Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

You say you found difficulty in securing impartial judges.

Well, I should think so.

The “impartial judge” is one of those pleasing fancies with
which we amuse ourselves, for the reason that we can’t help
it. We have got to get decisions some way or other, and we
don’t quite like the idea of settling grave questions by
spitting at a mark, or of guessing whether it is heads or
tails in the tossing of a coin—therefore, we resort to “the
impartial judge.”

It is one of the jokes of Christian civilization which
nobody laughs at because we have agreed that it is not a
joke.

Just between me and you, the “impartial judge” is brother
to the “non-partisan editor,” and twin-brother to the
“disinterested office-seeker.”

* * * * *

You say that it is generally wrong to criticize the conduct
of those who make decisions.

You are mistaken about that. It is generally the proper
thing to do. And it is often the _only_ thing you can do.
True, it is not as much satisfaction as we are entitled to,
but it’s something.

What would baseball be, if we couldn’t cuss the umpire?

How could lawyers who lost their cases blow off the
indignation, if they couldn’t cuss the judge?

* * * * *

You state that you were not cast down by the decision which
went against you. Right. Why should you be?

Whatever was _true_, previous to the decision, was _true_
afterward.

And there’s where our political leaders fall down.

They go about the country telling the people that a certain
candidate for office is “unfit for the nomination,” and
after he is nominated the same politicians claim that the
_nomination_ makes him fit.

How can a _nomination_ make a bad man good?

That’s a deferred question which W. J. B. will answer some
day or other, and you will then see it done to the queen’s
taste.

* * * * *

Evidently you are not discouraged by the fact that you
went up against a tribunal which wouldn’t yield to reason,
eloquence, fact or fancy—a tribunal which had made up its
mind before its members heard your speech. Right again.
It’s your _duty_ to furnish the convincing argument; it is
_not in your power_ to supply judges with minds open to
conviction.

Bigger men than you have run up against immovable obstacles
of that kind.

Consider W. J. B., for instance. He found, in New England,
a lot of tribunals, the low, the high and the middle, which
were not to be convinced that he, W. J. B., was entitled to
$50,000 that old Mr. Bennett _thought_ he was leaving to
our Nebraska friend by will.

You and I would think that as the money belonged to
Bennett, and Bennett had declared in writing that W. J. B.
should have it, the judges would not interfere.

But they _did_. No amount of eloquence, of the best W. J.
B. sort, could budge them an inch. Our Nebraska friend got
knocked out all along the line.

Did it cast him down?

Not in the least. He is as cheerful—not to say saucy—as you
are over _your_ little tumble. That is just the way to be:
but one should always try to get some _lesson_ out of one’s
defeats, so that one will know better how to do next time.

If you should ask W. J. B. what lesson he has learned from
that series of knockdowns in the New England courts, he
would answer: “The next time a benevolent Yankee comes
to my house, and offers to make me a bequest of $50,000,
I will take him out and introduce him to a safe and sane
lawyer who knows how to draw a will.”

* * * * *

Cultivate what is _best_ in your character and mind.

Do not _imitate_ anybody.

Study good models for the purpose of making the best
possible man out of _yourself_.

Develop your _pride_—not your vanity, conceit or egotism.

Be too proud to stoop to anything mean.

Associate with the _best_ people. If among your companions
there are those whose talk or conduct is vile, weed them
out from your life.

I feel deeply on this point, and I repeat, WEED THEM OUT.

Cultivate the honesty which makes a man what he _appears_
to be.

Don’t be a sham.

Be a reality—as earnest, powerful and fearless as is
possible to your nature.

When defeat knocks you down, don’t lie there. As soon as
you get your breath back, rise, brush the dust off, and go
up against the enemy again.

Reach a clear conception of what you want to do, and _can_
do; be sure that this is something noble in itself—then
hammer away with all your might, _and keep hammering_.

Remember that modesty is almost as becoming to a man as to
a woman, but that _humility_ has no place in man’s relation
to man.

If you are not as good as any other man, it’s your fault.

The world, and all its rewards, are as much yours as
anybody’s.

But remember this also: the race _is_ to the swift, and the
battle _is_ to the strong, USUALLY.

If you would win the race, _be swift_; if the battle, _be
strong_.

_An Educational Department_

There are thousands of boys and girls, some in schools and colleges, some not, who are anxious to learn, to develop themselves and to RISE.

Many, many things they yearn to know which the class-room teachers do not teach.

Many a subject they are eager to study, if somebody will but show the way.

Often there are speeches to be made, essays to be written, debates to be prepared, and the boys and girls simply do not know how to start about it.

For instance, they are suddenly required to speak or write on the question:

“Should the Government own and operate the railroads?”

They have never read anything about it, perhaps. Therefore they inquire:

“Where can we get some literature on the subject?”

These young people do not want someone else to write their speeches or essays; they want nothing more than to be told where to get the materials to work with—the data upon which to construct their own argument.

When I was a boy I felt the need of that kind of help very keenly.

How was I to know what books contained the information sought?

Who could tell me?

I soon found that teachers did not love to be bored by inquiries of that character, and therefore I had to browse around in the library at random for what was wanted.

If the book needed was there, I generally found it, after wasting much time in the search.

