Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

The look that she gave me spoke volumes. I was speechless with happiness. To satisfy her, everyone, of my position would be easy. If only I could get word to Dr. Franklin. He had been a friend of my father in the colonies. He knew many people I knew, and if that mad little Scotsman were here he would be on my side. The Queen gave me no time for reply, for she turned to the equerry and said:

“I will see Monsieur du Trémigon. But wait one moment. Before he is admitted, I wish you to go into that room, Monsieur Burnham. Leave the door open and stand behind the arras. You”—she turned to the elderly lady, who had discreetly withdrawn to the embrasure, and had been carefully studying the landscape during the interview between the Queen, Mademoiselle and myself—“Madame, will you ask the Duc de Rivau-Huet to come into the small room where Monsieur Burnham goes and wait there until I call him forth? Tell him I beg him on no account to give note of his presence until he is summoned. Now”—she turned to the equerry—“bring hither the Marquis du Trémigon.”

I bowed low to Her Majesty and lower to Mademoiselle, and entered the apartment the Queen had indicated. The Duc de Rivau-Huet had evidently been waiting, for a moment later he entered under the guidance of the messenger and stood by my side. He did not know me, of course, but we bowed to each other profoundly and then waited quietly.

A moment later we heard the Queen speaking.

“Monsigneur du Trémigon,” she began, “you wish to see me?”

“Madame, it is the constant wish of every gentleman in France.”

“Prettily said, Monsieur, and, as it happens, I also wish to see you.”

“Your Majesty honors me.”

“You come at an opportune time, therefore.”

“Any time that I can be of service to Your Majesty is opportune,” he answered—the clever villain had a glib tongue, as he had a fine taste in clothes, I could but admit. “I wish that Your Majesty,” he continued, “could give me back my remark.”

“And what was that, Monsieur?”

“That every woman in France might wish to see me.”

“That would be an embarrassment of riches.”

“I should be satisfied if the one nearest Your Majesty cherished that desire.”

He shot one glance at the Countess. I could see them by moving the hangings slightly, and I didn’t scruple to look. The old Duke stood like a stone, wondering why he had been brought here, and as yet unable to comprehend the situation.

“You said that you wished to see me, Monsieur?” asked the Queen, disregarding his last remark.

“My desire gives place to Your Majesty’s.”

“And my will claims precedence of yours, Monsieur. Proffer your petition.”

“Your Majesty, I love devotedly the Comtesse de Villars. We were betrothed in childhood. The time for the carrying out of the contract our fathers made has arrived. I crave Your Majesty’s influence to persuade Mademoiselle de Villars to honor me.”

There was a certain amount of truth in the rascal’s words. I wondered if he really loved her a little bit, or whether it was only to get her money.

“But Mademoiselle de Villars doesn’t love you, Monsieur.”

“With Your Majesty’s aid I trust I shall be able to teach her to do so.”

“I fear that task is beyond you or me, Monsieur du Trémigon.”

“Permit me in Your Majesty’s own interest to dispute that assertion.”

“How now, Gabrielle?” said the Queen, turning to Mademoiselle.

“I hate him!” she cried. I could see du Trémigon wince.

“You hear, Monsieur?”

“I hear, Madame, but”—he tore off the disguise now and spoke with savage firmness—“Mademoiselle must marry me.”

“Must, sir! These are strange words to use to your queen.”

“I speak to a woman now,” answered the Marquis.

“Explain yourself.”

“Mademoiselle is seriously compromised.”

I could see the Countess start and clench her hands. The Queen motioned her to remain silent.

“How is that, Monsieur?” she asked quietly.

“She received me alone in her apartments the night before last.”

“You coward!” cried Mademoiselle.

“Patience, Gabrielle,” said Marie Antoinette quickly. “You have proofs of that assertion, sir?”

From where I stood with a backward glance I could see the old Duke. He had his hand on his sword, his face was as white as death. He was perfectly rigid. He had been told to remain where he was, however, until he was summoned, and he would not move.

“You have witnesses?” continued the Queen.

“I have. I was seen to go through the gate at eleven o’clock. I climbed to Mademoiselle’s window by the ivy. I remained in her apartment one hour. It was this suit that I now wear in which I presented myself to Mademoiselle.” He turned swiftly to the Countess. “Does not Mademoiselle recognize it?” he said, with a triumphant leer.

She shuddered away from him. And indeed it was the one I had worn!

“You do recognize it, Gabrielle?” asked the Queen. Mademoiselle said nothing, but it was quite evident that she did.

“Your story,” said the Queen composedly, turning to the Marquis, “is most interesting, Monsieur, if it could be believed.”

“Out of consideration to one of your maids of honor”—I could have killed him at the hateful emphasis he laid on that last word—“I hope I may be spared the pain of public testimony.”

“You give me your word of honor that three nights ago you were in Mademoiselle’s apartments?”

“I do.”

“Your word of honor as a gentleman?”

“Your Majesty has said it.”

“Oh, this is infamous—infamous!” cried Mademoiselle.

“And you, Countess, what do you say?” continued the Queen.

“It is a falsehood, a dastardly falsehood!”

A look of relief swept over the old Duke’s face then. His apprehension gave place to a growing anger. I could realize how hard it was for him to remain quiet beyond that curtain. As for me I would have given everything on earth to go out and kill du Trémigon.

“You do not wish to marry this man—pardon, this gentleman—Gabrielle?” asked Marie Antoinette.

“I would rather kill myself!”

“Monsieur du Trémigon,” said the Queen, “have mercy!”

