I.
About five in the afternoon on the 23d of May, 1792, the brig _MorningStar_ of Bristol, John Maynard, master, with a topgallant breeze afterher, ran into Delaware Bay in mid-channel between Cape May and CapeHenlopen. Here was the only sunshine they had seen in three weeks. Thecaptain, liking the warmth on his broad back, glanced up approvingly atmast and rigging. "She's a good one," he said, and noting the shippowdered white with her salt record of the sea's attentions, he lighteda pipe and said aloud, "She's salted like Christmas pork." As he spoke,he cast an approving eye on a young fellow who sat at ease in the lowerrigging, laughing as the brig rolled over and a deluge of water flushedthe deck and made the skipper on the after-hatch lift his feet out ofthe way of the wash.
"Hi, there, Wicount," called the captain, "she's enjoying of herselflike a young duck in a pond."
De Courval called out a gay reply, lost, as the ship rolled, in therattle of storm-loosened stays and the clatter of flapping sails.
Toward sunset the wind lessened, the sea-born billows fell away, and DeCourval dropped lightly on the deck, and, passing the master, went downto the cabin.
Near to dusk of this pleasant evening of May the captain anchored offLewes, ordered a boat sent ashore, and a nip of rum all round for thecrew. Then, with a glass for himself, he lighted his pipe and sat downon the cover of the companionway and drew the long breath of the victorin a six-weeks' fight with the Atlantic in its most vicious mood. For anhour he sat still, a well-contented man; then, aware of a curly head andbronzed young face rising out of the companionway beside him, he said,"You might find that coil of rope comfortable."
The young man, smiling as he sat down, accepted the offer of thecaptain's tobacco and said in easy English, with scarce a trace ofaccent to betray his French origin: "My mother thanks you, sir, for yourconstant care of her. I have no need to repeat my own thanks. We unhappy_emigres_ who have worn out the hospitality of England, and no wonder,find kindness such as yours as pleasant as it is rare. My mother fullyrealizes what you have given us amid all your cares for the ship--and--"
"Oh, that's all right, Wicount," broke in the captain. "My time forneeding help and a cheery word may come any day on land or sea. Some onewill pay what seems to you a debt."
"Ah, well, here or hereafter," said the young man, gravely, and puttingout a hand, he wrung the broad, hairy paw of the sailor. "My mother willcome on deck to-morrow and speak for herself. Now she must rest. Is thatour boat?"
"Yes; I sent it ashore a while ago. There will be milk and eggs andfresh vegetables for madam."
"Thank you," said De Courval. A slight, full feeling in the throat, alittle difficulty in controlling his features, betrayed the long strainof much recent peril and a sense of practical kindness the more gratefulfor memories of bitter days in England and of far-away tragic days inFrance. With some effort to suppress emotion, he touched the captain'sknee, saying, "Ah, my mother will enjoy the fresh food." And then, "Whatland is that?"
"Lewes, sir, and the sand-dunes. With the flood and a fair wind, weshall be off Chester by evening to-morrow. No night sailing for me onthis bay, with never a light beyond Henlopen, and that's been theresince '65. I know it all in daytime like I know my hand. Most usually webide for the flood. I shall be right sorry to part with you. I've hadtime and again--Frenchies; I never took to them greatly,--but you'reabout half English. Why, you talk 'most as well as me. Where did youlearn to be so handy with it?" De Courval smiled at this doubtfulcompliment.
"When my father was attached to our embassy in London,--that was when Iwas a lad,--I went to an English school, and then, too, we were somemonths in England, my mother and I, so I speak it fairly well. My mothernever would learn it."
"Fairly well! Guess you do."
Then the talk fell away, and at last the younger man rose and said, "Ishall go to bed early, for I want to be up at dawn to see this greatriver."
