"And we meet with champagne and a chicken."

I had made my toilet with such despatch that scarcely an hour after parting with Mr. Lewis at my inn I found myself once more at the White House. This time I was ushered up-stairs into an oval room, very gorgeously furnished in crimson, where the President was waiting, and a few of his guests. Beside him stood Mistress Madison, helping him to receive; for his daughters were both away at their homes. I improved the moment when she was speaking to some guests, who had arrived just before me, to look at her well. I had heard much of her, and I knew my sisters at home would want me to tell them exactly how she looked and what she wore.

I think I have often seen more beautiful women (a dark-eyed maiden from France was in my mind at the moment as far more beautiful), but rarely have I seen a face lighted up with more of animation and good humor. On her head she wore an article of dress which I had heard described as worn by the ladies of London and Paris, but which I had never before seen; for the head-dresses of the Frenchwomen in St. Louis, while in some respects quite as remarkable, bore not the slightest resemblance to this of Mistress Madison's. It was a Turkish turban of white satin and velvet, with a jeweled crescent in front clasping a bunch of nodding white ostrich-plumes. Her gown, of pale pink satin, was heavily trimmed with ermine, and she wore gold chains about her waist and wrists, and carried a jeweled snuff-box in her hand. She was truly regal-looking, and I did not wonder that people sometimes laughingly spoke of her as "her Majesty." Her turban especially, I think, gave her an indescribable air of distinction; but I was not quite sure that I thought it as becoming as the dark curling locks of the very beautiful lady who stood beside her.

Mr. Lewis, at this moment descrying me, came forward to present me to the President and to Mistress Madison, who put me at my ease at once by inquiring for my mother and for many of my Philadelphia kin, who, she declared, were old and very dear friends. I would have liked to linger at her side, for she made me much at home, and I liked not to turn away and find myself among a roomful of strangers; but I knew there were others waiting to be received by her, and I must move on.

As I turned from her, a voice in my ear said imperiously:

"Well, sir, and have you no word for your old friend, Fanny Cadwalader?"

I turned quickly; it was the beautiful lady with the dark curls.

"Miss Fanny!" I cried in joyous recognition, and bent low over her extended hand.

I had been but a young boy when Frances Cadwalader married Mr. Erskine and went to London to live; but we had been great friends as children, and I did not understand how I had failed to recognize her. She bade me stand beside her and she would point out all the distinguished guests, and I was glad indeed of her protection. In reply to my eager question as to how she came to be in Washington, she told me that her husband had been appointed minister from Great Britain in Mr. Merry's place, and they were but newly arrived.

"But where have you been living, sir," she asked, with mock severity, "that you know nothing of what has been going on in the great world? Or are we personages of so small importance that our movements are not chronicled in America?"

I had to explain that I had been in the backwoods for months, and for the last two months in the foreign colony of Louisiana, in the village of St. Louis, where little of the doings of the outside world penetrated.

She forgave me my ignorance, and immediately pointed out to me her husband, a fine-looking Englishman, talking to the most gorgeously arrayed creature I had ever beheld: satin, laces, velvets, jewels, gold lace, and powder made up a dazzling ensemble.

"That," said she, "is the Marquis de Casa Yrujo, and the lady with him is his wife, Sally McKean. He is magnificent, is he not? I would not quite like it if I were the marchioness, for people look at him instead of her, and she is quite beautiful enough to be looked at herself."

"Ah, why begrudge the marquis his meed of admiration, if he likes it?" I said. "And since he likes it, let us be grateful, for his sake, that it is not Mistress Erskine who is the marchioness, for who can see the glitter of the stars when the lovely moon is in the sky?"

She laughed good-naturedly at my gallantry, but I think she also liked it. We were standing near a window that looked out on the front approach to the White House. Suddenly Mistress Erskine exclaimed:

"Look, look quick, my friend! Here is magnificence indeed!"

