Rejected, as he was now, by the new ministry of England, none the less every capital of Europe came presently to know John Law, gambler, student and financier. Before every ruler on the continent he laid his system of financial revolution, and one by one they smiled, or shrugged, or scoffed at him. Baffled once more in his dearest purpose, he took again to play, play in such colossal and audacious form as never yet had been seen even in the gayest courts of a time when gaming was a vice to be called national. No hazard was too great for him, no success and no reverse sufficiently keen to cause him any apparent concern. There was no risk sharp enough to deaden the gnawing in his soul, no excitement strong enough to wipe away from his mind the black panorama of his past.

He won princely fortunes and cast them away again. With the figure and the air of a prince, he gained greater reputation than any prince of Europe. Upon him were spent the blandishments of the fairest women of his time. Yet not this, not all this, served to steady his energies, now unbalanced, speeding without guidance. The gold, heaped high on the tables, was not enough to stupefy his mind, not enough though he doubled and trebled it, though he cast great golden markers to spare him trouble in the counting of his winnings. Still student, still mathematician, he sought at Amsterdam, at Paris, at Vienna, all new theories which offered in the science of banking and finance, even as at the same time he delved still further into the mysteries of recurrences and chance.

In this latter such was his success that losers made complaint, unjust but effectual, to the king, so that Law was obliged to leave Paris for a time. He had dwelt long enough in Paris, this double-natured man, this student and creator, this gambler and gallant, to win the friendship of Philippe of Orleans, later to be regent of France; and gay enough had been the life they two had led—so gay, so intimate, that Philippe gave promise that, should he ever hold in his own hands the Government of France, he would end Law's banishment and give to him the opportunity he sought, of proving those theories of finance which constituted the absorbing ambition of his life.

Meantime Law, ever restless, had passed from one capital of Europe to another, dragging with him from hotel to hotel the young child whose life had been cast in such feverish and unnatural surroundings. He continued to challenge every hazard, fearless, reckless, contemptuous, and withal wretched, as one must be who, after years of effort, found that he could not banish from his mind the pictures of a dark-floored prison, and of a knife-stab in the dark, and of raging, awful waters, and of a girl beautiful, though with sealed lips and heart of ice. From time to time, as was well known, Law returned to England. He heard of the Lady Catharine Knollys, as might easily be done in London; heard of her as a young woman kind of heart, soft of speech, with tenderness for every little suffering thing; a beautiful young woman, whose admirers listed scores; but who never yet, even according to the eagerest gossip of the capital, had found a suitor to whom she gave word or thought of love.

So now at last the arrogant selfishness of his heart began to yield. His heart was broken before it might soften, but soften at last it did. And so he built up in his soul the image of a grave, sweet saint, kindly and gentle-voiced, unapproachable, not to be profaned. To this image—ah, which of us has not had such a shrine!—he brought in secret the homage of his life, his confessions, his despairs, his hopes, his resolutions; guiding thereby all his life, as well as poor mortal man may do, failing ever of his own standards, as all men do, yet harking ever back to that secret sibyl, reckoning all things from her, for her, by her.

There came at length one chastened hour when they met in calmness, when there was no longer talk of love between them, when he stood before her as though indeed at the altar of some marble deity. Always her answer had been that the past had been a mistake; that she had professed to love a man, not knowing what that man was; that she had suffered, but that it was better so, since it had brought understanding. Now, in this calmer time, she begged of him knowledge of this child, regretting the wandering life which had been its portion, saying that for Mary Connynge she no longer felt horror and hatred. Thus it was that in a hasty moment Law had impulsively begged her to assume some sort of tutelage over that unfortunate child. It was to his own amazement that he heard Lady Catharine Knollys consent, stipulating that the child should be placed in a Paris convent for two years, and that for two years John Law should see neither his daughter nor herself. Obedient as a child himself he had promised.

"Now, go away," she then had said to him. "Go your own way. Drink, dice, game, and waste the talents God hath given you. You have made ruin enough for all of us. I would only that it may not run so far as to another generation."

So both had kept their promises; and now the two years were done, years spent by Law more manfully than any of his life. His fortune he had gathered together, amounting to more than a million livres. He had sent once more for his brother Will, and thus the two had lived for some time in company in lower Europe, the elder brother still curious as ever in his abstruse theories of banking and finance—theories then new, now outlived in great part, though fit to be called a portion of the great foundation of the commercial system of the world. It was a wiser and soberer and riper John Law, this man who had but recently received a summons from Philippe of Orleans to be present in Paris, for that the king was dying, and that all France, France the bankrupt and distracted, was on the brink of sudden and perhaps fateful change.

With a quick revival of all his Highland superstition, Law hailed now as happy harbinger the fact that, upon his entry into Paris, the city once more of his hopes, he had met in such fashion this lady of his dreams, even at such time as the seal of silence was lifted from his lips. It was no wonder that his eye gleamed, that his voice took on the old vibrant tone, that every gesture, in thought or in spite of thought, assumed the tender deference of the lover.

It was a fair woman, this chance guest of the highway whom he now accosted—bronze-haired, blue-eyed, soft of voice, queenly of mien, gentle, calm and truly lovable. Oh, what waste that those arms should hold nothing, that lips such as those should know no kisses, that eyes like those should never swim in love! What robbery! What crime! And this man, thief of this woman's life, felt his heart pinch again in the old, sharp anguish of remorse, bitterest because unavailing.

For the Lady Catharine herself there had been also many changes. The death of her brother, the Earl of Banbury, had wrought many shifts in the circumstances of a house apparently pursued by unkind fate. Left practically alone and caring little for the life of London, even after there had worn away the chill of suspicion which followed upon the popular knowledge of her connection with the escape of Law from London, Lady Catharine Knollys turned to a life and world suddenly grown vague and empty. Travel upon the continent with friends, occasional visits to the old family house in England, long sojourns in this or the other city—such had been her life, quiet, sweet, reproachless and unreproaching. For the present she had taken an hotel in the older part of Paris, in connection with her friend, the Countess of Warrington, sometime connected with the embassy of that Lord Stair who was later to act as spy for England in Paris, now so soon to know tumultuous scenes. With these scenes, as time was soon to prove, there was to be most intimately connected this very man who, now bending forward attentively, now listening respectfully, and ever gazing directly and ardently, heard naught of plots or plans, cared naught for the Paris which lay about, saw naught but the beautiful face before him, felt naught but some deep, compelling thrill in every heart-string which now reaching sweet accord in spite of fate, in spite of the past, in spite of all, went singing on in a deep melody of joy. This was she, the idol, the deity. Let the world wag. It was a moment yet ere paradise must end!

"Madam, I would God it might be forever!" said Law again. The old stubborn nature was showing once more, but under it something deeper, softer, tenderer.

A sudden panic fear called at the heart of her to whom he spoke. Two rosy spots shone in her cheeks, and as she gazed, her eyes showed the veiled softening of woman's gentleness. There fell a silence.

"Madam, I could feel that this were Sadler's Wells over again," said Law a moment later.

But now the carriage had arrived at the destination named by Lady Catharine. Law sprang out, hat in hand, and assisted Lady Catharine to the curb. A passing flower girl, gaily offering her wares, paused as the carriage drew up. Law turned quickly and caught from her as many roses as his hand could grasp, handing her in return half as much coin as her smaller palm could hold. He turned to the Lady Catharine, and bowed with that grace which was the talk of a world of gallants. In his hand he extended a flower.

"Madam, as before!" he said.

There was a sob in his voice. Their eyes met fairly, unmasked as they had not been for years. Tears came into the man's eyes, the first that had ever sat there; tears for the past, tears for that sweetness which once might have been.

"'Tis for the king! They weep for the king!" sang out the hard voice of the flower girl, ironically, as she skipped away. "Ohe, for the king, for the king!"

"Nay, for the queen!" said John Law, as he gazed into the eyes of Catharine Knollys.



CHAPTER III

SEARCH THOU MY HEART

"Only believe me, Lady Catharine, and I shall do everything I promised years ago—I shall lay all France at your feet. But if you deny me thus always, I shall make all France a mockery."

