The young man's anxiety about his mother kept him long awake, and his sleep was troubled, as at times later, by a dream of Carteaux facing him with a smile, and by that strange sense of physical impotence which sometimes haunts the dreamer who feels the need for action and cannot stir.

When at six in the morning De Courval went down-stairs, he met Mrs. Swanwick. She turned, and when in the hall said: "I have been with thy mother all night, and now Margaret is with her, but thou wilt do no harm to enter. She does not seem to me very ill, but we must have a doctor, and one who has her language. When after a little sleep she wakens, she wanders, and then is clear again." Seeing his look of anxiety, she added, "Be sure that we shall care for her."

He said no word of the pain he felt and scarce more than a word of his gratitude, but, going up-stairs again, knocked softly at a chamber door.

"Come in," he heard, and entered. A low voice whispered, "She is just awake," and the slight, gray figure of the girl went by him, the door gently closing behind her. In the dim light he sat down by his mother's bed, and taking a hot hand in his, heard her murmur: "Mon fils—my son. Angels—angels! I was a stranger, and they took me in; naked and they clothed me, yes, yes, with kindness. What name did you say? Carteaux. Is he dead—Carteaux?"

The young man had a thrill of horror. "Mother," he said, "it is I, RenÉ."

"Ah," she exclaimed, starting up, "I was dreaming. These good people were with me all night. You must thank them and see that they are well paid. Do not forget—well paid—and a tisane. If I had but a tisane de guimauve!"

"Yes, yes," he said; "we shall see. Perhaps some lemonade."

"Yes, yes; go at once and order it." She was imperative, and her voice had lost its sweetness for a time. "I must not be made to wait."

"Very well, maman." As he went out, the gray figure passed in, saying, "She is better this morning, and I am so grieved for thee."

"Thank you," he murmured, and went down-stairs, seeing no one, and out to a seat in the garden, to think what he should do. Yes, there must be a doctor. And Carteaux—what a fool he had been to tell her his name! The name and the cropped hair of the Jacobin, the regular features, by no means vulgar, the blood-red eyes of greed for murder, he saw again as in that fatal hour. Whenever any new calamity had fallen upon him, the shrill murder-counseling voice was with him, heard at times like a note of discord even in later days of relief from anxiety, or in some gay moment of mirth. "He was wise," he murmured, remembering the German's counsel, and resolutely put aside the disturbing thought. At last Nanny, the black maid, called him to breakfast. He was alone with Schmidt and Mrs. Swanwick. They discussed quietly what doctor they should call; not their friend, Dr. Redman, as neither he nor Dr. Rush spoke French. Schmidt said: "I have sent a note to Mr. Wynne not to expect you. Set your mind at ease."

There was need of the advice. De Courval felt the helplessness of a young man in the presence of a woman's illness. He sat still in his chair at breakfast, hardly hearing the German's efforts to reassure him.

It was near to eight. Nanny had gone up to relieve Margaret, who presently came in, saying, "Aunt Gainor is without, back from her morning ride."

There was a heavy footfall in the hall and a clear, resonant voice, "Mary Swanwick, where are you?"

In the doorway, kept open for the summer air to sweep through, the large figure of Gainor Wynne appeared in riding skirt and low beaver hat, a heavy whip in her hand. The years had dealt lightly with the woman, now far past middle life. There was a mass of hair time had powdered, the florid face, the high nose of her race, the tall, erect, massive build, giving to the observant a sense of masculine vigor. On rare occasions there was also a perplexing realization of infinite feminine tenderness, and, when she pleased, the ways and manners of an unmistakable gentlewoman.

As the two men rose, Mrs. Swanwick said quietly, "Aunt Gainor, Madame de Courval is ill."

"As much as to say, 'Do not roam through the house and shout.'"

"This is Friend de Courval," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"You must pardon me, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "You must pardon a rude old woman. I am Hugh Wynne's aunt. May I ask about your mother? Is she very ill? I meant to call on her shortly. I am heartily at your service."

"I fear she is very ill," he replied.

"Have you a doctor?"

"We were just now thinking whom we should have," said Mrs. Swanwick. "The vicomtesse speaks no English."

"Yes, yes," said Mistress Wynne; "who shall we have? Not Dr. Rush. He would bleed her, and his French—la, my cat can meow better French. Ah, I have it. I will fetch Chovet. We have not spoken for a month, because—but no matter, he will come."

