Mme de Staël is nowhere about. Having fled Paris for Coppet, Coppet for Vienna, Vienna for St. Petersburg before Bonaparte’s advance, she must now flee Russia for London, maybe thence for America if Napoleon cannot be stopped. Andrew seeks out “Aaron Burr” and confirms at once that his dream must be reread: not because that wrecked old schemer could not imaginably be “Henry Burlingame IV,” but because he is so indisputably the fallen father of the woman whose brilliant letters, imploring him to return to America and rebegin, Burr ungallantly exhibits to his visitor. “My daughter, don’t you know. In Charleston. Theodosia…”
Andrew winds his watch. Burr gives no sign. Go to her, the younger
He himself then rebegins by presenting himself to the only father he has known. Disguised as one Jean Baptiste Petry, a minor aide to the Duc de Dalberg, he enters a familiar house in the rue de Vaugirard. There is rubicund Ruthy, there gentle Joel, who nonetheless sternly informs M. Petry that he is fed up with the foreign minister’s deliberate procrastination and equivocating. Seventeen more American vessels have been taken as prizes by the French navy, who seem not to have been apprised of the “Decree of St. Cloud.” Secretary Monroe has written (Barlow shows the letter) that an early settlement is anticipated with the English, after which the full hostility of both nations will be directed against France. It is time for a treaty of indemnification and free trade: a
“Jean Baptiste” smiles. The son of that same M. Burlingame, he declares, has reportedly come to Paris to offer his talents to M. Barlow. Indeed, the fellow has audaciously gained access to privy sanctums of the Duc de Dalberg disguised as the aide now speaking these words, whom he happens to resemble, and has ascertained that while de Dalberg is indeed equivocating with Barlow on instructions from the Duc de Bassano, he regrets this equivocation as genuinely as Barlow does, whom he regards as a true friend of France. He has urged the Duc de Bassano to urge Napoleon to put an end to the business with a solid treaty of commerce between the United States and France, and expects daily to receive word of the emperor’s approval. All this (“Monsieur Petry” indignantly concludes) the false “Jean Baptiste” has no doubt promptly communicated to Monsieur Barlow, at one can imagine what detriment to the real Petry’s credibility. It is too much, this “Burlingaming” of Bonaparte as if he were some petty Algerine Bashaw!
Andrew pats his brow in mock exasperation; reaches for his watch chain. No need: Barlow’s eyes have widened, squinted, rewidened; he scowls, he grins; now they are clapping each other’s shoulders, kissing each other’s cheeks, whooping Ruthy into the library to see what on earth…
Then Andrew doffs all disguise (except his irrevocably aged “real” features) and to the two of them earnestly puts his case. What he has reported is the truth: the Duc de Dalberg (who has only got as good as he gave) is expecting word momently from Vilnius, the emperor’s Lithuanian headquarters, that Barlow should hasten there to conclude his treaty with the Duc de Bassano. Napoleon cares little for American affairs; his mind is on Moscow, which he must take before winter comes. But not everyone in the Foreign Ministry is as sanguine about the Russian expedition as is their emperor: it will be imperative, once the summons arrives from Vilnius, to move posthaste and get the matter dispatched.
