“General, if you’ll let me take Robert into his office for five minutes alone I’ll help you take the hide off of him later,” said that Gouverneur Faulkner as he beamed the great kindness to me. “Just stay here and get that Timms pardon crowd ready to hear the news of Mary’s confession and I’ll tell you all about it when I’ve settled with Robert.”
“Very well, sir, very well,” answered my Uncle, the General Robert, with a further explosion of words. “I’ll also expect you to give him commands about this dance the young females in this town are leading him.” With which my Uncle, the General Robert, himself went into the anteroom and left me alone with the beloved Gouverneur Faulkner.
“Good morning, Robert,” he said to me with a laugh as he came and stood close beside me. That Roberta, Marquise of Grez and Bye, will blush within me, when that beloved Gouverneur comes very close beside her, in a way that is an embarrassment to Robert Carruthers, his secretary. “And now tell me what you said to that stupid Mary Brown that made her see the light,” he asked me with his fine eyes looking into mine with a great interest and something of admiration.
“I asked of her if she would not throw herself before that beloved good Timms if a knife was aimed at his heart; and she perceived from that question that she must give to me the paper. A heart that has felt a great tragedy draw near a beloved one can speak without words to another who sees also a beloved in danger. Is it that you slept in ease, my Gouverneur Faulkner, after you had received that paper? It grieved me that you should sit at work while I was at dancing,” I answered to him as I drew nearer and laid my hand with timidity upon the sleeve of his coat.
“My God, boy, do they grow many like you in France?” was the answer that the great Gouverneur Faulkner made to me as he looked down into the adoration of my eyes raised to his, with a question that was of deep bewilderment.
“France has grown many young and fine men who—who die, my Gouverneur Faulkner for her in the trenches, where I must soon go,” I answered him with my head drawn to its entire height in the likeness of the old Marquis of Grez and Flanders.
“When you go into the trenches of France, youngster, the State of Harpeth will have a Governor on leave in the same trench,” answered me that Gouverneur Faulkner with a very gentle hand laid on the sleeve of my coat above the bandages of my wound, and a glow of the star in his eyes. “Brothers by bloodshed, Marquis of Grez and Bye.”
“Roberta, Marquise of Grez and Bye, how will you even gain the refuge of your petticoats and get away from these lies of dishonor if you are to be so pursued by—” I was asking of myself when my Uncle, the General Robert, opened the door and said:
“Better see this pardon delegation now, Governor. That other matter is going to go to hell as fast as it can if we don’t scotch it. Robert, get those letters on your desk into United States as quickly as possible. That French deluge is upon us. Come back as soon as you can.” With which I was dismissed into my own small anteroom.
And what did I find in those letters?