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Before the day begins it will be well to review, briefly, the hours that preceded it. André would have reached New York that night if The Vulture had not changed her position on account of a shot from the battery below Stony Point. For that, credit must be given to the good scout Solomon Binkus.
There you have one of the abiding principles of Bohemia. When Andre had accumulated $20,000 he moved up-town, near Broadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the thrown-down. There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls and automobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nod of recognition.
For several miles the voyage is one of great interest independent of its beauty, for it passes many points where important events of the revolutionary war took place. It was not without a pang that I looked on the spot where poor Andre was taken, and another where he was executed.
"Mais, Monsieur Andre, que vous avez l'air etrange; how funny you look dressed like that." The concierge was smiling at him from her cubbyhole beside the stairs. She sat knitting with a black shawl round her head, a tiny old woman with a hooked bird-like nose and eyes sunk in depressions full of little wrinkles, like a monkey's eyes.
He had with him eight splendid Turkish horses; I saw two of them still alive in Gorizia in the year 1773. As soon as I had landed with my luggage, and had engaged a rather mean lodging, I presented myself to M. Andre Dolfin, the proveditore-generale, who promised me again that I should soon be promoted to a lieutenancy.
The fact is that the great revolutionary geniuses, who were not malicious, that is incontestable, who were heroes, pardi! found that Andre Chenier embarrassed them somewhat, and they had him guillot . . . that is to say, those great men on the 7th of Thermidor, besought Andre Chenier, in the interests of public safety, to be so good as to go . . ."
A servant adjusted a napkin under her chin and the dinner proceeded. A steamer was passing up the river and a band on board struck up a martial air. The old lady trembled, clasped her hands, and, raising her eyes, exclaimed, "Ah! all intercession is vain. Andre must die." Mr.
Meantime Fullalove and Vespasian were galloping down the opposite hill to his rescue. Unfortunately, Andre Thibout was not dead, nor even mortally wounded.
André Morosin mentions M. de Maisse as an able and far-seeing man, sagaci admodum ingenio.
I shall write to Ernestine to send me my clothes and all the little birds I love so much. Your noble heart will not grudge them to me, mon petit Andre. Praying God for your happiness, I am always Your devoted I handed him back the letter without a word. What could one say?
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