The weeks before Mrs. Swanwick's household returned to the city were for De Courval of the happiest. He was gathering again his former strength in the matchless weather of our late autumnal days. To take advantage of the re-awakened commerce and to return to work was, as Wynne urged, unwise for a month or more. The American politics of that stormy time were to the young noble of small moment, and the Terror, proclaimed in France 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 the question.

With the passing of the plague, GenÊt and his staff had come back; but for RenÉ to think of what he eagerly desired was only to be reminded of his own physical feebleness.

Meanwhile GenÊt's insolent demands went on, and the insulted cabinet was soon about to ask for his recall, when, as Schmidt hoped, Carteaux would also leave the country. The enthusiasm for the French republic was at first in no wise lessened by GenÊt's conduct, although his threat to appeal to the country against Washington called out at last a storm of indignation which no one of the minister's violations of law and of the courtesies of life had yet occasioned. At first it was held to be an invention of "black-hearted Anglican aristocrats," but when it came out in print, GenÊt was at once alarmed at the mischief he had made. He had seriously injured his Republican allies,—in fact, nearly ruined the party, said Madison,—for at no time in our history was Washington more venerated. The Democratic leaders begged men not to blame the newly founded republic, "so gloriously cemented with the blood of aristocrats," for the language of its insane envoy. The Federalists would have been entirely pleased, save that neither England nor France was dealing wisely with our commerce, now ruined by the exactions of privateers and ships of war. Both parties wailed over this intolerable union of insult and injury; but always the President stood for peace, and, contemplating a treaty with England, was well aware how hopeless would be a contest on sea or land with the countries which, recklessly indifferent to international law, were ever tempting us to active measures of resentment. For De Courval the situation had, as it seemed, no personal interest. There has been some need, however, to remind my readers of events which were not without influence upon the fortunes of those with whom this story is concerned.

Schmidt was earnestly desirous that they should still remain in the country, and this for many reasons. De Courval and he would be the better for the cool autumn weather, and both were quickly gathering strength. Madame de Courval had rejoined them. The city was in mourning. Whole families had been swept away. There were houses which no one owned, unclaimed estates, and men missing of whose deaths there was no record, while every day or two the little family of refugees heard of those dead among the middle class or of poor acquaintances of whose fates they had hitherto learned nothing. Neither Schmidt nor RenÉ would talk of the horrors they had seen, and the subject was by tacit agreement altogether avoided.

Meanwhile they rode, walked, and fished in the Schuylkill. Schmidt went now and then to town on business, and soon, the fear of the plague quite at an end, party strife was resumed, and the game of politics began anew, 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 longer walk!"

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

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

"Then asters," she called.

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

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

"I must get me a net, mother, such as the President wore one First Day at 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 art powdered 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 in sight. Let me hide it, mother."

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

Schmidt, lingering, said: "It is the pins. They must needs be hid in the folds not to be seen. Ah, vanity has many disguises. It is only to be neat, thou seest, RenÉ, and not seem to be solicitous concerning appearances." Few things escaped the German.

They walked away, and as they went saw Mistress Gainor Wynne go by in her landau with Langstroth. "That is queer to be seen—the damsel in her seventies and uncle bulldog Josiah. He had a permanent ground rent on her hill estate as lasting as time, a matter of some ten pounds. They have 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, and what she did to the man I know not; but the rent is redeemed, and they are bent on mischief, the pair of them. As I was not to speak of it, I did not; but if you tell never shall I be forgiven." He threw his long bulk on the grass and laughed great laughter.

"But what is it?" said RenÉ.

"Guter Himmel, man! the innocent pair are gone to persuade the Pearl and the sweet mother shell—she that made it—to take that lottery prize. I would I could see them."

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

"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 up my stock of it. When Cicero came in one day, he fetched a letter to Stephen Girard from my Pearl. She had won her mother to consent, and Girard arranged it all, and, lo! the great prize of money is gone long ago to help the poor and the sick. Now the ministers of Princeton College 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 to be careful how they talk to Madame of the girl. There is a not mild maternal tigress caged somewhere inside of the gentlewoman. 'Ware claws, if you are wise, Friend Waln!" De Courval laughed, and they went on their way again, for a long time silent.

At Flat Rock, above the swiftly flowing Schuylkill, they sat down, and Schmidt, saying, "At last the pipe tastes good," began to talk in the strain of joyous excitement which for him the beautiful in nature always evoked, when for a time his language became singular. "Ah, RenÉ, it is worth 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 the great 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, SpÄtsommer; but it is not as here. See how the loitering leaves, red and gold, rock in mid-air. A serene expectancy is in the lingering hours. It is as still as a dream of prayer that awaiteth answer. Listen, RenÉ, how the breeze is stirring the spruces, and hark, it is—ah, yes—the Angelus of evening."

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

"Yes, yes. There is no sorrow for me in the autumn here, but after comes the winter." His mood of a sudden changed. "Let us talk of another world, RenÉ—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 be the case. He said, however, "I do not know of anything, sir, which you may not freely ask me."

He was more at ease when Schmidt said, "We are in the strange position of 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, a stranger in a strange land; nor what your example, your society, have been to me."

"Thank you, RenÉ; I could gather more of good from you than you from me."

"Oh, sir!"