If it was not there, as frequently happened, I was at my row’s end. I had to debate without the full preparation which should have been made.

To help out many a student who may be troubled as I used to be, I am going to improvise and conduct in this magazine a modest little _Educational Department_.

Primarily it is meant for _the young people_. But the rule will be made as flexible as I feel like making it.

Age limits are not fair—no matter whether Osler was joking or not.

It is not my plan or purpose to write anybody’s speech or essay; but, where there is a subject of real importance to be discussed by word or pen, I am willing to _direct the preparation_ of the student by telling him or her where the necessary information can be had.

It would perhaps not be improper for me to suggest some general ideas on the subject to be discussed—these ideas to be worked out and put in form by the student.

Often I might render good service to the boys and girls by telling them where the books they need can be bought at the lowest price.

It took me many years to learn how to buy books, and it is a thing worth knowing—unless you have more money than I ever had.

The letters written to me in this department will be published as written; but the names of the writers will be withheld.

Therefore, no correspondent need be embarrassed in making inquiries.

My replies will be given in the magazine.

Hereafter all letters asking for information—historical, literary, political, economic—will be answered through the EDUCATIONAL DEPARTMENT.

P. S.—Students are requested not to ask help on this subject, viz.:

“_Resolved_, That there is more happiness in the pursuit than in the possession.”

Those whose duty it is to maintain “_the pursuit_” will please consult Mr. Bryan; those who sustain “_the possession_” are referred to Mr. Roosevelt.

_Editorial Comment_

Those orthodox partisan editors who sneered at my comment on W. R. Hearst as a man who _did_ things while others were talk—talk—talking, will please study the election returns from Chicago and hand me out revised opinions.

That was a Hearst fight, and Hearst himself was personally in the thick of it. He said little and accomplished much.

Would _still_ like to swap a score or two of mere talkers like—well, no matter—for another such myth as Hearst.

* * * * *

A wise man—and his name is Dennis—has an article in the April number of _Everybody’s_ to prove that free trade has created in England that poverty-stricken mass of humanity which he includes under the general name of “Hooligan.”

According to Mr. Robert Hunter, the Hooligans of the United States aggregate 10,000,000—and we haven’t had any free trade, either.

Evidently the wise Mr. Dennis has not located the true cause of poverty in England.

It was famine, and the high price of bread, which forced Sir Robert Peel to abandon protection and to carry free trade into effect.

Bread was cheapened and the cost of living reduced.

Did _that_ inflict such great misery upon the poor?

If the wise Mr. Dennis will study the subject more thoroughly he will probably reach the conclusion that poverty in England is the product of land monopoly, a vicious financial system and a governmental establishment in which a lot of hereditary bloodsuckers prey upon the body politic.

Free trade is the law of nature; it never did, and never can produce national misery, poverty or decadence.

* * * * *

If the wise Mr. Dennis will study the subject thoroughly he will discover that the Corn Laws of 1815 were passed for the purpose of giving special benefits to the landlords of Great Britain. By the poor the act was regarded as such a direct attack upon themselves—such a barefaced design to make them pay higher prices for the necessaries of life—that resistance to the law grew riotous and had to be put down by force.

Says Justin McCarthy, the historian:

“The poor everywhere saw the bread of their family threatened, saw the food of their children almost taken out of their mouths, and they broke into wild extremes of anger.”

But the soldiers were called out, the riots put down, and a sufficient number of the poor hanged to quell the remainder.

_Thus_ the land monopolists of Great Britain—many of whose titles to their enormous holdings are tainted with all manner of fraud and wrong enforced and odious law which robbed the poor to benefit the rich.

In 1817 the troops were used again to crush the laborers who were crying out against oppression.

In 1819 soldiers were used once more.

Then the submission of despair brought quiet times until 1830, when the people again attempted to throw off the hateful yoke of barbarous laws. In the House of Commons Sir Francis Burdett denounced the Duke of Wellington as

“_Shamefully insensible to the suffering and distress which were painfully apparent throughout the land._”

“O’Connell declared that many thousands of persons had to subsist in Ireland _on three half-pence per day_.”

A tolerably successful workingman sometimes got sixty-five cents a week, and the price of the four-pound loaf was _twenty-five cents_.

* * * * *

From 1830 to 1836 matters went from bad to worse. Business was depressed, trade stagnant, poverty severe in many parts of the country.

In 1838 a crisis came. Three-fifths of the manufacturing establishments of Lancashire shut down. Thousands of workmen were thrown adrift, moneyless, foodless, desperate.

It was then that three great men, Cobden, Bright and Villiers, seized the leadership of Discontent and began the famous crusade against _Protection_, as typified in the Corn Laws of Great Britain. “Vested interests,” of course, raised the usual howl.

The land monopolists stubbornly closed up in lines of sullen opposition to reform. They beat off every attack, pocketing year after year the famine prices which the people were compelled to pay for bread.

Suddenly, in the summer of 1845, a cold, wet, sunless season fell upon the British Isles and the whole potato crop of Ireland—the sole dependence of the vast majority of the Irish people—rotted.

The food of Ireland was gone; in her poverty she could not pay the English landlord’s price for bread, and the Corn Laws forbade her buying the cheap bread of America and Continental Europe.