“Madame, love has no mercy. I am passionately devoted to Mademoiselle.”

“And is that why,” asked Marie Antoinette, with a swift change of manner, “that you set your man, Babin, and two other ruffians to attack Mademoiselle on the road to Paris ten days ago?”

She drove her queries home with the directness of sword-thrusts. The Marquis gasped, fell back, utterly dismayed. He moistened his lips and strove to speak.

“I—I—I do not know what Your Majesty means—” he faltered. “I had a servant called Babin in my employ, but I have discharged him.”

“You did not know,” said the Queen pitilessly, “that Mademoiselle was carrying papers of infinite concern to me? Relying on your sense of honor”—she smiled mockingly—“I tell you the truth. They were letters that I had written years ago—silly, foolish letters, which yet might have given me trouble. Mademoiselle volunteered to get them and bring them to me. And you, Monsieur du Trémigon, having learned this in some way—oh, I have fathomed the whole procedure,” she went on, rising and confronting him. “You thought to get me in your power and force a consent from Mademoiselle through her love for me!”

“Madame, I am innocent. I know no more about this than you have told me. Babin has not been in my service for months. I know nothing about the letters.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear it!”

The Queen struck a bell on the table at my side. The equerry presented himself.

“Is Monsieur Éspiau there?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Admit him.”

In another moment the old servant of the Duke entered and fell on his knees before the Queen.

“Rise, my friend,” she said, with that gentle grace, that benignity, that ought to have endeared her to the whole of France, high and low, rich and poor; “were you at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet on last Wednesday night?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Were you in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars?”

“I was, Your Majesty.”

“Between the hours of eleven and twelve?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Was the Marquis du Trémigon there?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“And you would believe a servant’s word before mine?” said du Trémigon furiously.

“We shall see. Call Monsieur Burnham,” she said to the attendant.

I did not wait to be called. I was through the door in an instant. Du Trémigon started with additional surprise when he saw me.

“What do you know of this charge of the Marquis du Trémigon?” asked the Queen after I had saluted her.

“Your Majesty, I know that the Marquis du Trémigon was in his hôtel between the hours of eight in the evening and one in the morning. By no possibility could he have been in the apartment of Mademoiselle de Villars. Furthermore, the man Babin was in his employ yesterday.”

“You hound!” cried du Trémigon, and then I stepped close to him. He shrank back. I stepped nearer. The Queen might have interfered, but I rather think she enjoyed it.

“You know,” I said, frowning at him, “that you were not in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars on that evening or any other evening.” He opened his mouth as if to speak. “Not a word or I’ll kill you where you stand!”

“Your Majesty,” he cried, dexterously avoiding me, “will you condemn me on the words of a lackey and a criminal?”

I started toward him again, but the Queen raised her hand. She looked at the equerry again, an old and trusted attendant, upon whom she could rely.

“The Duc de Rivau-Huet”—she pointed to the door—“bring him here.”

The Duke was almost as quick as I. The curtain was torn aside and he came in erect, with his hand on his sword.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed low before her, a graceful and gallant old gentleman.

“Monsieur le Duc,” said the Queen, extending her hand to be kissed, “you are ever welcome. As the head of the house to which the Marquis du Trémigon belongs. I wish you to hear his charges and his denials, that you may judge him accordingly.”

“I have heard, Your Majesty,” said the Duke, “and give me leave to say I need neither the evidence of Éspiau nor of this gentleman—whoever he may be—to convince me that the Marquis du Trémigon has lied.”

“And I tell you,” burst out the Marquis, “that this man is a common thief, a highway robber and—” He pointed to me.

“Have a care, Monsieur,” said Marie Antoinette quickly; “highway robbery is a grave accusation. Was it on the road to Paris that he committed this highway robbery? This is a most serious indictment. Look again. Think! Do you press the charge? Do you really mean it?”

VII

THE SLIPPER FINDS ITS WEARER

“His Majesty the King!” cried an usher at the great door, throwing it open. “His Excellency, the Minister of the United States, Dr. Franklin, Commodore John Paul Jones, Monsieur Bucknall, sailor,” he added.

Into the room came the King of France, a stout, heavy-set, rather stupid-looking young man. Following him I saw the familiar figure—I had seen many portraits of him in public print—of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. By his side—and it was a good sight for any eyes—walked the handsome little daredevil of a Scotsman in his naval uniform, looking as cocky as if he had been strutting on his own quarter-deck. And then—did my eyes deceive me?—came the rolling form of worthy Master Bucknall. I blessed that man in my heart. He had brought Mademoiselle to my assistance in the prison and now he had completed his work by looking up Dr. Franklin and the rest. Where he had found the Commodore I did not know.

I had heard he had recently arrived at L’Orient, but not that he had come to Paris.

“Madame,” said the King, approaching the Queen who courtesied deeply before him, “I wish you good morning. Ah, Duke, I am always glad to see you. Mademoiselle de Villars, you are fit to stand before Her Majesty, and I could pay you no higher compliment.”

I was amazed to hear this fat, commonplace, prosy-looking man speak so pleasantly, but in sooth Mademoiselle, with her cheeks flushed, a little sparkle of tears in her eyes, her head thrown back—well, any man of taste would have recognized which was Queen of Love and Beauty in that room. The King bowed shortly and coldly to du Trémigon and looked with some interest at me.

“Monsieur,” said the Queen to her husband, “will you allow me to present to you Monsieur Burnham, an American naval officer?”

