Here and there upon the bead work of the native artist, who had made this attire at the expense of so much patient effort, there blazed the changing rays of real gems, diamonds, rubies, emeralds—every stone known as precious. As the full bosom of the scornful beauty rose and fell there were cast about in sprays of light the reflections of these gems. Bracelets of dull, beaten metal hung about her wrists. In her hair were ornaments of some dull blue stone. Barbaric, beautiful, fascinating, savage she surely seemed as she met unruffled the startled gaze of these beautiful women of the court, who never, at even the most fanciful bal masque in all Paris, had seen costume like to this.

"Ladies, la voila!" spoke the regent. "Ma belle sauvage!"

The newcomer swept a careless courtesy as she took her seat. As yet she had spoken no word. The door at the lower end of the hall opened.

"His Grace le Duc de Richelieu," announced the attendant, who stood beneath the board.

There advanced into the room, with slouchy, ill-bred carriage, a young man whose sole reputation was that of being the greatest rake in Paris, the Duc de Richelieu, half-gamin, half-nobleman, who counted more victims among titled ladies than he had fingers on his hands, whose sole concern of living was to plan some new impassioned avowal, some new and pitiless abandonment. This creature, meeting the salute of the regent, and catching at the same moment a view of the regent's guest, found eyes for nothing else, and stood boldly gazing at the face of her whom Paris knew for the first time and under no more definite title than that of "Belle Sauvage."

"Pray you, be seated, Monsieur le Duc," said the regent, calmly, and the latter was wise enough to comply.

"Your Grace," said Madame de Sabran, "was it not understood that we were to meet to-night none less than the wizard, Monsieur L'as?"

"Monsieur L'as will be with us, and his brother," replied Philippe. "But now I ask you to bear witness to the shrewdness of your friend Philippe in entertainment. I bethought me that, as we were to have with us the master of the Messasebe, it were well to have with us also the typified genius of that same Messasebe. 'Twas but a little conceit of my own. And why—mon enfant, what is it to you? What do you know of our controller of finance?"

The face of the woman at his right had suddenly gone white with a pallor visible even beneath its rouge and patches. She half turned, as though to push back her chair from the board, would have arisen, would have spoken perhaps; yet act and gesture were at the time unnoticed.

"His Excellency, Monsieur Jean L'as, le controleur-general," came the soft tones of the attendant near the door. "Monsieur Guillaume L'as, brother of the controleur-general."

The eyes of all were turned toward the door.. Every petted bolle of Paris there assembled shifted bodily in her seat, turning her gaze upon that man whose reputation was the talk of all the realm of France.

There appeared now the tall, erect and vigorous form of a man owning a superb physical beauty. Powerful, yet not too heavy for ease, his figure retained that elasticity and grace which had won him favor in more than one court of Europe. He himself might have been king as he advanced steadily up the brilliantly-illuminated room. His costume, simply made, yet of the richest materials of the time; his wig, highly powdered though of modest proportions; his every item of apparel appeared alike of great simplicity and barren of pretentiousness. As much might be said for the garb of his brother, who stepped close behind him, a figure less self-contained than that of the man who now occupied the absorbed attention of the public mind, even as he now filled the eager eyes of those who turned to greet his entrance.

"Ah, Monsieur L'as, Monsieur L'as!" exclaimed Philippe of Orleans, stepping forward to welcome him and taking the hand of Law in both his own. "You are welcome, you are very welcome indeed. The soup will be with us presently, and the wine of Ai is with us now. You and your brother are with us; so all at last is well. These ladies are, as I believe, all within your acquaintance. You have been present at the salon of Madame de Tencin. You know her Grace the Duchesse de Falari, recently Madame d'Artague? Mademoiselle de Caylus you know very well, and of course also Mademoiselle Aisse, la belle Circassienne—But what? Diable! Have you too gone mad? Come, is the sight of my guest too much for you also, Monsieur L'as?"

There was irritation in the tone with which the regent uttered this protest, yet he continued.

"Monsieur L'as, 'tis but a little surprise I had planned for you. Mademoiselle, my princess of the Messasebe, let me present Monsieur Jean L'as, king of the Messasebe, and hence your sovereign! This is my fair unknown, whose face I have promised you should see to-night—this, Monsieur L'as, is my princess, the one whom I have seen fit to honor this evening by the wearing of the chief gem of France."

The regent fumbled for an instant at his fob. He stepped to the side of the faltering figure which stood arrayed in all its savage finery. One movement, and upon the dark locks which fell about her brow there blazed the unspeakable fires of a stone whose magnificence brought forth exclamations of awe from every person present.

"See!" cried Philippe of Orleans. "'Twas on the advice and by the aid of Monsieur L'as that I secured the gem, whose like is not known in all the world. 'Tis chief of the crown jewels of the realm of France, this stone, now to be known as the regent's diamond. And now, as regent of France and master for a day of her jewels, I place this gem upon the brow of her who for this night is to be your queen of beauty!"

The wine of Ai had already done part of its work. There were brightened eyes, easy gestures and ready compliance as the guests arose to quaff the toast to this new queen.

As for the queen herself, she stood faltering, her eyes averted, her limbs trembling. John Law, tall, calm, self-possessed, did not take his seat, but stood with set, fixed face, gazing at the woman who held the place of honor at the table of the regent.

"Come! Come!" cried the latter, testily, his wine working in his brain. "Why stand you there, Monsieur L'as, gazing as though spellbound? Salute, sir, as I do, the chief gem of France, and her who is most fit to wear it!"

John Law stood, as though he had not heard him speak. There swept through the softly brilliant air, over the flash and glitter of the great banquet board, across the little group which stood about it, a sudden sense of a strange, tense, unfamiliar situation. There came to all a presentiment of some unusual thing about to happen. Instinctively the hands paused, even as they raised the bright and brimming glasses. The eyes of all turned from one to the other, from the stern-faced man to the woman decked in barbaric finery, who now stood trembling, drooping, at the head of the table.

Law for a moment removed his gaze from the face of the regent's guest. He flicked lightly at the deep cuff of lace which hung about his hands. "Your Grace is not far wrong," said he. "I regret that you do not have your way in planning for me a surprise. Yet I must say to you, that I have already met this lady."

"What?" cried the regent. "You have met her? Impossible! Incredible! How, Monsieur L'as? We will admit you wizard enough, and owner of the philosopher's stone—owner of anything you like, except this secret of mine own. According to mademoiselle's own words, it would have been impossible."

"None the less, what I have said is true," said John Law, calmly, his voice even and well-modulated, vibrating a little, yet showing no trace of anger nor of emotional uncontrol.

"But I tell you it could not be!" again exclaimed the regent.

"No, it is impossible," broke in the young Duc de Richelieu. "I would swear that had such beauty ever set foot in Paris before now, the news would so have spread that all France had been at her feet."

Law looked at the impudent youth with a gaze that seemed to pass through him, seeing him not. Then suddenly this scene and its significance, its ultimate meaning seemed to take instant hold upon him. He could feel rising within his soul a flood of irresistible emotions. All at once his anger, heritage of an impetuous youth, blazed up hot and furious. He trod a step farther forward, after his fashion advancing close to that which threatened him.

"This lady, your Grace," said he, "has been known to me for years. Mary Connynge, what do you masquerading here?"

A sudden silence fell, a silence broken at length by the voice of the regent himself.

"Surely, Monsieur L'as," said Philippe, "surely we must accept your statements. But Monsieur must remember that this is the table of the regent, that these are the friends of the regent. We bring no recollections here which shall cut short the joy of any person. Sir, I would not reprimand you, but I must beg that you be seated and be calm!"

Yet the imperious nature of the other brooked not even so pointed a rebuke. As though he had not heard, Law stepped yet a pace nearer to the woman, upon whom he now bent the blaze of his angered eyes. He looked neither to right nor left, but visually commanded the woman until in turn her eyes sought his own.

"This woman, your Grace," said Law, at length, "was for some time in effect my wife. This I do not offer as matter of interest. What I would say to your Grace is this—she was also my slave!"

"Sirrah!" cried the regent.

"Ah, Dame!" exclaimed the Duc de Richelieu. And even from the women about there came little murmurs of expostulation. Indeed there might have been pity, even in this assemblage, for the agony now visible upon the brow of Mary Connynge.

"Monsieur, the wine has turned your head," said the regent scornfully. "You boast!"

"I boast of nothing," cried Law, savagely, his voice now ringing with a tone none present had ever known it to assume. "I say to you again, this woman was my slave, and that she will again do as I shall choose. Your Grace, she would come and wipe the dust from my shoes if I should command it! She would kneel at my feet, and beg of me, if I should command it! Shall I prove this, your Grace?"

