The Red City Part 7

"This is Friend de Courval," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"You must pardon me, Vicomte," said Miss Wynne. "You must pardon a rude old woman. I am Hugh Wynne's aunt. May I ask about your mother? Is she very ill? I meant to call on her shortly. I am heartily at your service."

"I fear she is very ill," he replied.

"Have you a doctor?"

"We were just now thinking whom we should have," said Mrs. Swanwick.

"The vicomtesse speaks no English."

"Yes, yes," said Mistress Wynne; "who shall we have? Not Dr. Rush. He would bleed her, and his French--la, my cat can meow better French. Ah, I have it. I will fetch Chovet. We have not spoken for a month, because--but no matter, he will come."

There was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. "I will send for him at once, Aunt Gainor," said Mrs. Swanwick.

To De Courval's surprise, it was Margaret who answered. "He will come the quicker for Aunt Gainor, mother. Every one does as she wants." This was to De Courval.

"Except you, you demure little Quaker kitten. I must go," and the masterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followed by Schmidt and De Courval.

"A chair. I can't mount as I used to." Her black groom brought out a chair. In a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallion and clattering up Front Street with perilous indifference to an ill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-pa.s.senger. She struck up Spruce Street and the unpaved road then called Delaware Fifth Street and so down Arch. It was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles and people a-foot. Suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horse as she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrown back, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. Within sat a man who would have served for the English stage presentation of a Frenchman--a spare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he was dressed in the height of the most extravagant fashion of a day fond of color. The conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay between his legs. At sight of Mistress Wynne he applied the whip and called out to his horse in a shrill voice, "_Allez_. Get on, ca Ira!"

The spinster cried to him as they came near: "Stop, stop, Doctor! I want you. Stop--do you hear me?"

He had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political pa.s.sage of arms, and turned to go by her. With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of ca Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the doctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. "_Sacre bleu!_" he cried, "I might have been killed. _Quelle femme!_ What a woman! And my wig--" It was in the street dust.

"Why did you not stop? Get the man's wig, Tom." The groom, grinning, dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in his hand.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in front of ca Ira"]

"My wig--give it to me."

"No, don't give it to him." The doctor looked ruefully from the black to the angry spinster.

"What means this, madame? My wig--"

"I want you to go at once to see a sick woman at Mrs. Swanwick's."

"I will not. I am sent for in haste. In an hour or two I will go, or this afternoon."

"I don't believe you. You must go now--now. Who is it is ill?" People paused, astonished and laughing.

"It is Citizen Jefferson. He is ill, very ill."

"I am glad of it. He must wait--this citizen."

"But he has a chill--_un diable_ of a chill."

"If the devil himself had a chill,--Lord, but it would refresh him!--he would have to wait."

He tried to pa.s.s by. She seized the rein of his horse. Her blood was up, and at such times few men cared to face her.

"You will go," she cried, "and at once, or--there is a tale I heard about you last year in London from Dr. Abernethy. That highwayman--you know the story. Your wig I shall keep. It is freshly powdered. Lord, man, how bald you are!"

He grew pale around his rouge. "You would not, surely."

"Would I not? Come, now, I won't tell--oh, not every one. Be a good doctor. I have quarreled with Dr. Rush--and come and see me to-morrow. I have a horrid rheum. And as to Citizen Jefferson, he won't die, more's the pity."

He knew from the first he must go, and by good luck no one he knew was in sight to turn him into ridicule for the pleasure of the great Federalist dames.

"Give him his wig, Tom." The little doctor sadly regarded the dusty wig.

Then he readjusted his head-gear and said he would go.

"Now, that's a good doctor. Come," and she rode off again after him, by no means inclined to set him free to change his mind.

At Mrs. Swanwick's door, as he got out of his chaise, she said: "This lady speaks only French. She is the Vicomtesse de Courval. And now, mind you, Doctor, no citizenesses or any such Jacobin nonsense."

"_A votre service, madame_," he said, and rapped discreetly low, feeling just at present rather humble and as meek as ca Ira.

Mistress Wynne waited until the door closed behind him, and then rode away refreshed. Turning to her black groom, she said, "If you tell, Tom, I will kill you."

"Yes, missus."

"At all events, he won't bleed her," she reflected, "and he has more good sense than most of them. That young fellow is a fine figure of a man. I wonder what kind of clerk Hugh will make of him. I must have him to dine."

In the hall Dr. Chovet met Schmidt, who knew him, as, in fact, he knew every one of any importance in the city.

"These are to me friends, Doctor," he said. "I beg of you to come often," a request to the doctor's liking, as it seemed to carry better a.s.surance of pay than was the usual experience among his emigrant countrymen. He was at once a little more civil. He bowed repeatedly, was much honored, and after asking a few questions of De Courval, went up-stairs with Mrs. Swanwick, reflecting upon how some day he could avenge himself on Gainor Wynne.

De Courval, relieved by his presence and a little amused, said, smiling, "I hope he is a good doctor."

"Yes, he is competent. He manufactures his manners for the moment's need."

The doctor came down in half an hour, and, speaking French of the best, said: "Madame has had troubles, I fear, and the long voyage and no appet.i.te for sea diet--bad, bad. It is only a too great strain on mind and body. There needs repose and shortly wine,--good Bordeaux claret,--and soon, in a week or two, to drive out and take the air.

There is no cause for alarm, but it will be long, long."

Schmidt went with him to the door. De Courval sat down. Wine, drives, a doctor, and for how long? And perhaps additions to the simple diet of this modest household. Well, he must use some of the small means in Wynne's hands. And these women, with their cares, their brave self-denial of all help, how could he ever repay this unlooked-for kindness?

His mother soon grew better, and, having again seen Mr. Wynne, he felt that he might shortly take up the work which awaited him.

Meanwhile, the gentle nursing was effective, and went on without complaint and as a matter of course. Miss Wynne came at odd hours to inquire or to fetch some luxury, and soon the vicomte must call to see her.

The days went by, and there were strawberries for madame from Mr.

Langstroth and from Merion, walks for De Courval, or a pull on the water with Schmidt, and anxiously desired news from France. At last, after a fortnight or more, well on into June, the doctor insisted on claret, and De Courval asked of Schmidt where it could be had. The German laughed.

"I might lie to you, and I should at need, but I have already for the mother's use good Bordeaux in the cellar."

De Courval colored, and, hesitating, asked, "How much am I in your debt?"

"Six months of the five years. It is I shall be long in debt, I fear. It cannot be all on one side. The life of a man! What credit hath it in the account of things? Suppose it had gone the other way, would you contented bide?"