Читать книгу The Red City - S. Weir Mitchell - Страница 6

"Quand tout renait à l'espérance,

Et que l'hiver fuit loin de nous,

Sous le beau ciel de notre France,

Quand le soleil revient plus doux;

Quand la nature est reverdie,

Quand l'hirondelle est de retour,

J'aime à revoir ma Normandie,

C'est le pays qui m'a donné le jour!"

The cares and doubts and worries of yesterday were gone—washed out of him, as it were, in nature's baptismal regeneration of mind and body. All that he himself recognized was a glad sense of the return of competence and of some self-assurance of capacity to face the new world of men and things.

He wandered into the wood and said good morning to two men who, as they told him, were "falling a tree." He gathered flowers, white violets, the star flower, offered tobacco for their pipes, which they accepted, and asked them what flower was this. "We call them Quaker ladies." He went away wondering what poet had so named them. In the town he bought two rolls and ate them as he walked, like the great Benjamin. About nine o'clock, returning to the hotel, he threw the flowers in his mother's lap as he kissed her. He saw to her breakfast, chatted hopefully, and when, about noon, she insisted on going with him to seek for lodgings, he was pleased at her revived strength. The landlord regretted that they must leave, and gave addresses near by. Unluckily, none suited their wants or their sense of need for rigid economy; and, moreover, the vicomtesse was more difficult to please than the young man thought quite reasonable. They were pausing, perplexed, near the southwest corner of Chestnut and Fifth streets when, having passed two gentlemen standing at the door of a brick building known as the Philosophical Society, De Courval said, "I will go back and ask where to apply for information." He had been struck with the unusual height of one of the speakers, and with the animation of his face as he spoke, and had caught as he went by a phrase or two; for the stouter man spoke in a loud, strident voice, as if at a town meeting. "I hope, Citizen, you liked the last 'Gazette.' It is time to give men their true labels. Adams is a monarchist and Hamilton is an aristocrat."

The taller man, a long, lean figure, returned in a more refined voice: "Yes, yes; it is, I fear, only too true. I hope, Citizen, to live to see the end of the titles they love, even Mr.; for who is the master of a freeman?"

"How droll is that, maman!" said De Courval, half catching this singular interchange of sentiment.

"Why, René? What is droll?"

"Oh, nothing." He turned back, and addressing the taller man said: "Pardon me, sir, but we are strangers in search of some reasonable lodging-house. May I ask where we could go to find some one to direct us?"

The gentleman appealed to took off his hat, bowing to the woman, and then, answering the son, said, "My friend, Citizen Freneau, may know." The citizen had small interest in the matter. The taller man, suddenly struck by the woman's grave and moveless face and the patient dignity of her bearing, began to take an interest in this stranded couple, considering them with his clear hazel eyes. As he stood uncovered, he said: "Tell them, Freneau! Your paper must have notices—advertisements. Where shall they inquire?"

Freneau did not know, but quick to note his companion's interest, said presently: "Oh, yes, they might learn at the library. They keep there a list of lodging-houses."

"That will do," said the lean man. Madame, understanding that they were to be helped by this somber-looking gentleman, said, "Je vous remercie, messieurs."

"My mother thanks you, sir."

Then there was of a sudden cordiality. Most of the few French known to Freneau were Republicans and shared his extreme opinions. The greater emigration from the islands and of the beggared nobles was not as yet what it was to become.

"You are French?" said Freneau.

"Yes, we are French."

"I was myself about to go to the library," said the taller man, and, being a courteous gentleman gone mad with "gallic fever," added in imperfect French, "If madame will permit me; it is near by, and I shall have the honor to show the way."

Then Citizen Freneau of the new "National Gazette," a clerk in the Department of State, was too abruptly eager to help; but at last saying "Good-by, Citizen Jefferson," went his way as the statesman, talking his best French to the handsome woman at his side, went down Chestnut Street, while De Courval, relieved, followed them and reflected with interest—for he had learned many things on the voyage—that the tall man in front must be the former minister to France, the idol of the Democratic party, and the head of that amazing cabinet of diverse opinions which the great soldier president had gathered about him. East of Fourth Street, Mr. Jefferson turned into a court, and presently stood for a moment on the front step of a two-story brick building known as Carpenter's Hall, over which a low spire still bore a forgotten crown. Not less forgotten were Jefferson's democratic manners. He was at once the highly educated and well-loved Virginian of years ago.

He had made good use of his time, and the woman at his side, well aware of the value of being agreeable, had in answer to a pleasant question given her name, and presently had been told by the ex-minister his own name, with which she was not unfamiliar.

"Here, madame," he said, "the first Congress met. I had the misfortune not to be of it."

