_ BOOK III. FRANCE
CHAPTER VII. THE MIRACLE UNWROUGHT
"You do not know my brother, Lady Catharine."
Thus spoke Will Law, who had been admitted but a half hour since at the great door of the private hotel where dwelt the Lady Catharine Knollys.
"'Twould seem, then, 'tis by no fault of his," replied Lady Catharine, hotly.
"And is that not well? There are many in Paris who would fain change places with you, Lady Catharine."
"Would heaven they might!" exclaimed she. "Would that my various friends, or the prefect of police, or heaven knows who that may have spread the news of my acquaintance with your brother, would take me out of that acquaintance!"
"They might hold his friendship a high honor," said Will.
"Oh, an honor! Excellent well comes this distinguished honor. Sirrah, carriages block my street, filled with those who beseech my introduction to John Law. I am waylaid if I step abroad, by women--persons of quality, ladies of the realm, God knoweth what--and they beg of me the favor of an introduction to John Law! There seems spread, I know not how, a silly rumor of the child Kate. And though I did scarce more than name a convent for her attendance, there are now out all manner of reports of Monsieur John Law's child, and--what do I say--'tis monstrous! I protest that I have come closer than I care into the public thoughts with this prodigy, this John Law, whose favor is sought by every one. Honor!--'tis not less than outrage!"
"'Tis but argument that my brother is a person not without note."
"But granted. 'We have seen his carriage at your curb,' they say. I insist that it is a mistake. 'But we saw him come from your door at such and such an hour.' If he came, 'twas but for meeting such answer as I have always given him. Will they never believe--will your brother himself never believe that, though did he have, as he himself says, all France in the hollow of his hand, he could be nothing to me? Now I will make an end to this. I will leave Paris."
"Madam, you might not be allowed to go."
"What! I not allowed to go! And what would hinder a Knollys of Banbury from going when the hour shall arrive?"
"The regent."
"And why the regent?"
"Because of my brother."
"Your brother!"
"Assuredly. My brother is to-day king of Paris. If he liked he could keep you prisoner in Paris. My brother does as he chooses. He could abolish Parliament to-morrow if he chose. My brother can do all things--except to win from you, Lady Catharine, one word of kindness, of respect. Now, then, he has come to the end. He told me to come to you and bear his word. He told me to say to you that this is the last time he will importune, the last time that he will implore. Oh, Lady Catharine! Once before I carried to you a message from John Law--from John Law, not in distress then more than he is now, even in this hour of his success."
Lady Catharine paled as she sank back into her seat. Her white hand caught at the lace at her throat. Her eyes grew dark in their emotion.
"Yes, Madam," went on Will Law, tears shining in his own eyes, "'twas I, an unfaithful messenger, who, by an error, wrought ruin for my brother and for yourself, even as I did for myself. Madam, hear me! I would be a better messenger to-day."
Lady Catharine sat still silent, her bosom heaving, her eyes gone wide and straining.
"I have seen my brother weep," said Will, going on impulsively. "I have seen him walk the floor at night, have heard him cry out to himself. They call him crazed. Indeed he is crazed. Yet 'tis but for one word from you."
"Sir," said Lady Catharine, struggling to gain self-control, and in spite of herself softened by this appeal, "you speak well."
"If I do, 'tis but because I am the mouth-piece of a man who all his life has sought to speak the truth; who has sought--yes, I say to you even now, Lady Catharine--who has sought always to live the truth. This I say in spite of all that we both know."
There came no reply from the woman, who sat still looking at him, not yet moved by the voice of the proxy as she might then have been by the voice of that proxy's principal. Vehemently the young man, ordinarily so timid and diffident, approached her.
"Look you!" exclaimed he. "If my brother said he could lay France at your feet, by heaven! he can well-nigh do so now. See! Here are some of the properties he has lately purchased in the realm of France. The Marquisat d'Effiat--'tis worth eight hundred thousand livres; the estate of Riviere--worth nine hundred thousand livres; the estate of Roissy--worth six hundred and fifty thousand livres; the estates of Berville, of Fontaine, of Yville, of Gerponville, of Tancarville, of Guermande--the tale runs near a score! Lately my brother has purchased the Hotel Mazarin, and the property at Rue Vivienne, paying for them one million two hundred thousand livres. He has other city properties, houses in Paris, estates here and there, running not into the hundreds of thousands, but into the millions of livres in actual value. Among these are some of the estates of the greatest nobles of France. Their value is more than any man can compute. Is this not something? Moreover, there goes with it all the dignity of the most stupendous personal success ever made by a single man since the world began. 'Tis all yours, Lady Catharine. And unless you share it, it has no value to my brother. I know myself that he will fling it all away, calling it worthless, since he can not have that greatest fortune which he craves!"