"Oh, assuredly!" replied the regent, with a sarcasm which now seemed his only relief. "Assuredly, if Monsieur L'as should please. We here in Paris are quite his humble servants."

Law said nothing. He stood with his biting blue eyes still fixed upon Mary Connynge, whose own eyes faltered, trying their utmost to escape from his; whose fingers, resting just lightly on the snowy Hollands of the table cloth, moved tremulously; whose limbs appeared ready to sink beneath her.

"Come, then, Mary Connynge!" cried Law at last, his teeth setting savagely together. "Come, then, traitress and slave, and kneel before me, as you did once before!"

Then there ensued a strange and horrible spectacle. A hush as of death fell upon the group. Mary Connynge, trembling, halting, yet always advancing, did indeed as her master had bidden! She passed from the head of the table, back of the chair of the regent, who stood gazing with horror in his eyes; she passed the chair of Aisse, near which Law now stood; she paused in front of him, and stood as though in a dream. Her knees would have indeed sunk beneath her. She drew from her bosom a silken kerchief, as though she would indeed have performed the ignoble service which had been threatened for her. There came neither voice nor motion to those who saw this thing. The sheer force of one strong nature, terrible in the intensity of one supreme moment—this might have been the spell which commanded at the table of the regent. Yet this did occur.

There came a sound which broke the silence, which caused all to start as with swift relief. A sob, short, dry, hard, as from one whose heart is broken, came from beyond the place where Law stood facing the trembling woman. The eyes of all turned upon Will Law, from whom had burst this irrepressible exclamation of agony. Will Law, as one grown swiftly old, haggard, broken-down, stood gazing in wide-eyed horror at this woman, so humiliated in the presence of all in this brilliantly-lighted hall; before the blazing mirrors which should have reflected back naught but beauty and joy; under the twining roses, which should have been the signs manual of undying love; under the smiling cherubs, which should have typified the deities of happy love. Will Law, too, had loved. Perhaps still he loved.

This sharp sound served to break also the spell under which Law himself seemed held. He cast aloft his arms, as in remorse or in despair. Then he extended a hand to the woman who would have sunk before him.

"God forgive me! Madam," he cried. "I had forgot. Savage indeed you are and have been, but 'tis not for me to treat you brutally."

"Your Grace," said he, turning toward the regent, "I crave your pardon. Our explanations shall reach you on the morrow."



He turned, and taking his brother by the arm, advanced toward the door at which he had recently entered, pausing not to look behind him. Had his eye been more curious as he and his half-fainting brother bowed before passing through the door, it might have seen that which he must long have borne in memory.

Mary Connynge, trembling, pallid, utterly broken, never found her way back to the right hand of the regent. She half stumbled into a chair near the foot of the table. Her bosom fluttered at the base of the throat. Half blindly she reached out her hand toward a glass of wine which stood near by, foaming and sparkling, its gem-like drops of keen pungency swimming continuously up to the surface. Her hand caught at the slender stem of the glass. Leaning upon her left arm, she half rose as though to put it to her lips. Her head moved, as though she would follow the retreating figure of the man who had thus scornfully used her. All at once, slowly, and then with a sudden crash, she sank down upon her seat and fell forward across the table. The fragile glass snapped in her fingers. The amber wine rushed in swift flood across the linen. In the broadening stain there fell and lay blazing the great gem of France.



CHAPTER IX

THE NEWS

"Lady Kitty! Lady Kitty! Have you heard the news?"

Thus, breathless, the Countess of Warrington, Lady Catharine's English neighbor in exile, who burst into the drawing-room early in the morning, not waiting for announcement of her presence.

"Nay, not yet, my dear," said Lady Catharine, advancing and embracing her. "What is it, pray? Has the poodle swallowed a bone, or the baby perhaps cut another tooth? And, forsooth, how is the little one?"

Lady Emily Warrington, slender, elegant, well clad, and for the most part languorously calm, was in a state of excitement quite without her customary aplomb. She sank into a seat, fanning herself with a vigor which threatened ruin to the precious slats of a fan which bore the handiwork of Watteau.

"The streets are full of it," said she. "Have you not heard, really?"

"I must say, not yet. But what is it?"

"Why, the quarrel between the regent and his director-general, Mr. Law."

"No, I have not heard of it." Lady Catharine sought refuge behind her own fan. "But tell me" she continued.

"But that is not all. 'Twas the reason for the quarrel. Paris is all agog. 'Twas about a woman!"

"You mean—there was—a woman?"

"Yes, it all happened last night, at the Palais Royal. The woman is dead—died last night. 'Tis said she fell in a fit at the very table—'twas at a little supper given by the regent—and that when they came to her she was quite dead."

"But Mr. Law—"

"'Twas he that killed her!"

"Good God! What mean you?" cried Lady Catharine, her own face blanching behind her protecting fan. The blood swept back upon her heart, leaving her cold as a statue.

"Why," continued the caller, in her own excitement to tell the news scarce noting what went on before her, "it seems that this mysterious beauty of the regent's, of whom there has been so much talk, proved to be none other than a former mistress of this same Mr. Law, who is reputed to have been somewhat given to that sort of thing, though of late monstrous virtuous, for some cause or other. Mr. Law came suddenly upon her at the table of the regent, arrayed in some kind of savage finery—for 'twas in fashion a mask that evening, as you must know. And what doth my director-general do, so high and mighty? Why, in spite of the regent and in spite of all those present, he upbraids her, taunts her, reviles her, demanding that she fall on her knees before him, as it seems indeed she would have done—as, forsooth, half the dames of Paris would do to-day! Then, all of a sudden, my Lord Director changes, and he craves pardon of the woman and of the regent, and so stalks off and leaves the room! And now then the poor creature walks to the table, would lift a glass of wine, and so—'tis over! 'Twas like a play! Indeed all Paris is like a play nowadays. Of course you know the rest."

A gesture of negative came from the hand that lay in Lady Catharine's lap. The busy gossip went on.

"The regent, be sure, was angry enough at this cheapening of his own wares before all, and perhaps 'tis true he had a fancy for the woman. At any rate, 'tis said that this very morning he quarreled hotly with Mr. Law. The latter gave back words hot as he received, and so they had it violent enough. 'Tis stated on the Quinquempoix that another must take Mr. Law's place. But if Mr. Law goes, what will become of the System? And what would the System be without Mr. Law? And what would Paris be without the System? Why, listen, Lady Catharine! I gained fifty thousand livres yesterday, and my coachman, the rascal, in some manner seems to have done quite as well for himself. I doubt not he will yet build a mansion of his own, and perhaps my husband may drive for him! These be strange days indeed. I only hope they may continue, in spite of what my husband says."

"And what says he?" asked Lady Catharine, her own voice sounding to her unfamiliar and far away.

"Why, that the city is mad, and that this soon must end—this Mississippi bubble, as my Lord Stair calls it at the embassy."

"Yet I have heard all France is prosperous."

"Oh, yes indeed. 'Tis said that but yesterday the kingdom paid four millions of its debt to Bavaria, three millions of its debt to Sweden—yet these are not the most pressing debts of France."

"Meaning—"

"Why, the debts of the regent to his friends—those are the important things. But the other day he gave eighty thousand livres to Madame Chateauthiers, as a little present. He gave two hundred thousand livres to the Abbe Something-or-other, who asked for it, and another thousand livres to that rat Dubois. The thief D'Argenson ever counsels him to give in abundance now that he hath abundance, and the regent is ready with a vengeance with his compliance. Saint Simon, that priggish duke, has had a million given him to repay a debt his father took on for the king a generation ago. To the captain of the guard the regent gives six hundred thousand livres, for carrying the fan of the regent's forgotten wife; to the Prince Courtenay, two hundred thousand, most like because the prince said he had need of it; a pension of two hundred thousand annually to the Marquise de Bellefonte, the second such sum, because perhaps she once made eyes at him; a pension of sixty thousand livres to a three-year-old relative to the Prince de Conti, because Conti cried for it; one hundred thousand livres to Mademoiselle Haidee, because she has a consumption; and as much more to the Duchesse de Falari, because she has not a consumption. Bah! The credit of France might indeed, as my husband says, be called leaking through the slats of fans."

"But, look you!" she went on, "how Mr. Law feathers his own nest. He bought lately, for a half million livres, the house of the Comte de Tesse; and on the same day, as you know, the Hotel Mazarin. There is no limit to his buying of estates. This, so says my husband, is the great proof of his honesty. He puts his money here in France, and does not send it over seas. He seems to have no doubt, and indeed no fear, of anything."