"But later, monsieur—later, you can have had nothing to regret."

"Certainly not to-day," said the Virginian. He paused as a tall, powerfully built man, coming out with a book in his hand, filled the doorway.

"Good morning, Mr. Wynne," said Jefferson. "Is the librarian within?"

"Yes; in the library, up-stairs."

Hearing the name of the gentleman who thus replied, the young vicomte said:

"May I ask, sir, if you are Mr. Hugh Wynne?"

"Yes, I am; and, if I am not mistaken, you are the Vicomte de Courval, and this, your mother. Ah, madame," he said in French, far other than that of the secretary, "I missed you at Oeller's, and I am now at your service. What can I do for you?"

The vicomtesse replied that they had been guided hither by Mr. Jefferson to find a list of lodging-houses.

"Then let us go and see about it."

"This way, Vicomte," said Jefferson. "It is up-stairs, madame." Ah, where now were the plain manners of democracy and the scorn of titles? A low, sweet voice had bewitched him, the charm of perfect French at its best.

The United States bank was on the first floor, and the clerks looked up with interest at the secretary and his companions as they passed the open door. De Courval lingered to talk with Wynne, both in their way silently amused at the capture by the vicomtesse of the gentleman with Jacobin principles.

The room up-stairs was surrounded with well-filled book-shelves. Midway, at a table, sat Zachariah Poulson, librarian, who was at once introduced, and who received them with the quiet good manners of his sect. A gentleman standing near the desk looked up from the book in his hand. While Mr. Poulson went in search of the desired list, Mr. Wynne said: "Good morning, James. I thought, Mr. Secretary, you knew Mr. Logan. Permit me to add agreeably to your acquaintance." The two gentlemen bowed, and Wynne added: "By the way, do you chance to know, Mr. Secretary, that Mr. Logan is hereditary librarian of the Loganian Library, and every Logan in turn if he pleases—our only inherited title."

"Not a very alarming title," said the Quaker gentleman, demurely.

"We can stand that much," said Jefferson, smiling as he turned to Madame de Courval, while her son, a little aside, waited for the list and surveyed with interest the Quakers, the statesman, and the merchant who seemed so friendly.

At this moment came forward a woman of some forty years; rose-red her cheeks within the Quaker bonnet, and below all was sober gray, with a slight, pearl-colored silk shawl over her shoulders.

"Good morning, Friend Wynne. Excuse me, Friend Jefferson," she said. "May I be allowed a moment of thy time, James Logan?" The gentlemen drew back. She turned to the vicomtesse. "Thou wilt permit me. I must for home shortly. James Logan, there is a book William Bingham has praised to my daughter. I would first know if it be fitting for her to read. It is called, I believe, 'Thomas Jones.'"

Mr. Jefferson's brow rose a little, the hazel eyes confessed some merriment, and a faint smile went over the face of Hugh Wynne as Logan said: "I cannot recommend it to thee, Mary Swanwick."

"Thank thee," she said simply. "There is too much reading of vain books among Friends. I fear I am sometimes a sinner myself; but thy aunt, Mistress Gainor, Hugh, laughs at me, and spoils the girl with books—too many for her good, I fear."

"Ah, she taught me worse wickedness than books when I was young," said Wynne; "but your girl is less easy to lead astray. Oh, a word, Mary," and he lowered his voice. "Here are two French people I want you to take into your house."

"If it is thy wish, Hugh; but although there is room and to spare, we live, of need, very simply, as thou knowest."

"That is not thy Uncle Langstroth's fault or mine."

"Yes, yes. Thou must know how wilful I am. But Friend Schmidt is only too generous, and we have what contents me, and should content Margaret, if it were not for the vain worldliness Gainor Wynne puts into the child's head. Will they like Friend Schmidt?"

"He will like them, Mary Swanwick. You are a fair French scholar yourself. Perhaps they may teach you—they are pleasant people." He, too, had been captured by the sweet French tongue he loved.

"They have some means," he added, "and I shall see about the young man. He seems more English than French, a staid young fellow. You may make a Quaker of him, Mary."

"Thou art foolish, Hugh Wynne; but I will take them."

Then the perverted Secretary of State went away. Mrs. Swanwick, still in search of literature, received an innocent book called "The Haunted Priory, or the Fortunes of the House of Almy." There were pleasant introductions, and, to De Courval's satisfaction, their baggage would be taken in charge, a chaise sent in the afternoon for his mother and himself, and for terms—well, that might bide awhile until they saw if all parties were suited. The widow, pleased to oblige her old friend, had still her reserve of doubt and some thought as to what might be said by her permanent inmate, Mr. Johann Schmidt.