"Monsieur is fresh from the South of France," replied the Lady Catharine Knollys. "Has Gascon wine perhaps put Gascon speech into his mouth?"

"Oh, laugh if you like," exclaimed Law, rising and pacing across the great room in which these two had met. "Laugh and mock, but we shall see!"

"Granted that Mr. Law is well within his customary modesty," replied Lady Catharine, "and granted even that Mr. Law has all France in the hollow of his hand to-day, to do with as he likes, I must confess I see not why France should suffer because I myself have found it difficult to endorse Mr. Law's personal code of morals."

It was the third day after Law's entry into Paris, and the first time for more than two long years that he found himself alone with the Lady Catharine Knollys. His eagerness might have excused his impetuous and boastful speech.

As for the Lady Catharine, that one swift, electric moment at the street curb had well-nigh undone more than two years of resolve. She had heard herself, as it were in a dream, promising that this man might come. She had found herself later in her own apartments, panting, wide-eyed, afraid. Some great hand, unseen, uninvited, mysterious, had swept ruthlessly across each chord of womanly reserve and resolution which so long she had held well-ordered and absolutely under control. It was self-distrust, fear, which now compelled her to take refuge in this woman's fence of speech with him. "Surely," argued she with herself, "if love once dies, then it is dead forever, and can never be revived. Surely," she insisted to herself, "my love is dead. Then—ah, but then was it dead? Can my heart grow again?" asked the Lady Catharine of herself, tremblingly. This was that which gave her pause. It was this also which gave to her cheek its brighter color, to her eye a softer gleam; and to her speech this covering shield of badinage.

Yet all her defenses were in a way to be fairly beaten down by the intentness of the other. All things he put aside or overrode, and would speak but of himself and herself, of his plans, his opportunities, and of how these were concerned with himself and with her.

"There are those who judge not so harshly as yourself, Madam," resumed Law. "His Grace the regent is good enough to believe that my studies have gone deeper than the green cloth of the gaming table. Now, I tell you, my time has come—my day at last is here. I tell you that I shall prove to you everything which I said to you long ago, back there in old England. I shall prove to you that I have not been altogether an idler and a trifler. I shall bring to you, as I promised you long ago, all the wealth, all the distinction—"

"But such speech is needless, Mr. Law," came the reply. "I have all the wealth I need, nor do I crave distinction, save of my own selection."

"But you do not dream! This is a day unparalleled. There will be such changes here as never yet were known. Within a week you shall hear of my name in Paris. Within a month you shall hear of it beyond the gates of Paris. Within a year you shall hear nothing else in Europe!"

"As I hear nothing else here now, Monsieur?"

Like a horse restless under the snaffle, the man shook his head, but went on. "If you should be offered wealth more than any woman of Paris, if you had precedence over the proudest peers of France—would these things have no weight with you?"

"You know they would not."

Law cast himself restlessly upon a seat across the room from her. "I think I do," said he, dejectedly. "At times you drive me to my wit's end. What then, Madam, would avail?"

"Why, nothing, so far as the past is to be reviewed for you and me. Yet, I should say that, if there were two here speaking as you and I, and if they two had no such past as we—then I could fancy that woman saying to her friend, 'Have you indeed done all that lay within you to do?'"

"Is it not enough—?"

"There is nothing, sir, that is enough for a woman, but all!"

"I have given you all."

"All that you have left—after yourself."

"Sharp, sharp indeed are your words, my Lady. And they are most sharp because they come with justice."

"Oh," broke out the woman, "one may use sharp words who has been scorned for her own false friend! You would give me all, Mr. Law, but you must remember that it is only what remains after that—that—"

"But would you, could you, have cared had there been no 'that'? Had I done all that lay in me to do, could you then have given me your confidence, and could you have thought me worthy of it?"

"Oh, 'if!'"

"Yes, 'if!' 'If,' and 'as though,' and 'in that case'—these are all we have to console us in this life. But, sweet one—"

"Sir, such words I have forbidden," said Lady Catharine, the blood for one cause or another mounting again into her cheek.

"You torture me!" broke out Law.

"As much as you have me? Is it so much as that, Mr. Law?"

He rose and stood apart, his head falling in despair. "As I have done this thing, so may God punish me!" said he. "I was not fit, and am not. Yet I was bold enough to hope that there could be some atonement, some thing—if my suffering—"

"There are things, Mr. Law, for which no suffering atones. But why cause suffering longer for us both? You come again and again. Could you not leave me for a time untroubled?"

"How can I?" blazed the man, his forehead furrowed up into a frown, the moist beads on his brow proving his own intentness. "I can not! I can not! That is all I know. Ask me not why. I can not; that is all."

"Sir," said Lady Catharine, "this seems to me no less than terrible."

"It is indeed no less than terrible. Yet I must come and come again, bound some day to be heard, not for what I am, but for what I might be. 'Tis not justice I would have, dear heart, but mercy, a woman's mercy!"

"And you would bully me to agree with you, as I said, in regard to your own excellent code of morals, Mr. Law?"

"You evade, like any woman, but if you will, even have it so. At least there is to be this battle between us all our lives. I will be loved, Lady Catharine! I must be loved by you! Look in my heart. Search beneath this man that you and others see. Find me my own fellow, that other self better than I, who cries out always thus. Look! 'Tis not for me as I am. No man deserves aught for himself. But find in my heart, Lady Catharine, that other self, the man I might have been! Dear heart, I beseech you, look!"

Impulsively, he even tore apart the front of his coat, as though indeed to invite such scrutiny. He stood before her, trembling, choking. The passion of his speech caused the color again to rush to the Lady Catharine's face. For a moment her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, deep answering as of old unto deep, in the ancient, wondrous way.

"Is it the part of manhood to persecute a woman, Mr. Law?" she asked, her own uncertitude now showing in her tone.

"I do not know," he answered.

Lady Catharine looked at him curiously.

"Do you love me, Mr. Law?" she asked, directly.

"I have no answer."

"Did you love that other woman?"

It took all his courage to reply. "I am not fit to answer," said he.

"And you would love me, too, for a time and in a way?"

"I will not answer. I will not trifle."

"And I am to think Mr. Law better than himself, better than other men; since you say no man dare ask actual justice?"

"Worse than other men, and yet a man. A man—my God! Lady Catharine—a man unworthy, yet a man seized fatally of that love which neither life nor death can alter!"

As one fascinated, Lady Catharine sat looking at him. "Then," said she, "any man may say to any woman—Mr. Law says to me—'I have cared for such, and so many other women to the extent, let us say, of so many pounds sterling. But I love you to the extent of twice as many pounds, shillings and pence?' Is that the dole we women may expect, Mr. Law?"

"Have back your own words!" he cried. "Nothing is enough but all! And as God witnesseth in this hour, I have loved you with all my heart-beats, with all my prayers. I call upon you now, in the name of that love I know you once bore me—"

Upon the face of the Lady Catharine there blazed the red mark of the shame of Knollys. Covering her face with her hands, she suddenly bent forward, and from her lips there broke a sob of pain.

In a flash Law was at her side, kneeling, seeking to draw away her fingers with hands that trembled as much as her own.

"Do not! Do not!" he cried. "I am not worth it! It shall be as you like. Let me go away forever. This I can not endure!"

"Ah, John Law, John Law!" murmured Catharine Knollys, "why did you break my heart!"



CHAPTER IV

THE REGENT'S PROMISE

"Tell me, then, Monsieur L'as, of this new America. I would fain have some information at first hand. There was rumor, I know not how exact, that you once traveled in those regions."

Thus spake his Grace Philippe, Duke of Orleans, regent of France, now, in effect, ruler of France. It was the audience which had been arranged for John Law, that opportunity for which he had waited all his life. Before him now, as he stood in the great council chamber, facing this man whose ambitions ended where his own began—at the convivial board and at the gaming table—he saw the path which led to the success that he had craved so long. He, Law of Lauriston, sometime adventurer and gambler, was now playing his last and greatest game.