It was _then_ that Lord John Russell attacked the whole system of _Protection_ as “_the blight of commerce, the bane of agriculture, the source of bitter divisions among classes_, THE CAUSE OF PENURY, FEVER AND CRIME AMONG THE PEOPLE.”

It was _then_ that the great Tory Minister, Sir Robert Peel, followed the promptings of his heart and determined that the people should have cheaper food.

He abolished the Corn Laws, and conferred inestimable blessings upon the common people of his country.

The noble act cost him his political life—for that was the penalty which outraged land monopoly, led by Disraeli, inflicted upon its former chief.

* * * * *

The Corn Laws were repealed in 1846.

Mr. Dennis comes along and tells us that _Free Trade_ is responsible for “Hooligan”—for poverty in England.

Mr. Rider Haggard—now in this country in the interest of Hooligan—ought to know as much about the poor of Great Britain as Dennis knows.

What does Rider Haggard say?

That the present deplorable condition of the English poor _began with_ 1874.

How, then, can that condition be connected with the Corn Law repeal?

May it not be logically connected with legislation of more recent date?

Or may it not be connected with economic developments elsewhere?

Tremendous changes in the conditions of people in Europe and America have been brought about by financial legislation much more nearly contemporaneous with 1874 than the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846.

Then, again, the vast addition to the wheat and corn areas in the United States alone have had a mighty influence on prices in Great Britain.

It may be that rents are so high in England that the tenant farmer finds it impossible to pay his tribute to the land monopolist, compete with American grain fields, and have anything left for himself.

Indeed, Mr. Haggard states that one of the reasons why the agricultural laborer is so disheartened in England is that _there is no chance for him to become the owner of land_.

* * * * *

An exchange says:

“The headmaster of an English school says he read Roosevelt’s inaugural to his boys and asked them where it was found. Unanimously they answered, ‘Jowett’s translation of Thucydides.’ Whereupon the headmaster gives us parallel columns to show that Pericles said it all before, on an occasion somewhat similar. But Teddy is too honest to crib; he was deceived by his clerk on oratory. Let it go at that.”

If it is true that Mr. Roosevelt _did_ use one of the speeches of Pericles as an inaugural address, Mr. Bryan may wish he had not been so quick with the announcement that it was a poor speech. Pericles is generally considered to have been an orator who would have compared not unfavorably with W. J. B. himself.

* * * * *

The India-rubber qualities of the Monroe Doctrine are being made manifest with a vengeance.

Once we understood it to mean, in a general way, that Europe must “Hands off”—no more conquest, colonization, or extension of the European system to the American Continent.

By Mr. Cleveland, England was told, with firmness, that she couldn’t steal Venezuela’s land, even though the theft consisted of the simple device of moving the boundary line.

With Mr. Roosevelt’s advent to power comes a decidedly new chapter in the evolution of the Monroe Doctrine.

We are to assume a sort of Trusteeship for adjacent governments.

We must see to it that they conduct themselves decently and in order. They must pay their debts to citizens of other countries and behave themselves generally in a way that meets our approval.

* * * * *

Mr. Roosevelt, in advancing the Monroe Doctrine to this extent, has undertaken a big contract for this country.

If we are to be the Policeman for South America, Santo Domingo, Cuba, Mexico and Central America, we must, first of all, have a powerful navy.

This is clear to everybody.

What is not so clear is that a powerful standing army will inevitably follow—_as sure as fate, it will follow_.

* * * * *

For it is certain that a natural result of our hectoring, bulldozing, overlord attitude toward countries like those mentioned will make them our bitter enemies. South America already hates us, and has cause to hate us.

The manner in which we sanctioned the collection of claims against Venezuela, by the warships of Europe will not be forgotten.

This feeling will be intensified by Mr. Roosevelt’s recent utterances, and will spread through all the peoples affected by it.

If we are to compel these governments to knuckle down to every Asphalt Trust, or other speculative syndicate, which enters the country for the purpose of exploitation, the time will certainly come when our attempts to make them conform to our standard of what is decent and orderly in dealing with plundering corporations will be resisted.

What then?

Our navy can bombard the cities of the coast, but will our marines leave the ships and defeat the land forces of the interior?

Evidently not.

What, therefore, must we do?

Send army against army, as we shall have sent navy against navy.

Consequently the same policy which logically requires a powerful navy will likewise require a powerful standing army.

_And our masters know it!_

* * * * *

Mr. Roosevelt:

Do _you_, also, laugh at young Garfield?

_Please_ don’t give us any more of that silly boy.

* * * * *

More than one-half the voters of Colorado cast their ballots for Alva Adams, candidate for Governor.

But Adams did not get the place.

Less than half the voters supported James Peabody, and Peabody acted as Governor for one day.

Not a soul voted for Jesse McDonald for Governor, yet Jesse gets the whole term of office, excepting the one day given to Peabody.

The voters of Colorado evidently enjoy self-government about as much as it can be enjoyed.