I looked as she bade me, and saw what I conceived to be a rolling ball of burnished gold borne swiftly through the air by two gilt wings. As it came nearer we both grew more excited—I because I did not know what it was (and it looked more like a fairy coach than anything I had dreamed of), and she both because she enjoyed my bewilderment and because she loved magnificence. By this time as many of the other guests as were near windows and could look out without seeming to be over-eager, or discourteous to their host, were doing so. The rolling golden ball came to the very foot of the White House steps and stopped. What I had taken to be two gilt wings proved to be nothing more than gorgeous footmen, with chapeaux bras, gilt-braided skirts, and splendid swords. They sprang to the ground, opened the door of the coach, and from it alighted the French minister, weighted with gold lace and glittering with diamonds and jeweled orders. He turned with stately ceremony to offer his hand to a lady who was alighting from the coach. First a tiny foot in high-arched slippers and embroidered stocking; then a glimpse of a skirt, pale pink and silver brocade, that had a strangely familiar air. I looked quickly at the head just emerging—waving black curls, dark glowing eyes, a complexion of ivory tinted with rose.

It was Mademoiselle Pelagie!

My head swam. Was it indeed all a bit of enchantment? The golden coach, the gorgeous footmen, the dazzling minister of France, and—Pelagie! Mrs. Erskine noted my agitation.

"Qu'as-tu, m'ami?" she said softly. "You know her, then?"

"Know whom, madam?" I asked, trying to get myself under control and seem indifferent.

"Our new sensation, the Great Lady of France, whom all the town is talking of. She arrived two days ago at the house of the French minister, and is staying there, it is said, under his protection, until she shall find suitable escort to Paris, where she goes to take possession of her estates returned to her by Bonaparte. This is what rumor says, and it looks as if it were true that she is a great lady, since the minister has handed her from the carriage before his own wife. We will wait now to see where the President seats her at table; that will decide it."

I was trying hard to hold myself in hand and make suitable answer.

"Is the President such a stickler, then, for form and ceremony? We had heard otherwise."

Mistress Erskine laughed:

"True, I forgot. If he had been as particular as he should concerning precedence, I should not be here. You know, do you not, that my husband's predecessor quarreled with President Jefferson because he gave his arm to Dolly Madison, in going in to dinner, instead of to the wife of the British minister?"

"Yes; I have heard of the 'Merry War,'" I answered, and stopped. Not another word could I utter. Nor apparently could anybody else in the room; for every voice was hushed as all eyes were turned to the door where the French minister was entering with his wife on his left arm, and what I veritably believed to be the most beautiful creature in the world on his right.

It was a brilliant spectacle; for the French minister and his wife dazzled the sight by the glitter of gold lace and the flash of jewels, and Pelagie blinded the eyes as truly by a vision of radiant dark eyes, soft black tresses curling around a white throat, the gleam of snowy neck and rounded arms through rare lace, and the color of the rose slowly tinting the rich ivory of her cheeks, as they passed through a double lane of guests to speak to the President.

Now was I in two minds whether to be supremely happy in once more beholding Mademoiselle Pelagie, whose graceful figure I thought had forever faded from my sight when the boat rounded the bend of the Ohio, or to be most miserable lest here among courtiers, and taking her rightful place with the great of the earth, she should no longer condescend to show me the friendliness she had shown on our last evening on the river. Neither was I quite sure whether it was my place to go forward and speak to her or to await her pleasure in speaking to me.

But Mistress Erskine solved the problem.

"You do know her," she said—"I see it in your eyes; and you must present me at once. And do tell me," she added eagerly: "is she so great a lady? We have heard so many rumors about her; what is the truth?"

"I have only known her," I answered, "as Mademoiselle Pelagie de Villa RÉal. I know that in France she is of high rank, but I do not know what."

"Ah," she said, with a little gesture of disappointment, "then you cannot introduce me properly, and I shall have to trust to that astute diplomat that he gives her her right title. Does she know it herself?"

"I think she did not when she left St. Louis," I answered, "but her new friends may have revealed it to her."

"On second thought," said she, "I believe I will ask you to present her to me instead of the minister, if you will; I would like to see how she takes the 'Mademoiselle de Villa RÉal.'"

