Long before the first gun had been fired at Fort Sumter, Madame la Marquise was able to laugh over that summer-time madness of hers, and ridicule herself for the wasted force of that infatuation.

She was no longer a recluse unacquainted with men. The prophecy of Madame, the dowager, that if left alone she would return to the convent, had not been verified. The death of the dowager occurred their first winter in Paris, after Geneva, and the Marquise had not yet shown a predilection for nunneries.

She had seen the world, and it pleased her well enough; indeed, the portion of the world she came in contact with did its best to please her, and with a certain feverish eagerness she went half way to meet it.

People called her a coquette––the most dangerous of coquettes, because she was not a cold one. She was responsive and keenly interested up to the point where admirers declared themselves, and proposals of marriage followed; after that, every man was just like every other one! Yet she was possessed of an idea that somewhere there existed a hitherto undiscovered specimen who could discuss the emotions and the philosophies in delightful sympathy, and restrain the expression of his own personal emotions to tones and glances, those indefinite suggestions that thrill yet call for no open reproof––no reversal of friendship.

So, that was the man she was seeking in the multitudes––and 102 on the way there were surely amusements to be found!

Dumaresque remonstrated. She defended herself with the avowal that she was only avenging weaker womanhood, smiled at, won, and forgotten, as his sex were fond of forgetting.

“But we expect better things of women,” he declared warmly; “not a deliberate intention of playing with hearts to see how many can be hurt in a season. Judithe, you are no longer the same woman. Where is the justice you used to gauge every one by? Where the mercy to others weaker than yourself?”

“Gone!” she laughed lightly; “driven away in self-defense! I have had to put mercy aside lest it prove my master. The only safeguard against being too warm to all may be to be cool to all. You perceive that would never––never do. So––!”

“End all this unsatisfied, feverish life by marrying me,” he pleaded. “I will take you from Paris. With all your social success you have never been happy here; we will travel. You promised, Judithe, and––”

“Chut! Loris; you are growing ungallant. You should never remember a woman’s promise after she has forgotten it. We were betrothed––yes. But did I not assure you I might never marry? Maman was made happy for a little while by the fancy; but now?––well, matrimony is no more appealing to me than it ever was, and you would not want an indifferent wife. I like you, you best of all those men you champion, but I love none of you! Not that I am lacking in affection, but rather, incapable of concentrating it on one object.”

“Once, it was not so; I have not forgotten the episode of Fontainbleu.”

“That? Pouf! I have learned things since then, Loris. 103 I have learned that once, at least, in every life love seems to have been born on earth for the first time; happy those whom it does not visit too late! Well! I, also, had to have my little experience; it had to be some one; so it was that stranger. But I have outgrown all that; we always outgrow those things, do we not? I compare him now with the men I have known since, and he shrinks, he dwindles! I care only for intellectual men, and the artistic temperament. He had neither. Yes, it is true; the girlish fancies appear ridiculous in so short a time.”

Dumaresque agreed that it was true of any fancy, to one of fickle nature.

“No, it is not fickleness,” she insisted. “Have you no boyish loves of the past hidden away, each in their separate nook of memory? Confess! Are you and the world any the worse for them? Certainly not. They each contributed a certain amount towards the education of the emotions. Well; is my education to be neglected because you fear I shall injure the daintily-bound books in the human library? I shall not, Loris. I only flutter the leaves a little and glance at the pictures they offer, but I never covet one of them for my own, and never read one to the finale, hence––”

Dumaresque left soon after for an extended artistic pilgrimage into northern Africa, and people began to understand that there would be no wedding. The engagement had only been made to comfort the dowager.

Judithe de Caron regretted his departure more than she had regretted anything since the death of the woman who had been a mother to her. There was no one else with whom she could be so candid––no man who inspired her with the same confidence. She compared him with the 104 American, and told herself how vastly her friend was the superior.

Had McVeigh been one of the scholarly soldiers of Europe, such as she had since known––men of breadth and learning, she could have understood her own infatuation. But he was certainly provincial, and not at all learned. She had met many cadets since, and had studied them. They knew their military tactics––the lessons of their schools. They flirted with the grissettes, and took on airs; they drank and had pride in emptying more glasses and walking straighter afterwards than their comrades. They were very good fellows, but heavens! how shallow they were! So he must have been. She tried to remember a single sentence uttered by him containing wisdom of any sort whatever––there had not been one. His silences had been links to bind her to him. His glances had been revelations, and his words had been only: “I adore you.”

So many men had said the same thing since. It seemed always the sort of thing men said when conversation flagged. But in those earlier days she had not known that, hence the fact that she––well, she knew now!

Twice she had met that one-time bondwoman, Kora, and the meeting left her thoughtful, and not entirely satisfied with herself.

How wise she could be in advice to that pretty butterfly! How plainly she could work out a useful life to be followed by––some one else!

Her more thoughtful moods demanded: Why not herself? Her charities of the street, her subscriptions to worthy funds, her patronage of admirable institutions, all these meant nothing. Dozens of fashionables and would-be fashionables did the same. It was expected of them. 105 Those charities opened a door through which many entered the inner circles.