_The Lady’s Slipper_

BY CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY
_Author of “The Two Captains,” “The Corner in Coffee,” “A
Little Traitor to the South,” “The Southerners,” etc._

I

THE SLIPPER IS SOUGHT

What happened to me the night before? I was not certain as to details, but I recalled the main facts with singular distinctness. I had lost every coin that I possessed. A hasty search of my pockets in the morning disclosed the absence even of that one louis which, on account of its markings, I had resolved never to part with, save in the gravest emergency. I was stripped bare, “down to a gant-line,” as old Bucknall would have said. That much was obvious. I had possessed no jewels save the ring I had filched when I took the Frenchman’s purse. That, too, was gone. I suppose I played it away with the rest.

I still had my sword. It was a serviceable blade, which I had purchased with the Frenchman’s money so soon as I arrived in Paris. A gentleman and his sword, backed by a stout heart—well, one might be in worse plight. But as I thought about the night before I seemed to remember—and here was where I was not quite clear—that I had affixed my name to certain pieces of paper, I. O. U.’s! To what amount I was obligated by these transactions I did not know. But whether it was for one franc or a thousand, I was unable to discharge the debt. My creditors must give me time or—They were a jolly lot, those Frenchmen, and I had held up my end as long as the gold pieces lasted. America had taken no disgrace from my ability to stand in a game and win or lose like a gentleman. True, it was generally the latter that fell to my play.

Now I was sick of it all! I hated wine and women and play. I wished, as never before, that I were on the deck of a stout ship again, with the new flag, the Stars and Stripes, fluttering from the gaff-end and the breath of the salt wind in my face. This and a tidy Englishman of equal force under our lee. Gods! That was a man’s work and a man’s place. This drifting around from one gambling resort to another in Paris, with a crowd of roysterers—and worse—this night after night at the tables—bah, I had had enough of it!

It was a life I had never fancied, and if Dr. Franklin had been at home I had never entered upon it. After I escaped from the British prison-ship, and after I took that Englishman’s purse on the highway—only he turned out to be a Frenchman, but it was then too late for me to alter my intention to provide myself with the sinews of war—and after I managed to get to Paris and found our Ambassador gone to Holland or Spain or some other outlandish country, what was I to do? With plenty of money, no occupation, no ship, nor any present chance of getting one, no friends, and a reckless, adventurous disposition, I fell in with a fast set, and this was the outcome.

I could not find her either, although I swear I searched high and low and spent not a little of the proceeds of my highway robbery in trying to run her down. There was no use in going over all this. I got up from the couch on which I had thrown myself dressed as I was, staggered over to the table, splashed my face with water and caught a glimpse of myself in the little mirror that hung on the wall. Worn, haggard, bloodshot—my own father would scarce have known me. I was ashamed, bitterly so. I had never been a gambler or a drinker, and I vowed that I would never be again. I had played the fool once and I did not propose to do it a second time. Yet these interesting resolutions were forced into the background by the demands of my present situation.

What was I to do? Breakfast! I loathed the idea. Still, I must eat to live. I hadn’t a cent with which to bless myself. What was the date? It was the tenth—no, the eleventh—of the month. Dr. Franklin would be back on the thirteenth. Once I could get speech with him all would be well, but how was I to exist until then?

I sat down by the window and tried to think of some device. God knows my situation was critical, but I declare that I could only think of her! Perhaps my inability to find her—for she had vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her—had made me reckless, careless, a willing prey to the knaves who had brought me to this pass. I will admit, even then, that I loved her. I closed my eyes and I could see her as I saw her that evening outside of Paris. I could hear her scream in the hands of those ruffians. I went over the whole thing as I had done a thousand times. My rush at the villains! I was a pretty hand at cudgel-playing as well as a good swordsman, for I had no weapon but a stout stick.

The first fellow I caught fairly on the head, and he dropped like a felled bullock. I put my hand up and could feel a little partially healed scar along my cheek where the bullet of the one-eyed scoundrel cut a lock of hair and grazed me. He got a crack on his pistol arm which put him out of action. I could still see his face, convulsed with pain and rage, his one eye shooting fire at me as he retreated before me. The other rascal was a coward, for he fled immediately. I shall never forget the look on Mademoiselle’s face when she thanked me! They had torn her mask off when they had dragged her from her horse. I found it again and also managed to catch her horse.

Although I was dressed like a French peasant I think she realized that I was of gentle blood. She was surprised at the ease with which I mounted her on her horse, and when she gave me that louis—my hand went to my breast. Yes, it still hung there! I hadn’t gambled that away, thank God!—and, as I promptly returned her another, she seemed to understand. I wonder what she did with hers? She told me that I had not only saved her from assault but that I had done more, I had saved the honor of France, and that she would some day prove her gratitude. Then she galloped away from me and left me standing staring in the road like a fool, madly in love with her!

Aye, this evidenced my folly, I will admit, but as they say here, “What would you?” She was the first lady I had seen in three years of cruising, and such a woman! If you had seen her you would have understood. How I had searched for her! Blue eyes, dark hair; tall, exquisitely molded, graceful figure; dainty hands and feet—this vague description might have fitted any woman or a million, and she was one of that million. It was no use. I should never see her again, and if I saw her now, disgraced as I was, I must avoid her. So absorbed was I in these miserable musings that I hadn’t heeded a tap at the door.