"Your Grace," said he, "there be many who might better than I tell you of that America."

"There are many who should be able, and many who do," replied the regent. "By the body of the Lord! we get nothing but information regarding these provinces of New France, and each advice is worse than the one preceding it. The gist of it all is that my Lord Governor and my very good intendant can never agree, save upon one point or so. They want more money, and they want more soldiers—ah, yes, to be sure, they also want more women, though we sent them out a ship load of choice beauties not more than a six-month ago. But tell me, Monsieur L'as, is it indeed true that you have traveled in America?"

"For a short time."

"I have heard nothing regarding you from the intendant at Quebec."

"Your Grace was not at that time caring for intendants. 'Twas many years ago, and I was not well known at Quebec by my own name."

"Eh bien? Some adventure, then, perhaps? A woman at the bottom of it, I warrant."

"Your Grace is right."

"'Twas like you, for a fellow of good zest. May God bless all fair dames. And as to what you found in thus following—or was it in fleeing—your divinity?"

"I found many things. For one, that this America is the greatest country of the world. Neither England nor France is to be compared with it."

The regent fell back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"Monsieur, you are indeed, as I have ever found you, of most excellent wit. You please me enormously."

"But, your Grace, I am entirely serious."

"Oh, come, spoil not so good a jest by qualifying, I beseech you! England or France, indeed—ah, Monsieur L'as, Monsieur L'as!"

"Your own city of New Orleans, Sire, will lie at the gate of a realm greater than all France. Your Grace will hand to the young king, when he shall come of age, a realm excellently worth the ownership of any king."

"You say rich. In what way?" asked the regent. "We have not had so much of returns after all. Look at Crozat? Look at—"

"Oh fie, Crozat! Your Grace, he solved not the first problem of real commerce. He never dreamed the real richness of America."

Philippe sat thoughtful, his finger tips together. "Why have we not heard of these things?" said he.

"Because of men like Crozat, of men like your governors and intendants at Quebec. Because, your Grace, as you know very well, of the same reason which sent me once from Paris, and kept me so long from laying before you these very plans of which I now would speak."

"And that cause?"

"Maintenon."

"Oh, ah! Indeed—that is to say—"

"Louis would hear naught of me, of course. Maintenon took care that he should find I was but heretic."

"As for myself," said Philippe the regent, "heretic or not heretic makes but small figure. 'Twill take France a century to overcome her late surfeit of religion. For us, 'tis most a question of how to keep the king in the saddle and France underneath."

"Precisely, your Grace."

"Frankly, Monsieur L'as, I take it fittest now not so much to ponder over new worlds as over how to keep in touch with this Old World yet awhile. France has danced, though for years she danced to the tune of Louis clad in black. Now France must pay for the music. My faith, I like not the look of things. This joyful France to-day is a hideous thing. These people laugh! I had sooner see a lion grin. Now to govern those given us by Providence to govern," and the regent smiled grimly at the ancient fiction, "it is most meet that the governed should produce somewhat of funds in order that they may be governed."

"Yes, and the error has been in going too far," said Law. "These people have been taxed beyond the taxation point. Now they laugh."

"Yes; and by God, Monsieur L'as, when France laughs, beware!"

"Your Grace admits that France has no further resources."

"Assuredly."

"Then tax New France!" cried Law, his hand coming down hard upon the table, his eyes shining. "Mortgage where the security doubles every year, where the soil itself is security for wealth greater than all Europe ever owned."

"Oh, very well, Monsieur; though later I must ask you to explain."

"You admit that no more money can be forced from the people of France."

"Ask the farmers of the taxes. Ask Chamillard of the Treasury. My faith, look out of the window! Listen! Do I not tell you that France is laughing?"

"Very well. Let us also laugh. Let us all laugh together. There is money in France, more money in Europe. I assure you these people can be brought to give you cheerfully all they have."

"It sounds well, Monsieur L'as, but let me ask you how?"

"France is bankrupt—this is brutal, but none the less true. France must repudiate her obligations unless something be swiftly done. It is not noble to repudiate, your Grace. Yet, if we cancel and not repudiate, if we can obtain the gold of France, of Europe—"

"Body of God! but you speak large, my friend."

"Not so large. All subjects shrink as we come close to them by study. 'Tis easy to see that France has not money enough for her own business. If we had more money in France, we should have more production, and if we had more production, we might have taxes. Thereby we might have somewhat in our treasury wherewith to keep the king in the saddle, and not under foot."

"Then, if I follow you," said Philippe, leaning slightly forward and again placing his finger tips judicially together, "you would coin greater amounts of money. Then, I would ask you, where would you get your gold for the coinage?"

"It is not gold I would coin," said Law, "but credit."

"The kingdom hath been run on credit for these many years."

"No, 'tis not that kind of credit that I mean. I mean the credit which comes of confidence. It is fate, necessity, which demands a new system. The world has grown too much for every man to put his sixpence into the other man's hand, and carry away in a basket what he buys. We are no longer savages, to barter beads for hides. Yet we were as savages, did we not come to realize that this insufficient coin must be replaced, in the evolution of affairs, just as barter has long ago been, replaced."

"And by what?"

"As I said, by credit."

"Do not annoy me by things too deep, but rather suggest some definite plan, if that may be."

"First of all, then, as I said to you years ago, we need a bank, a bank in which all the people of France shall have absolute confidence."

"You would, then, wish a charter of some sort?"

"Only provided your Grace shall please. I have of my own funds a half million livres or more. This I would put into a bank of general nature, if your Grace shall please. That should be some small guarantee of my good faith in these plans."

"Monsieur L'as would seem to have followed play to his good fortune."

"Never to so good fortune as when first I met your Grace," replied Law. "I have given to games of chance the severest thought and study. Just as much more have I given thought and study to this enterprise which I propose now to lay before you."

"And you ask the patent of the Crown for your bank?"

"It were better if the institution received that open endorsement."

A slow frown settled upon the face of the other. "That is, at the beginning, impossible, Monsieur L'as," said the regent. "It is you who must prove these things which you propose."

"Let it be so, then," said Law, with conviction. "I make no doubt I shall obtain subscriptions for the shares. Remember my words. Within a few months you shall see trebled the energies of France. Money is the only thing which we have not in France. Why, your Grace, suppose the collectors of taxes in the South of France succeed in raising the king's levies. That specie must come by wheeled vehicle all the way to Paris. Consider what loss of time is there, and consider what hindrance to the trade of the provinces from which so much specie is taken bodily, and to which it can return later only a little at a time. Is it any wonder that usury is eating up France? There is not money enough—it is the one priceless thing; by which I mean only that there is not belief, not confidence, not credit enough in France. Now, given a bank which holds the confidence of the people, and I promise the king his taxes, even as I promise to abolish usury. You shall see money at work, money begetting money, and that begetting trade, and that producing comfort, and comfort making easier the collection of the king's taxes."

"By heaven! you begin to make it somewhat more plain to me."

"One thing I beg you to observe most carefully, your Grace," said Law, "nor must it ever be forgotten in our understanding. The shares of this bank must have a fixed value in regard to the coin of the realm. There must be no altering of the value of our coin. Grant that the coin does not fluctuate, and I promise you that my bank actions, notes of the chief bank of Paris, shall soon be found better than gold or silver in the eyes of France. Moreover, given a greater safety to foreign gold, and I promise you that too shall pour into Paris in such fashion as has never yet been seen. Moreover, the people will follow their coin. Paris will be the greatest capital of Europe. This I promise you I can do."

"In effect," said the regent, smiling, "you promise me that you can build a new Paris, a new world! Yet much of this I can in part believe and understand. Let that be as it may. The immediate truth is that something must be done, and done at once."

"Obviously."

"Our public debt is twenty-six hundred millions of livres. Its annual interest is eighty millions of livres. We can not pay this interest alone, not to speak of the principal. Obviously, as you say, the matter admits of no delay. Your bank—why, by heaven, let us have your bank! What can we do without your bank? Lastly, how quickly can we have it?"

