"On the twenty-ninth of November I learned that Carteaux had started for New York an hour before I heard of it, on his way to France. I had waited long—undecided, fearing that again some evil chance might leave you alone in a strange land."
"You did wrong, René. There are duties which ought to permit of no such indecision. You should not have considered me for a moment. Go on."
"How could I help it, thinking of you, mother? I followed, and overtook this man near Bristol. I meant no chance with the sword this time. He was unarmed. I gave him the choice of my pistols, bade him pace the distance, and give the word. He walked away some six feet, half the distance, and, turning suddenly, fired, grazing my shoulder. I shot him—ah, a terrible wound in arm and shoulder. Schmidt had found a note I left for him, and, missing his pistols, inquired at the French legation, and came up in time to see it all and to prevent me from killing the man."
"Pre—vent you! How did he dare!"
"Yes, mother; and it was well. Schmidt found, when binding up his wound, that he was carrying despatches from the Republican Minister Fauchet to go by the corvette Jean Bart, waiting in New York Harbor."
"What difference did that make?"
"Why, mother, I am in the State Department. To have killed a member of the French legation, or stopped his journey, would have been ruin to me and a weapon in the hands of these mock Jacobins."
"But you did stop him."
"Yes; but I delivered the despatch myself to the corvette."
"Yes, you were right; but what next? He must have spoken."