She had fitful desires to do the things people did not expect. She detested the shams of life around her in that inner circle. She felt at times she would like to get them all under her feet––trample them down and make room for something better; but for what? She did not know. She was twenty-one, wealthy, her own mistress, and was tired of it all. When she drove past laughing Kora on the avenue she was more tired of it than ever.

“How am I better than she but by accident?” she asked herself. “She amuses herself––poor little bondslave, who has only changed masters! I amuse myself (without a master, it is true, and more elegantly, perhaps), but with as little usefulness to the world.”

She felt ashamed when she thought of Alain and his mother, who seemed to have lived only to help others. They had given over the power to her, and how poorly she had acquitted herself!

Once––when she first came with the dowager to Paris––the days had been all too short for her plans and dreams of usefulness; how long ago that seemed.

Now, she knew that the owner of wealth is the victim of multitudinous schemes of the mendicant, whether of the street corner or the fashionable missions. She had lost faith in the efficacy of alms. No cause came to her with force enough to re-awaken her enthusiasms. Everything was so tame––so old!

One day she read in a journal that the usefulness of Kora as a dancer was over. There had been an accident at the theatre, her foot was smashed; not badly enough to call for amputation, but too much for her ever to dance again.

The Marquise wondered if the fair-weather friends would 106 desert her now. She had heard of Trouvelot, an exquisite who followed the fashions in everything, and Kora had succeeded in being the fashion for two seasons. She was just as pretty, no doubt––just as adorable, but––

As the weeks of that winter went by rumors from the Western world were thick with threats of strife. State after State had seceded. The South was marshalling her forces, training her men, urging the necessity of defending State rights and maintaining their power to govern a portion as ably as they had the whole of the United States during the eighty years of its governmental life. The North, with its factories, its foreign commerce, and its manifold requirements, had bred the politicians of the country. But the South, with its vast agricultural States, its wealth, and its traditions of landed ancestry, had produced the orators––the statesman––the men who had shone most brilliantly in the pages of their national history.

From the shores of France one could watch some pretty moves in the games evolving about that promise of civil war; the creeping forward of England to help widen the breach between the divided sections, and the swift swinging of Russian war vessels into the harbors of the Atlantic––the silent bear of the Russias facing her hereditary English foe and forbidding interference, until the lion gave way with low growlings, not daring to even roar his chagrin, but contenting himself with night-prowlings during the four years that followed.

All those wheels within wheels were discussed around the Marquise de Caron in those days. Her acquaintance with the representatives of different nations and the diplomats of her own, made her aware of many unpublished moves for advantage in the game they surveyed. The discussion of them, and guesses as to the finale, helped to awake her 107 from the lethargy she had deplored. Remembering that the McVeighs belonged to a seceding state, she asked many questions and forgot none of the replies.

“Madame La Marquise, I was right,” said a white moustached general one night at a great ball, where she appeared. “Was it not a rose you wagered me? I have won. War is declared in America. In South Carolina, today, the Confederates won the first point, and secured a Federal fort.”

“General! they have not dared!”

“Madame, those Southerons are daring above everything. I have met them. Their men are fighters, and they will be well officered.”

Well officered! She thought of Kenneth McVeigh, he would be one of them; yes, she supposed that was one thing he could do––fight; a thing requiring brute strength, brute courage!

“So!” said the Countess Biron, who seldom was acquainted with the causes of any wars outside those of court circles, “this means that if the Northern States should retaliate and conquer, all the slaves would be free?”

“Not at all, Countess. The North does not interfere with slavery where it exists, only protests against its extension to greater territory.”

“Oh! Well; I understood it had something to do with the Africans. That clever young Delaven devoted an entire hour to my enlightenment yesterday. And my poor friend, Madame McVeigh, you remember her, Judithe? She is in the Carolinas. I tremble to think of her position now; an army of slaves surrounding them, and, of course, only awaiting the opportunity for insurrection.”

“And Louisiana seceded two months ago,” said the Marquise, and then smiled. “You will think me a mercenary creature,” she declared, “but I have property in New Orleans 108 which I have never seen, and I am wondering whether its value will rise or fall because of the proposed change of government.”

“You have never seen it?”

“No; it was a purchase made by my husband from some home-sick relative, who had thought to remain there, but could not live away from France. I have promised myself to visit it some day. It would be exceedingly difficult to do so now, I suppose, but how much more spirited a journey it would be; for each side will have vessels on guard all along the coast, will they not?”

“There will at least be enough to deter most ladies from taking adventurous pilgrimages in that direction. I shall not advise you to go unless under military escort, Marquise.”

“I shall notify you, General, when my preparations are made; in the meantime here is your rose; and would not my new yacht do for the journey?”

So, jesting and questioning, she accepted his arm and made the circle of the rooms. Everywhere they heard fragments of the same topic. Americans were there from both sections. She saw a pretty woman from Alabama nod and smile, but put her hands behind her when a hitherto friendly New Yorker gave her greeting.

“We women can’t do much to help,” she declared, in those soft tones of the South, “but we can encourage our boys by being pronounced in our sympathies. I certainly shall not shake hands with a Northerner who may march with the enemy against our men; how can I?”