“_Ma foi!_” cried a rather shrill, metallic voice as a man opened the door and stepped within. “My dear friend, I have rapped several times, and so I took the liberty....”

“Oh, come in by all means, Monsieur du Trémigon,” I replied, rising and welcoming the newcomer, although with no great cordiality.

He was the hatefulest of all the crowd with whom I had cast my lot since I had been in Paris, and I more than suspected it was to him that I had passed those little pieces of paper which began more and more definitely to impress themselves upon my recollection.

“I suppose,” I said, “that you have come to settle our accounts of last night, Monsieur?”

“There is no haste about that,” he returned politely enough, “but since you insist, as well now as any other time.”

“I shall be honest with you, Marquis,” I returned bluntly; “I’m afraid I shall have to ask your indulgence for a short time.”

He drew from his pocket a package of papers and laid them on the table. I took them up as I spoke, and although I am no great hand at figures, I saw that the total was appalling. My heart sank, but I flatter myself that I displayed as equable a demeanor as the man opposite me. It has always been my practice to put a bold face on everything.

“Pray give yourself no uneasiness whatever about these little matters,” said the Marquis in his most genial manner—and the more gentle and kindly he was, strange to say, the more I hated him! “Or rather,” he continued, interrupting me as I began to speak, “I can show you a way to discharge them with little difficulty to yourself, and that immediately.”

“Show me that way!” I cried. “I will avail myself of it at once. To tell you the truth, I am sick of the life I have led in this city.”

“I thought,” said du Trémigon, smiling meaningly, “that you were scarcely suited for——”

“What do you mean?” I cried, glad for the chance to vent my indignation upon someone. “Didn’t I bear myself like a gentleman?”

“Oh, quite so, entirely so. You misapprehend me, my dear Burnham,” he protested.

“Well, I dare say you are right,” I replied carelessly, too troubled to quarrel, “I am a sailor. The sea is my world. I am at home there or on my father’s plantation in the Carolinas. But this is nothing to you. The point is, I am in your debt.”

“This ring, Monsieur,” said the Marquis, lifting his hand. “Do you know whose it is?”

“Yours, I suppose, since you won it,” I replied. “It was mine.”

“Pardon me, it was originally mine.”

“What!”

“Mine.”

“Then you are——?”

“The gentleman whose purse you kindly relieved him of a few weeks ago in England.”

“Impossible!” I cried.

“Impossible, but true, Monsieur. I recognized you when I met you last week at Varesi’s”—the name of a popular gambling resort—“I wasn’t quite sure, however. At least, I had no proof until last night. This ring? You remember taking it?”

“Oh, perfectly,” I said.

“And this louis?” He pulled out the curiously marked coin. “A pocket piece I have had for a long time. I should know it among a thousand.”

“You have established your case,” I answered defiantly. “You understand that I am no common thief or highwayman? I am an American naval officer. Serving under Cunningham on a privateer, I was captured, thrown into prison, escaped. Being penniless in the enemy’s country I determined to take the purse of the first traveler who came along. I took you for an Englishman. When I knew you were French, it was too late. I can only say that I will give you another I. O. U. for all that I have despoiled you of, and so soon as I can communicate with America you shall have the money.”

The Marquis showed his white teeth in a grin—how I loathed him!—waving his hands as he did so.

“As to that, we will discuss it presently. Meanwhile, what did you do with the papers you robbed me of in England?”

“Tore them to pieces and scattered them in the first river I crossed.”

“Damnation!” cried the man. “I could stand the loss of the money, but the loss of those papers wellnigh ruined me!”

“How so?”

“I was carrying some secret despatches to the British Government, in spite of the war, and your blundering made me fail in my mission.”

“Blundering!” I cried.

“Pray be calm, Monsieur,” he exclaimed; “the word may have been ill-advised, but you will recognize that some consideration is due me.”

He looked meaningly at the little pile of notes. I followed his glance, snatched up another piece of paper, scribbled a line on it and added it to the heap.

“That covers your loss, including the ring.”

“Monsieur Burnham,” said the Marquis, “are you aware of the exceedingly difficult position into which you have got yourself?”

“I should say I am! Being absolutely without funds, I am forced to ask total strangers to accept my bare word that I will discharge my obligations so soon as I hear from America. This, with the seas swarming with British ships, may be a matter of months.”

“There is your Ambassador. He knows you, doubtless?”

“Dr. Franklin doesn’t know me from Adam. He’s a Philadelphia Quaker, and I am from North Carolina. He has never seen me, nor I him. He knows my father and family, though. If there were any of our officers in the city, if Commodore Jones or Dick Dale had only returned from Texel, I should be all right, but as it is, I am completely at your mercy.”

I hated to say that word, but there was no help for it. The Marquis bowed gracefully.

“Your remark is singularly accurate, Monsieur. At my mercy!”

He opened his mouth and tapped his white teeth with two of his white fingers. I wanted to choke him. Why, I could not say, for he had been considerate, and I owed him a lot of money. I had robbed him in England, and, besides, I had put him to serious inconvenience.

“At my mercy,” he repeated, nodding.

“I have admitted that fact,” I said sharply. “I do not see that it is necessary to remind me of it again.”