Lady Warrington paused, half for want of breath. Silence fell in the great room. A big and busy fly, deep down in the crystal cylindre which sheltered a taper on a near-by table, buzzed out a droning protest. The face of Lady Catharine was averted.

"You did not tell me, Lady Emily," said she, with woman's feigned indifference, "what was the name of this poor woman of the other evening."

"Why, so I had forgot—and 'tis said that Mr. Law, after all, comported himself something of the gentleman. No one knows how far back the affair runs, nor how serious it was. And indeed I have seen no one who ever heard of the woman before."

"And the name?"

"'Twas said Mr. Law called her Mary Connynge."

The big fly, deep down in the crystal cage, buzzed on audibly; and to one who heard it, the drone of the lazy wings seemed like the roars of a thousand tempests.



CHAPTER X

MASTER AND MAN

John Law, idle, preoccupied, sat gazing out at the busy scenes of the street before him. The room in which he found himself was one of a suite in that magnificent Hotel de Soisson, bought but recently of the Prince de Carignan for the sum of one million four hundred thousand livres, which had of late been chosen as the temple of Fortuna. The great gardens of this distinguished site were now filled with hundreds of tents and kiosks, which offered quarters for the wild mob of speculators which surged and swirled and fought throughout the narrow avenues, contending for the privilege of buying the latest issue of the priceless shares of the Company of the Indies.

The System was at its height. The bubble was blown to its last limit. The popular delirium had grown to its last possible degree.

From the window these mad mobs of infuriated human beings might have seemed so many little ants, running about as though their home had been destroyed above their heads. They hastened as though fleeing from the breath of some devouring flame. Surely the point of flame was there, at that focus of Paris, this focus of all Europe; and thrice refined was the quality of this heat, burning out the hearts of those distracted ones.

Yet it was a scene not altogether without its fascinations. Hither came titled beauties of Paris, peers of the realm, statesmen, high officials, princes of the blood; all these animated but by one purpose—to bid and outbid for these bits of paper, which for the moment meant wealth, luxury, ease, every imaginable desire. It seemed indeed that the world was mad. Tradesmen, artisans, laborers, peasants, jostled the princes and nobility, nor met reproof. Rank was forgotten. Democracy, for the first time on earth, had arrived. All were equal who held equal numbers of these shares. The mind of each was blank to all but one absorbing theme.

Law looked over this familiar scene, indifferent, calm, almost moody, his cheek against his hand, his elbow on his chair. "What was the call, Henri," asked he, at length, of the old Swiss who had, during these stormy times, been so long his faithful attendant. "What was the last quotation that you heard?"

"Your Honor, there are no quotations," replied the attendant. "'Tis only as one is able to buy. The actions of the last issue, three hundred thousand in all, were swept away at a breath at fifteen thousand livres the share."

"Ninety times what their face demands," said Law, impassively.

"True, some ninety times," said the Swiss. "'Tis said that of this issue the regent has taken over one-third, or one hundred thousand, himself. 'Tis this that makes the price of the other two-thirds run the higher, since 'tis all that the public has to buy."

"Lucky regent," said Law, sententiously. "Plenty would seem to have been his fortune!"

He grimly turned again to his study of the crowds which swarmed among the pavilions before his window. Outside his door he heard knockings and cries, and impatient footfalls, but neither he nor the impassive Swiss paid to these the least attention. It was to them an old experience.

"Your Honor, the Prince de Conti is in the antechamber and would see you," at length ventured the attendant, after listening for some time with his ear at an aperture in the door.

"Let the Prince de Conti wait," said Law, "and a plague take him for a grasping miser! He has gained enough. Time was when I waited at his door."

"The Abbe Dubois—here is his message pushed beneath the door."

"My dearest enemy," replied Law, calmly. "The old rat may seek another burrow."

"The Duchesse de la Rochefoucauld."

"Ah, then, she hath overcome her husband's righteousness of resolution, and would beg a share or so? Let her wait. I find these duchesses the most tiresome animals in the world."

"The Madame de Tencin."

"I can not see the Madame de Tencin."

"A score of dukes and foreign princes. My faith! master, we have never had so large a line of guests as come this morning." The stolid impassiveness of the Swiss seemed on the point of giving way.

"Let them wait," replied Law, evenly as before. "Not one of them would listen to me five years ago. Now I shall listen to them—shall listen to them knocking at my door, as I have knocked at theirs. To-day I am aweary, and not of mind to see any one. Let them wait."

"But what shall I say? What shall I tell them, my master?"

"Tell them nothing. Let them wait."

Thus the crowd of notables packed into the anterooms waited at the door, fuming and execrating, yet not departing. They all awaited the magician, each with the same plea—some hope of favor, of advancement, or of gain.

At last there arose yet a greater tumult in the hall which led to the door. A squad of guardsmen pushed through the packed ranks with the cry: "For the king!" The regent of France stood at the closed door of the man who was still the real ruler of France.

"Open, open, in the name of the king!" cried one, as he beat loudly on the panels.

Law turned languidly toward the attendant. "Henri," said he, "tell them to be more quiet."

"My master, 'tis the regent!" expostulated the other, with somewhat of anxiety in his tones.

"Let him wait," replied Law, coolly. "I have waited for him."

"But, my master, they protest, they clamor—"

"Very well. Let them do so—but stay. If it is indeed the regent, I may as well meet him now and say that which is in my mind. Open the door."

The door swung open and there entered the form of Philippe of Orleans, preceded by his halberdiers and followed close by a rush of humanity which the guards and the Swiss together had much pains to force back into the anteroom.

"How now, Monsieur L'as, how now?" fumed the regent, his heavy face glowing a dull red, his prominent eyes still more protruding, his forehead bent into a heavy frown. "You deny entrance to our person, who are next to the body of his Majesty?"

"Did you have delay?" asked Law, sweetly. "'Twas unfortunate."

"'Twas execrable!"

"True. I myself find these crowds execrable."

"Nay, execrable to suffer this annoyance of delay!"

"Your Grace's pardon," said Law, coolly. "You should have made an appointment a few days in advance."

"What! The regent of France need to arrange a day when he would see a servant!"

"Your Grace is unfortunate in his choice of words," replied Law, blandly. "I am not your servant. I am your master."

The regent sank back into a chair, gasping, his hand clutching at the hilt of his sword.

"Seize him! Seize him! To the Bastille with him! The presumer! The impostor!"

Yet even the guards hesitated before the commanding presence of that man whom all had been so long accustomed to obey. With hand upraised, Law gazed at them for one instant, and then gave them no further attention.

"Yet these words I must hasten to qualify," resumed he. "True, I am at this moment your master, your Grace, but two minutes hence, and for all time thereafter, I shall no longer be your master. Your Grace was once so good as to make me head of certain financial matters, and to give me control of them. The fabric of this Messasebe, which you see without, was all my own. It was this which made me master of Paris, and of every man within the gates of Paris. So far, very well. My plans were honest, and the growth of France—nay, let us say the resurrection of France—the new life of France—shows how my own plans were made and how well I knew that which was to happen. I made you rich, your Grace. I gave you funds to pay off millions of your private debts, millions to gratify your fancies. I gave you more millions to pay the debts of France. France and her regent have again taken a position of honor in the eyes of the world. You may well call me master of your fate, who have been able to accomplish these things. So long as you knew your master, you did well. Now your Grace has seen fit to change masters. He would be his own master again. There can not be two in control of a concern like this. Sir, the two minutes hare elapsed. I am your very humble servant!"

The regent still sat staring from his chair, and speech was yet denied him.

"There are your people. There is your France," said Law, beckoning as he turned toward the window and pointing to the crowd without. "There is your France. Now handle it, my master! Here are the reins! Now drive; but see that you be careful how you drive. Come, your Grace," said he, mockingly, over his shoulder. "Come, and see your France!"

The audacity of John Law was a thing without parallel, as had been proved a hundred times in his strange life and in a hundred places. His sheer contemptuous daring brought Philippe of Orleans to his senses. He relaxed now in his purpose, changeable as was his wont, and advanced towards Law with hand outstretched.

"There, there, Monsieur L'as, I did you wrong, perhaps," said he. "But as to these hasty words, pray reconsider them at once. 'Twill have a bad effect should a breath of this get afloat. Indeed, 'twas because of some such thing that I came to see you this morning. A most unspeakable, a most incredible thing hath occurred. It comes to me with certain confirmation that there have been shares sold upon the street at twelve thousand livres to the action, whereas, as you very well know, fifteen thousand should be the lowest price to-day."

