XIII
A cheering crowd escorted Genet to Oeller's Hotel. A few days laterWashington received the minister, De Ternant's successor, with a coldlyformal speech, and the envoy came away in wrath; for had he not seen inthe parlor of the President, medallions of decapitated Citizen Capet andhis family? His insolent demands for money owing to France, but not yetdue, and for a new and more liberal compact, are matters of history.There were wild claims for the right of French consuls to condemn prizeswithout intermediation of our courts, and yet more and more absurdrequests and specious arguments, to which Jefferson replied withdecision, but with more tenderness than pleased the Federalists.
When the privateer _Citizen Genet_ anchored off Market Street wharf, twoenlisted Americans on board were arrested, and the cabinet, being of oneopinion, the President ordered the privateer to leave. Genet appealed tothe Secretary of State for delay and against this inconceivable wrong toa sister republic, and as the cabinet remained firm, and the democratsraged, the town was for days on the verge of riot and bloodshed.
On the 27th of May, while on an errand for Mr. Wynne, about four in theafternoon, De Courval saw the crowd going into Oeller's Hotel for agreat dinner in honor of Genet. On the steps stood a man waving thetricolor. It was Carteaux. "_Mon Dieu!_" murmured De Courval, "shall Iget used to it?" His errand took him past the house of theVice-President, John Adams. Servants and friends were carrying inmuskets. A noisy mob hooted and drifted away to Oeller's. There had beenthreats of destroying the house, and Adams meant to be ready. The youngman went on deep in thought. In front of the Senate House he bowed toEdmund Randolph, an occasional visitor at the Quaker salon and nowAttorney-General at the age of thirty-eight.
Returning, De Courval met Stephen Girard, who stopped him. Short,sallow, a little bald, and still slight of build, he was watching with alook of amusement the noisy mob in front of the hotel. "_Ah, bonjour,monsieur._ And you would not go as my supercargo. It is open for theasking." He spoke French of course. "These yonder are children, but theyare not as serious as they think themselves. Come this afternoon to myfarm on the neck and eat of my strawberries. There will be the Frenchconsul-general and the secretary Carteaux. No politics, mind you. Myheart is with the revolutionary government at home, but my politics inAmerica are here," and he struck his breeches' pocket. "I am not forwar, _monsieur_."
De Courval excused himself, and went away murmuring: "Again, again! Itmust end. I must make it end. Ah, mother, mother!"
Schmidt, troubled by the young man's gloom and loss of spirits, did allhe could, but characteristically made no effort to reopen a subject onwhich he had as yet reached no other decision than the counsel of delay.
The mother questioned her son. It was nothing. He was not quite well,and the heat of July was great. The German was yet more disturbed whenone evening after the fencing lesson Du Vallon said: "I had here to-daytwo of the staff of that _sacre_ Citizen Genet. There is already talk ofhis recall for insolence to the President. _Le bon Dieu_ be praised!"
"Why, Marquis, do you permit these cattle to come here?"
"One must live, Monsieur Schmidt."
"Perhaps."
"One of them is a pleasure to fence with--a Monsieur Carteaux, a meagerJacobin. I could not touch him."
"I should like to, with the buttons off the foils," said Schmidt.
"I also. That does make a difference."
Schmidt went away thoughtful. The next afternoon, feeling the moistheat, the vicomtesse went to Darthea at Merion. The two men fenced asusual, while mother and daughter sat in shadow on the porch, and afaint, cool air came up from the river.
"_Ach, du lieber Himmel!_ but it is hot!" cried the German, casting downhis foil. "You are doing better. Let us go and cool off in the river.Come."
They went down the garden, picking the ripe plums as they went. "Whatis wrong with you, Rene? You promised me."
"It is the heat. Miss Margaret looks ill. No one could endure it, and inthe counting-house it is dreadful, and with no work to distract me."
"The Pearl goes again to Gray Court to-morrow," said the German.
"Indeed."
"Yes. I shall miss her, but it is as well. And, you, Rene--it is not theheat. Why do you put me off with such excuses?"
"Well, no. It is of course that villain," and he told of Girard and theinvitation.
"Rene, a day will come when you will meet that man, and then the thingwill somehow end. You cannot go on suffering as you are doing."
"I know; but a devil of indecision pursues me."
"An angel, perhaps."