“Oh, pardon me. You Americans are so impetuous. Cultivate calmness, my friend—English phlegm, if you will. It is a most valuable asset in any game.”

“That’s as may be, Marquis, but I play no more games with you.”

“Pardon me again,” he returned coolly; “we play yet one more hand, Monsieur, and I have the deal.”

“What are you driving at?”

“I told you there was a way by which you could discharge your obligations.”

“Declare it then, and let us close this transaction!”

“You are doubtless unaware, and I speak to you in confidence, that my large estates are greatly encumbered. I have a passion for play. I do not always enjoy the fortune I have had with you, and—” He laughed as he spoke. “In short, I find myself in very straitened circumstances.”

“I suppose you want your money and want it quick?” I burst out. “I can understand and I promise you——”

“There you go again, Monsieur. I want money, it is true. I was born wanting money, I have lived wanting money, and, I suppose, I shall die wanting money.”

You won’t have any use for it after that, I thought, but all I said was: “Proceed, Monsieur.”

“You are doubtless unaware, also, that Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Rivau, Comtesse de Villars in her own right, granddaughter of the Duc de Rivau-Huet, is my cousin?”

“I have never heard of the young lady, but I recognize the honor of the relationship,” I said coldly.

The Marquis was not devoid of wit. His eye flashed, but he proceeded deliberately:

“Quite so. Her grandfather is my grandfather also. She is one of the richest women in France. Our respective parents arranged a marriage between us when we were children. The carrying out of that contract depends entirely on three people, the young lady, the Duc de Rivau-Huet and myself. It was stipulated that no constraint was to be used, and that, when she reached her twentieth year, she was to give her consent without pressure, freely and willingly. If she did so, and her grandfather interposed no objection, and I desired it, we were to be married. If not”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I lose.”

“Lose what?”

“The lady and, incidentally, her fortune.”

I confessed to a very languid interest in the love affairs of the Marquis and the lady, but for politeness’ sake I asked him another question.

“Permit me, since you have broached the subject, does the lady consent or refuse?”

“She consents, but the Duke refuses.”

“Ah!”

“But I hope that his refusal is not irrevocable.”

“For your sake I trust so,” I replied. “Yet I fail to see how this concerns me.”

“You shall learn directly. Mademoiselle de Villars is one of the Queen’s maids of honor. She usually resides at the Court at Versailles. For this week, however, she is on leave of absence, I have learned, and is in residence at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet in Paris.”

“Yes?” I said interrogatively. I was beginning to have some curiosity as to whither all this tended.

“As I said, the Duke seems insensible to the advantage of an alliance with me.”

No wonder, I thought, but I took good care not to voice my feelings.

“I have decided to compel him to consent.”

“And Mademoiselle de Villars?” I questioned suspiciously.

“She also wishes it. I may say”—he simpered disgustedly—“she is more anxious than I.”

“Monsieur du Trémigon,” I said sternly, repressing with difficulty an inclination to kick him, “do you assure me of the truth of what you have said?”

“Certainly.”

“On your word of honor as a gentleman?”

“As a gentleman and as a noble of France, Monsieur.”

I ought to have known, but I did not, and there seemed to be nothing for me to do but accept his statement.

“How do you propose to get the Duke’s consent?” I asked.

“There is a way to apply pressure to him, Monsieur, which will ... let us say ... induce his consent.”

“You wish to compromise her in her grandfather’s eyes?” I said, fathoming his meaning at last.

“Exactly.”

“But with her consent....”

“Your intuition does you credit.”

“That’s more than your intention does you,” I burst out scornfully.

“I can afford to indulge you in these little pleasantries, my friend,” he returned, with an evil look, “because....”

“Why?” I cried.

“Because I intend that you shall be my agent in the little process.”

“You are reckoning without your host, Monsieur,” I said quickly. I was boiling with rage.

“But not without my servant, Monsieur.”

“Servant?” I raged.

“Yes. Do you realize that I have but to place these things in the hands of the authorities to have you clapped into prison?”

“I have been in prison before and got out. I can stand it again—for the sake of a woman.”

“You will doubtless get out of the prison into which I shall put you, but it will be to go to the hangman, or to the headsman if you can prove your gentle blood.”

“What!”

“You forget that little transaction in England. You are a highway robber! I have evidence enough to convict you beyond doubt.”

“The French Government would never....”

“The French Government is angry enough over the loss of those papers, and the punishment for highway robbery is death,” he sneered.

“My God!” I cried.

“’Tis useless to appeal to Him,” mocked du Trémigon. “Rather do you fall back on your mother-wit—if you have any—to help you.”

“What do you wish me to do?” I asked desperately.

“’Tis very simple. We are about the same height and build. We do not look unlike——”

“You flatter me!”

“’Tis the fact that does that,” he replied, bowing deeply. “In the dusk you can easily pass for me, especially if you wear a familiar suit of my clothes. I will get you into the grounds of the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet below Mademoiselle’s apartments. The building is vine-covered. Being a sailor you can easily scale the wall and enter her chamber. You are to bring me thence some article of personal wearing apparel—say a slipper, or a ring, or——”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“It is hardly necessary to enter upon that, Monsieur.”

“If I am to do the thing,” I replied hotly, “I must know everything.”

