The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 14, 1903, Page 4

: THE SUNDAY CALL. : - the future was unknown; yet it was un- thinkable that aught could be worse than zlorious reign of Louis, the Grand Monarque, this crumbling clod. this re- Jlving excrescence, this phosphorescent, integrating fungus of a diseased life and time, Seventy-two vears a kin this thirty years & libertine; twenty years a repentant. Son, grandson, great-grandson all gonme. as though to leave not one of that%bnce haughty breed. For France no hope at «ll; and for the house of Bourbon, all the hope there might be in the life of a little boy. sullen, tiny, timid. Far over .ia Paris, busy about his games and his loves, a jesting, long-curled gallant was holding a court of his own. And from this court which might be, back to the court which was. but which might not be long, swung back and forth the fawning creatures of the rmer court. This was the central picture of France, and Paris, and of the New World on this day of the year 1715. In the room about the bed of state uncertain groups of watchers whis- pered noieily. ‘the five ph who had tried first one remedy and then another; the rustic physician whose nos- trum had kept life within the King for some unexpected days; the ladies who had waited upon the relatives of the King; some of the relatives themselves; Ville roy, guardian of the young King soon to be: the bastard, and the wife of that bastard, who hoped for the King's shoes; the mistress of his earlier vears, for many vears his wife—Maintenon, that peerless hypocrite of all the years—all these pass- ed, and hesitated, and looked, waiting, as the hungry crowds in Paris toward re Seine, until the double sun should set, 1 the crawling thumbs at last should find their sheiter. The Grand Monarque was losing the only time in all his life when he might have learned human wis- dom Madame!” whispered the dry lips, tly She who was addressed as madame, woman Maintenon, plous murderer, unrivaled hypocrite, unspeakably self- contained dissembler, the woman who lost for France an empire greater than all France, stepped now to the bedside of the dving monarch, inclining her head 1o hear what he might have to say. Was Maintenon, the outcast, the widow, the wife of the King. at last to be made ruler of the church in France? Was she to govern in the household of the King even after the King had departed? The wo- man bent over the dying man, the covet- ousness of her soul shuwing in her eyes, struggle as she might to retain her habit- ual and unparalleled self-control. The dying man muttered uneasily. His mind was clouded, his eyes saw other things. He turned back to earlier days, when life was bright, when he. Louls, as a voing man, had lived and ioved as any other. Louise,” he murmured. give! Meet me—Louise—dear one. me yonder—" An icy pallor swept across the face of the arch hypocrite who bent over him. Into her soul there sank like a knife this consciousness of the undying power of a real love La Valliere, the love of the vouth of Louis, La Valliere, the beauti- ful, and sweet, and womanly, dead and gone these long years since, but still loved and mow triumphant—she it was whom Louis remembered Maintenon turned from the bedside. She “Louise! For- Meet stood, an aged and unhappy woman, old, sray and haggard, not success but fallure vritten upon every lineament. For one stant she stood, her hands clenched, low anger breaking through the mask hich, for a quarter of a century, she ad so successfully worn. “Bah!” she cried. *“Bah! 'Tis a pretty \dezvous this King would set for me!” d then she swept from the room, raged for a time apart, and so took leave of life and of ambition. At length even the last energies of the once stubborn will gave way. The last gasp of the failing breath was drawn. The herald at the window announced to the waiting multitude that Louis the Fourteenth was no more. “Long live the King!” exclaimed the multitude. They hailed the new mon- arch with mockery; but laughter, and sincere joy and feasting were the testi- moniale of their emotions at the death of the King but now departed. On the next day a cheap, tawdry and unimposing procession wended its way through the back streets of Paris, its leader seeking to escape even the edges of the mob, “lest the people should fall upon the somber little pageant and rend it into fragments. This was the funeral cortege of Louls, the Grand Monarque, Louis the lustful, Louls the bigot, Louis the ignorant, Louis the unhappy. They hurried him to his resting-place, these last servitors, and then hastened back to the palaces to join their hearts and voices to the rising wave of joy which swept across all France at the death of this be- loved ruler. Now it happened that, as the funeral procession of the King was hurrying through the side streets near the con- fines of the old city of Paris, there en- countered it, entering from jhe great highway which led from the east up to the city gates, the carriage of a gentle- man who might, apparently with justice, have laid some ciaim to consequence. It bad its guards and coachmen, and was attended by two riders in livery, who kept it company along the narrow streets. This equipage met the head of the hurrying funeral cortege and found occasion for a moment to pause. Thus there passed, the one going to his grave, the other to his goal, the two men with whom the France of that day was most intimately con- cerned There came from the window of the coach the voice of one Inquiring the rea- son of the halt, and there might have been seen through the upper portion of the vehicle's door the face of the owner of the carriage. He seemed a man of im- posing presence, with face open and handsome, an eve bright, bold and full of intelligence. His garb was rich and elegant, his alr well contained and dig- nified “Guillaume,” he called out, “what is it that detains us? “It is nothing, Monsieur L’as,” was the reply. *“They tell me it is but the funer- al of the King.” “Eh bien!” replied Law, turning to one who sat beside him in the coach. “Noth- ing! 