"And what of that, your Grace?" said Law, calmly. "Is it not what you planned? Is it not what you have been expecting?"

"How, sirrah! What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean this, your Grace," said Law, calmly, "that since you have taken the reins, it is you who must drive the chariot. I shall suggest no plans, shall offer no remedy. But, if you still lack ability to see how and why this thing has attained this situation, I will take so much trouble as to make it plain."

"Go on, then, sir," said the regent. "Is not all well? Is there any danger?"

"As to danger," said Law, "we can not call it a time of danger after the worst has happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that the worst has happened. But, as I was about to say, I shall tell you how it happened."

The gaze of the regent fell. His hand trembled as he fumbled at his sword hilt.

"Your Grace," said Law, calmly, "will do me the kindness to remember that when I first asked of you the charter of the Banque Generale, to be taken privately in the name of myself and my brother, I told you that any banker merited the punishment of death if he issued notes or bills of exchange without having their effective value safe in his own strong boxes."

"Well, what of that?" queried the regent, weakly.

"Nothing, your Grace, except that your Grace deserves the punishment of death."

"How, sir! Good God!"

"If the truth of this matter should ever become known, those people out there, that France yonder, would tear your Grace limb from limb, and trample you in the dust!"

The livid face of the regent went paler as the other spoke. There was conviction in those tones which could not fail to reach even his heavy wits.

"Let me explain," went on Law. "I beg your Grace to remember again, that when your Grace was good enough to take out of the hands of my brother and myself our little bank—which we had run honorably and successfully—you changed at one sweep the whole principle of honest banking. You promised to pay something which was unstipulated. You issued a note back of which there was no value, no fixed limit of measurement. Twice you have changed the coinage of the realm, and twice assigned a new value to your specie. No one can tell what one of your shares in the stock of the Indies means in actual coin. It means nothing, stands for nothing, is good for nothing. Now, think you, when these people, when this France shall discover these facts, that they will be lenient with those who have thus deceived them?"

"Yet your theory always was that we had too great a scarcity of money here in France," expostulated the regent.

"True, so I did. We had not enough of good money. We can not have too little of false money, of money such as your Grace—as you thought without my knowledge—has been so eager to issue from the presses of our Company. It had been an easy thing for the regent of France to pay off all the debts of the world from now until the verge of eternity, had not his presses given out. Money of that sort, your Grace, is such as any man could print for himself, did he but have the linen and the ink."

The regent again dropped to his chair, his head falling forward upon his breast.

"But what does it all mean? What shall be done? What will be the result?" he asked, his voice showing well enough the anxiety which had swiftly fallen upon his soul.

"As to that," replied Law, laconically, "I am no longer master here. I am not controller of finance. Appoint Dubois, appoint D'Argenson. Send for the Brothers Paris. Take them to this window, your Grace, and show them your people, show them your France, and then ask them to tell you what shall be done. Cry out to all the world, as I know you will, that this was the fault of an unknown adventurer, of a Scotch gambler, of one John Law, who brought forth some pretentious schemes to the detriment of the realm. Saddle upon me the blame for all this ruin which is coming. Malign me, misrepresent me, imprison me, exile me, behead me if you like, and blame John Law for the discomfiture of France! But when you come to seek your remedies, why, ask no more of John Law. Ask of Dubois, ask of D'Argenson, ask of the Paris Freres; or, since your Grace has seen fit to override me and to take these matters in his own hands, let your Grace ask of himself! Tell me, as regent of France, as master of Paris, as guardian of the rights of this young king, as controller of the finances of France, as savior or destroyer of the welfare of these people of France and of that America which is greater than this France—tell me, what will you do, your Grace? What do you suggest as remedy?"

"You devil! you arch fiend!" exclaimed the regent, starting up and laying his hand on his sword. "There is no punishment you do not deserve! You will leave me in this plight—you—you, who have supplanted me at every turn; you who made that horrible scene but last night at my own table, within the very gates of the Palais Royal; you, the murderer of the woman I adored! And now, you mocker and flouter of what may be my bitterest misfortune—why, sir, no punishment is sharp enough for you! Why do you stand there, sir? Do you dare to mock me—to mock us, the person of the king?"

"I mock not in the least, your Grace," said John Law, "nor do aught else that ill beseems a gentleman. I should have been proud to be known as the friend of Philippe of Orleans, yet I stand before that Philippe of Orleans and tell him that that man doth not live, nor that set of terrors exist, which can frighten John Law, nor cause him to depart from that stand which he once has taken. Sir, if you seek to frighten me, you fail."

"But, look you—consider," said the regent. "Something must be done."

"As I said," replied Law.

"But what is going to happen? What will the people do?"

"First," said Law, judicially, flicking at the deep lace of his cuff as though he were taking into consideration the price of a wig or cane, "first, the price of a share having gone to twelve thousand livres this morning, by two o'clock will be so low as ten thousand. By three o'clock this afternoon it will be six thousand. Then, your Grace, there will be panic. Then the spell will be broken. France will rub her eyes and begin to awaken. Then, since the king can do no wrong, and since the regent is the king, your Grace can do one of two things. He can send a body-guard to watch my door, or he can see John Law torn into fragments, as these people would tear the real author of their undoing, did they but recognize him."

"But can nothing be done to stop this? Can it not be accommodated?"

"Ask yourself. But I must go on to say what these people will do. All at once they will demand specie for their notes. The Prince de Conti will drive his coaches to the door of your bank, and demand that they be loaded with gold. Jacques and Raoul and Pierre, and every peasant and pavior in Paris will come with boxes and panniers, and each of them will also demand his gold. Make edicts, your Grace. Publish broadcast and force out into publicity, on every highway of France, your decree that gold and silver are not so good as your bank notes; that no one must have gold or silver; that no one must send his gold and silver out of France, but that all must bring it to the king and take for it in exchange these notes of yours. Try that. It ought to succeed, ought it not, your Grace?" His bantering tone sank into one of half plausibility.

"Why, surely. That would be the solution."

"Oh, think you so? Your Grace is wondrous keen as a financier! Now take the counsel of Dubois, of D'Argenson, my very good friends. This is what they will counsel you to do. And I will counsel you at the same time to avail yourself of their advice. Tell all France to bring in its gold, to enable you to put something essential under the value of all this paper money which you have been sending out so lavishly, so unthinkingly, so without stint or measure."

"Yes. And then?"

"Why, then, your Grace," said Law, "then we shall see what we shall see!"

The regent again choked with anger. Law continued. "Go on. Smooth down the back of this animal. Continue to reduce these taxes. The specie of the realm of France, as I am banker enough to know, is not more than thirteen hundred millions of livres, allowing sixty-five livres to the marc. Yet long before this your Grace has crowded the issue of our actions until there are out not less than twenty-six hundred millions of livres in the stock of our Company. Your Brothers Paris, your D'Argenson, your Dubois will tell you how you can make the people of France continue to believe that twice two is not four, that twice thirteen is not twenty-six!"

"But this they are doing," broke in the regent, with a ray of hope in his face. "This they are doing. We have provided for that. In the council not an hour ago the Abbe Dubois and Monsieur d'Argenson decided that the time had come to make some fixed proportion between the specie and these notes. We have to-day framed an edict, which the Parliament will register, stating that the interests of the subjects of the king require that the price of these bank notes should be lessened, so that there may be some sort of accommodation between them and the coin of the realm. We have ordered that the shares shall, within thirty days, drop to seventy-five hundred livres, in another thirty days to seven thousand livres, and so on, at five hundred livres a month, until at last they shall have a value of one-half what they were to-day. Then, tell me, my wise Monsieur L'as, would not the issue of our notes and the total of our specie be equal, one with the other? The only wrong thing is this insulting presumption of these people, who have sold actions at a price lower than we have decreed."

Law smiled as he replied. "You say excellently well, my master. These plans surely show that you and your able counselors have studied deeply the questions of finance! I have told you what would happen to-day without any decree of the king. Now go you on, and make your decrees. You will find that the people are much more eager for values which are going up than values which are going down. Start your shares down hill, and you will see all France scramble for such coin, such plate, such jewels as may be within the ability of France to lay her hands upon. Tell me, your Grace, did Monsieur d'Argenson advise you this morning as to the total issue of the actions of this Company?"

"Surely he did, and here I have it in memorandum, for I was to have taken it up with yourself," replied the regent.