"Sire, you make me the happiest man in all the world!"

"The advantage is quite otherwise, sir. But my head already swims with figures. Now let us set the rest aside until to-morrow. Meantime, I must confess to you, my dear friend, there is somewhat else that sits upon my mind."

A change came upon the demeanor of his Grace the regent. Laying aside the dignity of the ruler with the questions of state, he became again more nearly that Philippe of Orleans, known by his friends as gay, care free and full of camaraderie.

"Your Grace, could I be of the least personal service, I should be too happy," said Law.

"Well, then, I must admit to you that this is a question of a diamond."

"Oh, a diamond?"

"The greatest diamond in the world. Indeed, there is none other like it, and never will be. This Jew hounds me to death, holding up the thing before mine eyes. Even Saint Simon, that priggish little duke of ours, tells me that France should have this stone, that it is a dignity which should not be allowed to pass away from her. But how can France, bankrupt as she is, afford a little trifle which costs three million francs? Three million francs, when we can not pay eighty millions annual interest on our debts!"

"'Tis as you say, somewhat expensive," said Law.

"Naturally, for I say to you that this stone had never parallel in the history of the world. It seems that this overseer in the Golconda mines got possession of it in some fashion, and escaped to Europe, hiding the stone about his person. It has been shown in different parts of Europe, but no one yet has been able to meet the price of this extortioner who owns it."

"And yet, as Saint Simon says, there is no dignity too great for the throne of France."

"Yet, meantime, the king will have no use for it for several years to come. There is the Sancy stone—"

"And, as your Grace remembers, this new stone would look excellent well upon a woman?" said Law. He gazed, calm and unsmiling, directly into the eyes of Philippe of Orleans.

"Monsieur L'as, you have the second sight!" cried the latter, unblushingly. "You have genius. May God strike me blind if ever I have seen a keener mind than thine!"

"All warm blood is akin," replied John Law. "This stone is perhaps for your Grace's best beloved?"

"Eh—ah—which? As you know—"

"Ah! Perhaps for La Parabere. Richly enough she deserves it."

"Ah, Monsieur L'as, even your mind is at fault now," cried the regent, shaking his finger exultingly. "I covet this new stone, not for Parabere nor for any one of those dear friends whom you might name, and whom you may upon occasion have met at some of my little suppers. It is for another, whose name or nature you can not guess."

"Not that mysterious beauty of whom rumor goes about this week, the woman rated surpassing fair, who has lately come into the acquaintance of your Grace, and whom your Grace has concealed as jealously as though he feared to lose her by some highway robbery?"

"It is the same, I must admit!"

Law remained thoughtful for a time. "I make no doubt that the Hebrew would take two million francs for this stone," said he.

"Perhaps, but two millions is the same as three millions," said Philippe. "The question is, where to get two millions."

"As your Grace has said, I have been somewhat fortunate at play," replied Law, "but I must say that this sum is beyond me, and that both the diamond and the bank I can not compass. Yet, your Grace has at disposal the crown jewels of France. Now, beauty is the sovereign of all sovereigns, as Philippe of Orleans must own. To beauty belongs the use of these crown jewels. Place them as security, and borrow the two millions. For myself, I shall take pride in advancing the interest on the sum for a certain time, until such occasion as the treasury may afford the price of this trinket. In a short time it will be able to do so, I promise your Grace; indeed able to buy a dozen such stones, and take no thought of the matter."

"Monsieur L'as, do you actually believe these things?"

"I know them."

"And you can secure for me this gem?"

"Assuredly. We shall have it. Let it be called the 'Regent's Diamond,' after your Grace of Orleans. And when the king shall one day wear it, let us hope that he will place it as fitly as I am sure your Grace will do, on the brow of beauty—even though it be beauty unknown, and kept concealed under princely prerogative!"

"Ah! You are too keen, Monsieur L'as, too keen to see my new discovery. Not for a little time shall I take the risk of introducing this fair friend to one so dangerous as yourself; but one of these times, my very good friend, if you can secure for me this diamond, you shall come to a very little supper, and see where for a time I shall place this gem, as you say, on the brow of beauty. For the sake of Monsieur L'as, head magician of France my mysterious alien shall then unmask."

"And then I am to have my bank?"

"Good God, yes, a thousand banks!"

"It is agreed?"

"It is agreed."



CHAPTER V

A DAY OF MIRACLES

The regent of France kept his promise to Law, and the latter in turn fulfilled his prophecy to the regent. Moreover, he swiftly went far toward verifying his boast to the Lady Catharine Knollys; for in less than a month his name was indeed on every tongue in Paris. The Banque Generale de L'as et Compagnie was seized upon by the public, debtor and creditor alike, as the one new thing, and hence as the only salvation. As ever, it pleased Paris to be mystified. In some way the rumor spread about that Monsieur L'as was philosophique; that the Banque Generale was founded upon "philosophy." It was catch-word sufficient for the time.

"Vive Jean L'as, le philosophe—Monsieur L'as, he who has saved France!" So rang the cry of the shallow-witted people of an age splendid even in its contradictions. And meantime the new bank, crudely experimental as it was, flourished as though its master spirit had indeed in his possession the philosopher's stone, turning all things to gold.

One day, shortly after the beginning of that brilliantly spectacular series of events destined so soon to make Paris the Mecca of the world, there sat at table, in a little, obscure cabaret of the gay city, a group of persons who seemed to have chosen that spot for purposes of privacy. Yet privacy was difficult where all the curious passers-by stared in amaze at the great coach near the door, half filling the narrow and unclean street—a vehicle bearing the arms of no less a person than that august and unscrupulous representative of the French nobility, the Prince de Conti. No less a person than the prince himself, thin-faced, aquiline and haughty, sat at this table, looking about him like any common criminal to note whether his speech might be overheard. Next to him sat a hook-nosed Jew from Austria, Fraslin by name, one of many of his kind gathered so quickly within the last few weeks in Paris, even as the scent of carrion fetches ravens to the feast. Another of the party was a man of middle age, of handsome, calm, patrician features and an unruffled mien—that De la Chaise, nephew of the confessor of Louis the Grand, who Was later to represent the young king in the provinces of Louisiana.

Near by the latter, and indeed the central figure of this gathering, was one less distinguished than either of the above, evidently neither of churchly ancestry nor civic distinction—Henri Varenne, sometime clerk for the noted Paris Freres, farmers of the national revenues. Varenne, now serving but as clerk in the new bank of L'as et Compagnie, could have been called a man of no great standing; yet it was he whose presence had called hither these others to this unusual meeting. In point of fact, Varenne was a spy, a spy chosen by the jealous Paris Freres, to learn what he might of the internal mechanism of this new and startling institution which had sprung into such sudden prominence.

"As to the bank of these brothers L'as," said the Prince de Conti, rapping out emphasis with his sword hilt on the table, "it surely has much to commend it. Here is one of its notes, and witness what it says. 'The bank promises to pay to the bearer at sight the sum of fifty livres in coin of the weight and standard of this day.' That is to say, of this date which it bears. Following these, are the words 'value received.' Now, my notary tells me that these words make this absolutely safe, so that I know what it means in coin to me at this day, or a year from now. Is it not so, Monsieur Fraslin?"

The Jew reached out his hand, took the note, and peered over it in close scrutiny.

"'Tis no wonder, Monsieur le Prince," said he, presently, "that orders have been given by the Government to receive this note without discount for the payment of the general taxes. Upon my reputation, I must say to you that these notes will pass current better than your uncertain coin. The specie of the king has been changed twice in value by the king's orders. Yet this bases itself upon a specie value which is not subject to any change. Therein lies its own value."

"It is indeed true," broke in Varenne. "Not a day goes by at this new bank but persons come to us and demand our notes rather than coin of the realm of France."

"Yes, yes," broke in the prince, "we are agreed as to all this, but there is much talk about further plans of this Monsieur L'as. He has the ear of his Grace the regent, surely. Now, sir, tell us what you know of these future affairs."