I bowed low before the King. France was our ally and we hoped much from her, and although we in America had cut kings and queens out of our books, I felt it necessary for me to be politic.

“Dr. Franklin, you are always welcome,” continued the Queen, “even though you do come garbed in sober gray to our gay Court.”

“Your Majesty,” returned the old Quaker gallantly, “I wear gray that it may contrast the better with the high color of my admiration for the Queen of France.”

“And this is our old friend, the Commodore. We are glad to have you back at Versailles after your splendid fighting, Monsieur,” said the Queen, dimpling with pleasure at Dr. Franklin’s compliment and giving her hand to Paul Jones, who had waited with ill-concealed impatience for this recognition of his rank and station.

“To see you again, Your Majesty,” began the doughty little Captain, with a shade too much fervor, I thought, “is better fortune than to capture a ship like the _Serapis_.”

“You must tell me about that action, Monsieur.”

“I shall be pleased to attend upon Your Majesty at any time for that or any other purpose,” he replied. “And if it were necessary to secure entrance to your levee, _I_ would cheerfully engage to capture another British frigate.”

The Queen laughed kindly at the little Captain, and then she stared toward Bucknall, who stood shifting from one foot to another, twisting his hat in his hand. She was a good-hearted woman and would fain neglect no one—not even the humblest.

“And who is this?” she asked.

“Madame, give me leave,” I interposed. “He is a sailor to whom I owe life, liberty and—love!”

“Looks he not like a cupid’s messenger?” queried Her Majesty, smiling, and then the King broke in.

“Have you sent for the prisoner, Madame?”

“Your Majesty, he is here?”

“What, this gentleman?”

The Queen bowed.

“What have you to say for yourself, sir?” the King asked me.

“Much, Your Majesty. I am an American naval officer, as Commodore Paul Jones can bear witness.”

“’Tis true, Your Majesty. He sailed with me on the _Alfred_, and a better officer I did not have, and I say it who have a right to testify.”

“Good,” said the King. “Proceed, Monsieur.”

“I was captured with Captain Cunningham in the _Revenge_.”

“Give me a fleet, Your Majesty,” interrupted Commodore Jones, “and we’ll stop all that.”

The King smiled and nodded to me.

“I escaped from a British prison-ship, robbed a gentleman in England, got money from him, came to France hoping to find Dr. Franklin or Commodore Jones. Neither was in Paris. I lost my money, fell into the hands of an enemy, and was lodged in jail, whence I have been this morning brought here by Her Majesty’s gracious interference.”

“How did you lose your money?” asked the King, quite as a father might have spoken to his son. There was something pleasant about the plain, homely man. I hesitated not a moment.

“I am sorry to say, Sire, that I gambled it away.”

The King shook his head.

“I can make good your loss,” he said; “but play is the curse of the young nobles of my Court, and of all strangers who come to Paris, as well.”

“Your Majesty is most kind. When I can hear from America I shall be able to discharge all my obligations, and I wish to say to Your Majesty and before you all”—all meant Mademoiselle—“that I shall eschew play in the future.”

“There were charges against you of highway robbery, I believe?”

“On information laid by me, Your Majesty,” broke in du Trémigon.

“But Monsieur du Trémigon withdraws the charges now. Highway robbery! It hath an ugly sound,” said the Queen. “How is that, Monsieur du Trémigon?”

I never saw such a look of baffled rage and hatred as that on du Trémigon’s face. He was completely powerless. The evidence against him was too strong. He tried to speak, but there was no help for it. He bowed at last.

“I am too much of a gentleman”—I have always been suspicious of a man who protests his quality overmuch, by the way—“to contradict the Queen of France.”

“Good,” said the King. “But there were some papers?”

“Monsieur du Trémigon lost them, unfortunately,” again interposed the Queen.

“Very careless, I’m sure,” commented the King severely.

“I,” volunteered Dr. Franklin, “will be surety for Monsieur Burnham’s debts to the Marquis du Trémigon.”

“The word of a gentleman so vouched for is sufficient,” said the Marquis, raging in his heart, but helpless.

“I’d rather pay him the money, doctor, and owe it to you,” I said softly to Dr. Franklin.

“Is it a great sum, lad?” whispered the Quaker aside. “Our exchequer is running low. And, hark ye, that highway robbery in England. ’Tis hardly a crime of which you could be convicted in France.”

Now, why had neither I nor anyone else thought of that!

“We will attend to the debt,” said the King, after a momentary consultation with the Queen. “Now, gentlemen, no more of this.”

Of course when he put on his royal look and said that, there was nothing more for me to do.

“Pardon, Your Majesty,” said the Duc de Rivau-Huet, who had noted all that had occurred with ill-concealed impatience. “Monsieur du Trémigon has another announcement to make.”

“What is that, Duke?” asked the King.

“Your Majesty is doubtless aware that my son and the father of the Marquis du Trémigon entered into a contract that their children should be married at a suitable age, provided they were both willing to carry out the agreement?”

“I have heard so,” answered the King.

“The Marquis du Trémigon wishes, in the presence of these witnesses, to renounce all pretension to the hand of Mademoiselle de Villars.”

“Your Majesty,” protested the Marquis in one last desperate attempt to gain his end, “Monsieur le Duc mis——”

“I believe I am not mistaken, Monsieur,” said the Duke, very stately and magnificent, with his hand on his sword—my heart went out to him—looking hard at the Marquis.