“Well, then, the Duc de Rivau-Huet has threatened me with imprisonment if he catches me in his hôtel again.”

“And you wish me to take that risk?”

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

“I am to do this at the peril of my life?”

“It seems to me,” said the Marquis equably, “that your life is forfeit if you don’t do it, and——”

“Enough!” I answered. “I am in your power. When I made the serious mistake of taking you for a gentleman I began my ruin. I’m sorry I didn’t kill you in England. I suppose there’s no help for it. I must do the work. When do you wish this adventure undertaken?”

“Tonight. If you will come to my rooms, I will fit you out, give you the plan of the hôtel and make all other arrangements.”

“And those papers?”

“They shall be returned to you when you place what you secure from the room in my hands.”

“What assurance have I as to that?”

“The word of a gentleman.”

“In your case I prefer something else.”

The Marquis flushed angrily. Why he controlled himself I do not know, unless it was because he was so desperately anxious to carry out his plan and I was his only instrument.

“What do you propose?” he asked.

“To go before a notary and draw up an agreement, leaving the papers in his hands, including the ring and the coin, and a signed statement, acquitting me of complication in the robbery. These papers he is to give to me in the morning, if I succeed. Furthermore, I won’t go into the matter without the assistance of an old sailor with whom I cruised.”

“Take as many assistants as you please, Monsieur,” said the Marquis; “and now we will go to my apartments. Will you honor me?”

He rose and offered me his arm.

“I have to do your dirty work,” I replied, “and that obliges me to walk by your side, I suppose, but it doesn’t compel me to take your arm.”

My soul revolted against carrying out my part of the plot, even though by so doing I was obliging a lady. True, she might be—and if his words were true, she was—in love with du Trémigon, but I was sure she could not know him as I knew him. Besides, what were the love affairs of the Marquis and his cousin to me? I had no personal interest in either of them.

All I had to do was to fetch a slipper or some personal belonging from her chamber, as she herself desired. The long and short of it was that I was resolved to do it. I had to!

II

THE SLIPPER IS FOUND

From some servant in the Duc de Rivau-Huet’s hôtel, du Trémigon had learned that the Comtesse de Villars was to be from home that night. He arranged to have me passed through the gate. After that I was to look out for myself. The Duke’s hôtel, which was surrounded by ample grounds, was just outside the city walls. The Marquis told me that, dressed in his clothes and with a cloak he was accustomed to wear, I should very well pass for him, and that in all probability no one would molest me unless I fell in with Éspiau, the Duke’s body-servant, or some of the upper officers of the household. The domestics were well affected toward him, and as all the world loves a lover, they would be disposed rather to encourage than to hinder.

Du Trémigon, with singular parsimony, I thought, had designed a rather shabby suit for my use. I insisted upon seeing his wardrobe and selected the handsomest garments he possessed. He protested, but vainly, for I said that I must be dressed like a gentleman. He pointed out that I would probably tear and certainly soil his court suit in climbing. I returned that if I carried out his enterprise and won him a rich wife he could well afford to lose a suit, whereas if I were caught and shot it would be some consolation to me to know that I was well dressed for dying.

I took a sword from the rare collection of weapons which he had in his apartments. I may not be much of a card player, but I pride myself that I know a weapon, and I chose a blade that I could depend upon. I got two pistols for myself and two for worthy Master Bucknall. Bucknall was an old shipmate of mine. I knew I could depend upon him. We had fought side by side on several cruises, and although he had not been with me when I was captured, he had appeared in Paris after a shipwreck in which he had been picked up by a French frigate. I found him penniless, and, of course, took care of him, intending to take him with me when I saw Dr. Franklin and arranged to go back to America. The Marquis had him fetched from his lodging, and I explained the whole situation to the worthy seaman.

Bucknall was to remain concealed in the grounds beneath Mademoiselle’s room while I was within. I didn’t care to be taken in the rear, and I knew if an alarm were given, that Bucknall would keep a way of escape open for me as long as he could. To him I gave my sword and pistols.

I had studied a plan of the chateau and I knew the lay of the land and the position of the chambers perfectly. A bath, a rest and a meal completed my preparations. No, I forget one thing. I knew that many a door that will not open to iron and steel is facile to a golden key, and I made du Trémigon provide me with a rouleau of louis. He did it with an ill grace. In the first place he had none too many, and, in the second, I suppose, he thought he had laid out enough in the adventure. I insisted, however, giving him in lieu thereof another signed paper to add to his collection. This and the visit to the notary, where I saw things made secure from my point of view, filled the day.

At eight o’clock we sallied forth. Du Trémigon had furnished us with a couple of horses. We had no difficulty passing the gates—he had provided us with the password—and finding the Duke’s mansion. The Marquis did not accompany us. He intended to give out that he had paid a visit to the Countess in her chamber, and in proof of it was to exhibit her slipper. The Countess, being at a masked ball where no one could recognize her for hours, could not disprove his statement. Of course, if anybody saw him elsewhere his plan would fail, so he was to lie close and await our return.