"The rumor is, as I understand it," answered Varenne, "that he is to take over control of the Company of the West—to succeed, in short, to the shoes of Anthony Crozat. There come curious stories of this province of Louisiana."

"Of course," resumed the prince, with easy wisdom, "we all of us know of the voyage of L'Huillier, who, with his four ships, went up this great river Messasebe, and who, as is well known, found that river of Blue Earth, described by early writers as abounding in gold and gems."

"Aye, and there comes the strange part of it, and this is what I would lay before your Lordships, as bearing upon the value of the shares of this new bank, since it is taking over the charter of the Company of the West. It is news not yet known upon the street. The story goes that the half has not been told of the wealth of these provinces.

"Now, as you say, L'Huillier had with him four ships, and it is well known that his gentlemen had with them certain ladies of distinction, among these a mysterious dame reported to have earlier traveled in portions of New France. The name of this mysterious female is not known, save that she is reported to have been a good friend of a sous-lieutenant of the regiment Carignan, sometime dweller at Quebec and Montreal, and who later became a lieutenant under L'Huillier. It is said that this same mysterious fair, having returned from America and having cast aside her lieutenant, has come under protection of no less a person than his Grace Philippe of Orleans, the regent. Now, as you know, the bank is the best friend of the regent, and this mysterious dame, as we are advised by servants of his Grace's household, hath told his Grace such stories of the wealth of the Messasebe that he has secretly and quickly made over the control of the trade of those provinces to this new bank. There is story also that his Grace himself will not lack profit in this movement!"

The hand of Conti smote hard upon the table. "By heaven! it were strange thing," said he, "if this foreign traveler should prove the same mysterious beauty Philippe is reported to have kept in hiding. My faith, is it indeed true that we are come upon a time of miracles?"

"Listen!" broke in again Varenne, his ardor overcoming his obsequiousness. "These are some of the tales brought back—and reported privately, I can assure you, gentlemen, now for the first time and to yourselves. The people of this country are said to be clad in beauteous raiment, made of skins, of grasses, and of the barks of trees. Their ornaments are made of pure, yellow gold, and of precious gems which they pick up from the banks of the streams, as common as pebbles here in France. The climate is such that all things grow in the most unrivaled fruitfulness. There is neither too much sun nor too much rain. The lakes and rivers are vast and beautiful, and the forests are filled with myriads of strange and sweet-voiced birds. 'Tis said that the dream of Ponce de Leon hath been realized, and that not only one, but scores of fountains of youth have been discovered in this great valley. The people are said never to grow old. Their personal beauty is of surpassing nature, and their disposition easy and complaisant to the last degree—"

"My faith, say on!" broke in De la Chaise. "'Tis surely a story of paradise which you recount."

"But, listen, gentlemen! The story goes yet farther. As to mines of gold and silver, 'twas matter of report that such mines are common in all the valley of the Messasebe. Indeed the whole surface of the earth, in some parts, is covered with lumps of gold, so that the natives care nothing for it. The bottoms of the streams, the beaches of the lakes, carry as many particles of gold as they have pebbles and little stones. As for silver, none take note of it. 'Tis used as building stone."

"In the name of Jehovah, is there support for these wonders you have spoken?" broke in Fraslin the Jew, his eyes shining with suppressed excitement.

"Assuredly. Yet I am telling not half of the news which came to my knowledge this very morning—the story is said to have emanated from the Palais Royal itself, and therefore, no doubt, is to be traced to this game unknown queen of the Messasebe. She reports, so it is said, that beyond the country where L'Huillier secured his cargo of blue earth, there is a land where grows a most peculiar plant. The meadows and fields are covered with it, and it is said that the dews of night, which gather within the petals of these flowers, become, in the course of a single day, nothing less than a solid diamond stone! From this in time the leaves drop down, leaving the diamond exposed there, shining and radiant."

"Ah, bah!" broke in Fraslin the Jew. "Why believe such babblings? We all know that the diamond is a product not of the vegetable but of the mineral world!"

"So have we known many things," stoutly replied Varenne, "only to find ourselves frequently mistaken. Now for my part, a diamond is a diamond, be it born in a flower or broken from a rock. And as for the excellence of these stones, 'tis rumored that the lady hath abundant proof. 'Tis no wonder that the natives of the valley of the Messasebe robe themselves in silks, and that they deck themselves carelessly with precious stones, as would a peasant of ours with a chain of daisy blossoms. Now, if there be such wealth as this, is it not easy to see the profit of a bank which controls the trade with such a province? True, there have been some discoveries in this valley, but nothing thorough. 'Tis but recent the thing hath been done thorough."

The Prince de Conti sat back in his chair and drew a long breath. "If these things be true," said he, "then this Monsieur L'as is not so bad a leader to follow."

"But listen!" exclaimed Varenne once more. "I have not even yet told you the most important thing, and this is rumor which perhaps your Grace has caught. 'Tis whispered that the bank of the brothers L'as is within a fortnight to be changed."

"What is that?" queried Fraslin quickly. "'Tis not to be abandoned?"

"By no means. Abandoned would be quite the improper word. 'Tis to be improved, expanded, increased, magnified! My Lords, there is the opportunity of a life-time for every one of us here!"

"Say on, man, say on!" commanded the prince, the covetousness of his soul shining in his eyes as he leaned forward.

"I mean to say this," and the spy lowered his voice as he looked anxiously about. "The regent hath taken a fancy to be chief owner himself of an enterprise so profitable. In fine, the Banque Generale is to become the Banque Royale. His Majesty of France, represented by his Grace the regent, is to become the head banker of France and Europe! Monsieur L'as is to be retained as director-general of this Banque Royale. There are to be branches fixed in different cities of the realm, at Lyons, at Tours, at Amiens, at Rochelle, at Orleans—in fact, all France is to go upon a different footing."

The glances of the Prince de Conti and the Austrian met each other. The Jew drew a long breath as he sat back in his chair, his hands grasping at the edge of the table. Try as he might, he scarce could keep his chin from trembling. He licked out his tongue to moisten his lips.

"There is so much," resumed Varenne, "that 'tis hard to tell it all. But you must know that this Banque Royale will be still more powerful than the old one. There will be incorporated with it, not only the Company of the West, but also the General Company of the Indies, as you know, the most considerable mercantile enterprise of France. Now listen! Within the first year the Banque Royale will issue one thousand million livres in notes. This embodiment of the Compagnie Generale of the Indies will warrant, as I know by the secret plans of the bank, the issue of notes amounting to two billion livres. Therefore, as Monsieur de la Chaise signifies, he who is lucky enough to-day to own a few actions of the Banque Royale, or even the old actions of Monsieur L'as' bank, which will be redeemed by its successor, is in a way to gain greater sums than were ever seen on the face of any investment from the beginning of the world until to-day! Now, as I was about to ask of you, Monsieur Fraslin—"

The speaker turned in his chair to where Fraslin had been but a moment before. The chair was empty.

"Our friend stepped to the door but on the instant," said De la Chaise. "He is perhaps—"

"That he has," cried Varenne. "He is the first of us to profit! Monsieur le Prince, in virtue of what I have said to you, if you could favor me with an advance of a few hundred louis, I could assure my family of independence. Monsieur le Prince! Monsieur le Prince—"

Monsieur le Prince, however, was not so far behind the Austrian! Varenne followed him, tugging at his coat, but Conti shook him off, sprang into his carriage and was away.

"To the Place Vendome!" he cried to his coachman, "and hasten!"

De la Chaise, aristocratic, handsome and thick-witted, remained alone at the table, wondering what was the cause of this sudden commotion. Varenne re-appeared at the door wringing his hands.

"What is it, my friend?" asked De la Chaise. "Why all this haste? Why this confusion?"

"Nothing!" exclaimed Varenne, bitterly, "except that every minute of this day is worth a million francs. Man, do you know?"—and in his frenzy he caught De la Chaise by the collar and half shook him out of his usual calm—"man, can you not see that Jean L'as has brought revolution into Paris? Oh! This L'as, this devil of a L'as! A thousand louis, my friend, a hundred, ten—give me but ten louis, and I will make you rich! A day of miracles is here!"