“I am sure,” added the Queen in her silvery voice—and you would have thought she were conferring the greatest favor in her power upon the wretched du Trémigon—“that the Duke is right. Monsieur du Trémigon,” she went on, with a woman’s spitefulness—but indeed I could not blame her, “is no more desirous of marrying Mademoiselle de Villars than he is of pressing the charge of highway robbery against Monsieur Burnham.”

Du Trémigon could not trust himself to speak again. He clenched his hands and bowed low before the Queen.

“Furthermore,” continued the Duke imperturbably, “Monsieur du Trémigon wishes Your Majesty’s permission to withdraw from Paris and retire to his estates.”

“As the Marquis pleases,” said the King indifferently.

Had I been King I should have been consumed with curiosity to know what this was all about, but His Majesty cared little about it, apparently, for after turning his back on du Trémigon, who backed out of the room, he said to Dr. Franklin:

“Now that we have settled this affair, doctor, I want you to look at a lock in my cabinet that interests me greatly. Gamain brought it today. Its mechanism is curious and complex. It will interest a scientific man like yourself, I am sure.”

“I shall be glad to attend Your Majesty.”

“Give me leave, Sire,” again said the Duc de Rivau-Huet. “Your Majesty,” continued the old man, standing very erect, “the Marquis du Trémigon averred that he was in my granddaughter’s apartments until a late hour the other night.”

“It is false,” said the Queen.

“Madame, I know that. What I wish to know is, who was there?”

“Monsieur! Before them all!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, startled beyond measure by this surprising development. This unlucky speech in itself was a confession.

“The King is the fountain of nobility in the land,” continued the Duke, striving to regain his composure. “You are a maid of honor to the Queen, Mademoiselle. That gentleman”—he pointed to me—“heard the accusation and denied it. These are his friends. Here is some mystery. I wish an explanation.”

“But, Duke—” began the King, with a puzzled look.

“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon. Even royalty may give place to the feelings of a grandsire. Will you allow me to conduct this affair in my own way?”

“Go on,” said the King.

“I am satisfied that the Marquis du Trémigon, whom I shall see later, with the King’s permission——”

“I will give you a _lettre de cachet_ to the Bastile for him, if you like.”

“Thank you, Sire. Monsieur du Trémigon was not there, but I insist someone was, and I demand to know who.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“Éspiau, you know?”

“I have nothing to say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied the old servant, turning pale.

“Will no one tell me?” cried the old man, grief in his heart, appeal in his tones, shame in his bearing.

“I will,” I said boldly; “I was there.”

“You, sir!”

“Even I, Monsieur.”

“How dared you? What do you mean?” He put his hand to his heart. I was nearest him. I stretched out my arm to help him, but he thrust me away. “Answer!” he cried, imperiously forgetful of the King, the Queen, everybody.

“It is very simple,” I replied quietly. “On my approach to Paris I had the good fortune to be of assistance to Mademoiselle.”

“In what capacity?”

“She was set upon by three ruffians. I drove them off.”

“Whereabouts?”

I was ignorant of the road, but Mademoiselle came to my rescue.

“Near Paris, on the Versailles road, Monsieur.”

“Where was your escort?” queried the Duke.

“I was alone.”

“Alone on the Versailles road?”

“In my service, Duke,” said the Queen softly.

“Pardon, Your Majesty. That is sufficient. Proceed, Monsieur.”

“I fell in love with your granddaughter.”

“How dared you, sir; a beggarly——?”

“Monsieur Burnham’s patrimony includes rich land enough to make a county in France,” deftly put in Dr. Franklin at this juncture.

“But in America—” said the Duke scornfully.

“The finest land the sun ever set on, Monsieur,” broke in Commodore Jones hotly.

The King waved his hand for silence, and the Duke turned to me again.

“I sought your granddaughter far and wide, and at last found her at the Hôtel de Rivau-Huet.”

I had a hard task to keep to the truth and yet make a satisfactory story.

“And was it at her invitation you entered her apartment?”

“Monsieur le Duc!” exclaimed the King hastily, in warning.

“Grandfather!” cried the girl, recoiling from the outrageous accusation.

“Sir!” I replied, with spirit, “the question is an insult to your blood! I came unexpectedly, unknown, unwelcome—like a thief in the night.”

“You dared——?”

“It was a prank, a foolish trick; I have no excuse but my passion.”

“And you were alone with my granddaughter?”

“I was there, Monsieur le Duc,” said Éspiau.

“Then tell me the truth now, unless you forget your ancient fidelity,” exclaimed the Duke, turning to the unhappy servant. “You saw this gentleman there?”

I shook my head at him, but he was looking at Mademoiselle. Disregarding my warning glance, she nodded. The seal upon the servant’s lips was broken.

“Yes, Monsieur le Duc,” he said.

“And where was he?”

“In Mademoiselle’s—” he hesitated.

“Speak!” thundered the old man.

“Bedchamber, Monsieur.”

“_Mon Dieu!_” cried the Duke, his composure giving way at last. He put his face in his hands with a movement singularly like that of Mademoiselle a short time before.

Is it that Master Shakespeare in great crises voices the universal cry of the human heart? For like the father of Hero in “Much Ado About Nothing”—and indeed the whole affair was somewhat similar in my mind—the Duke finally broke forth:

“‘Hath no man here a sword for me?’”

I have not the sentence exactly, but I give the sense of it, and I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. But the love of the young is often cruel to the old.

“My grandfather! my grandfather!” cried Mademoiselle, sinking to his feet, “think not bitterly of me! This gentleman has told the truth. I had but spoken a few words to him when you came. He did me a great service. I concealed him.”

“Why?” groaned the Duke.

“I was afraid that you would kill him.”