At morning, with a fair wind and the flood, the _Morning Star_ moved upthe stream, past the spire and houses of Newcastle. De Courval watchedwith a glass the green country, good for fruit, and the hedges in placeof fences. He saw the low hills of Delaware, the flat sands of Jerseyfar to right, and toward sunset of a cloudless May day heard the clatterof the anchor chain as they came to off Chester Creek. The mother wasbetter, and would be glad to take her supper on deck, as the captaindesired. During the day young De Courval asked numberless questions ofmates and men, happy in his mother's revival, and busy with the hopesand anxieties of a stranger about to accept life in a land altogethernew to him, but troubled with unanswerable doubts as to how his motherwould bear an existence under conditions of which as yet neither he norshe had any useful knowledge.
When at sunset he brought his mother on deck, she looked about her withpleasure. The ship rode motionless on a faintly rippled plain of orangelight. They were alone on this great highway to the sea. To the leftnear by were the clustered houses on creek and shore where Dutch, Swede,and English had ruled in turn. There were lads in boats fishing, withcries of mock fear and laughter over the catch of crabs. It seemed toher a deliciously abrupt change from the dark cabin and the ship odorsto a pretty, smiling coast, with the smoke pennons of hospitablewelcome inviting to enter and share what God had so freely given.
A white-cloth-covered table was set out on deck with tea-things,strawberries, and red roses the mate had gathered. As she turned, tothank the captain who had come aft to meet her, he saw his passenger forthe first time. At Bristol she had come aboard at evening and through avoyage of storms she had remained in her cabin, too ill to do more thanthink of a hapless past and of a future dark with she knew not what newdisasters.
What he saw was a tall, slight woman whose snow-white hair made morenoticeable the nearly complete black of her widow's dress, relieved onlyby a white collar, full white wrist ruffles, and a simple silverchatelaine from which hung a bunch of keys and a small enameled watch.At present she was sallow and pale, but, except for somewhat too notableregularity of rather pronounced features, the most observant student ofexpression could have seen no more in her face at the moment than anindefinable stamp of good breeding and perhaps, on larger opportunity,an unusual incapacity to exhibit emotional states, whether of grief,joy, or the lighter humors of every-day social relation.
The captain listened with a pleasure he could not have explained as hervoice expressed in beautiful French the happiness of which her facereported no signal. The son gaily translated or laughed as now and thenshe tried at a phrase or two of the little English picked up during herstay in England.
When they had finished their supper, young De Courval asked if she weretired and would wish to go below. To his surprise she said: "No, Rene.We are to-morrow to be in a new country, and it is well that as far asmay be we settle our accounts with the past."
"Well, mother, what is it? What do you wish?"
"Let us sit down together. Yes, here. I have something to ask. Since youcame back to Normandy in the autumn of 1791 with the news of yourfather's murder, I have asked for no particulars."
"No, and I was glad that you did not."
"Later, my son, I was no more willing to hear, and even after our ruinand flight to England last January, my grief left me no desire to bedoubly pained. But now--now, I have felt that even at much cost I shouldhear it all, and then forever, with God's help, put it away with thepast, as you must try to do. His death was the more sad to me becauseall his sympathies were with the party bent on ruining our country. Ah,Rene, could he have guessed that he who had such hopeful belief in whatthose changes would effect should die by the hand of a Jacobin mob! Iwish now to hear the whole story."
"All of it, mother?" He was deeply troubled.
"Yes, all--all without reserve."
She sat back in her chair, gazing up the darkening river, her handslying supine on her knees. "Go on, my son, and do not make me questionyou."
"Yes, mother." There were things he had been glad to forget and some hehad set himself never to forget.
He knew, however, that now, on thewhole, it was better to be frank. He sat still, thinking how best hecould answer her. Understanding the reluctance his silence expressed,she said, "You will, Rene?"
"Yes, dear mother"; and so on the deck at fall of night, in an alienland, the young man told his story of one of the first of the minortragedies which, as a Jacobin said, were useless except to give a goodappetite for blood.
It was hard to begin. He had in perfection the memory of things seen,the visualizing capacity. He waited, thinking how to spare her thatwhich at her summons was before him in all the distinctness of an hourof unequaled anguish.
