He went to his own office, and stood a moment in the small, whitewashed room, reflecting with indignant anger on the sudden ending of a career he had enjoyed. Then he gathered his personal belongings and calling the old negro caretaker, bade him carry them to Mrs. Swanwick's.
As for the last time he went down the steps, he said to himself: "So I am thrown to the wolves of party! I knew I should be, and I said so," which was hardly just to the man he left, who would have been pleased if his compromise had been accepted. Little could Randolph have imagined that the remote agency of the man he had thus thrown over would result for himself in a situation not unlike that which he had created for his subordinate.
"I am ruined," murmured De Courval. "Who will believe me? and Margaret! My God! that is at an end! And my mother!"
He walked slowly homeward, avoiding people and choosing the alley by-ways so numerous in Penn's city.
The hall door was usually open in the afternoon to let the breeze pass through. He went into Schmidt's room, and then into the garden, seeing only Nanny and black Cicero, with whom he was a favorite. No one was in but madame, his mother. Mr. Girard had been to ask for him and Mr. Bingham and Mr. Wynne, and others. So it was to be the mother first.
He was used to the quiet, unemotional welcome. He kissed her hand and her forehead, saying, "You look well, mother, despite the heat."
"Yes, I am well. Tell me of your journey. Ah, but I am glad to see you! I have had but one letter. You should have written more often." The charm of his mother's voice, always her most gracious quality, just now affected him almost to tears.
"I did write, mother, several times. The journey may wait. I have bad news for you."
"None is possible for me while you live, my son."
"Yes, yes," he said. "The man Carteaux, having heard of Schmidt's absence and mine, has formally charged me with shooting him without warning in order to steal his despatches."