“Afraid? What is he to you?”

It was a dreadful situation for a young girl. She had never told me in so many words, although I was sure of it in my own mind, and to have to declare it before all these men was indeed hard. Yet with a heroism for which I can never be sufficiently grateful she said it.

“I love him!”

“You love him!” exclaimed her grandfather in amazement.

“Monsieur le Duc de Rivau-Huet,” I cried in my turn, springing to her side, lifting her up, and slipping my arm about her waist, “I have the honor to ask you to give me the hand of your granddaughter in marriage.”

“She is a countess of France,” replied the Duke. “The best blood in the land flows in her veins, Monsieur.”

“I have some indifferent good in my own veins, Monsieur le Duc,” I asserted, naming some of my mother’s people.

“Is this true, Monsieur?”

“I vouch for it,” said Paul Jones.

“Your Majesty,” said the Duke, turning to the King, but he got no help there.

“If you will give your consent, Duke,” said Louis, “I shall not withhold mine. Indeed, under the circumstances—”He paused significantly.

The Duke groaned and the gracious Queen came to our rescue again.

“Monsieur le Duc,” she said, stepping near him and laying her hand on his arm, “think! Monsieur Burnham is a gallant gentleman. As good blood as any in France flows in his veins. In America they have no kings, but they are all princes. His Majesty in his kindness consents. This will cement the union between the two countries against England, which is so dear to think of. Will you sacrifice your pride if I ask you, and bless the pair who love each other?”

“Madame, it is as you will,” he faltered. “I had cherished other dreams. Still, there can be no higher degree than that of gentleman, after all. No, though he sit upon a throne.”

“The royalty of virtue, the royalty of honor, the royalty of courage,” said Dr. Franklin kindly, “make this marriage not an unequal one.”

“I am an old man,” continued the Duke; “this has been hard on me. Let the young love have its way.”

“And you will forgive me?” pleaded Mademoiselle, approaching him nearer.

“Your Majesty will permit me?” asked the Duke. He took her in his arms and pressed a kiss upon her forehead and blessed her.

“Sir,” he said, turning to me and bowing, “I hope to know more of you before I commit this child to your keeping.”

“Now that all is settled for the second time,” said the King, greatly relieved. “Dr. Franklin, Commodore, and you, Duke, will you come with me?”

“We attend Your Majesty.”

The four gentlemen bowed low before the Queen. The King bowed to me, Dr. Franklin and Commodore Jones shook my hand. Our kindly minister made an appointment to meet me later in the palace.

“You were lucky,” he said.

Indeed I realized that, for I replied: “Thanks to you and the Commodore.”

“Nay,” said the Quaker, smiling, “thanks to Mademoiselle herself, and to your own ready wit.”

Then they left us alone with the Queen and Bucknall.

“It strikes me,” said Her Majesty, looking at the old sailor, “that nobody has said anything about the part you have played in this affair.”

“Aye, aye, mum,” began the sailor in great confusion, “w’ich I means yer honor——”

“‘Mum’ is delightful,” laughed Marie Antoinette.

“I was at me wit’s end wot course to lay this mornin’, an’ w’en as luck would hev it I run into Commodore Jones in the street, jist in from L’Orient—he never forgits a shipmate, ma’am, no matter how humble—an’ I ups an’ told him about Mr. Burnham. He fetched me to Dr. Franklin, an’ you knows the rest, Yer Ladyship.”

“I shall not forget you,” said the Queen, lifting a well-filled purse from the table and putting it in Bucknall’s hand. The old sailor was not without a streak of gallantry.

“It’s the hand wot gives it, lady,” he said, “wot makes me wally it more’n the gold pieces.”

“You will await Monsieur Burnham without the door,” she said, dismissing him graciously.

“Monsieur Burnham,” she began as we three were alone, “you are a thief after all. You have stolen the fairest jewel of my Court. I ought to be angry with you, but—I am not.”

“I thank Your Majesty.”

“You will be very good to this daughter of France in your own land?”

“Madame, I will cherish her as the King his crown. Nay,” I added quickly, “as I would cherish Your Majesty were I the King.”

“You pay me in pretty speeches.”

“They come, Madame, from my heart of hearts. After my country and my wife, my sword is yours.”

She was gone. Of course I took Mademoiselle in my arms, and this time there was no hesitation on her part in returning my ardent caresses. I do not know what we said or what happened. After a space—how long or how short I cannot tell, for I took no notice of time or place—I said that while we each had the gold pieces I regretted that I had no ring to slip on her finger, nothing of my own to give her to bind the engagement. Of course I could not give her the Queen’s diamond—yet! She was very close to me and doubtless could feel what was in my breast-pocket.

“You have one thing,” she replied demurely, “that you could slip on.”

“What is that?”

“Have you forgotten the talisman?”

“The talisman?” I cried.

I am stupid sometimes, not often, and I was thinking so hard of her that I did not catch her meaning at first.

“That which Master Bucknall brought you—that I gave back to you.”

“Oh!” said I; “the slipper saved my life; it gave me hope.”

“And hope gave you assurance?”

“And assurance won me you.”

She drew herself away and sat down in the Queen’s chair, and no royal person ever became it so well as she. Then she fumbled at her shoe a moment, and thrust out one dainty stockinged little foot at me.

“You might put it on,” she whispered, blushing vividly.

I am not ashamed to say that I kissed that foot before I covered it with my lady’s slipper.

