily from the wide stone chimneysof the houses nestling against the hill. The afterglow was fading intonight; lights twinkled in the windows. Followed by our servants weclimbed the bank, Hélène and I, and walked the quiet streets borderedby palings. The evening was chill. We passed a bright cabaret from whichcame the sound of many voices; in the blacksmith’s shop another groupwas gathered, and we saw faces eager in the red light. They were talkingof the Cession.

  We passed that place where Nick had stopped Suzanne in the cart, andlaughed at the remembrance. We came to Monsieur Gratiot’s, for he hadbidden us to stay with him. And with Madame he gave us a welcome to warmour hearts after our journey.

  “David,” he said, “I have seen many strange things happen in my life,but the strangest of all is that Clark’s drummer boy should have marrieda Vicomtesse of the old régime.”

  And she was ever Madame la Vicomtesse to our good friends in St. Louis,for she was a woman to whom a title came as by nature’s right.

  “And you are about to behold another strange thing, David,” MonsieurGratiot continued. “To-day you are on French territory.”

  “French territory!” I exclaimed.

  “To-day Upper Louisiana is French,” he answered. “To-morrow it will beAmerican forever. This morning Captain Stoddard of the United StatesArmy, empowered to act as a Commissioner of the French Republic, arrivedwith Captain Lewis and a guard of American troops. Today, at noon, theflag of Spain was lowered from the staff at the headquarters. To-nighta guard of honor watches with the French Tricolor, and we are French forthe last time. To-morrow we shall be Americans.”

  I saw that simple ceremony. The little company of soldiers was drawn upbefore the low stone headquarters, the villagers with heads uncoveredgathered round about. I saw the Stars and Stripes rising, the Tricolorsetting. They met midway on the staff, hung together for a space, anda salute to the two nations echoed among the hills across the waters ofthe great River that rolled impassive by.