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

"I shall be."

"When I was ill I babbled. I was sometimes half-conscious, and was as one man helplessly watching another on the rack telling about him things he 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 know that 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 reasons why it must be a secret—perhaps for years or always. I am Graf von Ehrenstein; but I am more than that—much more and few even in Germany know 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 heard in confession."

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

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

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

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

"No, not quite; who could? After two years my father's interest obtained my freedom at the cost of my exile. My wife had died in giving birth to a 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 to England and France, and then came hither to breathe a freer air, and, as you know, have prospered, and am, for America, rich. You cannot know the disgust 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, and subject me to comment and to inquiry I wished to avoid. You have earned the right to know my story, as I know yours. Mr. Alexander Hamilton and my business adviser, Mr. Justice Wilson, alone know my name and title, and, I may add, Mr. Gouverneur Morris. I shall say to the two former that you share this knowledge. They alone know why it is reasonable and, indeed, may have been prudent that, until my return home, I remain unknown. It is needless to go farther into the matter with you. This simple life is to my taste, but I may some day have to go back to my own land—I devoutly trust never. We shall not again open a too painful subject."

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

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

As they drew near to the house the German said: "Ach, I forgot. In December I suppose we must go to the city. You are not as yet fit for steady 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 be foolish about it. There are rents to gather in, journeys to make. Let me give 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 young man feeling himself in such relation to the older friend as made this adjustment altogether agreeable and a glad release from a return to the routine of the counting-house.

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

The simple and wholesome life of the Quaker household had done much to satisfy the vicomtesse, whose life had never of late years been one of great luxury, and as she slowly learned English, she came to recognize the qualities of refinement and self-sacrifice which, with unusual intelligence, made Mrs. Swanwick acceptably interesting. It became her custom at last to be more down-stairs, and to sit with her embroidery and talk while the knitting-needles clicked and the ball of wool hanging by its silver hoop from the Quaker lady's waist grew smaller. Sometimes they read aloud, French or English, or, with her rare smile, the vicomtesse would insist on sharing some small household duty. The serene atmosphere of the household, and what Schmidt called the gray religion of Friends, suited the Huguenot lady. As concerned her son, she was less at ease, and again, with some anxiety, she had spoken to him of his too evident pleasure in the society of Margaret, feeling strongly that two such young and attractive people might fall easily into relations which could end only in disappointment for one or both. The girl's mother was no less disturbed, and Schmidt, as observant, but in no wise troubled, looked on and, seeing, smiled, somewhat dreading for RenÉ the inevitable result of a return to town and an encounter with his enemy.

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

On the day following the revelations made by Schmidt, and just after breakfast, Margaret went out into the wood near by to gather autumn leaves. Seeing her disappear among the trees, De Courval presently followed her. Far in the woods he came upon her seated at the foot of a great tulip-tree. The basket at her side was full of club moss and gaily tinted toadstools. The red and yellow leaves of maple and oak, falling on her hair and her gray gown, made, as it seemed to him, a pleasant picture.

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

"We have nothing like this in France. How 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 didst thou 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 think thou must have been gathering pensÉes, as thy mother calls them; pansies, we say."

"Yes, thoughts, thoughts," he returned with sudden gravity—"pensÉes."

"They must have been of my cousin Shippen or of Fanny Cadwalader, only she is always laughing." This young woman, who still lives in all her beauty 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 them up—thy pensÉes. They must have been freaked with jet; for how serious thou 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 the more brilliantly colored leaves. "I have given thee something to think of. Tell me, now, what were the thoughts of jet in thy pensÉes—the dark 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 of revenge, of the guilt of blood, these gentle Quaker people?" Aloud he said: "You cannot think these thoughts of mine, and I am glad you cannot."

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

"And you? Would not you a little?"

"Yes, of course; and so would friend Schmidt. There, my basket will hold no 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 did once say the autumn has no answers. I think thou art like it." She rose as she spoke.

"Ah, but the spring may make reply in its time—in its time. Let me carry thy basket, Miss Margaret." She gave it to him with the woman's liking to be needlessly helped.

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

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

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

"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, "thou must 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 to thee in thy own tongue?"

She colored, remembering the lesson and her own shrewd guess at the lady's meaning, and how, as she was led to infer, to tutoyer, to say thou, inferred a certain degree of intimacy. "It is not fitting here except among Friends."

"And why not? In France we do it."

"Yes, sometimes, I have so heard." But to explain further was far from her intention. "It sounds foolish here, in people who are not of Friends. 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 easily catches habits of talk."

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

"As long as thou art thou, it will be hard to obey," he said, and she making no reply, they wandered homeward through level shafts of sunlight, while fluttering overhead on wings of red and gold, the cupids of the forest enjoyed the sport, and the young man murmured: "Thou and thee," dreaming of a walk with her in his own Normandy among the woodlands 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 meant to ask thee to tell me what thou didst do in the city. Friend Schmidt said to mother that Stephen Girard could not say too much of thee. Tell me about it, please."

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

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

"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 Daniel Offley."

"Mademoiselle!"

"What have I said?"

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

"I have had my lesson," she said. There were tears in her eyes, a little break 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 must say that thou too wert brave, oh, as brave as any—for I know—I have heard."

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

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

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