When we came near the place I left the horses in care of an innkeeper to whom du Trémigon had recommended me. I gave instructions to have them ready for instant service at any time. I expected that we would be back before midnight. Then Bucknall and I walked boldly down the road toward the gate of the mansion. Du Trémigon had told us that his servant was one-eyed, so Bucknall was disguised by a patch over one eye, which gave him great inconvenience, by the way, and at which, sailor-like, the old sea-dog growled mightily. I drew the Marquis’s cloak up around my neck, pulled my hat down, and assumed as well as I could his mincing gait and manner. In the dark we might well pass for du Trémigon and his servant. The porter at the gate was expecting us. He made no difficulty about passing us through. Then we were left to shift for ourselves.

The night was dark and chill. There were no dogs in the yard. The Duke kept his hounds in the country. No one disturbed us as we made our way cautiously along the wall under the trees to the window of the Countess’s apartment. A few lights showed here and there through the different openings on this side of the house. Among them a faint illumination came from the window beneath which we stood. I looked at it with interest. It seemed that no one could be in the room. The light was probably a single candle, left burning in case of need. This agreed with our information.

Making sure that no one saw us, we crossed the grass and stopped under the window. The house was an old one. There were buttresses against the wall, and the one nearest the Countess’s window was in a dilapidated condition. A vine ran all over this side of the building. I was always active and I had not dissipated in Paris long enough to have lost my nerve. I glanced upward. It would not be difficult. If the vine held—and its stem was as thick as my wrist—the ascent would be easy. Wrapping my cloak around me so as to protect du Trémigon’s clothes, and with a word of caution to Bucknall, whom I saw secreted comfortably in the black recess between the buttress and the wall, I quickly made my way up. So long as I had the assistance of the buttress it was nearly as easy as walking up a stair, or as simple as climbing the battens on the side of a ship. The last yard was more difficult, but I managed it with a few scratches and with a minimum of noise.

I had no opportunity to peer into the room or see what was before me. I reached the sill, threw my leg over it and stepped quietly within. I stood by the window listening. Neither from outside nor inside was there any sound. I had been unobserved.

Satisfying myself on this point, I stepped back from the window to avoid the line of light and looked about me. The room appeared to be a woman’s sitting-room. There was an air of refinement, of grace and culture about it that made me sure. There were books on the table, pictures on the walls, a piece of some sort of needlework thrown carelessly on a chair. Several doors opened from the room. According to the plan, that on the right should be the Countess’s boudoir, and beyond that her bedchamber. I stepped softly across to this door. I listened. There was no one in the other room apparently. I turned the handle carefully and entered.

Just beyond me was the door of the bedroom. Repeating my performance, I walked over to it and listened. No one was there. I opened the door and looked in. Like the others this room was lighted by a single candle. Like the others, it was unoccupied.

It was quite evident that du Trémigon’s informant was correct. The Countess was out. Her maid, who should have been on guard, had taken advantage of her mistress’s absence to go off on a little jaunt of her own, I supposed. I closed the door of the bedroom softly and began a hasty examination of the boudoir. A dress lay across a chair. A magnificent costume, it seemed to me.

A pair of shoes—a ravishing pair of tiny shoes—stood on the floor at the bottom of the gown. These might do. But no, they had not been worn; they were entirely new. Du Trémigon had insisted upon something personal and familiar. I walked over to the dressing-table, which was covered with a mass of silver and porcelain. They bore the de Villars crest, but so did a number of things in du Trémigon’s own home. None of them would answer.

I remembered the room contained a closet. Nerving myself further, I opened the nearest door. On the floor, confronting me, lay a pair of small, worn, blue satin slippers with red heels. They were slightly shaped to the feet of the wearer from long usage. There were no other feet in the world that could wear those slippers, in all probability. I stooped and picked one up. It would serve admirably.

III

THE SLIPPER IS RENOUNCED

With the slipper still in my hand, I turned to find myself confronting a woman!

She was standing at the door leading to the antechamber. How long she had been there I knew not. Indeed, after the first start of surprise, I had room for but one thought. The woman was she whom I had rescued on the way to Paris, with whom I had fallen madly in love! For whom I had sought high and low—whom I had prayed that I might see again.

She was looking at me composedly from under level brows. I observed that her hand was on the bell-cord.

“Monsieur,” she said—and oh, how well I remembered her voice—“if you move, or make a sound, I pull the bell. My servants are within a moment’s call. You will be overpowered immediately.”

“Mademoiselle,” I returned, disguising my natural voice as well as I could and thanking the Lord that my French was perfect, and that in the dim light, she did not recognize me apparently, “I am at your service.”

“I wish,” she continued, “to talk with you. The situation amuses me.”

She spoke as she might in the presence of some new spectacle. Her manner assured me that her interest in me was entirely impersonal. She was tired and bored. This was a new experience apparently which she wished to make the most of. I could think of nothing adequate to say, so I bowed profoundly.

“What is your name and what are you doing here?”

“My name, Mademoiselle, matters nothing.” In my agitation I forgot, and spoke in my natural voice. She started as she lifted the candle and looked keenly at me.

“Why!” she exclaimed, “’tis the man of the highway!”

I do not know whether I was glad or sorry to hear her say those words. At first I thought to deny it, but somehow it was impossible.

“You have discovered me, Mademoiselle,” I said.

“Then you were masquerading as a sailor. Now——”