"So," exclaimed Law, a look of surprise passing over his countenance, until now rigidly controlled, as he gazed at the little slip of paper. "Your Grace advises me that there are issued at this time in the shares of the Company no less than two billion, two hundred and thirty-five million, eighty-five thousand, five hundred and ninety livres in notes! Against this, as your Grace is good enough to agree with me, we have thirteen hundred millions of specie. Your Grace, yourself and I have seen some pretty games in our day. Look you, the merriest game of all your life is now but just before you!"

"And you would go and leave me at this time?"

"Never in my life have I forsaken a friend at the time of distress," replied Law. "But your Grace absolved me when you forsook me, when you doubted and hesitated regarding me, and believed the protestations of those not so able as myself to judge of what was best. And now it is too late. Will your Grace allow me to suggest that a place behind stout gates and barred doors, deep within the interior of the Palais Royal, will be the best residence for him to-night—perhaps for several nights to come?"

"And yourself?"

"As for myself, it does not matter," replied Law, slowly and deliberately. "I have lived, and I thought I had succeeded. Indeed, success was mine for some short months, though now I must meet failure. I have this to console me—that 'twas failure not of my own fault. As for France, I loved her. As for America, I believe in her to-day, this very hour. As for your Grace in person, I was your friend, nor was I ever disloyal to you. But it sometimes doth seem that, no matter how sincere be one in one's endeavors, no matter how cherished, no matter how successful for a time may be his ambitions, there is ever some little blight to eat the face of the full fruit of his happiness. To-morrow I shall perhaps not be alive. It is very well. There is nothing I could desire, and it is as well to-morrow as at any time."

"But surely, Monsieur L'as," interrupted the regent, with a trace of his old generosity, "if there should be outbreak, as you fear, I shall, of course, give you a guard. I shall indeed see you safe out of the city, if you so prefer, though I had much liefer you would remain and try to help us undo this coil, wherein I much misdoubt myself."

"Your Grace, I am a disappointed man, a man with nothing in the world to comfort him. I have said that I would not help you, since 'twas yourself brought ruin on my plans, and cast down that work which I had labored all my life to finish. Yet I will advise this, as being your most immediate plan. Smooth down this France as best you may. Remit more taxes, as I said. Depreciate the value of these shares gently, but rapidly as you can. Institute great numbers of perpetual annuities. Juggle, temporize, postpone, get for yourself all the time you can. Trade for the people's shares all you have that they will take. You can never strike a balance, and can never atone for the egregious error of this over-issue of stock which has no intrinsic value. Eventually you may have to declare void many of these shares and withdraw from the currency these actions for which so recently the people have been clamoring."

"That means repudiation!" broke in the regent.

"Certainly, your Grace, and in so far your Grace has my extremest sympathy. I know it was your resolve not to repudiate the debts of France, as those debts stood when I first met you some years ago. That was honorable. Yet now the debts of France are immeasurably greater, rich as France thinks herself to be. Not all France, were the people and the produce of the commerce counted in the coin, could pay the debt of France as it now exists. Hence, honorable or not, there is nothing else—it is repudiation which now confronts you. France is worse than bankrupt. And now it would seem wise if your Grace took immediate steps, not only for the safety of his person, but for the safety of the Government."

"Sir, do you mean that the people would dare, that they would presume—"

"The people are not what they were. There hath come into Europe the leaven of the New World. I had looked there to see a nobler and a better France. It is too late for that, and surely it is too late for the old ways of this France which we see about us. You can not presume now upon the temper of these folk as you might have done fifty years ago. The Messasebe, that noble stream, it hath swept its purifying flood throughout the world! Look you, at this moment there is tumbling this house which we have built of bubbles, one bubble upon another, blowing each bubble bigger and thinner than the last. Mine is not the only fault, nor yet the greatest fault. I was sincere, where others cared naught for sincerity. Another day, another people, may yet say the world was better for my effort, and that therefore at the last I have not failed."



CHAPTER XI

THE BREAKING OF THE BUBBLE

It was the evening of the day following that on which John Law and the regent of France had met in their stormy interview. During the morning but little had transpired regarding the significant events of the previous day. In these vast and excited crowds, divided into groups and cliques and factions, aided by no bulletins, counseled by no printed page, there was but little cohesion of purpose, since there was little unity of understanding. The price of shares at one kiosk might be certain thousands of livres, whereas a square away, the price might vary by half as many livres; so impetuous was the advance of these continually rising prices, and so frenzied and careless the temper of those who bargained for them.

Yet before noon of the day following the decree of the regent, which fixed the value of actions upon a descending scale, the news, after a fashion of its own, spread rapidly abroad, and all too swiftly the truth was generally known. The story started in a rumor that shares had been offered and declined at a price which had been current but a few moments before. This was something which had not been known in all these feverish months of the Messasebe. Then came the story that shares could not be counted upon to realize over eight thousand livres. At that the price of all the actions dropped in a flash, as Law had prophesied. A sudden wave of sanity, a panic chill of sober understanding swept over this vast multitude of still unreasoning souls who had traded so long upon this impossible supposition of an ever-advancing market. Reason still lacked among them, yet fear and sudden suspicion were not wanting. Man after man hastened swiftly away to sell privately his shares before greater drop in the price might come. He met others upon the same errand.

Precisely the reverse of the old situation now obtained. As all Paris had fought to buy, so now all Paris fought to sell. The streets were filled with clamoring mobs. If earlier there had been confusion, now there was pandemonium. Never was such a scene witnessed. Never was there chronicled so swift and utter reversion of emotion in the minds of a great concourse of people. Bitter indeed was the wave of agony that swept over Paris. It began at the Messasebe, in the gardens of the Hotel de Soisson, at that focus hard by the temple of Fortuna. It spread and spread, edging out into all the remoter portions of the walled city. It reached ultimately the extreme confines of Paris. Into the crowded square which had been decreed as the trading-place of the Messasebe System, there crowded from the outer purlieus yet other thousands of excited human beings. The end had come. The bubble had burst. There was no longer any System of the Messasebe!

It was late in the day, in fact well on toward might, when the knowledge of the crash came into the neighborhood where dwelt the Lady Catharine Knolls. To her the news was brought by a servant, who excitedly burst unannounced into her mistress's presence.

"Madame! Madame!" she cried. "Prepare! 'Tis horrible! 'Tis impossible! All is at an end!"

"What mean you, girl!" cried Lady Catharine, displeased at the disrespect. "What is happening? Is there fire? And even if there were, could you not remember your duty more seemly than this?"

"Worse, worse than fire, Madame! Worse than anything! The bank has failed! The shares of the System are going down! 'Tis said that we can get but three thousand livres the share, perhaps less—perhaps they will go down to nothing. I am ruined, ruined! We are all ruined! And within the month I was to have been married to the footman of the Marquis d'Allouez, who has bought himself a title this very week!"

"And if it has fallen so ill," said Lady Catharine, "since I have not speculated in these things like most folk, I shall be none the worse for it, and shall still have money to pay your wages. So perhaps you can marry your marquis after all."

"But we shall not be rich, Madame! We are ruined, ruined! Mon Dieu! we poor folk! We had the hope to be persons of quality. 'Tis all the work of this villain Jean L'as. May the Bastille get him, or the people, and make him pay for this!"

"Stop! Enough of this, Marie!" said the Lady Catharine, sternly. "After this have better wisdom, and do not meddle in things which you do not understand."

Yet scarce had the girl departed before there appeared again the sound of running steps, and presently there broke, equally unannounced, into the presence of his mistress, the coachman, fresh from his stables and none too careful of his garb. Tears ran down his cheeks. He flung out his hands with gestures as of one demented.

"The news!" cried he. "The news, my Lady! The horrible news! The System has vanished, the shares are going down!"

"Fellow, what do you here?" said Lady Catharine. "Why do you come with this same story which Marie has just brought to me? Can you not learn your place?"

"But, my Lady, you do not understand!" reiterated the man, blankly. "'Tis all over. There is no Messasebe; there is no longer any System, no longer any Company of the Indies. There is no longer wealth for the stretching out of the hand. 'Tis all over. I must go back to horses—I, Madame, who should presently have associated with the nobility!"

"Well, and if so," replied his mistress, "I can say to you, as I have to Marie, that there will still be money for your wages."

"Wages! My faith, what trifles, my Lady! This Monsieur L'as, the director-general, he it is who has ruined us! Well enough it is that the square in front of his hotel is filled with people! Presently they will break down his doors. And then, pray God they punish him for this that he has done!"

