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

by S. Weir Mitchell

  XV

  The weeks before Mrs. Swanwick's household returned to the city were forDe Courval of the happiest. He was gathering again his former strengthin the matchless weather of our late autumnal days. To take advantage ofthe re-awakened commerce and to return to work was, as Wynne urged,unwise for a month or more. The American politics of that stormy timewere to the young noble of small moment, and the Terror, proclaimed inFrance in September on Barras's motion, followed by the queen's death,made all hope of change in his own land for the present out of thequestion.

  With the passing of the plague, Genet and his staff had come back; butfor Rene to think of what he eagerly desired was only to be reminded ofhis own physical feebleness.

  Meanwhile Genet's insolent demands went on, and the insulted cabinet wassoon about to ask for his recall, when, as Schmidt hoped, Carteaux wouldalso leave the country. The enthusiasm for the French republic was atfirst in no wise lessened by Genet's conduct, although his threat toappeal to the country against Washington called out at last a storm ofindignation which no one of the minister's violations of law and of thecourtesies of life had yet occasioned. At first it was held to be aninvention of "black-hearted Anglican aristocrats," but when it came outin print, Genet was at once alarmed at the mischief he had made. He hadseriously injured his Republican allies,--in fact, nearly ruined theparty, said Madison,--for at no time in our history was Washington morevenerated. The Democratic leaders begged men not to blame the newlyfounded republic, "so gloriously cemented with the blood ofaristocrats," for the language of its insane envoy. The Federalistswould have been entirely pleased, save that neither England nor Francewas dealing wisely with our commerce, now ruined by the exactions ofprivateers and ships of war. Both parties wailed over this intolerableunion of insult and injury; but always the President stood for peace,and, contemplating a treaty with England, was well aware how hopelesswould be a contest on sea or land with the countries which, recklesslyindifferent to international law, were ever tempting us to activemeasures of resentment. For De Courval the situation had, as it seemed,no personal interest. There has been some need, however, to remind myreaders of events which were not without influence upon the fortunes ofthose with whom this story is concerned.

  Schmidt was earnestly desirous that they should still remain in thecountry, and this for many reasons. De Courval and he would be thebetter for the cool autumn weather, and both were quickly gatheringstrength. Madame de Courval had rejoined them. The city was in mourning.Whole families had been swept away. There were houses which no oneowned, unclaimed estates, and men missing of whose deaths there was norecord, while every day or two the little family of refugees heard ofthose dead among the middle class or of poor acquaintances of whosefates they had hitherto learned nothing. Neither Schmidt nor Rene wouldtalk of the horrors they had seen, and the subject was by tacitagreement altogether avoided.

  Meanwhile they rode, walked, and fished in the Schuylkill. Schmidt wentnow and then to town on business, and soon, the fear of the plague quiteat an end, party strife was resumed, and the game of politics begananew, while the city forgot the heroic few who had served it so well,and whom to-day history also has forgotten and no stone commemorates.

  One afternoon Schmidt said to De Courval: "Come, let us have a longerwalk!"

  Margaret, eager to join them, would not ask it, and saw them go down thegarden path toward the river. "Bring me some goldenrod, please," shecalled.

  "Yes, with pleasure," cried De Courval at the gate, as he turned to lookback, "if there be any left."

  "Then asters," she called.

  "A fair picture," said Schmidt, "the mother and daughter, the bud andthe rose. You know the bluets folks hereabouts call the Quakerladies,--oh, I spoke of this before,--pretty, but it sufficeth not. Somesweet vanity did contrive those Quaker garments."

  It was in fact a fair picture. The girl stood, a gray figure in softEastern stuffs brought home by our ships. One arm was about the mother'swaist, and with the other she caught back the hair a playful breeze blewforward to caress the changeful roses of her cheek.

  "I must get me a net, mother, such as the President wore one First Dayat Christ Church."

  "Thou must have been piously attending to thy prayers," returned Mrs.Swanwick, smiling.

  "Oh, but how could I help seeing?"

  "It is to keep the powder off his velvet coat, my dear. When thou artpowdered again, we must have a net."

  "Oh, mother!" It was still a sore subject.

  "I should like to have seen thee, child."