CHAPTER VI

THE GREATEST NEED

There sprang now with incredible swiftness upward and outward an Aladdin edifice of illusion. It was as though indeed this genius who had waved his wand and bidden this fairy palace of chimera to arise, had used for his material the intangible, iridescent film of bubbles, light as air. Wider and wider spread the balloon of phantasm. Higher and higher it floated, on it fixed the eyes of France. And France laughed, and asked that yet other bubbles should be blown.

All France was mad, and to its madness there was joined that of all Europe. The population of Paris doubled. The prices of labor and commodities trebled in a day. There was now none willing to be called artisan. Every man was broker in stocks. Bubbles, bubbles, dreams, fantasies—these were the things all carried in their hands and in their hearts. These made the object of their desire, of their pursuit unimaginably passionate and frenzied.

With a leap from the somberness of the reign of Louis, all France went to the extreme of levity. Costumes changed. Manners, but late devout, grew debonair. Morals, once lax, now grew yet more lax. The blaze and tinsel, the music and the rouge, the wine, the flowing, uncounted gold—all Paris might have been called a golden brothel of delirious delight, tenanted by a people utterly gone mad.

It was a house made of bubbles. Its domes were of bubbles. Its roof was of bubbles, and its walls. Its windows were of that nacreous film. Even its foundations had naught in them more substantial than an evanescent dream of gauze-like web, frail as the spider's house upon the dew-hung grasses.

Yet as to this latter, there should be somewhat of qualification. The wizard who created this fairy structure saw it swiftly grow beyond its original plan, saw unforeseen results spring from those causes which were first well within his comprehension.

Berated by later generations as an adventurer, a schemer, a charlatan, Law originally deserved anything but such a verdict of his public. Dishonest he was not, insincere he never was; and as a student of fundamentals, he was in advance of his age, which is ever to be accursed. His method was but the forerunner of the modern commercial system, which is of itself to-day but a tougher faith bubble, as may be seen in all the changing cycles of finance and trade. His bank was but a portion of a nobler dream. His system was but one vast belief, one glorious hope.

The Company of the West—this it was that made John Law's heart throb. America—its trade—its future! John Law, dead now and gone—he was the colossal pioneer! He saw in his dreams what we see to-day in reality; and no bubble of all the frenzied Paris streets equaled this splendid dream of a renewed and revived humanity that is a fact to-day.

But there came to this dreamer and doer, at the very door of his success, that which arrested him even upon his entering in. There came the preliminary blow which in a flash his far-seeing mind knew was to mean ultimate ruin. In a word, the loose principles of a dissolute man were to ruin France, and with it one who had once saved France from ruin.

Philippe of Orleans found it ever difficult to say no to a friend, and more so if that friend were a woman; and of the latter sort, none had more than he. Men and women alike, these could all see only this abundance of money made of paper. What, then, was to prevent the regent, all powerful, from printing more and yet more of it, and giving it to his friends? The regent did so. Never were mistresses better paid than those of Philippe of Orleans, receiving in effect faithlessness in return for insincerity.

Philippe of Orleans could not see why, since credit based on specie made possible a great volume of accepted notes, a credit based on all France might not warrant an indefinite issue of such notes. He offered his director-general all the concessions which the crown could give, all the revenue-producing elements of France—in effect, all France itself, as security. In return he asked but the small privilege of printing for himself as much money as he chose and whenever he saw fit!

The notes of the private bank of Law were an absolute promise to pay a certain and definite sum, not a changeable or indefinite sum; and Law made it a part of his published creed that any banker was worthy of death who issued notes without having the specie wherewith to pay them. He insisted that the payment should mean specie in the value of the day on which the note was issued. This item the regent liked little, as being too irksome for his temper. Was it not of record how Louis, the Grand Monarque, had twice made certain millions for himself by the simple process of changing the value of the coin? Dicing, drinking, amorous Philippe, easy-going, shallow-thinking, truly wert thou better fitted for a throne than for a banker's chair!

The royal bank, which the regent himself hastened to foster when he saw the profits of the first private bank of circulation and discount France had ever known, issued notes against which Law entered immediately his firm protest. He saw that their tenor spelled ruin for the whole system of finance which, at such labor, he had erected. These notes promised to pay, for instance, fifty livres "in silver coin," not "in coin of the weight and standard of this day," as had the honester notes of Law's bank. That is to say, the notes meant nothing sure and nothing definite. They might be money for a time, but not forever; and this the director-general was too shrewd a man not to know.

"But under this issue you shall have all France," said the regent to him one day, as they renewed their discussion yet again upon this scheme. "You shall have the farming of the taxes. I will give you all the foreign trade as monopoly, if you like—will give you the mint—will give you, in effect, as I have said, all France. But, Monsieur my director-general, I must have money. It is for that purpose that I appoint you director-general—because I find you the most remarkable man in all the world."

"Your Grace," said Law, "print your notes thus, and print them to such extent as you wish, and France is again worse than bankrupt! Then, indeed, you have worse than repudiated the debts of France."

"Ah bah! mon drole! You are ill to-day. You have a migraine, perhaps? What folly for you to speak thus. France hath swiftly grown so strong that she can never again be ruined. What ails my magician, my Prince of Golconda, this morning? France bankrupt! Even were it so, does that relieve me of this begging of De Prie, of Parabere, and all the others? My God, Monsieur L'as, they are like leeches! They think me made of money."

"And your Grace thinks France made of money."

"Nay; I only think my director-general is made of money, or can make it as he likes."

And this was ever the end of Law's reproaches and his expostulations. This, then, was to be the end of his glorious enterprises, thought he, as he sat one morning, staring out of the window when left alone. This sordid love for money for its own sake—this was to be the limit of an ambition which dealt in theories, in men, in nations, and not in livres and louis d'or! Law smiled bitterly. For an instant he was not the confident man of action and of affairs, not the man claiming with assurance the perpetual protection of good fortune. He sat there, alone, feeling nothing but the great human craving for sympathy and trust. A line of carriages swept back across the street at his window, and streams of nobles besought entrance at his door. And the man who had called out all these, the man for whose friendship all Europe clamored—that man sat with aching heart, longing, craving, begging now of fortune only the one thing—a friend!

At last he arose, his face showing lean and haggard. He passed into another room.

"Will," said he, "I am at a place where I am dizzy and need a hand. You know what hand it means for me. Can you go—will you take her, as you did once before for me, a message? I can not go. I can not venture into her presence. Will you go? Tell her it is the last time! Tell her it is the last!"



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."



CHAPTER VIII

THE LITTLE SUPPER OF THE REGENT

Paris, city of delights, Paris drunk with gold, mad with the delirium of excesses, Paris with no aim except joy, no method but extravagance, held within her gilded gates one citadel of sensuality which remained ever an object of mystery, a source of curiosity even in that dissipated and pleasure-sated city. In the Palais Royal, back of the regally beautiful gardens, back of the noble rows of trees, beyond the gates of iron and the guards in uniform, lived France's regent, in a city of libertines the prince of libertines. In a city where there were more mistresses than wives, he it was who led the list of the licentious. In a city of unregulated vice and yet of exquisitely ordered taste, he it was who accorded to himself daily pleasures which were admittedly beyond approach. How unspeakably unbridled, how delightfully wicked, how temptingly ingenious in their features the little suppers of the regent might be—these were matters of curious interest to all, of intimate knowledge to but few.

It was to one of these famous yet mysterious gatherings that the regent of France had invited the master of that great and glittering bubble house, wherein dwelt so insecurely the affairs of France. John Law, director-general of the finances, controller of the Company of the Indies, was chosen by Philippe of Orleans for a position not granted to the crafty Dubois or to the shrewd D'Argenson, the last of that strange trinity who made his council. John Law, gallant, graceful, owner of a reputation as wit and beau scarce behind that of his sudden fame as financier, was admitted not only to the business affairs of the gay duke, but to his pleasures as well. To him and his brother Will, still associated in large measure in the stupendous operations of the director-general, there came the invitation of the regent, practically the command of the king, to join the regent after the opera for a little supper at the Palais Royal.