The cheek of Lady Catharine paled and a sudden flood of contending emotions crossed her mind. "You do not tellme that Monsieur L'as is in danger, Pierre?" said she.

"Assuredly. Perhaps within the very hour they will tear down his doors and rend him limb from limb. There is no punishment which can serve him right—him who has ruined our pretty, pretty System. Mon Dieu! It was so beautiful!"

"Is this news certain?"

"Assuredly, most certain. Why should it not be? The entire square in front of the Hotel de Soisson is packed. Unless my Lady needs me, I myself must hasten thither to aid in the punishment of this Jean L'as!"

"You will stay here," said Lady Catharine. "Wait! There may be need! For the present, go!"

Left alone, Lady Catharine stood for a moment pale and motionless, in the center of the room. She strode then to the window and stood looking fixedly out. Her whole figure was tense, rigid. Yonder, over there, across the gabled roofs of Paris, they were clamoring at the door of him who had given back Paris to the king, and Franceagain to its people. They were assailing him—this man so long unfaltering, so insistent on his ambitions, so—so steadfast! Could she call him steadfast? And they would seize him in spite of the courage which she knew would never fail. They would kill, they would rend, they would trample him! They would crush that glorious body, abase the lips that had spoke so well of love!

The clenched fingers of Lady Catharine broke apart, her arms were flung wide in a gesture of resolution. She turned from the window, looking here and there about the room. Unconsciously she stopped before the great cheval-glass that hung against the wall. She stood there, looking at her own image, keenly, deeply.

She saw indeed a woman fit for sweet usages of love, comely and rounded, deep-bosomed, her oval face framed in the piled masses of glorious red-brown hair. But her wide, blue eyes, scarce seeing this outward form, stared into the soul of that other whom she witnessed.

It was as though the Lady Catharine Knollys at last saw another self and recognized it! A quick, hard sob broke from her throat. In haste she flew, now to one part of the room, now to another, picking up first this article and then that which seemed of need. And so at last she hurried to the bell-cord.

"Quick," cried she, as the servant at length appeared. "Quick! Do not delay an instant! My carriage at once!"



CHAPTER XII

THAT WHICH REMAINED

As for John Law, all through that fatal day which meant for him the ruin of his ambitions, he continued in the icy calm which, for days past, had distinguished him. He discontinued his ordinary employments, and spent some hours in sorting and destroying numbers of papers and documents. His faithful servant, the Swiss, Henri, he commanded to make ready his apparel for a journey.

"At six this evening," said he, "Henri, we shall be ready to depart. Let us be quite ready well before that time."

"Monsieur is leaving Paris?" asked the Swiss, respectfully.

"Quite so."

"Perhaps for a stay of some duration?"

"Quite so, indeed, Henri."

"Then, sir," expostulated the Swiss, "it would require a day or so for me to properly arrange your luggage."

"Not at all," replied Law. "Two valises will suffice, not more, and I shall perhaps not need even these."

"Not all the apparel, the many coats, the jewels—"

"Do not trouble over them."

"But what disposition shall I make—?"

"None at all. Leave all these things as they are. But stay—this package which I shall prepare for you—take it to the regent, and have it marked in his care and for the Parliament of France."

Law raised in his hands a bundle of parchments, which one by one he tore across, throwing the fragments into a basket as he did so.

"The seat of Tancarville," he said. "The estate of Berville; the Hotel Mazarin; the lands of Bourget; the Marquisat of Charleville; the lands of Orcher; the estate of Roissy—Gad! what a number of them I find."

"But, Monsieur," expostulated the Swiss, "what is that you do? Are these not your possessions?"

"Not so, mon ami," replied Law. "They once were mine. They are estates in France. Take back these deeds. Dead Sully may have his own again, and each of these late owners of the lands. I wished them for a purpose. That purpose is no longer possible, and now I wish them no more. Take back your deeds, my friends, and bear in your minds that John Law tore them in two, and thus canceled the obligation."

"But the moneys you have paid—they are enormous. Surely you will exact restitution?"

"Sirrah, could I not afford these moneys?"

"Admirably at the time," replied the Swiss, with the freedom of long service. "But for the future, what do we know? Besides, it is a matter of right and justice."

"Ah, mon ami" said Law, "right and justice are no more. But since you speak of money, let us take precautions as to that. We shall need some money for our journey. See, Henri! Take this note and get the money which it calls for. But no! The crowd may be too great. Look in the drawer of my desk yonder, and take out what you find."

The Swiss did as he was bidden, but at length returned with troubled face.

"Monsieur," said he, "I can find but a hundred louis."

"Put half of it back," said Law. "We shall not need so much."

"But, Monsieur, I do not understand."

"We shall not need more than fifty louis. That is enough. Leave the rest," said Law. "Leave it where you found it"

"But for whom? Does Monsieur soon return?"

"No. Leave it for him who may be first to find it. These dear people without, these same people whom I have enriched, and who now will claim that I have impoverished them—these people will demand of me everything that I have. As a man of honor I can not deny them. They shall have every Jot and stiver of the property of John Law, even the million or so of good coin which he brought here to Paris with him. The coat on my back, the wheels beneath me, gold enough to pay for the charges of the inns through France—that is all that John Law will take away with him."

The arms of the old servant fell helpless at his side. "Sir, this is madness," he expostulated.

"Not so, Henri," replied Law, leniently. "Madness enough there has been in Paris, it is true, but madness not mine nor of my making. For madness, look you yonder."

He pointed a finger through the window where the stately edifice of the Palais Royal rose.

"My good friend the regent—it is he who hath been mad," continued Law. "He, holding France in trust, has ruined France forever."

"Monsieur, I grieve for you," said the Swiss. "I have seen your success in these years and, as you may imagine, have understood something of your affairs as time went on."

"And have you not profited by your knowledge in these times?"

"I have had the salary your Honor has agreed to pay me," replied the Swiss.

"And no more?"

"No more."

"Why, there are serving folk in France by the hundreds who have grown millionaires by the knowledge of their employers' affairs these last two years in Paris. Never was such a time in all the world for making money. Have you been more blind than they? Why did you not tell me? Why did you not ask?"

"I was content with your employment. Monsieur L'as. I would ask no better master."

"It is not so with certain others. They think me a hard master enough, and having displaced me, will do all they can to punish me. But now, Henri, you will perhaps need to look elsewhere for a master. I am going far away—perhaps across the seas. It may he—but I know not where and care not where my foot may wander hereafter, nor will I seek now to plan for it. As for you, Henri, since you admit you have been thus blind to your own interests, let us look to that. Go to the desk again. Take out the drawer—that one on the left hand. So—bring it to me."

The servant obeyed. Law took from his hand the receptacle, and with a sweep of his hand poured out on the table its contents. A mass of glittering gems, diamonds, sapphires, pearls, emeralds, fell and spread over the table top. The light cast out by their thousand facets lit up the surroundings with shimmering, many-colored gleams. The wealth of a kingdom might have been here in the careless possession of this man, whose resources had been absolutely without measure.

"Help yourself, Henri," said Law, calmly, and turned about to his employment among the papers. A moment later he turned again to see his servant still standing motionless.

"Well?" said Law.

"I do not understand," said the Swiss.

"Take what you like," said Law. "I have said it, and I mean it. It is for your pay, because you have been honest, because I understand you as a faithful man."

"But, Monsieur, these things have very great value," said the Swiss. "Let me ask how is it that you yourself take so little gold along? Does Monsieur purpose to take with him his fortune in gems and jewels instead?"

"By no means. I purpose taking but fifty louis, as I have said."

"Monsieur would have me replace the drawer?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, I want none of them."

"Why?"

"Because Monsieur wants none of them."

"Fie! Your case is quite different from mine."

"Perhaps, but I want none of them."

"Are you afraid?"

"Monsieur!"

"Do you not think them genuine stones?"

"Assuredly," said the Swiss, "else why should we have cared for them among our gems?"

"Well, then, I command you as your master, to take forth some of these jewels and keep them for your own."

"But no," replied the Swiss. "It is only after Monsieur."

"What? Myself?"

"Assuredly."

"Then, for the sake of precedent," said Law, "let me see. Well, then, I will take one gem, only one. Here, Henri, is the diamond which I brought with me when I came to Paris years ago. It was the sole jewel owned then by my brother and myself, though we had somewhat of gold between us, thanks to this same diamond. It was once my sole capital, in years gone by. Perhaps we may need a carriage through France, and this may serve to pay the hire of a vehicle from one of my late dukes or marquises. Or perhaps at best I may send this same stone across the channel to my brother Will, who has wisely gone to Scotland, or should have departed before this. So, very well, Henri, to oblige you I will take this single stone. Now, do you help yourself."