'Tis nothing but the funeral of the King!” CHAPTER 1IL EVER SAID SHE NAY. The coach proceeded steadily on its way, passing in toward that quarter where the high-piled, peaked roofs and jagged spires betokened ancient Paris. On every hand arose confused sounds from the streets, now filled with a populace merry as though some pleasant carnival were just beginning. Shopkeeper called across to his neighbor, tradesman gossiped with gallant. Even the stolid faces of the plodding peasants, fresh past the gate tax and bound for the markets to seek what little there remained ofter giving to the King, bore an unwonted look, as though hope might yet succeed to their ‘King 1 fead. God ble: AN AL AR “Ohe! Marie,” called one stout dame to another, who stood smiling in her door- way near by. “See the fine coach com- ing. That is the sort you and I shall have one of these days, now that theé the new King and may he dile young! A plague to all kings, Marfe. And now come and it with my man and me.*for we've a bottle left, and while it lasts we drink freedom from all kings!” “You speak words of gold, Suzanne. was the reply. “Surely 1 will drink with you, and wish a pleasant and speedy death to kings. “But, now Marie,” sald the other, ar- gumentatively, “as to my good duke re- gent, that i# otherwise. It goes about that he will change all things. One is to amuse oné’s self now and then, and not to work forever for the taxes and the cbnscription. Long live the regent, then, sa s us hope that regents There are to be new We people, aye, my Ves, and let never turn to kings. Adays here in France. faith! We people, g0 they say, are to'be considered. True, we shall have carriages one day, Marie, like that of my lord who passes. his companions heard as this as John Law and broken bits of such speech they passed on. “Ah, they talk.,” replied he at last, turning toward his companions, “‘and this is talk that means something. With- in the year we shall see Paris upside down. These people are ready for any new thing. But"—and his face lost some of its gravity—"the streets are none too safe to-day, my lady. Therefore you must forgive me if 1 do not set you down, but keep you prisoner until you reach your own gates. 'Tis not your fault that your carriage broke down on the road from Marley; and as for my brother Wil and myself, we cannot forego a good fortune which enables us at last to de- stroy a certain long-standing debt of a carriage ride given us, once upen a time, by the Lady Catharine Knollys.” “At least, then, we shall be well acquit on both sides,”” replied the soft voice of the woman. “I may, perhaps, be an un- willing prisoner for so short a time.” “Madam, I would God it might be for- ever!™ It was the same John Law of old who made this impetuous reply, and indeed he seemed scarce changed by the passing of these years of time. It was the audacious youth of the English highway who now looked at her with grave face, yet with eyes that shone. Spme years ad indeed passed since Law turning his back upon the appeal of the wide New Wold, had again set foot upon the shores of England, from which his departure had been so singular. Driven by the goads of remorse, it had been his first thought to seek out the Lady Catha- rine Knollys; and so intent had he been on this quest, that he learned almost without emotion of the King's pardon which had been entered, discharging him of further penalty of the law of England Meeting Lady Catharine he learned, have others since and before him, that a human soul may have laws In- flexible; that the iron bars of a woman's resolve may bar one out, even as prison doors may bar him in. He found the Lady Catharine unshakable in her re- solve not to see him or speak with him. Whereat he raged, expostulated by post, waited, waylaid, and so at length gained an interview, which taught him many things. He found the Lady Catharine Knollys changed from a light-hearted girl to a maiden tall, grave, reserved and sad, offering no reproaches, listening to no protestations. Told of Sir Arthur Pem- broke’s horrible death, e wept with tears which his survivor envied. Told at length of the little child, she sat wide- eyed and silent. Approached with words of remorse, with expostulations, promises, she shrank back in absolute horror, trembling, so that in very pity the wretched young man left her and found his way out into a world suddenly grown old and gray. After this dismissal, Law for many months saw nothing, heard nothing of this woman whom he had wronged, even as be received no sign from the woman who had forsaken him over seas. He re- mained away as long as might me, until his violent nature, geyser-like, gathered inner storm and fury by repression, and broke away in wild eruption. Once more he sought the presence of the woman whose face haunted his soul, and once more he met ice and adamant stronger than his own fires. Beaten, he fled from London and from