“Suppose we talk it over and try to find a way,” he suggested. Then they both smiled and passed on together. Judithe de Caron found herself watching them with a little ache in her heart. She could see they were almost, if not 109 quite, lovers; yet all their hopes were centered on opposite victories. How many––many such cases there must be!

Before spring had merged into summer, a lady, veiled, and giving no name, was announced to the Marquise. Rather surprised at the mysterious call, she entered the reception room, and was again surprised when the lifted veil disclosed the handsome face of the octoroon, Kora.

She had lost some of her brilliant color, and her expression was more settled, it had less of the butterfly brightness.

“You see, Madame, I have at last taken you at your word.”

The Marquise, who was carefully noting the alteration in her, bowed, but made no remark. The face of the octoroon showed uncertainty.

“Perhaps––perhaps I have waited too long,” she said, and half rose.

“No, no; you did right to come. I expected you––yes, really! Now be seated and tell me what it is.”

“First, that you were a prophetess, Madame,” and the full lips smiled without merriment. “I am left alone, now that I have neither money nor the attraction for the others. He only followed the crowd––to me, and away from me!”

“Well?”

“Well, it is not about that I come! But, Madame, I am going to America; not to teach, as you advised, but I see now a way in which I can really help.”

“Help whom?”

Her visitor regarded her with astonishment; was it possible that she, the woman whose words had aroused the first pride of race in her, the first thought of her people unlinked with shame! That she had so soon forgotten? Had 110 she remembered the pupil, but failed to recall the lesson taught?

“You have probably forgotten the one brief conversation with which you honored me, Madame. But I mean the people we discussed then––my people.”

“You mean the colored people.”

“Certainly, Madame.”

“But you are more white than colored.”

“Oh, yes; that is true, but the white blood would not count in America if it were known there was one drop of black blood in my mother. But no one need know it; I go from France, I will speak only French, and if you would only help me a little.”

She grew prettier in her eagerness, and her eyes brightened. The Marquise smiled at the change enthusiasm made.

“You must tell me the object for which you go.”

“It is the war, Madame; in time this war must free the colored folks; it is talked of already; it is said the North will put colored soldiers in the field; that will be the little, thin edge of the wedge, and if I could only get there, if you would help me to some position, or a recommendation to people in New Orleans; any way so that people would not ask questions or be curious about me––if you would only do that madame!”

“But what will you do when there?”

The girl glanced about the room and spoke more softly.

“I am trusting you, Madame, without asking who you side with in our war, but even if you are against us I––I trust you! They tell me the South is the strongest. They have been getting ready for this a long time. The North will need agents in the South. I have learned some things here––people talk so much. I am going to Washington. 111 From there I will go south. No one will know me in New Orleans. I will change my name, and I promise not to bring discredit on any recommendation you may give me.”

“It is a plan filled with difficulties and dangers. What has moved you to contemplate such sacrifices?”

“You, Madame!” The Marquise flushed slightly. “From the time you talked to me I wanted to do something, be something better. But, you know, it seemed no use; there was no need of me anywhere but in Paris. That is all over. I can go now, and I have some information worth taking to the Federal government. The South has commissioners here now. I have learned all they have accomplished, and the people they have interested, so if I had a little help––”

“You shall have it!” declared the Marquise. “I have been dying of ennui. Your plan is a cure for me––better than a room full of courtiers! But if I give you letters it must be to my lawyers in New Orleans––clever, shrewd men––and I should have to trust you entirely, remember.”

“I shall not forget, Madame.”

“Very good; come tomorrow. What can you do about an establishment such as mine? Ladies maid? Housekeeper? Governess?”

“Any of those; but only governess to very small children.”

“Come tomorrow. I shall have planned something by then. I have an engagement in a few minutes, and have no more time today. By the way, have you ever been in Georgia or South Carolina?”

Kora hesitated, and then said: “Yes, Madame.”

“Have you any objection to going back there?”

The octoroon looked at her in a startled, suspicious way.

“I hesitate to reply to that, Madame, for reasons! I 112 don’t mind telling you, though, that there is one place in America where I might be claimed, if they knew me. I am not anxious to visit that place.”

“Naturally! Tomorrow at eleven I will see you, and you can tell me all about it. If I am to act as your protectress I must know all you can tell me––all! It is the only way. I like the mystery and intrigue of the whole affair. It promises new sensations. I will help you show that government that you are willing to help your people. Come tomorrow.”

A few days later the Marquise set her new amusement on foot by bidding adieu to a demure, dark eyed, handsome girl, who was garbed most sedately, and whose letters of introduction pronounced her––oh, sentiment or irony of women––Madame Louise Trouvelot, an attache of the Caron establishment, commissioned by the Marquise to inspect the dwellings on the Caron estate in New Orleans, and report as to whether any one of them would be suitable for a residence should the owner desire to visit the city. If none should prove so, Louise Trouvelot, who comprehended entirely the needs of the Marquise, was further commissioned to look up such a residence with a view to purchase, and communicate with the Marquise and with her American lawyers, who were to give assistance to Louise Trouvelot in several business matters, especially relating to her quest.