So there was nothing for it but to brace up my courage and go forward to speak to mademoiselle. Nothing could have been sweeter and more friendly than her greeting, and with no trace of embarrassment, though I thought the French minister regarded me with a coldly critical eye. Beside his magnificence I did feel rather shabby; for, though Yorke had done his best to freshen and restore my purple velvets by steaming and other appliances, they still were the worse for much service (especially the encounter with the chevalier), and for many packings in saddle-bags. Of my lace ruffles I was justly proud, for no courtier's in the room were finer or richer, and my sword and scabbard were not to be ashamed of, for though not so bejeweled as some, they were of the finest workmanship and inlaid with gold and pearl.

Mademoiselle presented me to the French minister very prettily, however; and though I thought his greeting somewhat scant in courtesy, I attributed it to the suspicions he would naturally have, as mademoiselle's guardian, of a young gentleman of whom he knew nothing, and whom mademoiselle received so kindly.

I at once preferred Mistress Erskine's request, but the minister gave Pelagie no chance to reply.

"I will myself present the comtesse to the wife of the British ambassador," he said with alacrity, and led her away to Mistress Erskine.

I saw that he had availed himself of this opportunity to cut short my interview with mademoiselle; but, not to be outdone in diplomacy, I followed leisurely, and was in time to hear the minister say:

"It gives me pleasure to present to Madame Erskine the Comtesse de Baloit." And I saw by the profound curtsy Mistress Erskine made (and which mademoiselle returned very prettily, but with a touch of condescension, I thought) that that name meant something more to her than it did to me.

After the fashion of women, the two began at once a lively chatter in French, and I saw myself like to be shut out in the cold, with no further opportunity for converse with mademoiselle. But I would not desert my post, hoping sooner or later to get my chance. And I was rewarded; for in a few minutes Mistress Erskine was called to receive another presentation. But as she turned away she whispered in my ear:

"Be careful how you behave, sir; she is of the blood royal!"

Blood royal or not, she would always be Mademoiselle Pelagie to me, and I was not going to lose my opportunity.

"Tell me, Comtesse," I said, "how you came here. When I saw you last you had no idea of coming to Washington."

She did not answer my question at once, but, glancing up at me from under her long lashes in the most adorable fashion, she said softly:

"You used to call me Comtesse when you were angry. Are you angry now?"

"No, not when I was angry," I answered, "but when you were—were—"

"Proud and naughty and altogether disagreeable," she interposed quickly; "and that was very often, was it not, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Comtesse."

"I am not either now, am I? Then why do you not call me Mademoiselle?"

"No, indeed! You are"—I was going to say "adorable," but I finished tamely—"neither. But you are really Comtesse, and it is proper I should call you so." And before I was aware of what I was doing, I fetched a great sigh from the bottom of my boots. She understood, and looked up at me with a pathetic little smile that was sadder than my sigh.

"I am sorry, too; I think I would rather be mademoiselle," she said.

"And of the blood royal!" I added severely, as if accusing her of a crime.

She dropped her eyes.

"I cannot help it. I never knew till yesterday," meekly.

"And your guardian," I indicated the French minister with a slight nod in his direction, "thinks it great presumption for a plain Yankee gentleman to be talking on such familiar terms with a princess of the blood, and is coming in a few minutes to put a stop to it."

She looked at the minister quickly with a haughty turn of the head and a flashing glance, but in a moment she turned back to me with a smile curling her scarlet lips and a humorous twinkle in her eye.

"He would never dare," she said. "He is a good Citizen of the Republic."

"Nevertheless he will dare," I insisted. "I see it in his eye; so first tell me quickly how you got here, and when and where you are going."

"Your boat was hardly out of sight, Monsieur," she answered, "when another came up the river direct from St. Louis with Monsieur and Madame CerrÉ aboard. They brought letters from my guardian directing me to go on with them to Washington (where they were going to see the Spanish minister about some trouble they had had with Americans—concerning peltries, I think, and land, perhaps), and they would place me in the French minister's care. I did not expect to find you here, for we were a whole day behind you; but we traveled rapidly."

"And I was delayed," I said. "But when and how are you to get to Paris? With the Livingstons?"

"No; Citizen Pichon says they sailed this week. But he tells me, what is not generally known, that your government is about to send a special envoy to France concerning New Orleans—a Monsieur Monroe; and Monsieur Pichon has arranged that I shall go with him."