England, seeking still, after the anclent and in- effective fashion of man, to forget, though he himself had confessed the lesson that man cannot escape himself, but takes his own hell with him wherever he goes. Rejected, as he was now, by the new ministry of England, none the less every capital of Europe came presently to know John Law, gamblet, student and finan- cier. Before every ruler on the continent he laid his system of financial revolu- tion, 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 sufficient- ly keen to cause him any apparent con- cern. There was no risk sharp enough to deadeén the gnawing iIn his soul, no ex- citement 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 HEurope. Upon him were spent the blandishments af 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 stu- dent, still mathematician, he sought at Amsterdam, at Paris, at Vienna, all new theorfes which offered in the science of banking and finance, even as at the same time he delved still further into the mys- teries of recurrences and chance. In this latter such was his success that losers made complaint, unjust but effec- tual, 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 glve to him the opportunity he sought, of prov- ing those theories of finance which con- stituted the absorbing ambition of his life. Meantime Law, ever restless, had passed from one capital of Europe to an- other, dragging with him from hotel to hotel the young child whose life had been Y 3% PR IS N \\\\\r\ N1 \ s o - = 8 cast in such feverish and unnatural sur- roundings. He continued to challenge every hazard, fearless, reckléss, contempi- uous, and withal wretched, as one must be who, after years of effort, found that he could not banish from -his mind the pictures of & 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 wo- man, 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. $0 now at last the arrogant selfishness of his heart began to vield. 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, unap- proachable, not to be profaned. To this image—ah, which of us has not had such a rine!—he brought in secret the homage of his life, his coafessions, his despairs, his hopes, his resolutions; gulding thereby all his fife, poor mortal man may do. failing ever his own standards, as all men do, yet harking ever back to that secret sibyl, reckoning all things frdm 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 us though Indeed at the altar of some marble deity. Always her answer had been that the past had been a misiake; that she had professed to love a man. not knowing what that man was: that she had suf- fered, 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 por- tion, 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 chfld. It was to his own amazement that he heard lLady Catharine Knollys con- sent, stipulating that the chiid hould 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 prom- ised. “Now, go away.” she then had sald to him. “Go your own way. Drink, dice, game and waste the talents God hath glven 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 promizes; and now the two years were done, years spent by Law more manfully than any of his life. His fortune he had gathered to- gether, amounting to more than a mil- lion 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 siill curious as ever in his abstruse theories of bank- ing and finance—theories then rew, now outlived in great part, though fit to be called a portion of the great foundation of the commercial system of ihe world. It was a wiser and soberer and riper John Law, this man who had but recently re- celved a summons from Philippe of Or- leans to be present in Paris, for that the King was dyving, and that all France, France the bankrupt and distracted, was on the brink of sudden and perhaps fate- ful change. ‘With a quick revival of all his High- land superstition, lLaw 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 won- der that his eye gleamed, that his voice took on the old vibrant tone, that every gesture, in thought or in splte 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, queely of mein, gentle, calm and truly lovable. Ob, 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 an- guish of remorse, bitterest because un- availing. For the Lady Catbarine 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 suspi- clon which followed upon the popular knowledge of her connection with the es- cape of Law from London, Lady Cathar- ine Knollys turned to a life and world suddenly grown vague and empty. Travel upon the continent with friends, occas- _icnal vigits 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 a hotel in the older part of Paris, in connection with her friend, the Countess of Warring- ton, sometime connected with the embas- sy of that Lord Stair who was later to act as spy for England in Paris, now so scon to know tumuituous 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 urdemlsv. heard naught of plots or plans, cared naught for the Paris which lay about saw naught but the beautiful face hefore him, felt naught but some_deep, compell- ing 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 for- ever!” said Law again. The oid 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 gentlenéss. There fell a si- lenge. “Madam, I could feel that thi Badler's Wells over again,” said aL.v'vver: mgmcnc later. ut now the carriage had arri the destination named by La:yng;dth:f rine. Law sprang out, hat in hand, and assisted