Law would have excused himself from this unsought honor. "Your Grace will observe," said he, "that my time is occupied to the full. The people scarcely suffer me to rest at night. Perhaps your Grace might not care for company so dull as mine."

"Fie! my friend, my very good friend," replied Philippe. "Have you become devot? Whence this sudden change? Consider; 'tis no hardship to meet such ladies as Madame de Sabran, or Madame de Prie—designer though I fear De Prie is for the domestic felicity of the youthful king—nor indeed my good friend, La Parabere, somewhat pale and pensive though she groweth. And what shall I say for Madame de Tencin, the spirituelle, who is to be with us; or Madame de Caylus, niece of Maintenon, but the very opposite of Maintenon in every possible way? Moreover, we are promised the attendance of Mademoiselle Aisse. She hath become devout of late, and thinks it a sin even to powder her hair, but Aisse devout is none the less Aisse the beautiful."

"Surely your Grace hath never lacked in excellent taste, and that is the talk of Paris," replied Law.

"Oh, well, long training bringeth perfection in due time," replied Philippe of Orleans, composedly, it having no ill effect with him to call attention to his numerous intrigues. "It should hardly be called a poor privilege, after all, to witness the results of that highly cultivated taste, as it shall be displayed this evening, not to mention the privilege you will have of meeting one or two other gentlemen; and lastly, of course, myself, if you be not tired of such company."

"Your Grace," replied Law, "you both honor and flatter me."

"Why, sir, you speak as if this were a new experience for you. Now, in the days—"

"'Tis true; but of late years I have grown grave in the cares of state, as your Grace may know."

"And most efficiently," replied the regent. "But stay! I have kept until the last my main attraction. You shall witness there, I give you my word, the making public of the secret of the fair unknown who is reputed to have been especially kind to Philippe of Orleans for these some months past. Join us at the little enterprise, my friend, and you shall see, I promise you, the most beautiful woman in Paris, crowned with the greatest gem of all the world. The regent's diamond, that great gem which you have made possible for France, shall, for the first time, and for one evening at least, adorn the forehead of the regent's queen of beauty!"

As the gay words of the regent fell upon his ears, there came into Law's heart a curious tension, a presentiment, a feeling as though some great and curious thing were about to happen. Yet ever the challenge of danger was one to draw him forward, not to hold him back. If for a moment he had hesitated, his mind was now suddenly resolved.

"Your Grace," said he, "your wish is for me command, and certainly in this instance is peculiarly agreeable."

"As I thought," replied the regent. "Had you hesitated, I should have called your attention to the fact that the table of the Palais Royal is considered to possess somewhat of character. The Vicomte de Bechamel is at the very zenith of his genius, and he daily produces dishes such as all Paris has not ever dreamed. Moreover, we have been fortunate in some recent additions of most excellent vin d'Ai. I make no doubt, upon the whole, we shall find somewhat with which to occupy ourselves."

Thus it came about that, upon that evening, there gathered at the entrance of the Palais Royal, after an evening with Lecouvreur at the Theatre Francais, some scattered groups of persons evidently possessing consequence. The chairs of others, from more distant locations, threading their way through the narrow, dark and unlighted streets of the old, crude capital of France, brought their passengers in time to a scene far different from that of the gloomy streets.

The little supper of the regent, arranged in the private salle, whose decorations had been devised for the special purpose, was more entrancing than even the glitter of the mimic world of the Theatre Francais. There extended down the center of the room, though filling but a small portion of its vast extent, the grand table provided for the banquet, a reach of snowy linen, broken at the upper end by the arm of an abbreviated cross. At each end of this cross-arm stood magnificent candelabra, repeated at intervals along the greater extension of the board. Noble epergnes, filled with the choicest plants, found their reflections in plates of glass cunningly inlaid here and there upon the surface of the table. Vast mirrors, framed in wreaths of roses and surmounted by little laughing cupids, gleamed in the walls of the room, and in the faces of these mirrors were reflected the beams of the many-colored tapers, carried in brackets of engraved gold and silver and many-colored glasses. The ceiling of the room was a soft mass of silken draperies, depending edgewise from above, thousands of yards of the most expensive fabrics of the world. From these, as they were gently swayed by the breath of invisible fans, there floated delicious, languorous perfumes, intoxicating to the senses. On any hand within the great room, removed at some distance from the table, were rich, luxurious couches and divans.

As one trod within the door of this temple of the senses, surely it must have seemed to him that he had come into another world, which at first glance might have appeared to be one of an unrighteous ease, an unprincipled enjoyment and an unmanly abandonment to embowered vice. Yet here it was that Philippe of Orleans, ruler of France, spent those hours most dear to him. If he gave thought to affairs of state during the day it was but that these affairs of state might give to him the means to indulge fancies of his own. Alike shrewd and easy, alike haughty and sensuous, here it was that Philippe held his real court.

These young gentlemen of France, these roues who have come to meet Philippe at his little supper—how different from the same beings under the rule of the Grand Monarque. Their coats are no longer dark in hue. Their silks and velvets have blossomed out, even as Paris has blossomed since the death of Louis the Grand. Jabots of lace are shown in full abundance, and so far from the abolishment of jewels from their garb, rubies, sapphires, diamonds sparkle everywhere, from the clasp of the high ruffles of the neck to the buckles of the red-heeled shoes. Powder sparkles on the head coverings of these new gallants of France. They step daintily, yet not ungracefully, into this brilliantly-lighted room, these creatures, gracious and resplendent, sparkling, painted, ephemeral, not unsuited to the place and hour.

For the ladies, witness the attire, for instance, of that Madame de Tencin, the wonder of the wits of Paris. A full blue costume, with pannier more than five yards in circumference, under a skirt of silver gauze, trimmed with golden gauze and pink crape, and a train lying six yards upon the floor, showing silver embroideries with white roses. The sleeves are half-draped, as is the skirt, and each caught up with diamonds, showing folds lying above and below the silk underneath. Madame wears a necklace of rubies and of diamonds, and above the pannier a belt of diamonds and rubies. Her hair is dressed, following the mental habit of madame, in the Greek style, and abundantly trimmed with roses and gems and bits of silver gauze. There is a little crown upon the top of madame's coiffure. Her bodice, cut sufficiently low, is seen to be of light silken weave. From her hair depends a veil of light gauze covered with gold spangles, and it is secured upon the left side by a hand's grasp of pink and white feathers, surmounted by a magnificent heron plume of long and silken whiteness. The gloves of madame are white silk, and so also, as she is not reluctant to advise, are her stockings, picked out with pink and silver clocks. Her shoes, made by the celebrated cordonnier, Raveneau, show heels three inches in height. As madame enters she casts aside the camlet coat which has covered her costume. She sweeps back the veil, endangering its confining clasp of plumes. Madame makes a deliberate and open inspection of her face in her little looking-glass to discover whether her mouches are well placed. She carefully arranges the patch upon the middle of her cheek. She would be "gallant" to-night, would lay aside things spirituelle. She twirls carelessly her fan, a creation of ivory and mother of pearl, elaborately carved, tipped with gold and silver and set with precious stones.

Close at the elbow of Madame de Tencin steps a figure of different type, a woman not accustomed to please by brilliance of mind or vivacity of speech, but by sheer femininity of face and form. Tall, slender, yet with figure divinely proportioned, this beautiful girl, Haidee, or Mademoiselle Aisse, reputed to be of Turkish or Circassian birth, and possessed of a history as strange as her own personality is attractive, would seem certainly as pure as angel of the skies. Not so would say the gossips of Paris, who whisper that mademoiselle is not happy from her chevalier—who speak of a certain visit to England, and a little child born across seas and not acknowledged by its parent. Aisse, the devout, the beautiful, is no better than others of her sex in this gay city. True, she has abandoned all artificial aids to the complexion and appears distinct among her flattering rivals, the clear olive of her skin showing in strange contrast to the heightened colors of her sisters. Yet Aisse, the toast of Europe and the text of poets, proves herself not behind the others in the loose gaiety of this occasion.