_Populism_

BY CHARLES Q. DE FRANCE
_Secretary People’s Party National Committee_

Populism is a term at which many eminently respectable but sadly misinformed persons shy, like the staid old farm horse when he first encounters an automobile on the road to town. They regard it as synonymous with Socialism, anarchy, bomb-throwing, nihilism and half a dozen other real or fancied evils. That it is simply a short expression for progressive, radical or Jeffersonian Democracy has never occurred to them.

Populism is a term which well illustrates the growth of language, the evolution by which circumlocution is avoided and clearness of expression attained. Yet, at the same time, it is an apt illustration of the power of a subsidized press to create an erroneous public opinion.

Back in the early ’90s, when the People’s Party was being organized in a number of Western States, there was considerable discussion as to whether it should be regarded as a political organization on the usual lines, or whether it should be a sort of league of independent voters, free to choose and vote for such candidates, on any ticket, as might seem best fitted to represent the interests of the different organizations of farmers and wage-workers out of which the People’s Party finally evolved.

The Omaha National Convention in 1892 settled the question in favor of regular party organization. It is true that there were intended to be points of difference between the People’s Party machinery and that of either old party; but these points were minor rather than fundamental. The delegate convention was retained—which, to my mind, was the one mistake made at Omaha. Until some system of direct nominations is adopted, whereby every elector may have a vote direct—and not by delegate, who may misrepresent him—I fear that as our party grows in strength we shall more and more be called upon to combat the same influences which dominate both the old parties. However, this is digression.

With the advent of the People’s Party a difficulty was found in describing a member of that party. A member of the Republican Party is, of course, a Republican; and a member of the Democratic Party is called a Democrat—but how designate one affiliated with the People’s Party?

The omnipresent and omniscient newspaper reporter, as usual, solved the difficulty. His agnosticism applies to nothing except the word “fail.” And with him circumlocution and criminality are almost synonymous. It would never do to be ringing the changes on “an adherent to the People’s Party,” or “one affiliated with the People’s Party”; hence, it was not long before we began to see the word “Populist” used in verbal descriptions of what the cartoonist invariably depicted as a “one-gallus” man, armed with fork or rake, and blessed with a hirsute adornment truly Samsonian.

Applied as a term of reproach, yet responding to the inexorable law which compels men to follow along the lines of least resistance, the word “Populist” came to stay. It stuck, just as the term “Methodist” did—or “Christian,” for that matter. From “Populist,” descriptive of the man, to “Populism,” designating his political belief, was an easy step—and now, after fifteen years of abuse, ridicule, vituperation and gross misrepresentation, the great middle class is just beginning to get a clearer view and to discover that Populism is the only logical answer to the question, “What shall we do to be saved from economic ruin?”

Populism is neither Socialism nor anarchism. It is neither idealistic nor materialistic. It is neither collectivistic nor individualistic. It is essentially eclectic. It recognizes the good in all the schools of political and economic thought and attempts to eliminate the weak or bad—but refuses to be bound by any.

Populism recognizes the fact that we must work with the world as it is now—and not as some Utopian dreamer conceives it ought to be. It recognizes the fact that private ownership of productive property is not only the rule all over the world—but also that the people like it. It recognizes the Socialists’ “economic determinism”—that man’s economic needs usually dominate when they clash with his ideals—yet is not unmindful of the fact that all progress is the result of ideals forcing a change in the environment. Were it not so, man would still be an arboreal ape, chattering aloft in some palm tree.

Populism recognizes that man is a social animal, yet combats Socialism for subordinating the individual to the collectivity, and combats anarchy for subordinating the collectivity to the individual. It is the golden mean between these extremes.

Although Populism lays no claim to being either a “science” or a “philosophy,” yet it has the only definite program of any party today before the American people. It has a yard-stick by which all things may be measured, whether they be burlap, fustian, woolen, silk or some new weave of spider-web. This yard-stick is—

EQUAL RIGHTS TO ALL, SPECIAL PRIVILEGES TO NONE.

Every fair-minded man is willing to have his economic cloth measured by that yard-stick. Only avaricious rogues object.

The Republican Party is committed to the practice of giving special privileges to a favored few. It is essentially a party of paternalism. The protective tariff is paternalistic. The railroad franchise is paternalistic, and land grants, and bonds, and subsidies. The national banking laws are paternalistic—and so, too, deposits of public revenues, and rentals on public buildings sold but never paid for. The net effect of all Republican legislation is to arm the possessors of great wealth with some sort of taxing power, whereby they may absorb still more wealth without rendering an equivalent. Incidentally, it is true, some measure of prosperity may come to the more humble possessors of property—but the general trend is beyond question plutocratic.

The so-called Democratic Party need not be considered here. It has no fixed policy for more than eight years at a time—except to be “agin’ the government.” It is the party of negation.

The Socialist Party presents the anomaly of a party with an elaborate “scientific” system of societary evolution, an excellent interpretation of history, and forecast of the supposedly final form which society will assume—yet without a program or hint of the specific manner in which industry will be carried on under “the collective ownership of all the means of production and distribution, with democratic management by the workers engaged in each industry.” It is admitted that we have no right to ask for prophecies—but we have a right to see a rough draft at least of the new building which is to be erected after the social revolution has torn down the old edifice. It is true that a few so-called Socialist papers pretend to tell us what will be “under Socialism”—vague, Utopian—pardon the term—“pipe dreams”; but none of them will give even an outline sketch of how collective industry might be carried on, preferring to hide behind the excuse that “we’ll cross that bridge when we reach it.” Alas! The bridge might happen to be washed out by the floods of social revolution.