She felt for him and knew the pain she was giving, comprehending himwith a fullness rare to the mother mind. "This is not a time to spareme," she said, "nor yourself. Go on." She spoke sternly, not turning herhead, but staring up the long stretch of solitary water.
"It shall be as you wish," he returned slowly. "In September of lastyear you were in Paris with our cousin, La Rochefoucauld, about ourdesperate money straits, when the assembly decreed the seizure ofAvignon from the Pope's vice-legate. This news seemed to make possiblethe recovery of rents due us in that city. My father thought it well forme to go with him--"
"Yes, yes, I know; but go on."
"We found the town in confusion. The Swiss guard of the vice-legate hadgone. A leader of the Jacobin party, Lescuyer, had been murdered thatmorning before the altar of the Church of the Cordeliers. That was onthe day we rode in. Of a sudden we were caught in a mob of peasants nearthe gate. A Jacobin, Jourdan, led them, and had collected under guarddozens of scared bourgeois and some women. Before we could draw or evenunderstand, we were tumbled off our horses and hustled along. On the waythe mob yelled, 'A bas les aristocrates!'
"As they went, others were seized--in fact, every decent-looking man. Myfather held me by the wrist, saying: 'Keep cool, Rene. We are notCatholics. It is the old trouble.' The crush at the Pope's palace wasawful. We were torn apart. I was knocked down. Men went over me, and Iwas rolled off the great outer stair and fell, happily, neglected. Anold woman cried to me to run. I got up and went in after the Jourdan mobwith the people who were crowding in to see what would happen. Youremember the great stairway. I was in among the first and was pushedforward close to the broad dais. Candles were brought. Jourdan--'_coupetete_' they called him--sat in the Pope's chair. The rest sat or stoodon the steps. A young man brought in a table and sat by it. The rest ofthe great hall was in darkness, full of a ferocious crowd, men andwomen.
"Then Jourdan cried out: 'Silence! This is a court of the people. Fetchin the aristocrats!' Some threescore of scared men and a dozen womenwere huddled together at one side, the women crying. Jourdan waited.One by one they were seized and set before him. There were wild cries of'Kill! Kill!' Jourdan nodded, and two men seized them one after another,and at the door struck. The people in the hall were silent one moment asif appalled, and the next were frenzied and screaming horrible things.Near the end my father was set before Jourdan. He said, 'Who are you?'
"My father said, 'I am Citizen Courval, a stranger. I am of thereligion, and here on business.' As he spoke, he looked around him andsaw me. He made no sign."
"Ah," said Madame de Courval, "he did not say Vicomte."
"No. He was fighting for his life, for you, for me."
"Go on."
"His was the only case over which they hesitated even for a moment. Onewhom they called Tournal said: 'He is not of Avignon. Let him go.' Themob in the hall was for a moment quiet. Then the young man at the table,who seemed to be a mock secretary and wrote the names down, got up andcried out: 'He is lying. Who knows him?' He was, alas! too well known. Aman far back of me called out, 'He is the Vicomte de Courval.' My fathersaid: 'It is true. I am the Vicomte de Courval. What then?'
"The secretary shrieked: 'I said he lied. Death! Death to the_ci-devant!_'
"Jourdan said: 'Citizen Carteaux is right. Take him. We lose time.'
"On this my father turned again and saw me as I cried out, 'Oh, my God!My father!' In the uproar no one heard me. At the door on the left, itwas, as they struck, he called out--oh, very loud: 'Yvonne! Yvonne! Godkeep thee!' Oh, mother, I saw it--I saw it." For a moment he was unableto go on.
"I got out of the place somehow. When safe amid the thousands in thesquare I stood still and got grip of myself. A woman beside me said,'They threw them down into the Tour de la Glaciere.'"
"Ah!" exclaimed the Vicomtesse.
"It was dusk outside when all was over. I waited long, but about ninethey came out. The people scattered. I went after the man Carteaux. Hewas all night in cafes, never alone--never once alone. I saw him again,at morning, near by on horseback; then I lost him. Ah, my God! mother,why would you make me tell it?"
