The Smile of the Stranger Read Online Free PDF

campaign, or a treatise on strategy. He is a soldier first and last . Whether my books received acclaim or not would be of no account to him. But no, I have not told him. And I do not plan to do so. That is one reason why they have all been written under a nom de plume. I knew that your grandfather would detest the thought of the family name being used in such a context .”
    “I do not think that I shall like my grandfather,” was Juliana ’ s comment.
    “I devoutly hope that you will endeavor to do so, my child ! He is a man of just and upright principle, strict attention to duty, and impeccable religious beliefs. His military career was not marked by—by any outstanding success in the field—he commanded a brigade in the American war—but I understand that his careful regard to detail and his consideration for his men have earned him the respect of his peers.”
    Juliana did not voice her opinion that her grandfather sounded to her like a dead bore; instead she remarked, “I believe, Papa, that we should go below. The evening air is too cool for you. You are coughing a great deal, and that is bad.”
    “Yes, I fear that you are right, my dear. What should I do without my ministering sprite?” he asked playfully, as he rose with difficulty to his feet, supporting himself by leaning on her slight shoulder. Another violent fit of coughing shook him, and he had to clutch at the deck rail while the seizure lasted. His daughter watched, biting her lip with distress, unable to help or relieve him in any way, as he coughed and coughed, pressing a kerchief to his lips. A sailor passing nearby said in alarm, “ II povero signore! He should not be on deck—he should be in his bed!”
    “Nothing—it is nothing!” Impatiently the sick man shook off the kindly hand laid on his arm, and began haltingly to make his way toward the companion ladder. But Juliana noticed with terror that the kerchief he had been pressing to his lips and now returned to his pocket was patched and stained with blotches of vivid scarlet.
    Six weeks later the travelers were approaching the port of St.-Malo in Brittany. Their journey across France had been slow and difficult enough to justify Juliana ’ s worst forebodings. Sometimes she felt that it might even have been better to risk the effects of a long sea passage on her father ’ s constitution; that way at least they might have been certain of a landfall. But now, although so close to the Channel coast, they still were not sure of being able to cross the narrow strip of water that lay so tantalizingly between them and England. And the weather had been bad, the roads had been vile, the transport had been uncertain; besides which, there were all the hazards of revolutionary officialdom. In these days of the people ’ s government, every town gate and village tax office offered an obstacle, sometimes dangerous; the smaller the place, the more ignorant the natives, the likelier they were, in their new-found arrogance, armed with muskets and knots of red ribbon, to stop all strangers, cross-question them, inspect their papers, lengthily consult lists of proscribed persons in case the travelers ’ names might be found thereon, keep them waiting, and generally harass them in every way possible.
    The journey had been a nightmare. On several occasions, furthermore, they had been obliged to stop at tiny places and stay in small country hostelries deficient in almost every convenience or amenity, because the sick man had been too weak to continue on the journey. Even then—lying abed in the dark chamber of some miserable little auberge —he could not bear to be idle, and demanded that Juliana find her pen, procure whatever ink and paper might be at hand, and continue to transcribe from his dictation. Obedient to his wishes, she therefore crouched by ill-placed windows to catch the last of the light, or knelt on the floor because there was no chair, by the light of guttering candles, setting down