Being an extreme on the side of materialism as opposed to idealism, or collectivism as opposed to individualism, Socialism is quite impossible as a scheme of government. Besides, the “materialistic conception of history,” upon which Socialism bases its prediction of the co-operative commonwealth, is not wholly scientific, because it fails to consider what changes may be wrought by invention. In a general way, it may be said that the invention of gunpowder destroyed feudalism, and that the discovery of steam power and its application to manufacturing broke up the guild system of masters, journeymen and apprentices, and ushered in the present wage system. Who has the hardihood to prophesy what an Edison may not do in the years to come, or to foretell what the effect may be?

The program of Populism is at once radical and conservative. It is radical, because it goes to the root of the difficulty and will effect a profound change. It is conservative, because it will enable the great mass of wealth producers to conserve what they now have and what they produce in future, by exempting them from the legalized robberies committed by railroads, banks, trusts and other forms of predatory wealth.

Populism, recognizing the institution of private property, and the people’s veneration and love for it, looks back over history’s pages and sees two things which, up to the recent past, have always been regarded as prerogatives of the state. One is the coinage, issue and control of money; the other, the ownership and control of highways.

Under the term “money” we may properly include all those modern makeshifts which are armed with partial legal-tender power, or even those without such power, if they generally perform the offices of money. Without discussing it in detail—because thousands of volumes have been written upon the subject without exhausting it—it seems quite certain that if Congress is to really exercise its right—and undoubted duty—“to coin money and regulate the value thereof,” there can be no “free” coinage of either gold or silver; and the Government must go into the banking business.

Under the term “highways” we may properly include railroads, canals, telegraphs, telephones, expresses—in short, all means of transportation and communication.

Most of the trust oppressions grow directly out of private ownership of the means of transportation and transmission of intelligence—the highways—and the private issue of money. Populism asks that these great evils be corrected—and that the individual be allowed to conduct his own private business with the least possible interference by government. There will always be work for the reformer; but wisdom dictates that the greatest evils be first eliminated, so that many of a minor character may be allowed to correct themselves.

_To Roosevelt_

Our hero is a man of peace,
Preparedness he implores,
His sword within its scabbard sleeps,
But, mercy! how it snores!

_The Regalia of Money_

BY ALEXANDER DEL MAR

[Mr. Del Mar’s career as a financial writer covers a period
of more than half a century. He was the financial editor
of the Washington _National Intelligencer_, the New York
_Daily American Times_, _Hunt’s Merchants’ Magazine_, _The
Social Science Review_, _The Leader_, _The Commercial
and Financial Chronicle_, and other journals of national
importance. After filling the offices of Director of the
Bureau of Statistics, Commerce and Navigation, Commissioner
to Italy, Holland and Russia, member of the United States
Monetary Commission, etc., he devoted his leisure to a
“History of Money in the Principal States of the World,”
“The Science of Money,” and other works relating to this
great subject, all of which have secured the approval
of the critical press of Europe and America and passed
through repeated editions, both in English and other
languages.—EDITOR.]

In the recent Presidential election the People’s Party inserted in its platform a principle of such transcendent importance that, were it generally understood, had its operation been brought home to the great mass of the people, could its far-reaching consequences have been portrayed so that everybody might observe them, it would have dwarfed every other issue on that occasion presented to the country. As it was, nobody, except the few gallant leaders of the People’s Party, paid the least attention to it, and the election was decided upon other grounds.

That principle concerned the Regalia of Money, which the People’s platform demanded should be restored to its rightful owners, the Government, the people of the United States. It can be demonstrated that, had this been done, many of the vexed questions before the country, such as the Monopolization of Industries, the Financial Trusts, the Municipal Ownership of Public Utilities, etc., would have been placed in a fair way of settlement.

In a series of magazine articles, which contain much that has the appearance of being exaggerated, untrue and vindictive, but which also contain much that is true and susceptible of verification, Mr. Thomas Lawson has been arousing the public to a sense of the dangers of the Financiers’ System, the System by which the banks, the insurance companies, the trusts and the Stock Exchange are employed by so-called Captains of Industry to despoil the people. After explaining how the game is conducted, he shows that even those who refrain from gambling on the Stock Exchange, and who may have no financial transactions beyond keeping a bank account or insuring their lives, are drawn into it, against their knowledge and will, and robbed of all the fruits of their labor and abstinence.

Lawson began his articles by accusing certain persons and putting up bluffs; a mode of argument which he soon found was not convincing. He now perceives that the fault lies in the System, and that at the bottom of the System lies the subject of Money. The whole series of transactions which, he alleges, have in the course of a few years taken several thousand millions out of the pockets of the masses and transferred them into those of a few cunning and unscrupulous operators, hung upon this single question: Shall the Government of the United States exercise its Regalia of Money or not? Mr. Lawson keeps up the interest of his readers by promising them a remedy for the disorders he describes. Should the remedy not include the regulation of Money, I hazard nothing in predicting that it will prove an entire failure and delusion.

What is the Regalia of Money? Is it some new-fangled notion about the coinage, some argument which turns upon the obscure meaning of Value, some phase of the tiresome Silver Question? Nothing of the kind. The Regalia of Money is a prerogative of government, familiar to every jurisconsult; a well-known, clearly defined and necessary attribute of Sovereign Power. It is laid down in all the great law books, in Budelius, Grotius, Puffendorf, Vattel, Molinæus, Grimaudet, Wheaton, Martens, and a host of other authorities. It is described as “a power which the state reserves to itself, for its own safety and welfare”; the power to create money, give it denomination and control its issues. Like the power to make war, peace and treaties, and to establish uniform weights and measures, it is called regalia, because it belongs to and must be exercised alone by sovereign states, as a prerogative which is necessary to their welfare, and essential to their autonomy, dignity and authority.