Lady Catharine to the curb, & passing flower girl, gayly offering her wares, paused as the carriage drew up. Law (urned quickly and caught from hn'- as many roses as his hand could nn[; handing her in return balf as much coin as her smaller palm could hold. He turn- ed Lo the Lady Catharine and howed with that grace which was the talk of a world S N NN 7 & SRS S N Rl el TN N2, > O 7o * speaking SR e YA \ — NN «(‘\\\-' TS S\ RS e & >\ \ (4 R 3 AN SRS 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, unmaskéd 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 sweewness which once might have been. “'Tis for the king! They weep for the king!”" sang out the hard volce of the flower girl, ironically, as sha skipped awa “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 1 shall do everything 1 promised years ago—1 shall lay all France at your feet. But if vou deny me thus always 1 shall make all France 3 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 sev.” ranted that Mr. Law is well within his customary modesty,” replled 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, 1 must confess I see not why France should suffer becausé 1 myself have found it difficult to indorse Mr. Law’s personal code of morals.” 1t was the third day after Law's entry into Paris, and the first- time for more than two long vears that he found him- self alone with the Lady Catharine Knol- 1y His eagerness might have excused s 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 vears 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-eved, afrald. Some great hand, un- seen. uninvited, mysterious, had swept ruthlessly across each chord of womanly reserve and resolution which #o long she had held well-ordered and absalutely un- der control. Tt was self-distrust, fear, which now comnelled her to tauke refuge in this woman's fence of speech with him. “Surely,” argued she with herself, “if love once dies, then it i1s dead forever. and can never be revived. Surely,” she insisted to herself, “my love is dead. Then—ah, but then s it dead? Can my heart grow again?” asked the Lady Catharine of herself, tremblingly. This was that which gave her pause Tt 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 speax but of him- seif and herself, of his plans, his appor- tunities, and of how these were concerned with herself 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. T tell vou that 1 shall prove to you everything Wwhich 1 have said to you long ago, back there in old England. T shail prove to vou that I have not been altogether an idler and a trifler. T shall bring to you, as I promised you long ago, all the wealth, all the distinction—" “Rut such speech is needless, Mr. Law.” came the reply. “I have all the wealth 1 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 vyou shall hear of It be- yond the gates of Paris. Within a year Vou shall hear nothing else in Europe!” ““As 1 hear nothing else here now, mon- sieur?” Like a horse restless under the snaffle, the man shook his head, but went on. “1f you sheuld be offered weakh more than any woman of Pars. if you had precedence over the proudest peers of France—would these things haye 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, should say that, if there were two here as you and 1, 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 with- in you to do? ™ “Js 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 your- self.” “Sharp, sharp indeed are your words, my lady. And they are most sharp be- cause they come with justice.” “Oh,” broke out the woman, “one may use sharp words who has becn 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 dons= 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! ‘in that caze'—thes ‘if,’ and ‘as though.' and 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 “As much as you have much as that, Mr. Law?" He rose and stood apart, his head fall- ing in despair. “As I have done this thing, so may God punish me!"” said he. “] was not fit, and am not. Yet I was bold enough to hope that there could be some atonement, some thing—if my suf- fering—" “rhere are things, Mr. Law, for which no suffering atones. But why cause suf- fering longer for us both? You come again and again. Could you not leave me for a time untroubled?” “How can 1?"” blazed the man, his fore- head furrowed up into a frown, the moist beads on his brow proving his own in- out Law. me? Is it s tentness. ‘I cannot! T cannot! That Is all T know. Ask me not why. I cannot; that is all.’ “Sir,”” sald Lady Catharine, “‘this seems to me no less than terrible.” “It is indeed no less than terrible. Yet 1 must come and come again, bound some day to be heard, not for what I am, but 'Tl; not justice I ut for what I might be. would have, dear heart, woman's mercy!” mercy, a NS e Py " “And you would bully me to agree with vou, es 1 said, in regard to your own ex- cellent code of morals, Mr. Law?”’ “You evade, like any womah, 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! [ must be loved by you! Look in my heart. Search beneath this man that you and others gsee. Find me my own fellow, that other self better than I, who cries out al- ways thus. Look! 