There was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. "I will send for him at once, Aunt Gainor," said Mrs. Swanwick.

To De Courval's surprise, it was Margaret who answered. "He will come the quicker for Aunt Gainor, mother. Every one does as she wants." This was to De Courval.

"Except you, you demure little Quaker kitten. I must go," and the masterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followed by Schmidt and De Courval.

"A chair. I can't mount as I used to." Her black groom brought out a chair. In a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallion and clattering up Front Street with perilous indifference to an ill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-passenger. She struck up Spruce Street and the unpaved road then called Delaware Fifth Street and so down Arch. It was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles and people a-foot. Suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horse as she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrown back, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. Within sat a man who would have served for the English stage presentation of a Frenchman—a spare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he was dressed in the height of the most extravagant fashion of a day fond of color. The conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay between his legs. At sight of Mistress Wynne he applied the whip and called out to his horse in a shrill voice, "Allez. Get on, Ça Ira!"

The spinster cried to him as they came near: "Stop, stop, Doctor! I want you. Stop—do you hear me?"

He had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political passage of arms, and turned to go by her. With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of Ça Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the doctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. "SacrÉ bleu!" he cried, "I might have been killed. Quelle femme! What a woman! And my wig—" It was in the street dust.

"Why did you not stop? Get the man's wig, Tom." The groom, grinning, dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in his hand.

"My wig—give it to me."

"No, don't give it to him." The doctor looked ruefully from the black to the angry spinster.

"What means this, madame? My wig—"

"I want you to go at once to see a sick woman at Mrs. Swanwick's."

"I will not. I am sent for in haste. In an hour or two I will go, or this afternoon."

"I don't believe you. You must go now—now. Who is it is ill?" People paused, astonished and laughing.

"It is Citizen Jefferson. He is ill, very ill."

"I am glad of it. He must wait—this citizen."

"But he has a chill—un diable of a chill."

"If the devil himself had a chill,—Lord, but it would refresh him!—he would have to wait."

He tried to pass by. She seized the rein of his horse. Her blood was up, and at such times few men cared to face her.

"You will go," she cried, "and at once, or—there is a tale I heard about you last year in London from Dr. Abernethy. That highwayman—you know the story. Your wig I shall keep. It is freshly powdered. Lord, man, how bald you are!"

He grew pale around his rouge. "You would not, surely."

"Would I not? Come, now, I won't tell—oh, not every one. Be a good doctor. I have quarreled with Dr. Rush—and come and see me to-morrow. I have a horrid rheum. And as to Citizen Jefferson, he won't die, more's the pity."

He knew from the first he must go, and by good luck no one he knew was in sight to turn him into ridicule for the pleasure of the great Federalist dames.

"Give him his wig, Tom." The little doctor sadly regarded the dusty wig. Then he readjusted his head-gear and said he would go.

"Now, that's a good doctor. Come," and she rode off again after him, by no means inclined to set him free to change his mind.

At Mrs. Swanwick's door, as he got out of his chaise, she said: "This lady speaks only French. She is the Vicomtesse de Courval. And now, mind you, Doctor, no citizenesses or any such Jacobin nonsense."

"A votre service, madame," he said, and rapped discreetly low, feeling just at present rather humble and as meek as Ça Ira.

Mistress Wynne waited until the door closed behind him, and then rode away refreshed. Turning to her black groom, she said, "If you tell, Tom, I will kill you."

"Yes, missus."

"At all events, he won't bleed her," she reflected, "and he has more good sense than most of them. That young fellow is a fine figure of a man. I wonder what kind of clerk Hugh will make of him. I must have him to dine."

In the hall Dr. Chovet met Schmidt, who knew him, as, in fact, he knew every one of any importance in the city.

"These are to me friends, Doctor," he said. "I beg of you to come often," a request to the doctor's liking, as it seemed to carry better assurance of pay than was the usual experience among his emigrant countrymen. He was at once a little more civil. He bowed repeatedly, was much honored, and after asking a few questions of De Courval, went up-stairs with Mrs. Swanwick, reflecting upon how some day he could avenge himself on Gainor Wynne.

De Courval, relieved by his presence and a little amused, said, smiling, "I hope he is a good doctor."