"Do you know when?" I asked hastily, for I saw the President moving toward us with the Marquis de Casa Yrujo, and I was quite sure that meant an end to all conversation.

"Not for several weeks, I believe; but I am not sure," she answered.

"Will the Comtesse de Baloit permit me to present the Marquis de Casa Yrujo, who will take her out to dinner?" And the President was adding a pretty little speech of compliment, in his gallant way, and the marquis was bowing solemnly and profoundly, and the comtesse was curtsying and smiling, and I was left entirely out in the cold. I was rescued by Mistress Madison.

"I would like nothing better than to give you your old friend Mistress Erskine to take out to dinner," she said, smiling. "It is forlorn for a young man among so many grown-ups, and the only young maiden snatched away from him. But the President is not going to blunder twice in the same fashion, and will take Mistress Erskine himself. Now I will give you your choice among the rest. Whom would you like to take?"

"Ah, your Majesty," I answered quickly, hand on my heart and bowing low, but smiling up at her,—for she was a woman into whose amiable, cordial face no man could look without smiling,—"I suppose I dare not lift my eyes as high as my heart would dictate, and since you are out of the question, I care not whom you give me."

"Saucy boy!"—and she tapped me lightly with her snuff-box,—"I vow I think you would be vastly more fun than the British minister, but my country demands that I sacrifice myself. I will give you the Marchioness de Casa Yrujo. If you do not know Sally McKean, she certainly knew you when you were in petticoats."

So I found myself seated at table between the most brilliant woman there and the most beautiful; for the Marchioness de Casa Yrujo was universally conceded to be the one, and the Comtesse de Baloit was, in my esteem at least, as certainly the other.

It was a long table, and bounteously furnished—lacking, perhaps, some of the elegance of the Philadelphia tables I had been accustomed to, but with a lavish prodigality native to the South. Two new guests had arrived while I had been so engrossed in talking to the comtesse that I had not observed their entrance, a gentleman and his wife. The lady was amiable-looking, but of no great distinction of appearance. The gentleman I thought I had seen before; his long, rather lean visage, somber but dignified, looked familiar to me. When the marchioness told me it was Mr. Monroe, I wondered that I had not recognized him at once, for he was a familiar figure on our streets during the ten years when Philadelphia was the capital. Moreover, I could have vowed he was wearing the same sad-colored drab clothes he used to appear in then, so entirely unchanged were both cut and color. I looked at him now with great interest, for was he not to decide the fortunes of the West?—in which I could have taken no greater interest had I been Western-born. And, more than that, was he not appointed to what seemed to me a mission of far greater importance, the conveying of mademoiselle in safety to her home?

I could have wished Mistress Monroe was to accompany him, for she had an air of motherly kindliness that I felt would be both protection and comfort to Mademoiselle Pelagie; and aside from the fact that there was something cold and austere in Mr. Monroe's face, I was sufficiently imbued with Mr. Hamilton's ideas to feel no great confidence in the man. (Wherein I have since thought I did Mr. Monroe great injustice, since in every act of his life he has proved himself a high-minded gentleman. But Mr. Hamilton's personal magnetism was so great that it was quite impossible for us younger men at least, not to feel that every one who differed with him must be, if not wholly unprincipled, at least worthy of doubt and suspicion.)

It was a brilliant dinner-table, for the exciting debate at the Capitol furnished a theme that loosed every tongue. Yet I could see that the President, while he kept the ball rolling with a gaiety and good humor that rather surprised me, was himself most guarded. Indeed, many were restrained, no doubt, from saying quite what they thought by the presence of the Spanish minister, who at that time was at the height of his popularity—his course in the Louisiana affair, which made him so many enemies, not having been taken until later.

Yet most of those present were more in sympathy with Clinton of New York and Jackson of Georgia than with Ross of Pennsylvania and Gouverneur Morris. When Mr. Erskine spoke of Gouverneur Morris's speech as a masterly effort, the President, whom he addressed, replied only by a smile so coldly polite that it was like a dash of cold water, not only to the British minister, but to the whole table.