"Oh, yes. Pity me. My mother stands like a wall I may not pass betweenme and him. It is horrible to think that she--she is protecting myfather's murderer. If I told her, by Heaven! she would bid me go andkill him. You do not know her. She would do it; but, then, who knowswhat might chance? If I die, she is alone, friendless. I fear to riskit. _Mon Dieu_, sir, I am afraid!"
"And yet some day you will have to put an end to all this doubt. Comfortyourself with this: Fate, which plays with us will take you in hand. Letit go just now."
"I will try to. I will. If I were as these good Quakers--ah, me, Ishould sit down,"--and he smiled,--"and thee and thou Providence, andbe quiet in the armor of meek unresistance."
"They do kill flies," said the German.
"Ah, I wish then they would attend to the mosquitos," cried De Courval,laughing.
"As to non-resistance, friend, it hath its limitations. Did I tell theeof Daniel Offley? My Pearl told me," and he related the defeat of theblacksmith.
"Insolent," said Rene.
"No; the man believed that he had a mission. I should like to have hisconscience for a week or two, to see how it feels; and, as fornon-resistance, canst thou keep a secret?"
"I? Why not? What is it?" He was curious. As they talked, standingbeside the river, Rene watched the flat stones he threw ricochet on thewater.
"Once on a time, as they say in Madame Swanwick's book of sixty-fivetales, by Nancy Skyrin, a man, one Schmidt, came into the dining-roomand sat down quietly to read at an open window for the sake of thebreeze from the river. It might have been on Second Day. It chanced tobe the same time a Quaker man who hath of late come often sat without onthe step of the porch, a proper lad, and young, very neat in gray. Nearby sat a maid. Up from the river came the little god who is of allreligions and did tempt the young man. The man within lost interest inhis book."
Then Rene gave up the game of skip-stone, and, turning, said, "_MonDieu_, you did not listen?"
"Did he not? He had listened to the talk in the book, and wherefore notto them? It amused him more. For a little the maid did not seem greatlydispleased."
"She did not seem displeased?"
"No. And then--and then that Friend who was perverted into a lover would_brusquer_ matters, as you say, and did make a venture, being tempted bythe little devil called Cupid. The man who listened did not see it, butit does seem probable she was kissed, because thereupon was heard aresounding smack, and feeling that here had been a flagrant departurefrom non-resistance, the man within, having been satisfactorilyindiscreet, fell to reading again and the Quaker went away doublywounded. Dost thou like my story, Friend de Courval?"
"No, I do not." He was flushing, angry.
"I told you I had no conscience."
"Upon my word, I believe you. Why did you not kick him?"
"I leave you the privilege."
"Come. I hate your story,"--and laughing, despite his wrath,--"yourconscience needs a bath."
"Perhaps." And they went down to the boat, the German still laughing.
"What amuses you?"
"Nothing. Nothing amuses one as much as nothing. I should have been adiplomatist at the court of Love." And to himself: "Is it well for thesechildren? Here is another tangle, and if--if anything should go amisshere are three sad hearts. D----the Jacobin cur! I ought to kill him.That would settle things."
For many days De Courval saw nothing of his enemy. Schmidt, who
ownedmany houses and mortgages and good irredeemable ground rents, was busy.
Despite the fear of foreign war and the rage of parties, the city wasprosperous and the increase of chariots, coaches, and chaises so greatas to cause remark. House rents rose, the rich of the gay set drank,danced, gambled, and ran horses on the road we still call Race Street.Wages were high. All the wide land felt confidence, and speculation wenton, for the poor in lotteries, for the rich in impossible canals neverto see water.
On August 6 of this fatal year '93, Uncle Josiah came to fetch the Pearlaway for a visit, and, glad as usual to be the bearer of bad news, toldSchmidt that a malignant fever had killed a child of Dr. Hodge and threemore. It had come from the _Sans Culottes_, privateer, or because ofdamaged coffee fetched from he knew not where.
The day after, Dr. Redman, President of the College of Physicians, wasof opinion that this was the old disease of 1762--the yellow plague.Schmidt listened in alarm. Before the end of August three hundred weredead, almost every new case being fatal. On August 20, Schmidt was gonefor a day. On his return at evening he said: "I have rented a house onthe hill above the Falls of Schuylkill. We move out to-morrow. I knowthis plague. _El vomito_ they call it in the West Indies."
Mrs. Swanwick protested.
