Part 2 (1/2)
”And, _maman_,” said her son, ”the streets are called for trees and the lanes for berries.” Disappointed at two inns of the better cla.s.s, there being no vacant rooms, they crossed High Street; the son amused at the market stands for fruit, fish, and ”garden truck, too,” the clerk said, with blacks crying, ”Calamus! sweet calamus!” and ”Pepper pot, smoking hot!” or ”Hominy! samp! grits! hominy!” Then, of a sudden, as they paused on the farther corner, madam cried out, ”_Mon Dieu!_” and her son a half-suppressed ”_Sacre!_” A heavy landau coming down Second Street b.u.mped heavily into a deep rut and there was a liberal splash of muddy water across madam's dark gown and the young man's clothes. In an instant the owner of the landau had alighted, hat in hand, a middle-aged man in velvet coat and knee-breeches.
”Madam, I beg a thousand pardons.”
”My mother does not speak English, sir. These things happen. It is they who made the street who should apologize. It is of small moment.”
”I thank you for so complete an excuse, sir. You surely cannot be French. Permit me,”--and he turned to the woman, ”_mille pardons_,” and went on in fairly fluent French to say how much he regretted, and would not madam accept his landau and drive home? She thanked him, but declined the offer in a voice which had a charm for all who heard it. He bowed low, not urging his offer, and said, ”I am Mr. William Bingham. I trust to have the pleasure of meeting madam again and, too, this young gentleman, whose neat excuse for me would betray him if his perfect French did not. Can I further serve you?”
”No, sir,” said De Courval, ”except to tell me what inn near by might suit us. We are but just now landed. My guide seems in doubt. I should like one close at hand. My mother is, I fear, very tired.”
”I think,”--and he turned to the clerk,--”yes, St. Tammany would serve.
It is clean and well kept and near by.” He was about to add, ”Use my name,” but, concluding not to do so, added: ”It is at the corner of Chancery Lane. This young man will know.” Then, with a further word of courtesy, he drove away, while madam stood for a moment sadly contemplating the additions to her toilet.
Mr. Bingham, senator for Pennsylvania, reflected with mild curiosity on the two people he had annoyed, and then murmured: ”I was stupid. That is where the Federal Club meets and the English go. They will never take those poor French with their baggage in a barrow.”
He had at least the outward manners of a day when there was leisure to be courteous, and, feeling pleased with himself, soon forgot the people he had unluckily inconvenienced. De Courval went on, ruefully glancing at his clothes, and far from dreaming that he was some day to be indebted to the gentleman they had left.
The little party, thus directed, turned into Mulberry Street, or, as men called it, Arch, and, with his mother, De Courval entered a cleanly front room under the sign of St. Tammany. There was a barred tap in one corner, maids in cap and ap.r.o.n moving about, many men seated at tables, with long pipes called churchwardens, drinking ale or port wine. Some looked up, and De Courval heard a man say, ”More French beggars.” He flushed, bit his lip, and turned to a portly man in a white jacket, who was, as it seemed, the landlord. The mother shrank from the rude looks and said a few words in French.
The host turned sharply as she spoke, and De Courval asked if he could have two rooms. The landlord had none.
”Then may my mother sit down while I inquire without?”
A man rose and offered his chair as he said civilly: ”Oeller's Tavern might suit you. It is the French house--a hotel, they call it. You will get no welcome here.”
”Thank you,” said De Courval, hearing comments on their muddy garments and the d.a.m.ned French. He would have had a dozen quarrels on his hands had he been alone. His mother had declined the seat, and as he followed her out, he lingered on the step to speak to his guide. They were at once forgotten, but he heard behind him sc.r.a.ps of talk, the freely used oaths of the day, curses of the demagogue Jefferson and the man Was.h.i.+ngton, who was neither for one party nor for the other. He listened with amazement and restrained anger.
He had fallen in with a group of middle-cla.s.s men, Federalists in name, clamorous for war with Jacobin France, and angry at their nominal leader, who stood like a rock against the double storm of opinion which was eager for him to side with our old ally France or to conciliate England. It was long before De Courval understood the strife of parties, felt most in the cities, or knew that back of the mischievous diversity of opinion in and out of the cabinet was our one safeguard--the belief of the people in a single man and in his absolute good sense and integrity. Young De Courval could not have known that the thoughtless violence of party cla.s.sed all French together, and as yet did not realize that the _emigre_ was generally the most deadly foe of the present rule in France.
Looking anxiously at his mother, they set out again up Mulberry Street, past the meeting-house of Friends and the simple grave of the great Franklin, the man too troubled, and the mother too anxious, to heed or question when they moved by the burial-ground where Royalist and Whig lay in the peace of death and where, at the other corner, Wetherill with the free Quakers built the home of a short-lived creed.
Oeller's Tavern--because of its French guests called a hotel--was on Chestnut Street, west of Fifth, facing the State House. A civil French servant asked them into a large room on the right of what was known as a double house. It was neat and clean, and the floor was sanded. Presently appeared Maxim Oeller. Yes, he had rooms. He hoped the citizen would like them, and the citizeness. De Courval was not altogether amused. He had spoken English, saying, however, that he was of France, and the landlord had used the patois of Alsace. The mother was worn out, and said wearily: ”I can go no farther. It will do. It must do, until we can find a permanent lodging and one less costly.”
Mr. Oeller was civil and madam well pleased. For supper in her room, on extra payment, were fair rolls and an omelet. De Courval got the mud off his clothes and at six went down-stairs for his supper.
At table, when he came in, were some twenty people, all men. Only two or three were of French birth and the young man, who could not conceive of Jacobin clubs out of France, sat down and began to eat with keen relish a well-cooked supper.
By and by his neighbors spoke to him. Had he just come over the seas, as the landlord had reported? What was doing in France? He replied, of course, in his very pure English. News in London had come of Mirabeau's death. Much interested, they plied him at once with questions. And the king had tried to leave Paris, and there had been mobs in the provinces, bloodshed, and an attack on Vincennes--which was not quite true. Here were Americans who talked like the Jacobins he had left at home. Their violence surprised him. Would he like to come to-morrow to the Jacobin Club? The king was to be dealt with. Between amus.e.m.e.nt and indignation the grave young vicomte felt as though he were among madmen. One man asked if the decree of death to all _emigres_ had been carried out.
”No,” he laughed; ”not while they were wise enough to stay away.”
Another informed him that Was.h.i.+ngton and Hamilton were on the way to create a monarchy. ”Yes, Citizen, you are in a land of t.i.tles--Your Excellency, Their Honors of the supreme court in gowns--scarlet gowns.”
His discreet silence excited them. ”Who are you for? Speak out!”
”I am a stranger here, with as yet no opinions.”
”A neutral, by Jove!” shouted one.
At last the young man lost patience and said: ”I am not, gentlemen, a Jacobin. I am of that n.o.blesse which of their own will gave up their t.i.tles. I am--or was--the Vicomte de Courval.”
There was an uproar. ”We are citizens, we would have you to know. d.a.m.n your t.i.tles! We are citizens, not gentlemen.”
”That is my opinion,” said De Courval, rising. Men hooted at him and shook fists in his face. ”Take care!” he cried, backing away from the table. In the midst of it came the landlord. ”He is a royalist,” they cried; ”he must go or we go.”