And there came others: Madame de Prie, later to hold such intimate relations with the fortunes of France in the selection of a future queen for the boy king; De Sabran, plain, gracious and good-natured; Parabere, of delicately oval face, of tiny mouth, of thin high nose and large expressive eyes, her soft hair twined with a deep flushed rose, and over her corsage drooping a continuous garland of magnificent flowers. Also Caylus the wit, Caylus the friend of Peter the Great, by duty and by devotion a religieuse, but by thought and training a gay woman of the world—all these butterflies of the bubble house of Paris came swimming in as by right upon this exotic air.

And all of these, as they advanced into the room, paused as they met, coming from the head of the apartment, the imposing figure of their host. Philippe of Orleans, his powdered wig drawn closely into a half-bag at the nape of the neck, his full eye shining with merriment and good nature, his soft, yet not unmanly figure appearing to good advantage in his well-chosen garments, advances with a certain dignity to meet his guests. He is garbed in a coat made of watered silk, its straight collar faced with dark-green material edged with gold. A green and gold shoulder knot sets off the garment, which is provided with large opal buttons set in brilliants, this same adornment appearing on the hilt of his sword, which he lays aside as he approaches. From the sides of his wig depend two carefully-arranged locks, dusted with a tan-colored powder. His small-clothes, of lighter hue than the coat, display fitly the proportions of his lower limbs. The high-heeled shoes blaze with the glare of reflected lights as the diamonds change their angles during the calm advance down the room.

"Welcome, my very dear ladies," exclaimed Philippe, advancing to the head of the board and at once setting all at ease, if any there needed such encouragement, by the grace and good feeling of his air. "You do me much honor, ladies. If I be not careful, the fair Adrienne will become jealous, since I fear you have deserted the pomp of the play full early for the table of Philippe. Ladies, as you know, I am your devoted slave. Myself and the Vicomte de Bechamel have labored, seriously labored, for your welfare this day. I promise you something of the results of those painstaking efforts, which we both hope will not disappoint you. Meantime, that the moments may not lag, let me recommend, if I am allowed, this new vintage of Ai, which Bechamel advises me we have never yet surpassed in all our efforts. Madame de Tencin, let me beg of you to be seated close to my arm. Not upon this side, Mademoiselle Haidee, if you please, for I have been wheedled into promising that station this night to another. Who is it to be, my dear Caylus? Ah, that is my secret! Presently we shall see. Have I not promised you an occasion this evening? And did Philippe ever fail in his endeavors to please? At least, did he ever cease to strive to please his angels? Now, my children, accept the blessing of your father Philippe, your friend, who, though years may multiply upon him, retains in his heart, none the less, for each and all of you, those sentiments of passion and of admiration which constitute for him his dearest memories! Ladies, I pray you be seated. I pray you tarry not too long before proving the judgment of Bechamel in regard to this new vintage of Ai."

"Ah, your Grace," exclaimed De Tencin, "were it not Philippe of Orleans, we women might not be apt to sit in peace together. Yet, as we have earlier proved your hospitality, we may perhaps not scruple to continue."

Philippe smiled blandly. The remark was not ill-fitted to the actual case. Though the regent counted his sweethearts by scores, he dismissed the one with the same air of interest as he welcomed the other, and indeed ended by retaining all as his friends.

"Madame de Tencin, in admiration there can be no degrees," said he. "In love there can be no rank."

"Why, then, do you place as your chief guest this other, this unknown?" pouted Mademoiselle Aisse, as she seated herself, turning upon her host the radiance of her large, dark eyes. "Is this stranger, then, so passing fair?"

"Not so fair as you, my lovely Haidee, that I may swear, and safely, since she is not yet present. Yet I announce to you that she is tres interessante, my unknown queen of beauty, my belle sauvage from America. But see! Here she comes. 'Tis time for her to appear, and not keep our guests in waiting."

There sounded at the back of the great hall the tinkle of a little bell of some soft metal. It approached, and with it the sweeping stir of heavy silken garb. The door opened, admitting a still greater blaze of light, and there swept into the hall, as though swimming upon the flood of this added brilliance, a figure striking enough to arouse attention even at that time and place, even among the beauties of the court of France. There advanced, calm and stately, with the gliding ease of a perfect carriage, the figure of a woman, slender, with full bright eyes and somber hair—so much might be seen at a glance. Yet the newcomer left somewhat of query in the mind of womankind accustomed to view in detail any costume.

The stranger was enveloped in a wide and undefining garment, a sweeping robe fit for any duchess of the realm, whose flowing folds showed a magnificent tissue of silver embroidery covered with golden flowers, below the plum-color and green. The high corsage of the white robe covered the bosom fully, and was caught at the throat with a bunch of blazing jewels. Under these soft draperies, tinkling in time with the movements of an otherwise noiseless tread, there sounded ever the faint note of the little bell. At the toe of shoes otherwise silent, there peeped in and out the flash of diamonds, and in the dark masses of her hair, shifting as she trod beneath each new sconce in turn, and catching more and more brilliance as she advanced, there smoldered the flame of a mass of scintillating gems. A queen's raiment was that of this unknown beauty, and she herself might have been a queen as she swept down the great hall, scornfully careless of the eyes of those other beauties.

She stepped to the place at the regent's right hand, with head high and eyes undrooping. For a dramatic instant she paused, as though in the rehearsal of a part—a part of which it might be said that the regent was not alone the author. This triumph of woman over other women, this triumph of vice over other vice, of effrontery over effrontery akin—this could not have been so planned and executed by any but a woman. One another these beauties might tolerate, knowing one another's frailties as they did; yet the elegance, the disdain, the indifference of this newcomer—this they could not support. Hatred sat in the bosom of each woman there as she swept her courtesy to the new guest of the regent, who took her place as of right at the head of the board and near the regent's arm.

"Our gentlemen are somewhat late this evening," exclaimed Philippe. "'Tis too bad the Abbe Dubois could not be with us to-night to administer clerical consolation."

"Ah! le drole Dubois!" exclaimed Madame de Tencin.

"And that vagabond, the Due de Richelieu—but we may not wait. Again ladies, the glasses, or Bechamel will be aggrieved. And finally, though I perceive most of you have graciously unmasked, let me say that the moment has now arrived when we make plain all secrets."

He turned his gaze upon the woman at his right. As though at a signal, she half rose, unclasped the circlet of gems at her throat, and swept back across the arm of her chair the soft garment which enveloped her.

A sigh, a long breath of amazement broke from those other dames of Paris. Not one of them but was sated with the blaze of diamonds, the rich, red light of rubies and the fathomless radiance of sapphires. Silks and satins and cloth of gold and silver had few novelties for them. The costumers of Paris, center of the world of art, even in those times of unrivaled extravagance and unbridled self-gratification, held no new surprise for these beauties, possessed so long of all that their imagination required or that princely liberality could supply. Yet here indeed was a surprise.

As she stood at the regent's right, calmly and composedly looking down the long board as she arranged her drapery before reseating herself, this new favorite of the regent appeared in the full costume of the American native! A long soft tunic of exquisitely dressed white leather fell below her hips, intricately embroidered in the native bead work of America, and stained with great blotches of colors done in the quills of the porcupine—heavy reds, sprightly yellows, and deep blues. Down the seams of this loose-fitting tunic depended little waving fringes. The belt which caught it at the waist was wrought likewise in beads. Beneath the level of the table, as she stood, the inquiring eyes might not so clearly see; yet the white leggings, fringed and beaded, and covered by a sweeping blanket of snowy buckskin, might have been seen to finish at the ankle and blend in texture and ornamentation with tiny shoes, which covered the smallest foot yet seen in Paris—shoes at the side of which there dangled the little bells of metal whose tones had told her coming.