I was ever a blundering idiot, and knew not when to leave well enough alone; neither had I ever the heart to see fellow-man discomfited (especially if he were on my side of the question) without going at once to his aid. So, forgetting that it was the powerful minister of a great nation, who needed no help from a man entirely unknown in the great world and of extreme youth, I plunged boldly in.

"I agree with you, sir, most heartily," I said. "In force and polish and weight of argument it was beyond compare. But I expected nothing less from Gouverneur Morris."

There was a dead silence around the table; even the British minister had not the temerity to do more than bow his thanks in the face of Jefferson's icy smile. I caught a glimpse of the marquis's profile; he was frowning heavily. The French minister's face was a blank, and so was Mr. Monroe's. Pelagie looked the picture of distress, and Mr. Lewis made me a slight gesture which I took to mean, "Keep still." Even Mistress Erskine looked embarrassed, and I could understand none of it. But as I caught Mistress Madison's eye there was a twinkle of humor in it, and she gave the slightest, very slightest nod in the world toward the President.

Then at once it flashed upon me: Gouverneur Morris was bosom friend to Mr. Hamilton, and this was no place to be lauding him to the skies. Then was I seized with a rage against the restraints of society, that would not permit me to fling defiance in the face of all these grandees,—aye, and of the President himself—and declare my allegiance to Hamilton and his friends. And mingled with my rage was an intolerable sense of mortification that I had made such an arrant fool of myself before all these older men and lovely women. But, with a tact for which I can never be sufficiently grateful to her, Mistress Madison turned at once to Pelagie.

"Comtesse," she said, "you are fresh from the colony of Louisiana, in which we are all so deeply interested; tell us something about your life in St. Louis, and how you found your Spanish rulers."

And mademoiselle, understanding, responded at once with glowing descriptions of her happy life there, and the courtesy and polish of the people, with many gay little touches of rude and funny experience. Everybody thawed at once; for most of those present had been much in Paris and could understand her French as easily as I. The President became as genial as he had been icy, and he insisted on drawing me also into the conversation (I think for the purpose of giving me an opportunity of retrieving myself), in which I hope I bore my part modestly; for I like not to seem either presumptuous or vainglorious, though, because I am a blunderer, I no doubt seem sometimes to be both.

The curtains had been drawn and the candles lighted when we sat down to dinner, though the sun was still shining; but the short winter afternoon had rapidly passed into evening, and then into dark night, and we still lingered at the table. Talk had grown more and more animated as the wine flowed more freely, and toasts were drunk and bright speeches made in response. I had, as in duty bound, devoted most of my attention to the marchioness, and the marquis had engrossed Pelagie. Yet there had been chance for an occasional word with her. It was when the marquis was rising to respond to a toast to his Most Catholic Majesty of Spain, amid the ringing of glasses, that I turned to mademoiselle.

"Would it be permitted an old friend to call at the house of the French minister on the Comtesse de Baloit?"

"It would be unpardonable if he neglected to do so," she responded, with a bright smile.

"Then to-morrow at two I hope to find you at home," I said, and then added quickly—"unless you are going to the Senate again?"

She colored a little.

"Did you know me?"

But she would not let me answer her own question, for the marquis was beginning to speak, and it behooved us to listen. In the midst of the applause that followed his speech, I saw the President whisper something to the black man who stood behind his chair and send him to me. For a moment, when the messenger told me the President wished to see me in his office after the others were gone, I thought I was to be called to account for my malapropos speech, but I was relieved when he added:

"The President hab a message from yo' home, sah."

And had it not been that I liked much feeling myself so near mademoiselle, even if I had only an occasional word from her, I would have been very impatient for dinner to be over, for a message from home sent to the President, it seemed to me, must be of importance.

Dinner was over at last, and there was but little lingering afterward. I had the pleasure of helping mademoiselle into her coach, though Monsieur Pichon looked cold and the Marquis de Yrujo tried to forestall me. But when she was shut up inside the golden ball, and the great golden wings were once more perched on either side of it, and it rolled away glittering and flashing in the light of the torches as it had flashed and glittered in the rays of the sun five hours before, I had a sinking of the heart such as I might have felt had she been snatched away from my sight forever in the prophet's fiery chariot bearing her to the skies.

