During my early novitiate at Longmeadow, Aaron Burr’s conspiracy went to pieces, dragging down with it that pleasant gentleman, Harmon Blennerhassett, startling men like Jackson, who had best befriended him unawares.  But this in nowise affected my own plans of empire.  The solidarity of a nation of Indians on a remote tract could be no menace to the general government.

Skenedonk came and went, and I made journeys to my people with him.  But there was never any letter waiting at De Chaumont’s for me.  After some years indeed, the count having returned to Castorland, to occupy his new manor at Le Rayville, the mansion I had known was torn down and the stone converted to other uses.  Skenedonk brought me word early that Mademoiselle de Chaumont had been married to an officer of the Empire, and would remain in France.

The door between my past and me was sealed.  Madame de Ferrier stood on the other side of it, and no news from her penetrated its dense barrier.  I tried to write letters to her.  But nothing that I could write was fit to send, and I knew not whether she was yet at Mont-Louis.  Forever she was holding the door against me.

Skenedonk, coming and going at his caprice, stayed a month in every year at Longmeadow, where the townspeople, having had a surfeit of aboriginal names, called him John.  He raised no objection, for that with half a dozen other Christian titles had been bestowed on him in baptism; and he entered the godly list of Williamses as John Williams.

The first summer I spent in Longmeadow there was an eclipse of the sun about the middle of June.  I remember lying on open land, my book on its face beside me, and watching it through my eyelashes; until the weird and awful twilight of a blotted sun in mid-heaven sent birds and beasts to shelter as from wrath.  When there was but a hairy shining around the orbed blackness, and stars trembled out and trembled back, as if they said:  “We are here.  The old order will return,” and the earth held its breath at threat of eternal darkness, the one I loved seemed to approach in the long shadows.  It was a sign that out of the worst comes the best.  But it was a terror to the unprepared; and Pastor Storrs preached about it the following Sunday.

The missionary spirit of Longmeadow stirred among the Williamses, and many of them brought what they called their mites to Pastor Storrs for my education.  If I were made a king no revenue could be half so sweet as that.  The village was richer than many a stonier New England place, but men were struggling then all over the wide states and territories for material existence.

The pension no longer came from Europe.  It ceased when I returned from France.  Its former payment was considered apocryphal by Longmeadow, whose very maids—­too white, with a pink spot in each cheek—­smiled with reserved amusement at a student who thought it possible he could ever be a king.  I spoke to nobody but Pastor Storrs about my own convictions.  But local newspapers, with their omniscient grip on what is in the air, bandied the subject back and forth.