  "Oh, the naughty mother! I shall tell of thee. Ah, here is a pin insight. Let me hide it, mother."

  The woman seen from the gate near-by was some forty-five years old, herhair a trifle gray under the high cap, the face just now merry, the gownof fine, gray linen cut to have shown the neck but for the soft, silkenshawl crossed on the bosom and secured behind by a tie at the waist. Apin held it in place where it crossed, and other pins on the shoulders.The gown had elbow sleeves, and she wore long, openwork thread glovemitts; for she was expecting Mistress Wynne and Josiah and was pleasedin her own way to be at her best.

  Schmidt, lingering, said: "It is the pins. They must needs be hid in thefolds not to be seen. Ah, vanity has many disguises. It is only to beneat, thou seest, Rene, and not seem to be solicitous concerningappearances." Few things escaped the German.

  They walked away, and as they went saw Mistress Gainor Wynne go by inher landau with Langstroth. "That is queer to be seen--the damsel in herseventies and uncle bulldog Josiah. He had a permanent ground rent onher hill estate as lasting as time, a matter of some ten pounds. Theyhave enjoyed to fight over it for years. But just now there is peace.Oh, she told me I was to hold my tongue. She drove to Gray Court, andwhat she did to the man I know not; but the rent is redeemed, and theyare bent on mischief, the pair of them. As I was not to speak of it, Idid not; but if you tell never shall I be forgiven." He threw his longbulk on the grass and laughed great laughter.

  "But what is it?" said Rene.

  "_Guter Himmel_, man! the innocent pair are gone to persuade the Pearland the sweet mother shell--she that made it--to take that lotteryprize. I would I could see them."

  "But she will never, never do it," said Rene.

  "No; for she has already done it."

  "What, truly? _Vraiment!_"

  "Yes. Is there not a god of laughter to whom I may pray? I have used upmy stock of it. When Cicero came in one day, he fetched a letter toStephen Girard from my Pearl. She had won her mother to consent, andGirard arranged it all, and, lo! the great prize of money is gone longago to help the poor and the sick. Now the ministers of PrincetonCollege may pray in peace. Laugh, young man!"

  But he did not. "And she thought to do that?"

  "Yes; but as yet none know. They will soon, I fear."

  "But she took it, after all. What will Friends say?"

  "She was read out of meeting long ago, disowned, and I do advise them tobe careful how they talk to Madame of the girl. There is a not mildmaternal tigress caged somewhere inside of the gentlewoman. 'Ware claws,if you are wise, Friend Waln!" De Courval laughed, and they went ontheir way again, for a long time silent.

  At Flat Rock, above the swiftly flowing Schuylkill, they sat down, andSchmidt, saying, "At last the pipe tastes good," began to talk in thestrain of joyous excitement which for him the beautiful in nature alwaysevoked, when for a time his language became singular. "Ah, Rene, it isworth while to cross the ocean to see King Autumn die thus gloriously.How peaceful is the time! They call this pause when regret doth make thegreat Reaper linger pitiful--they call it the Indian summer."

  "And we, the summer of St. Martin."

  "And we, in my homeland, have no name for it, or, rather, _Spaetsommer_;but it is not as here. See how the loitering leaves, red and gold, rockin mid-air. A serene expectancy is in the lingering hours. It is asstill as a dream of prayer that awaiteth answer. Listen, Rene, how thebreeze is stirring the spruces, and hark, it is--ah,
yes--the Angelus ofevening."

  His contemplative ways were familiar, and just now suited the youngman's mood. "A pretty carpet," he said, "and what a gay fleet of colorson the water!"

  "Yes, yes. There is no sorrow for me in the autumn here, but after comesthe winter." His mood of a sudden changed. "Let us talk of anotherworld, Rene--the world of men. I want to ask of you a question; nay,many questions." His tone changed as he spoke. "I may embarrass you."

  De Courval knew by this time that on one subject this might very well bethe case. He said, however, "I do not know of anything, sir, which youmay not freely ask me."

  He was more at ease when Schmidt said, "We are in the strange positionof being two men one of whom twice owes his life to the other."

  "Ah, but you forget to consider what unending kindness I too owe--I, astranger in a strange land; nor what your example, your society, havebeen to me."

  "Thank you, Rene; I could gather more of good from you than you fromme."

