to walk with one of them the slow
measure of the minuet, and then to lift up and kiss his small partner in
the dance. Now looking down on them from his great height he said: "No,"
with a sad smile at their respectful appeal--"no, not to-day, children.
Not to-day. Good-by, Vicomte." As the servant held the door open, Rene
looked back and saw the tall figure, the wreck of former vigor, go
wearily up the broad staircase.

[Illustration: "'Not to-day, children, not to-day'"]

"What has so troubled him?" thought De Courval. "What is this that
Edmund Randolph has done?" Standing on the outer step and taking off his
hat, he murmured, "My God, I thank thee!" He heard faintly through the
open window as he walked away the final notes of the violin and the
laughter of childhood as the lesson ended.

It was only a little way, some three blocks, from the house of the
President to the State Department, where, at 287 High Street, half a
dozen clerks now made up the slender staff. De Courval walked slowly to
the office, and setting his business in order, got leave from his
immediate superior to be absent the rest of the day.

As he went out, Mr. Randolph passed in. De Courval raised his hat, and
said, "Good morning, sir." The Secretary turned back. In his hour of
humiliation and evident distress his natural courtesy did not desert
him.

"Monsieur," he said in ready French, "the despatch which you sent on its
way has returned. I desire to ask you to forget the injustice I did
you." He was about to add, "My time to suffer has come." He refrained.

"I thank you," said De Courval; "you could hardly have done otherwise
than you did." The two men bowed, and parted to meet no more. "What does
it all mean?" thought the young man. Thus set free, he would at once
have gone home to tell of the end of the troubles this wandering paper
had made for him. But Margaret was at Merion for the day, and others
might wait. He wished for an hour to be alone, and felt as he walked
eastward the exaltation which was natural to a man sensitive as to the
slightest reflection on his honor. Thus surely set at ease, with the
slow pace of the thoughtful, he moved along what we now call Market
Street. Already at this time it had its country carts and wide market
sheds, where Schmidt liked to come, pleased with the colors of the fruit
and vegetables. Rene heard again with a smile the street-cries,
"Calamus! sweet calamus!" and "Peaches ripe! ripe!" as on his fir