The President said: "Very well. You may wish at present, sir, to step into the back room and further consider the matter." He desired to do so, the President saying that he himself wished meanwhile to talk of it with his other advisers. Mr. Randolph, assenting, retired, and in half an hour returned. What passed in this interval between the chief and his secretaries no one knows, nor what went on in the mind of Washington. Mr. Randolph finally left the meeting, saying, "Your Excellency will hear from me." As he was passing the door of the parlor De Courval came forward to meet him and said, "These papers are of moment, sir. They have just come." The violin ceased, the marquis bowed. The Secretary saluted the small dames and said hastily: "I cannot consider these papers at present. I must go. Give them to the President." Upon this he went away, leaving De Courval surprised at the agitation of his manner.
In a few moments Mr. Wolcott also came out, leaving the office door open. Meanwhile De Courval waited, as he had been desired to do, until the President should be disengaged.
The violin went on, the small figures, as he watched them, moved in the slow measures of the dance. Then during a pause one little dame courtesied to him, and the old violinist asked would Monsieur le Vicomte walk a minuet with Miss Langdon. De Courval, rising, bowed to the anticipative partner, and said, "No; the President may want me." And again the low notes of the violin set the small puppets in motion. Of a sudden, heard through the open door across the hall, came a voice resonant with anger. It was Washington who spoke. "Why, Colonel Pickering, did he say nothing of moment? He was my friend Peyton Randolph's nephew and adopted son, my aide, my Secretary. I made him Attorney-General, Secretary of State. I would have listened, sir. Never before have I allowed friendship to influence me in an appointment." The voice fell; he heard no more, but through it all the notes of the violin went on, a strange accompaniment, while the children moved in the ceremonious measures of the minuet, and René crossed the room to escape from what he was not meant to hear. A full half hour went by while De Courval sat amazed at the words he had overheard. At last the Secretary of War, entering the hall, passed out of the house.
Then De Courval asked a servant in the gray and red of the Washington livery to take the papers to the President. Hearing him, Washington, coming to the door, said: "Come in, sir. I will see you." The face De Courval saw had regained its usual serenity. "Pray be seated." He took the papers and deliberately considered them. "Yes, they are of importance. You did well to wait. I thank you." Then smiling kindly he said, "Here has been a matter which concerns you. The despatch you were charged with taking was captured at sea by an English frigate and sent to us by Mr. Hammond, the British minister. It has been nine months on the way. I never, sir, had the least doubt of your honor, and permit me now to express my pleasure. At present this affair of the despatch must remain a secret. It will not be so very long. Permit me also to congratulate you on your new tie to this country. Mistress Wynne has told Mrs. Washington of it. Will you do me the honor to dine with us at four to-morrow? At four."
Coming out of the room with De Courval, he paused in the hall, having said his gracious words. The violin ceased. The little ladies in brocades and slippers came to the drawing-room door, a pretty dozen or so, Miss Langdon, Miss Biddle, Miss Morris, and the Custis children. They courtesied low, waiting expectant. Like most shy men, Washington was most at ease with children, loving what fate had denied him. He was now and then pleased, as they knew, to walk with one of them the slow measure of the minuet, and then to lift up and kiss his small partner in the dance. Now looking down on them from his great height he said: "No," with a sad smile at their respectful appeal—"no, not to-day, children. Not to-day. Good-by, Vicomte." As the servant held the door open, René looked back and saw the tall figure, the wreck of former vigor, go wearily up the broad staircase.
"'Not to-day, children, not to-day'"
"What has so troubled him?" thought De Courval. "What is this that Edmund Randolph has done?" Standing on the outer step and taking off his hat, he murmured, "My God, I thank thee!" He heard faintly through the open window as he walked away the final notes of the violin and the laughter of childhood as the lesson ended.