"Because, Rene, it is often with you, and because it is not well for ayoung man to keep before him unendingly a sorrow of the past. I wantedyou to feel that now I share with you what I can see so often haspossession of you. Do not pity me because I know all. Now you shall seehow bravely I will carry it." She took his hand. "It will be hard, butwise to put it aside. Pray God, my son, this night to help you not toforget, but not hurtfully to remember."
He said nothing, but looked up at the darkened heavens under which thenight-hawks were screaming in their circling flight.
"Is there more, my son?"
"As they struck, he called out 'Yvonne!'"]
"Yes, but it is so hopeless. Let us leave it, mother."
"No. I said we must clear our souls. Leave nothing untold. What is it?"
"The man Carteaux! If it had not been for you, I should never have leftFrance until I found that man."
"I thought as much. Had you told me, I should have stayed, or begged mybread in England while you were gone."
"I could not leave you then, and now--now the sea lies between me andhim, and the craving that has been with me when I went to sleep and atwaking I must put away. I will try." As he spoke, he took her hand.
A rigid Huguenot, she had it on her lips to speak of the forgiving ofenemies. Generations of belief in the creed of the sword, her love, hersense of the insult of this death, of a sudden mocked her purpose. Shewas stirred as he was by a passion for vengeance. She flung his handaside, rose, and walked swiftly about, getting back her self-command byphysical action.
He had risen, but did not follow her. In a few minutes she came backthrough the darkness, and setting a hand on each of his shoulders saidquietly: "I am sorry--the man is dead to you--I am sorry you ever knewhis name."
"But I do know it. It is with me, and must ever be until I die. I am totry to forget--forget! That I cannot. The sea makes him as one dead tome; but if ever I return to France--"
"Hush! It must be as I have said. If he were within reach do you think Iwould talk as I do?"
The young man leaned over and kissed her. This was his last secret. "Iam not fool enough to cry for what fate has swept beyond my reach. Letus drop it. I did not want to talk of it. We will let the dead past buryits hatred and think only of that one dear memory, mother. And now willyou not go to bed, so as to be strong for to-morrow?"
"Not yet," she said. "Go and smoke your pipe with that good captain. Iwant to be alone." He kissed her forehead and went away.
The river was still; the stars came out one by one, and a great planetshone distinct on the mirroring plain. Upon the shore near by the youngfrogs croaked shrilly. Fireflies flashed over her, but heedless of thisnew world she sat thinking of the past, of their wrecked fortunes, ofthe ruin which made the great duke, her cousin, counsel emigration, astep he himself did not take until the Terror came. She recalled herrefusal to let him help them in their flight, and how at last, with afew thousand livres, they had been counseled to follow the many who hadgone to America.
Then at last she rose, one bitter feeling expressing itself over andover in her mind in words which were like an echo of ancestral belief,in the obligation old noblesse imposed, no matter what the cost. Anovermastering thought broke from her in
to open speech as she criedaloud: "Ah, my God! why did he not say he was the Vicomte de Courval!Oh, why--"
"Did you call, mother?" said the son.
"No. I am going to the cabin, Rene. Good night, my son!"
He laid down the pipe he had learned to use in England and which henever smoked in her presence; caught up her cashmere shawl, a relic ofbetter days, and carefully helped her down the companionway.
Then he returned to his pipe and the captain, and to talk of the newhome and of the ship's owner, Mr. Hugh Wynne, and of those strange, goodpeople who called themselves Friends, and who _tutoyed_ every one alike.He was eager to hear about the bitter strife of parties, of thestatesmen in power, of the chances of work, gathering with intelligencesuch information as might be of service, until at last it struck eightbells and the captain declared that he must go to bed.
The young man thanked him and added, "I shall like it, oh, far betterthan England."
"I hope so, Wicount; but of this I am sure, men will like you and, byGeorge, women, too!"
De Courval laughed merrily. "You flatter me, Captain."
"No. Being at sea six weeks with a man is as good as being married, forthe knowing of him--the good and the bad of him."
"And my mother, will she like it?"
"Ah, now, that I cannot tell. Good night."
The Red City: A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington Page 3