"Since Monsieur limits himself to so little," said the Swiss, sturdily, "I shall not want more. This little pin will serve me, and I shall wear it long in memory of your many kindnesses."

Law rose to his feet and caught the good fellow by the hand.

"By heaven, I find you of good blood!" said he. "My friend, I thank you. And now put up the box. I shall not counsel you to take more than this. We shall leave the rest for those who will presently come to claim it."

For some time silence reigned in the great room, as Law, deeply engaged in the affairs before him, buried himself in the mass of scattered books and papers. Hour after hour wore on, and at last he turned from his employment. His face showed calm, pale, and furrowed with a sadness which till now had been foreign to it. He arose at last, and with a sweep of his arm pushed back the papers which lay before him.

"There," said he. "This should conclude it all. It should all be plain enough now to those who follow."

"Monsieur is weary," mentioned the faithful attendant. "He would have some refreshment."

"Presently, but I think not here, Henri. My household is not all so faithful as yourself, and I question if we could find cook or servants for the table below. No, we are to leave Paris to-night, Henri, and it is well the journey should begin. Get you down to the stables, and, if you can, have my best coach brought to the front door."

"It may not be quite safe, if Monsieur will permit me to suggest."

"Perhaps not. These fools are so deep in their folly that they do not know their friends. But safe or not, that is the way I shall go. We might slip out through the back door, but 'tis not thus John Law will go from Paris."

The servant departed, and Law, left alone, sat silent and motionless, buried in thought. Now and again his head sank forward, like that of one who has received a deep hurt. But again he drew himself up sternly, and so remained, not leaving his seat nor turning toward the window, beyond which could now be heard the sound of shouting, and cries whose confused and threatening tones might have given ground for the gravest apprehension. At length the Swiss again reported, much agitated and shaken from his ordinary self-control.

"Monsieur," said he, "come. I have at last the coach at the door. Hasten, Monsieur; a crowd is gathering. Indeed, we may meet violence."

Law seemed not to hear him, but sat for a time, his head still bowed, his eyes gazing straight before him.

"But, Monsieur," again broke in the Swiss, anxiously, "if I may interrupt, there is need to hasten. There will be a mob. Our guard is gone."

"So," said Law. "They were afraid?"

"Surely. They fled forthwith when they heard the people below crying out at the house. They are indeed threatening death to yourself. They cry that they will burn the house—that should you appear, they will have your blood at once."

"And are you not afraid?" asked Law.

"I am here. Does not Monsieur fear for himself?"

Law shrugged his shoulders. "There are many of them, and we are but two," said he. "For yourself, go you down the back way and care for your own safety. I will go out the front and meet these good people. Are we quite ready for the journey?"

"Quite ready, as you have directed."

"Have you the two valises, with the one change of clothing?"

"They are here."

"And have you the fifty louis, as I stated?"

"Here in the purse."

"And I think you have also the single diamond."

"It is here."

"Then," said Law, "let us go."

He rose, and scarce looking behind him, even to see that his orders to the servant had been obeyed, he strode down the vast stairway of the great hotel, past many precious works of art, between walls hung with richest tapestries and noble paintings. The click of his heel on a chance bit of exposed marble here and there echoed hollow, as though indeed the master of the palace had been abandoned by all his people. The great building was silent, empty.

"What! Are you, then, here?" he said, seeing the servant had disobeyed his instructions and was following close behind him. He alone out of those scores of servants, those hundreds of fawning nobles, those thousands of sycophant souls who had but lately cringed before him, now accompanied the late master of France as he turned to leave the house in which he no longer held authority.

Without, but the door's thickness from where he stood, there arose a tumult of sound, shouts, cries, imprecations, entreaties, as though the walls of some asylum for the unfortunate had broken away and allowed its inmates to escape unrestrained, irreclaimable, impossible to control.

"Down with Jean L'as! Down with Jean L'as!" rose a cadenced, rhythmic shout, the accord of a mob of Paris beating into its tones. And this steady burden was broken by the cries of "Enter! Enter! Break down the door! Kill the monster! Assassin! Thief! Traitor!" No word of the vocabulary of scorn and loathing was wanting in their cries.

Hearing these cries, the face of this fighting man now grew hot with anger, and now it paled with grief and sorrow. Yet he faltered not, but stepped on, confidently. The Swiss opened the door and stood at the head of the flight of stairs. Tall, calm, pale, fearless, John Law stood facing the angry mob, his eyes shining brightly. He laid his hand for an instant upon his sword, yet it was but to unbuckle the belt. The weapon he left leaning against the wall, and so stepped on down toward the crowd.

He was met by a rush of excited men and women, screaming, cursing, giving vent to inarticulate and indistinguishable speech. A man laid his hand upon his shoulder. Law caught the hand, and with a swift wrench of the wrist, threw the owner of it to the ground. At this the others gave back, and for half a moment silence ensued. The mob lacked just the touch of rage to hurl themselves upon him. He raised his hand and motioned them aside.

"Are you not Jean L'as?" cried one dame, excitedly, waving in his face a handful of the paper shares of the latest issue in the Company of the Indies. "Are you not Jean L'as? Tell me, then, where is my money for these things? What shall I get for this rotten paper?"

"You are Jean L'as, the director-general!" cried a man, pushing up to his side. "'Twas you that ruined the Company. See! Here is all that I have!" He wept as he shook his bunch of paper in John Law's face. "Last week I was worth half a million!" He wept, and tore across, with impotent rage, the bundle of worthless paper.

"Down with Jean L'as! Down with Jean L'as!" came the recurrent cry. A rush followed. The carriage, towering above the ring of the surrounding crowd, showed its coat of arms, and thus was recognized. A paving-stone crashed through its heavy window. A knife ripped up the velvets of the cushions.

The coachman was pulled from his box. The horses, plunging with terror, were cut loose from the pole and led away. With shouts and cries of rage and busy zeal, one madman vied with another in tearing, cutting and destroying the vehicle, until it stood there ruined, without means of locomotion, defaced and useless. And still the ring of desperate humanity closed around him who had late been master of all France.

"What do you want, my friends?" asked he, calmly, as for an instant there came a lull in the tumult. He stood looking at them curiously now, his dulling eyes regarding them as though they presented some new and interesting study. "What is it that you desire?" he repeated.

"We want our money," cried a score of voices. "We want back that which you have stolen."

"You are not exact," replied Law, calmly. "I have not your money, nor yet have I stolen it. If you have suffered by this foolish panic, you do not mend matters by thus treating me. By heaven, you go the wrong way to get anything from me! Out of the way, you canaille! Do you think to frighten me? I made your city. I made you all Now, do you think to frighten me, John Law?"

"Oh! You would go away, you want to escape!" cried the voices of those near at hand. "We will see as to that!"

Again they fell upon the carriage, and still they hemmed him in the closer.

"True, I am going away," said Law. "But you can not say that I tried to steal away without your knowing it. There, up the stairs, are my papers. You will see in time that I have concealed nothing. Now I am going to leave Paris, it is true; but not because I am afraid to stay here. 'Tis for other reason, and reason of mine own."

"'Twas you who ruined Paris—this city which you now seek to leave!" shrieked the dame who had spoken before, still shaking her useless bank-notes in her hand.

"Oh, very well, my friend. For the argument, let us agree upon that," said Law.

"You ruined our Company, our beautiful Company!" cried another.

"Certainly. Since I was the originator of it, that follows as matter of reason," replied Law.

"Ah, he admits it! He admits it!" cried yet another. "Don't let him escape. Kill him! Down with Jean L'as!"

"We are going to kill you precisely here!" cried a huge fellow, brandishing a paving-stone before his eyes. "You are not fit to live."

"As to that," said Law, "I agree with you perfectly. My hand upon it; I am not fit to live. I have found that I made mistakes. I have found that there is nothing left to desire. I have found out that all this money is not worth the having. I have found out so many things, my very dear friends, that I quite agree with you. For if one must want to live before he is fit to live, then indeed I am not fit. But what then?"

"Kill him! Kill him! Strike him down!" cried out a voice back of the giant with the menacing paving-stone.

"Oh, very well, my friends," resumed the object of their fury, flicking again with his old, careless gesture at the deep cuff of his wrist. "As you like in regard to that. More than one man has offered me that happiness in the past, yet it was many a long year since, any man could trouble me by announcing that he was about to kill me."