  "Oh, sir!"

  "Yes, yes; but all that I have said is but to lead up to the wideobligation to be frank with me."

  "I shall be."

  "When I was ill I babbled. I was sometimes half-conscious, and was asone man helplessly watching another on the rack telling about him thingshe had no mind to hear spoken."

  "You wandered much, sir."

  "Then did I speak of a woman?"

  "Yes; and of courts and battles."

  "Did I speak of--did I use my own name, my title? Of course you knowthat I am not Herr Schmidt."

  "Yes; many have said that."

  "You heard my name, my title?"

  "Yes; I heard them."

  For a minute there was silence. Then Schmidt said: "There are reasonswhy it must be a secret--perhaps for years or always. I am Graf vonEhrenstein; but I am more than that--much more and few even in Germanyknow me by that name. And I did say so?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "It must die in your memory, my son, as the priests say of what is heardin confession."

  This statement, which made clear a good deal of what De Courval hadheard in the German's delirium, was less singular to him than it wouldhave seemed to-day. More than one mysterious titled person of importancecame to the city under an assumed name, and went away leaving no one thewiser.

  "It is well," continued Schmidt, "that you, who are become so dear tome, should know my story. I shall make it brief."

  "Soon after my marriage, a man of such position as sometimes permits mento insult with impunity spoke of my wife so as to cause me to demand anapology. He fell back on his higher rank, and in my anger I struck himon the parade-ground at Potsdam while he was reviewing his regiment. Alesser man than I would have lost his life for what I did. I was sent tothe fortress of Spandau, where for two years I had the freedom of thefortress, but was rarely allowed to hear from my wife or to write. BooksI did have, as I desired, and there I learned my queer English from myonly English books, Shakespeare and the Bible."

  "Ah, now I understand," said De Courval; "but it is not Shakespeare youtalk. Thanks to you, I know him."

  "No, not quite; who could? After two years my father's interest obtainedmy freedom at the cost of my exile. My wife had died in giving birth toa still-born child. My father, an old man, provided me with small means,which I now do not need, nor longer accept, since he gave grudgingly,because I had done that which for him was almost unpardonable. I went toEngland and France, and then came hither to breathe a freer air, and, asyou know, have prospered, and am, for America, rich. You cannot know thedisgust in regard to arbitrary injustice with which I left my own land.I felt that to use a title in this country would be valueless, andsubject me to comment and to inquiry I wished to avoid. You have earnedthe right to know my story, as I know yours. Mr. Alexander Hamilton andmy business adviser, Mr. Justice Wilson, alone know my name and title,and, I may add, Mr. Gouverneur Morris. I shall say to the two formerthat you share this knowledge. They alone know why it is reasonable and,indeed, may have been prudent that, until my return home, I remainunknown. It is needless to go farther into the matter with you. Thissimple life is to my taste, but I may some day have to go back to my ownland--I devoutly trust never. We shall not again open a too painfulsubject."

  De Courval said, "I have much to thank you for, but for nothing as forthis confidence."

  "Yet a word, Rene. For some men--some young men--to know what now youknow of me, would disturb the intimacy of their relation. I would haveit continue simple. So let it be, my son. Come, let us go. How still thewoods are! There is here a quiet that hath the quality of a gentleconfessor who hears and will never tell. Listen to that owl!"

  As they drew near to the house the German said: "_Ach_, I forgot. InDecember I suppose we must go to the city. You are not as yet fit forsteady work; but if I can arrange it with Wynne, why not let me use you?I have more to do here and in New York than I like. Now, do not befoolish about it. There are rents to gather in, journeys to make. Let megive you five hundred _livres_ a month. You will have time to ride,read, and see the country. I shall talk to Hugh Wynne about the matter."Thus, after some discussion and some protest, it was arranged, the youngman feeling himself in such relation to the older friend as made thisadjustment altogether agreeable and a glad release from a return to theroutine of the counting-house.