"Sirrah, I have entertained much speech of both yourself and your brother, because I would not seem ungracious nor forgetful. Yet this paying of court by means of figures, by virtue of lists of estates--do you not know how ineffectual this must seem?"
"If you could but understand!" cried Will. "If you could but believe that there is none on earth values these less than my brother. Under all this he has yet greater dreams. His ambition is to awaken an old world and to build a new one. By heaven! Lady Catharine, I am asked to speak for my brother, and so I shall! These are his ambitions. First of all, Lady Catharine, you. Second, America. Third, a people for America--a people who may hope! Oh, I admit all the folly of his life. He played deep, yet 'twas but to forget you. He drank, but 'twas to forget you. Foolish he was, as are all men. Now he succeeds, and finds he can not forget you. I have told you his ambitions, Madam, and though others may never know nor acknowledge them, you, at least, must do so. And I beg you to remember, Madam, that of all his ambitions, 'twas you, Lady Catharine, your favor, your kindness, your mercy, that made his first and chief desire."
"As for that," said the woman, somewhat scornfully, "if you please, I had rather I received my protestations direct; and your brother knows I forbid him further protestations. He has, it is true, raised some considerable noise by way of enterprises. That I might know, even did I not see this horde of dukes and duchesses and princes of the blood, clamoring for the recognition of even his remotest friends. I know, too, that he is accepted as a hero by the people."
"And well he may be. Coachmen and valets have liveries of their own these days. Servants now eat from plate, and clerks have their own coaches. Paris is packed with people, and, look you, they are people no longer clamoring for bread. Who has done this? Why, my brother, John Law of Lauriston, Lady Catharine, who loves you, and loves you dearly."
The old wrinkle of perplexity gathered between the brows of the woman before him. Her face was clouded, the changeful eyes now deep covered by their lids.
Lacking the precise word for that crucial moment, Will Law broke further on into material details. "To be explicit, as I have said," resumed he, "everything seems to center about my brother, the director-general of finance. He took the old notes of the government, worth not half their face, and in a week made them treble their face value. The king owes him over one hundred million livres to-day. My brother has taken over the farming of the royal taxes. And now he forms a little Company of the Indies; and to this he adds the charter of the Senegal Company. Not content, he adds the entire trade of the Indies, of China and the South Seas. He has been given the privilege of the royal farming of tobacco, for which he pays the king the little trifle of two hundred million livres, and assures to the king certain interest moneys, which, I need not say, the king will actually obtain. In addition to these things, he has lately been given the mint of France. The whole coinage of the realm has been made over to this Company of the Indies. My brother pays the king fifty million livres for this privilege, and this he will do within fifteen months. All France is indeed in the hands of my brother. Now, call John Law an adventurer, a gambler, if you will, and if you can; but at least admit that he has given life and hope to the poor of France, that he has given back to the king a people which was despoiled and ruined by the former king. He has trebled the trade of France, he has saved her honor, and opened to her the avenues of a new world. Are these things nothing? They have all been done by my brother, this man whom you believe incapable of faith and constancy. Good God! It surely seems that he has at least been constant to himself!"
"Oh, I hear talk of it all. I hear that a share in the new company promises dividends of two hundred livres. I hear talk of shares and 'sub-shares,' called 'mothers,' and 'daughters,' and 'granddaughters,' and I know not what. It seems as though half the coin were divided into centimes, and as though each centime had been planted by your brother and had grown to be worth a thousand pounds. I admit somewhat of knowledge of these miracles."
"True, Lady Catharine. Can there not be one miracle more?"
Lady Catharine Knollys bent her face forward upon her hands, unhappiness in every gesture.
"Sir," said she, "it grieves my heart to say it; yet this answer you must take to your brother, John Law. That miracle hath not yet been wrought which can give us back the past again."
"This," said Will Law, sadly, "is this all the message I may take?"
"It is all."
"Though it is the last?"
"It is the last." _