"No," he said; "I must have my way. You have cared for me in sicknessand health these five years. Now it is my turn. This disease will passalong the water-front. You are not safe an hour." She gave way to hiswishes as usual, and next day they were pleasantly housed in thecountry.
Business ceased as if by agreement, and the richer families, if notalready in the country, began to flee. The doom of a vast desertion andof multiplying deaths fell on the gay and prosperous city. By September10 every country farm was crowded with fugitives, and tents receivedthousands along the Schuylkill and beyond it. Sooner or later sometwenty-three thousand escaped, and whole families camped in the open airand in all weather. More would have gone from the city, but the shopswere shut, money ceased to circulate, and even the middle class lackedmeans to flee. Moreover, there was no refuge open, since all the townsnear by refused to receive even those who could afford to leave. Hencemany stayed who would gladly have gone.
Madame de Courval was at Merion, and Margaret had now rejoined hermother, brought over by her uncle. He had ventured into the city andseen Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, on business. He would talk nobusiness. "Terrible time," said Josiah--"terrible! Not a man will dobusiness." Did he feel for these dying and the dead? Schmidt doubted it,and questioned him quietly. The doctors were not agreed, and Rush bledevery one. He, Josiah, was not going back. Half a dozen notes he heldhad been protested; a terrible calamity, but fine for debtors; a neatexcuse.
Mr. Wynne had closed his counting-house, and was absent on the Ohio,and De Courval was left to brood; for now the French legation had goneto the country, the cabinet fled to Germantown, and the President longbefore to Mount Vernon for his summer rest.
The day after Josiah's visit, Schmidt left a letter on Mrs. Swanwick'stable, and rode away to town without other farewell.
"Look at that, my friend," said the widow to Rene, and burst into tears.He read and re-read the letter:
DEAR MADAM: The city has no nurses, and help is needed, and money. I have a note from Girard. He has what Wetherill once described as the courage of the penny, not the cowardice of the dollar. I go to help him, for how long I know not, and to do what I can. My love to my friend Rene. I shall open your house. I have taken the key. I shall write when I can. I leave in my desk money. Use it. I owe what no money can ever repay.
I am, as always, your obedient, humble servant,
_J. S._
There was consternation in the home and at Merion, where he was afavorite, and at the Hill, which Gainor had filled with guests; but dayafter day went by without news. No one would carry letters. Few wouldeven open those from the city. The flying men and women told frightfulstories. And now it was September. Two weeks had gone by without a wordfrom Schmidt. The "National Gazette" was at an end, and the slandererFreneau gone. Only one newspaper still appeared, and the flight went on:all fled who could.
At length De Courval could bear it no longer. He had no horse, and setoff afoot to see his mother at Merion, saying nothing of his intentionto Mrs. Swanwick. He learned that Wynne was still on the Ohio; ignorantof the extent of the calamity at home.
"Mother," he said, "again I must go into danger. Mr. Schmidt has gone tothe city to care for the sick. For two weeks we have been without newsof him. I can bear it no longer. I must go and see what has become ofhim."
"Well, and why, my son, should you risk your life for a man of whom youknow nothing? When before you said it was a call of duty I bade you go.Now I will not."
"Mother, for a time we lived on that man's generous bounty."
"What!" she cried.
"Yes. It was made possible for me because I had the good fortune to savehim from drowning. I did not tell you."
"No, of course not."
He told briefly the story of his rescue of the German.
"If he is well, I must know it. He is more than merely my friend. If heis ill, I must care for him. If he is dead--oh, dear mother, I must go!"
"I forbid it absolutely. If you go, it is against my will."
He saw that she meant it. It was vain to protest. He rose.
"I have no time to lose, mother. Pray for me."
"That I do always, but I shall not forgive you; no--yes, kiss me. I didnot mean that; but think of my life, of yours, what it owes me. You willnot go, my son."
"Yes, I am going. I should be base, a coward, ungrateful, if I did notgo. Good-by, mother. Let them know at Mrs. Swanwick's."
He was gone. She sat still a little while, and then rising, she lookedout and saw him go down the garden path, a knapsack on his back.
"His father would never have left me. Ah, but he is my son--all of him.He was right to go, and I was weak, but, my God, life is very hard!" Fora moment she looked after his retreating figure, and then, fearless,quiet, and self-contained, took up again the never-finished embroidery.
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