When the American Republic was established the Regalia of Money was exercised by all of the Colonies which united to form the Federation, whereupon, and as a matter of necessity, they all surrendered it to the general Government, which, under the Constitution, alone has the power to issue money and regulate its value or denominations. It was a misfortune that when the Union was formed it was so poor that it was obliged to tolerate the issuance of money by a private corporation, the Bank of Pennsylvania. Out of that bank grew all of the so-called state banks of a subsequent period, and out of those state banks, during the Civil War, grew all of the so-called National banks. Every one of these banks, both “state” and “National,” were all, and are yet, private banks, their titles in every case being misnomers. It is not intended to say a word against banks as guardians and lenders of money; on the contrary, they are recognized as highly useful and even indispensable institutions. As a rule, they are conducted by respectable and honorable men, and it cannot be disputed that they have done much to promote the progress of industry and the prosperity of trade. Whether they would have done more or less in these directions had they not been permitted to usurp the Regalia of Money, which act forms no necessary part of a banking business, it is not proposed to discuss. Said Mr. Jefferson: “I have ever been the enemy of banks; not of those discounting for cash, but of those foisting _their own money_ into circulation, and thus banishing _our_ cash.” What influence, whether for good or evil, which this usurpation of the Regalia exercised in his day it is now too late to examine.

But the time has come when the relinquishment of the Regalia to the banks can no longer be tolerated. The bankers have had a century of profitable innings; the people now demand theirs. The state laws of incorporation are so contradictory, loose and pliable that there have grown up under them companies and institutions so constituted that, in combination with banks usurping the Regalia, it is in their power—and this is what Mr. Lawson has shown very effectively—to strip the nation over and over again of its earnings, and eventually to absorb its entire wealth. It is scarcely too much to say that unless the United States Government resumes this Regalia, and absolutely prohibits the circulation of any money, whether of metal or paper, not of its own immediate issuance, we will find ourselves in the course of very few years hopelessly in debt to a band of absentee millionaires, who, having shown us their heels, will next show us their teeth.

It is not alone the people who are in danger of being impoverished by the System, it is not alone that the Government will be jeopardized; it is also that the banks, the insurance companies and numerous other classes of trade corporations will themselves be drawn into the nets that are being spread for them, nets strewn with their own bird-lime, and delivered over to the scheming millionaires who are preparing to plunder them. Mr. Lawson wholly neglects this phase of the subject. His ardor is all for the dear people, to arouse whose righteous indignation, he informs us, he is expending a fortune. Such reckless munificence, on the part of a man who ostentatiously advertises himself as the manager or director of several corporations, goes far toward indicating the correctness of our position. It is not doubted that Mr. Lawson sympathizes with the people and is anxious to point out the dangers that threaten them. On the other hand, it cannot be supposed that he is indifferent to the fate of the banks and other companies with which he is connected. The fact is that, having thoroughly skinned the people, the Captains of Industry are now prepared to skin the corporations, and that it is going to skin them with weapons plucked from its victims. These weapons are the notes which the banks have issued in defiance of the Regalia of Money.

The banks will perhaps more fully appreciate the sort of people they are dealing with if we interpolate at this point a few words touching their humanity. The principal, almost the sole lever with which the Captains of Industry are “working” this nation, is the issue of “National” bank-notes, and the elastic feature conferred upon it by law. This system was established by Salmon P. Chase, ex-Governor of Ohio, ex-Senator of the United States, then Secretary of the Treasury, and afterward Chief Justice of the United States; a man of the highest integrity, and perhaps for that reason wholly incapable of coping with Mr. John Thompson and the other Chevaliers of Industry of the last generation. It will naturally be supposed that had this class of men the slightest taint of humanity they would at least have taken care to honor the memory of their principal benefactor. Well, we will show you how they did it. Judge Chase, after serving his country in many capacities during a long lifetime, expired in poverty and in debt; his daughter died of grief and starvation; his grandchildren are at present living in very humble circumstances; his personal effects, his books, even the petty keepsakes and trinkets of his children, were exposed to the gaze of the vulgar and sold at a public auction in New York to satisfy his creditors, the rapacious Captains of Industry; while the body of this great but guileless man lies today in an obscure churchyard, without a tombstone over it. Such is the humanity of the Captains of Industry.

It is an essential part of the merry game which these Captains are permitted to play that they shall always have in their hands the means alternately to inflate and contract the currency, at any given point, say, for example, New York. With the mints restricted to the coinage of metal for private persons, and the hands of the Government tied to a fixed issue of greenbacks, while their own hands are free, the mischievous elasticity which they employ for the success of their operations is easily acquired by getting command of the principal banks of issue. The moment they press their fingers on this button the market immediately responds by throwing its stocks overboard; and the moment they release the button, up rise the stocks again. It is by means of this simple mechanism that the public has been plundered, and that it is now planned to plunder the companies. That there is no longer any art in the trained motorman’s vocation is proved by the small wages he commands. The art is in providing the power and controlling the mechanism which drives the cars. In the Captains-of-Industry game the power is derived from the elastic bank issues: the mechanism consists of certain banks and insurance companies and the Stock Exchange. Given the power and mechanism which these establishments furnish, any bandit could work the game and have plenty of leisure to spare. The System is automatic.