  Too often the thought of Carteaux haunted him, while he wondered howmany in France were thus attended. When in after years he saw go by menwho had been the lesser agents in the massacres, or those who hadbrought the innocent to the guillotine, he wondered at the impunity withwhich all save Marat had escaped the personal vengeance of those whomourned, and, mourning, did nothing. Even during the Terror, when deathseemed for so many a thing to face smiling, the man who daily sent tothe guillotine in Paris or the provinces uncounted thousands, walked thestreets unguarded, and no one, vengeful, struck. In fact, the Terrorseemed to paralyze even the will of the most reckless. Not so felt theyoung noble. He hungered for the hour of relief, let it bring what itmight.

  The simple and wholesome life of the Quaker household had done much tosatisfy the vicomtesse, whose life had never of late years been one ofgreat luxury, and as she slowly learned English, she came to recognizethe qualities of refinement and self-sacrifice which, with unusualintelligence, made Mrs. Swanwick acceptably interesting. It became hercustom at last to be more down-stairs, and to sit with her embroideryand talk while the knitting-needles clicked and the ball of wool hangingby its silver hoop from the Quaker lady's waist grew smaller. Sometimesthey read aloud, French or English, or, with her rare smile, thevicomtesse would insist on sharing some small household duty. The sereneatmosphere of the household, and what Schmidt called the gray religionof Friends, suited the Huguenot lady. As concerned her son, she was lessat ease, and again, with some anxiety, she had spoken to him of his tooevident pleasure in the society of Margaret, feeling strongly that twosuch young and attractive people might fall easily into relations whichcould end only in disappointment for one or both. The girl's mother wasno less disturbed, and Schmidt, as observant, but in no wise troubled,looked on and, seeing, smiled, somewhat dreading for Rene the inevitableresult of a return to town and an encounter with his enemy.

  Genet had at last been recalled, in December, but, as Du Vallon toldSchmidt, Carteaux was to hold his place as charge d'affaires to Fauchet,the new minister, expected to arrive in February, 1794.

  On the day following the revelations made by Schmidt, and just afterbreakfast, Margaret went out into the wood near by to gather autumnleaves. Seeing her disappear among the trees, De Courval presentlyfollowed her. Far in the woods he came upon her seated at the foot of agreat tulip-tree. The basket at her side was full of club moss and gailytinted toadstools. The red and yellow leaves of maple and oak, fallingon her hair and her gray gown, made, as it seemed to him, a pleasantpicture.

  De Courval threw himself at her feet on the ground covered with autumn'slavished colors.

  "We have nothing like this in France. H
ow wonderful it is!"

  "Yes," she said; "it is finer than ever I saw it." Then, not looking up,she added, after a pause, the hands he watched still busy: "Why didstthou not bring me any goldenrod last evening? I asked thee."

  "I saw none."

  "Ah, but there is still plenty, or at least there are asters. I thinkthou must have been gathering _pensees_, as thy mother calls them;pansies, we say."

  "Yes, thoughts, thoughts," he returned with sudden gravity--"_pensees_."

  "They must have been of my cousin Shippen or of Fanny Cadwalader, onlyshe is always laughing." This young woman, who still lives in all herbeauty on Stuart's canvas, was to end her life in England.

  "Oh, neither, neither," he said gaily, "not I. Guess better."

  "Then a quiet Quaker girl like--ah--like, perhaps, Deborah Wharton."

  He shook his head.

  "No? Thou art hard to please," she said. "Well, I shall give themup--thy _pensees_. They must have been freaked with jet; for how seriousthou art!"

  "What is that--freaked with jet?"

  She laughed merrily. "Oh, what ignorance! That is Milton,Monsieur--'Lycidas.'" She was gently proud of superior learning.

  "Ah, I must ask Mr. Schmidt of it. I have much to learn."

  "I would," and her hands went on with their industry of selecting themore brilliantly colored leaves. "I have given thee something to thinkof. Tell me, now, what were the thoughts of jet in thy _pensees_--thedark thoughts."

  "I cannot tell thee. Some day thou wilt know, and that may be too soon,too soon"; for he thought: "If I kill that man, what will they think ofrevenge, of the guilt of blood, these gentle Quaker people?" Aloud hesaid: "You cannot think these thoughts of mine, and I am glad youcannot."

  He was startled as she returned quickly, without looking up from herwork: "How dost thou know what I think? It is something that willhappen," and, the white hands moving with needless quickness among thegaily tinted leaves, she added: "I do not like change, or new things, ormysteries. Does Madame, thy mother, think to leave us? My mother wouldmiss her."