'Tis not for me as [ am. No man deserves aught for himself. wut find in my heart, ‘Lady Catharine, that other self, the man I might hav been! Dear heart, I beseech you, look! Impulsively, he even tore apart the front of his coat, as though indeed to in- vite such scrutiny. He stood before her, trembling, cheking. The passion of his speech caused the color sgain to rush to the Lady Catharine’'s face. For a mo- ‘ment her bosom rose and fell tumultu- ously, 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 otvn uncertitude now showing in her tone. “I do not know,"” he answered. Lady Catharine looked at b curiously. “Do you love me, Mr. Law?" she asked, directly. “l have no answer.” “Did you love that other womar Tt 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. 1 will not triflc.” “And I am to think Mr. Law better than himself, better than other men, since vou say no man dare ask actual Justice? “Worse than other men, and yet a man. A man-—my God! Lady Catharine —a man unworth: t a man seized fa- tally 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 usg 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 werds!" he cried. Nothing is enough but all! And as God witnesseth In this hour, I have loved you with all my heartbeats, wi.a all my pray- ers. I call upen you now, in the name of that love I know you once bore*me—"" Upen 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, kneel- Ing, seeking to draw away her fingers with hands that trembled as much as her own. “Do not! worth it! Do not!" he cried. “I am not It shall be as you like. Let me g0 away forever. This I cannot endure!” “Ah, John Law, John Law!" murmured Catharine Knollys, “why did you break my heart! CHAPTER 1V. THE REGENT'S PROMISE. “Tell me, then, Monsieur L'as, of this new America. 1 would fain have some information at first hand. There was ru- mor, 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 hi§ own began—at the convivial board and at the gaming table—he saw the path which 1ad to the success that he had craved so long. He, Law of Lauricton, sometime adventurer and gambler, was now play- ing 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 ad- vice is worse than the one preceding it. The gist of it all is that my Lord Gover- nor and my very good intendant can never agree, save upon one point or so. They want more money, and they want more soldiers—ah, ves, to be sure, they also want more women, though we sent them out a shipload of choice beauties not more than six months 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.” A “Your Grace was not at that time cdr- ing for intendants. 'Twas many years ago, and I was not well known at Quebec by my own name.” “Eh blen? Some adVenture then, per- haps? 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: ' “1 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. f “Monsieur, you~are indeed, as T have ever found you, of most excellent wit. You please me enormously.” “But, your Grace, 1 am entirely seri- ous. “Oh, come, spoil not so good a jest by qualitying. 1 beseech you! England or * France, indeed—ah, Monsieur L'as, Mon- sieur L'as!"” “Your own city of New Orleans, sire, will lte at the gate of a realm greater than a!l France. Your Grace will hand to the young King, when he shall come of age, a realm excellently worth the owner- ship 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 Argerica.” 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 ’ntendants at Quebec. Because, - your Grace, as you know very well, of the same reason which .sent me once from Paris, and kept me #0 long from laying before you these very plans of which I now would speak.” 'Oh, ah! Indeed—that is to say—"" “Louis would hear naught of me, of course. Maintenon took care that he should find T was but heretic.” ‘As for myself,” said Philippe the re- gent, “heretic or not heretic makes but small figure. 'Twill take France a cen- tury to overcome her late surfeit of re- ligion. For us, 'tis most a question of \ v Wiz / I‘{A_'_,,(.fu. A N 7,7 v how to keep the king In the saddle and France underneath.” “Precisely, your Grace.” “Frank.y, Mensieur L’'as, 1 take it fit- test 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! 1 had sooner see a lion grin. Now to govern these given us by Providence to govern,” and the regent smiled grimly at the ancient flc- tion, “it is most meet that the governed should produce somewhat of funds in or- der that they may be governed.” “Yes, and the error has been in going too far,” said Law. *“These people have taxation point. been taxed beyond the Now they laugh.” “Your Grace admits that France has no further resources.” Assuredly “Then tax New France!" cried Law, his hand coming down nard upon the ta- ble, 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 pwople-of France." Ask the farmers of the taxes. Ask Chamillard of the treasury. My faith, look out of the window! Listen! D« 1 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 te give you cheerfully all they have.” “It sounds well, Monsicur L me ask vou how?” “France is bankrupt—this is brutal. but none the less trne. France must repu- diate her obligations unless something be swiftly done. It is not noble to repudi- ate, your Grace. Yet if we cancel and not repudiate, if we can obtain the gold of Fyance, of Europe—" “Body of God! but you speak large, my friend.” , but let “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.” (Continued Next Sunday.) She Who Has Eyes to Read Let Her Read. These Are Offerings from Our Own Machines. No Middleman’s profits here. Made to fit and hang perfectly. FIRST — LADIES’ UN- DERSKIRT. made of imported twilled sa- teen, black ground and white polka dots. Trimmed with two ruf- fles, also dust ruifle. Finished with tailor- stitched bands. 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