"I know," returned Schmidt—"bittersweet to some men, but should not be to the more noble nature."
"No, no, not to me. I take it and gladly, but"—and once more he colored, as he said with a certain shyness—"would you mind calling me René? I—I should like it."
"And I, too," said the German, as he put a hand of familiar kindliness on the younger man's knee. "Now that is settled, and you have done me another favor. I have an errand at Germantown, and shall join you at Miss Wynne's at four to-morrow. Are there any ships come in? No? There will be, I fear, evil news from France, and storms, storms that will roll across the sea and beat, too, on these shores. It will stir here some foolish echoes, some feeble mockery of what over there cries murder." De Courval had had too much reason to believe him. "Ach, I am sleepy. Shall you go to see your mother on Sunday? There is my mare at your service."
Yes, he had meant to walk, but he would be glad of the horse.
When, on Saturday, Mrs. Swanwick knew that Schmidt had gone to the country, she said Margaret would walk with the vicomte, and show him the way. He felt a fresh surprise, a little embarrassment. Young women were not thus free in France; but as he was the only one thus amazed, he set out with the Pearl in some wonderment at what his mother would have said or thought.
They walked up Front Street, and at last along Fifth. She was now, as Schmidt had said, the other Margaret of whom De Courval had had brief knowledge at times. A frank, natural, gay good humor was in all her ways, a gentle desire to please, which was but the innocent coquetry of a young girl's heart. She stayed a moment as they crossed Walnut Street, and replying to a question, said: "Yes, that is the jail men called the Provostry in the war. My grandfather lay in it—oh, very long. We have his sword in the attic. I would hang it up down-stairs, but Friends would not approve, thou must know. And that is Independence Hall, but thou hast seen it."
"Yes. Are you proud of it?"
"Surely. My people shed our blood for what strong men did in that hall. My uncle and my grandfather came out of the jail to die, oh, both of them!"
"And of what party are you, Miss Margaret?"
"Of George Washington's," she cried. "But Friends must have no party, or their women, at least—not even tea-parties," and she laughed.