  "And you? Would not you a little?"

  "Yes, of course; and so would friend Schmidt. There, my basket will holdno more. How pretty they are! But thou hast not answered me."

  "We are not thinking of any such change."

  "Well, so far that is good news. But I am still curious. Mr. Schmidt didonce say the autumn has no answers. I think thou art like it." She roseas she spoke.

  "Ah, but the spring may make reply in its time--in its time. Let mecarry thy basket, Miss Margaret." She gave it to him with the woman'sliking to be needlessly helped.

  "I am very gay with red and gold," she cried, and shook the leaves fromher hair and gown. "It is worse than the brocade and the sea-greenpetticoat my wicked cousins put on me." She could laugh at it now.

  "But what would Friends say to the way the fine milliner, Nature, hasdecked thee, Mademoiselle? They would forgive thee, I think. Mr. Schmidtsays the red and gold lie thick on the unnamed graves at Fourth andMulberry streets, and no Quaker doth protest with a broom."

  "He speaks in a strange way sometimes. I often wonder where he learnedit."

  "Why dost thou not ask him?"

  "I should not dare. He might not like it."

  "But thou art, it seems, more free to question some other people."

  "Oh, but that is different; and, Monsieur," she said demurely, "thoumust not say thou and thee to me. Thy mother says it is not proper."

  He laughed. "If I am thou for thee, were it not courteous to speak tothee in thy own tongue?"

  She colored, remembering the lesson and her own shrewd guess at thelady's meaning, and how, as she was led to infer, to _tutoyer_, to saythou, inferred a certain degree of intimacy. "It is not fitting hereexcept among Friends."

  "And why not? In France we do it."

  "Yes, sometimes, I have so heard." But to explain further was far fromher intention. "It sounds foolish here, in people who are not ofFriends. I said so--"

  "But are we not friends?"

  "I said Friends with a big F, Monsieur."

  "I make my apologies,"--he laughed with a formal bow,--"but one easilycatches habits of talk."

  "Indeed, I am in earnest, and thou must mend thy habits. FriendMarguerite Swanwick desires to be excused of the Vicomte de Courval,"and, smiling, she swept the courtesy of reply to his bow as the autumnleaves fell from the gathered skirts.

  "As long as thou art thou, it will be hard to obey," he said, and shemaking no reply, they wandered homeward through level shafts ofsunlight, while fluttering overhead on wings of red and gold, the cupidsof the forest enjoyed the sport, and the young man murmured: "Thou andthee," dreaming of a walk with her in his own Normandy among thewoodlands his boyhood knew.

  "Thou art very silent," she said at last.

  "No, I am talking; but not to you--of you, perhaps."

  "Indeed," and she ceased to express further desire to be enlightened,and fell to asking questions about irregular French verbs.

  Just before they reached the house, Margaret said: "I have often meantto ask thee to tell me what thou didst do in the city. Friend Schmidtsaid to mother that Stephen Girard could not say too much of thee. Tellme about it, please."

  "No," he returned abruptly. "It is a thing to forget, not to talkabout."

  "How secretive thou art!" she said, pouting, "and thou wilt never, neverspeak of France." In an instant she knew she had been indiscreet as hereturned:

  "Nor ever shall. Certainly not now."

  "Not--not even to me?"

  "No." His mind was away in darker scenes.

  Piqued and yet sorry, she returned, "Thou art as abrupt as DanielOffley."

  "Mademoiselle!"

  "What have I said?"

  "Daniel Offley is dead. I carried him into his own house to die, a braveman when few were brave."

  "I have had my lesson," she said. There were tears in her eyes, a littlebreak in her voice.

  "And I, Pearl; and God was good to me."

  "And to me," she sobbed; "I beg thy pardon--but I want to say--I mustsay that thou too wert brave, oh, as brave as any--for I know--I haveheard."

  "Oh, Pearl, you must not say that! I did as others did." She had heardhim call her Pearl unreproved, or had she not? He would set a guard onhis tongue. "It is chilly. Let us go in," for they had stood at the gateas they talked.

  It was their last walk, for soon the stripped trees and the ground werewhite with an early snowfall and the autumn days had gone, and on thefirst of December reluctantly they moved to the city.