Something in the attitude of the man stayed the hands of the most dangerous members of the mob. Yet ever there came the cry from back of them. "Down with Jean L'as! He has ruined everything!"

"Friends," responded Law to this cry, bitterly, "you little know how true you speak. It was indeed John Law who brought ruin to everything. It was indeed he who threw away what was worth more than all the gold in France. It is indeed he who has failed, and failed most utterly. You can not frighten John Law, but you may do as you like with him, for surely he has failed!"

The bitterness of despair was in his tones. Then, perhaps, the sullen, savage crowd had wrought their last act of anger and revenge on him, had it not been for a sudden change in that tide of ill fortune that now seemed to carry him forward to his doom. There came a sound of far-off cries, a distant clacking of hoofs, the clatter of steel, many shouts, entreaties and commands. The close-packed crowd which filled the open space in front of the hotel writhed, twisted, turned and would have sought to resolve itself into groups and individuals. Some cried out that the troops were coming. A detachment of the king's household, sent out to disperse these dangerous gatherings, came full front down the street, as had so often come the arm of the military in this turbulent old city of Paris. Remorselessly they rode over and through the mob, driving them, dispersing them. A moment later, and Law stood almost alone at the steps of his own house. The squadron wheeled, headed by an officer, who rode upon him with sword uplifted as though to cut him down. Law raised his hand at this new menace.

"Stop!" he cried. "I am the cause of this rioting. I am John Law."

"What! Monsieur L'as?" cried the lieutenant. "So the people have found you, have they?"

"It would so seem. They have destroyed my carriage, and they would have killed me," replied Law. "But I perceive it is Captain Mirabec. 'Twas I who got you your commission, as you may remember."

"Is it so?" replied the other, with a grin. "I have no recollection. Since you are Jean L'as, the late director-general, the pity is I did not let the people kill you. You are the cause of the ruin of us all, the cause of my own ruin. Three days more, and I had been a major-general. I had nearly the sum in actions ready to pay over at the right place. By our Lady of Grace, I am minded to run you through myself, for a greater villain never set foot in France!"

"Monsieur, I am about to leave France," said Law.

"Oh, you would leave us? You would run away?"

"As you like. But most of all, I am now very weary. I would not remain here longer talking. Henri, where are you?"

The faithful Swiss, who had remained close to his employer all the time, and who had been not far from his side during the scenes just concluded, was in a moment at his side. He hardly reached his master too soon, for as he passed his arm about him, the head of Law sank wearily forward. He might, perhaps, have sunk to the ground had he lacked a supporting arm.

At this moment there came again the sound of hoofs upon the pavement. There was the rush of a mounted outrider, and hard after him sped the horses of a carriage, whose driver pulled up close at the curb and scarce clear of the little group gathered there. The door of the coach was opened, and at it appeared the figure of a woman, who quickly descended from the step.

"What is it?" she cried. "Is not this the residence of Monsieur Law?" The officer saluted, and the few loiterers gave back and made room, as she stepped fully into the street and advanced with decision towards those whom she saw.

"Madam," replied the Swiss, "this is the residence of Monsieur L'as, and this is Monsieur L'as himself. I fear he is taken suddenly ill."

The lady stepped quickly to his side. As she did so, Law, as one not fully hearing, half raised his head. He looked full into her face, and releasing himself from the arms of his servant, stood thus, staring directly at the visitor, his face haggard, his fixed eyes bearing no sign of actual recognition.

"Catharine! Catharine!" he exclaimed. "Oh God, how cruel of you too to mock me! Catharine!"

The unspeakable yearning of the cry went to the heart of her who heard it. She put out a hand and laid it on his forehead. The Swiss motioned toward the house. And even as the officer wheeled his troop to depart, these two again ascended the steps, half carrying between them a stumbling man, who but repeated mumblingly to himself the same words:

"Mockery! Mockery!"



CHAPTER XIII

THE QUALITY OF MERCY

Within the great house there was silence, for the vistas of the wide interior led far back from the street and its tumult; nor did there arise within the walls any sound of voice or footfall. Of the entire household there was but one left to do the master service.

They entered the great hall, passed the foot of the wide stairway, and turned at the first entresol, where were seats and couches. The servant paused for a moment and looked inquiringly at the lady with whom he now found himself in company.

"The times are serious," he began. "I would not intrude, Madame, yet perhaps you are aware—"

"I am a friend of monsieur," replied Lady Catharine. "He is ill. See, he is not himself. Tell me, what is this illness?"

"Madame," said the Swiss, gravely, "his illness is that of grief. Monsieur's failure sits heavily upon him."



"How long is it since he slept?" asked the lady, for she noted the drooping head of the man now reclining upon the couch.

"Not for many days and nights," replied the Swiss. "He has for the last few days been under much strain. But shall I not assist you, Madame? You are, perhaps—pardon me, since I do not know your relationship with monsieur—"

"A friend of years ago. I knew Mr. Law when he lived in England."

"I perceive. Perhaps Madame would be alone for a time? If you please, I will seek aid."

They approached the side of the couch. Law's head lay back upon the cushions. His breath came deeply and slowly, not stertorously nor labored.

"How strange," whispered the Swiss, "he sleeps!"

Such was indeed the truth. The iron nature, so long overwrought, now utterly unstrung, had yielded for the first time to the stress of nature and of events. The relief from what he had taken to be death had come swiftly, and the reaction brought a lethal calm of its own. If he had indeed recognized the face of the woman who had touched him with her hand, it was as though he had witnessed her in a vision, a dream bitter and troubled, since it was a dream impossible to be true.

The Swiss looked still hesitatingly at the lady who had thus strangely come upon the scene, noticing her sweet and tender mouth, her cheeks just faintly tinged with pink, her eyes shining with a soft, mysterious radiance. She approached the couch and laid both her hands upon the face of the unconscious man. Tears sprang within her eyes and fell from her dark lashes. The old servant looked up at her, simply.

"Madame would be alone with monsieur?" asked he. "It will be better."

Lady Catharine Knollys, left alone, gazed upon the sleeper. John Law, the failure, lay there, supine, abased, cast-down, undone, shorn utterly of his old arrogance of mind and mien. Fortune, wealth, even the boon of physical well-being—all had fled from him. The pride of a superb manhood had departed from the lines of this limp figure. The cheeks were lined and sunken, the eye, even had the lid not covered it, lacked the late convincing fire. No longer commanding, no longer strong, no longer gay and debonair, he lay, a man whose fate was failure, as he himself had said.

The woman who stood with clasped hands, gazing at him, tears welling in her eyes—she, so closely linked to his every thought for these many years—well enough she knew the story of his boundless ambitions, now so swiftly ended. Well enough, too, she knew the shortcomings of this mortal man before her. Even as she had in her mirror looked into her own soul, so now she saw deep into his heart as he lay there, helpless, making no further plea for himself, urging no claim, making no explanations nor denials, no asseverations, no promises. Did she indeed see and recognize again, as sometimes gloriously happens in this poor life of ours, that other and inner man, the only one fit to touch a woman's hand—the man who might have been? Did she see this, and greet again the friend of long ago? God, who hath given mercy, remedy alone sufficing for the ill that men may do, He alone may know these things.

Could John Law failing be John Law succeeding, and in his most sublime success? Upon the wreck and ruin of the old nature could there grow another and a better man? Mayhap the answer to this was what the eye of woman saw. How else could there have come into this great room, so late the scene of turbulent activities, this vast and soothing calm? How else could this man's breath come now so deep and regular and content? The angels of God may know, they who drop down the gentle dew of heaven.

An hour passed by. A soft tread came to the door, but Henri heard no sound, and saw only the prone figure of the sleeper, and beside it the form of the woman, who still held his hand in her own. Still the hours wore on, and still the watch continued, there under the mysteries of Life and of Love, of Mercy and of Forgiveness. And so at last the gray dawn broke again. The panes of the high mullioned windows were tinged with splashes of color. The pale light crept into the room, slowly revealing and lighting up its splendors.

With the dawn there came into the heart of Catharine Knollys a flood of light and joy. Why, she knew not; how, she cared not; yet she knew that the shadows were gone. The same tide of peace and calm might have swept into the bosom of the man before her. He stirred, moved. His eyes opened wide, in their gaze wonder and disbelief, yet hope and longing.

"Catharine," he murmured, "Catharine! Is it you? Catharine! Dear Kate!"

She bent over and softly kissed his face. "Dear heart," she whispered, "I have loved you always. Awake. The day has come. There is another world before us. See, I have come to you, dear heart, for Faith, and for Love, and for Hope!"

THE END