Mr. Meriwether Lewis was waiting to conduct me to the President's office, and he stayed and talked with me pleasantly until the President arrived; laughing with me at my faux pas, but telling me I had nothing to fear from the President's displeasure, as he was not the man to harbor a grudge on so slight a matter, and he (though, to be sure, he was a lifelong friend) had ever found him to be kind, considerate, and genial.

And such I found him in our brief interview. He went directly to the point with me, which always goes far toward winning my liking.

"I know your family," he said, "have ever been friends of Mr. Hamilton, and so not particularly friendly to me in a political way; but your father and I have been associated much in scientific pursuits, and we have ever been congenial friends in our love of botanical research. He has sent me many rare plants and seeds to Monticello, and now he shows me the further courtesy of reposing a confidence in me, and I hope you will express to him my appreciation, which I will prove by reposing a like confidence in you. Your father writes me that a letter has just been received from your uncle, Monsieur BarbÉ Marbois, inviting you to spend some time with him in Paris. He says that both he and your mother think it much to be desired that you should improve this opportunity for completing your education. He says, further, that a ship sails from New York early next week, and requests me, if you should be in Washington when I receive this letter, as he suspects, that I will instruct you to lose no time in reaching home. Indeed, so urgent is he, and the time is so short, I think, without doubt, you should set off by daybreak to-morrow morning.

"Now, as I said before, I am going also to repose a confidence in you. It is not generally known, nor do I wish it known for the present (therefore I speak in confidence), that I have decided to send an envoy extraordinaire to Paris for the purpose of discussing with the French government the possibility of purchasing New Orleans. I communicated this to the Senate to-day in secret session, and I now communicate it to you, also in 'secret session'"—with a genial smile.

"I have asked Mr. Monroe to undertake this delicate mission, and he has to-day consented, and is here arranging his plans and discussing with me and with Mr. Madison the points involved. He will not be able to set out for some weeks, but we hope now that he can sail by the eighth of March, reaching Paris somewhere near the twelfth of April. Mr. Livingston naturally knows nothing of this, and the favor I have to ask of you is that, immediately upon your arrival in Paris, you call upon him and deliver to him a note which I shall give you, and also explain fully to him all that I have said to you, all that you have heard at dinner this evening, and particularly repeat to him as much as you can hold in memory of the debate you listened to in the Senate to-day."

The President paused for a moment, and then, with a smile of rare sweetness, he added:

"Is the ardent young friend of Hamilton willing to put the President under such a load of obligations?"

For a moment I hardly knew what response to make. Not that I dreamed of denying his request: I was only too proud and happy that he should have made it. But that he should have reposed such a confidence in me, when he knew me scarcely at all, seemed incomprehensible. I made but a stammering reply.

"Your Excellency," I said, "I fear I have given you but a poor idea of my discretion, but since you trust me in spite of my blunder, I am very proud to be of service to you."

It took but a minute for the President to give me his note to Mr. Livingston, and a few further instructions, and then he bade me God-speed with a warmth and cordiality I had never expected and certainly never deserved at his hands.

There was but little sleep for me that night. As Fatima clattered into the stony courtyard of my inn, I called loudly for Bandy Jim; and when the poor old man came stumbling out of some inner retreat, half blinded with sleep, I begged him to look after Fatima himself, and see that she was well rubbed down and ready for an early morning start, and that I was called and breakfast ready by six.

In my own room I spent not much time in packing my saddle-bags, but it took me a good half-hour to write a brief note to mademoiselle, explaining why I was compelled to cancel my engagement with her for the next day, and bidding her good-by in such fashion that, without seeming presumptuous, she might read between the lines how much of my heart I had put into it.

I had said nothing in my note about going to Paris. I very much desired to keep that for a surprise when I might some day meet her there. And, lest she should hear it from others, I wrote also a note to Meriwether Lewis, asking him to say nothing about it to any one, and to request the President to keep my secret for me.

Then, putting a bright new gold piece with the two notes to be delivered by the trusty hands of Bandy Jim in the morning, I lay down to get a brief sleep, if possible—but, sleeping or waking, to dream of Paris and the Comtesse de Baloit.