"Yes, he is competent. He manufactures his manners for the moment's need."

The doctor came down in half an hour, and, speaking French of the best, said: "Madame has had troubles, I fear, and the long voyage and no appetite for sea diet—bad, bad. It is only a too great strain on mind and body. There needs repose and shortly wine,—good Bordeaux claret,—and soon, in a week or two, to drive out and take the air. There is no cause for alarm, but it will be long, long."

Schmidt went with him to the door. De Courval sat down. Wine, drives, a doctor, and for how long? And perhaps additions to the simple diet of this modest household. Well, he must use some of the small means in Wynne's hands. And these women, with their cares, their brave self-denial of all help, how could he ever repay this unlooked-for kindness?

His mother soon grew better, and, having again seen Mr. Wynne, he felt that he might shortly take up the work which awaited him.

Meanwhile, the gentle nursing was effective, and went on without complaint and as a matter of course. Miss Wynne came at odd hours to inquire or to fetch some luxury, and soon the vicomte must call to see her.

The days went by, and there were strawberries for madame from Mr. Langstroth and from Merion, walks for De Courval, or a pull on the water with Schmidt, and anxiously desired news from France. At last, after a fortnight or more, well on into June, the doctor insisted on claret, and De Courval asked of Schmidt where it could be had. The German laughed. "I might lie to you, and I should at need, but I have already for the mother's use good Bordeaux in the cellar."

De Courval colored, and, hesitating, asked, "How much am I in your debt?"

"Six months of the five years. It is I shall be long in debt, I fear. It cannot be all on one side. The life of a man! What credit hath it in the account of things? Suppose it had gone the other way, would you contented bide?"

"Not I," laughed De Courval.

"Let us say, then, I have paid a score of thanks; credit me with these—one should be prudent. Only in the Bible it is a thank,—one. Be careful of the coin. Let it rest there. So you go to work to-morrow. It is well; for you have been anxious of late, and for that exacting work is no bad remedy."

The next day De Courval found himself before seven-thirty in the counting-house. "It is hard in winter," said the clerk who was to instruct him. "Got to make the fires then. Mr. Potts is particular. You must leave no dust, and here are brooms in the closet." And so, perched on a high stool, the clerk, well amused, watched his successor, Louis RenÉ, Vicomte de Courval, sweep out the counting-house.

"By George!" said the critic, "you will wear out a broom a day. What a dust! Sweep it up in the dust-pan. Sprinkle it first with the watering-pot. Lord, man, don't deluge it! And now a little sand. Don't build a sea-beach. Throw out the dust on the ash-heap behind the house." It was done at last.

"Take your coat off next time. The clerks will be here soon, but we have a few minutes. Come out and I will show you the place. Oh, this is your desk, quills, paper, and sand, and 'ware old man Potts."

They went on to the broad landing between the warehouse and Dock Creek. "There are two brigs from Madeira in the creek, partly unloaded."

The great tuns of Madeira wine filled the air with vinous odors, and on one side, under a shed, were staves and salt fish from the North for return cargoes, and potatoes, flour, and onions in ropes for the French islands.

"The ship outside," said the clerk, "is from the Indies with tea and silks, and for ballast cheap blue Canton china."

The vessels and the thought of far-away seas pleased the young man. The big ship, it seemed, had been overhauled by a small British privateer.

"But there is no war?"

"No, but they claim to take our goods billed for any French port, and as many men as they choose to call English."

"And she beat them off?"

"Yes; Mr. Wynne gave the master a silver tankard, and a hundred dollars for the men."

De Courval was excited and pleased. It was no day of tame, peaceful commerce. Malayan pirates in the East, insolent English cruisers to be outsailed, the race home of rival ships for a market, made every voyage what men fitly called a venture. Commerce had its romance. Strange things and stranger stories came back from far Indian seas.

After this introduction, he thanked his instructor, and returning to the counting-house, was gravely welcomed and asked to put in French two long letters for Martinique and to translate and write out others. He went away for his noonday meal, and, returning, wrote and copied and resolutely rewrote, asking what this and that term of commerce meant, until his back ached when he went home at six. He laughed as he gave his mother a humorous account of it all, but not of the sweeping.

Then she declared the claret good, and what did it cost? Oh, not much. He had not the bill as yet.

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