try which lay beyond the monster yellow
River of the Wilderness, the country bordered on the south by the Gulf
swamps, on the north by no man knew what forests,--as dark as those the
Romans found in Gaul,--on the west by a line which other generations
might be left to settle.

This land was Louisiana.

A future king of France, while an emigre, had been to Louisiana. This
is merely an interesting fact worth noting. It was not interesting to
Napoleon.

Napoleon, by dint of certain screws which he tightened on his Catholic
Majesty, King Charles of Spain, in the Treaty of San Ildefonso on
the 1st of October, 1800, got his plaything. Louisiana was French
again,--whatever French was in those days. The treaty was a profound
secret. But secrets leak out, even the profoundest; and this was wafted
across the English Channel to the ears of Mr. Rufus King, American
Minister at London, who wrote of it to one Thomas Jefferson, President
of the United States. Mr. Jefferson was interested, not to say alarmed.

Mr. Robert Livingston was about to depart on his mission from the little
Republic of America to the great Republic of France. Mr. Livingston was
told not to make himself disagreeable, but to protest. If Spain was to
give up the plaything, the Youngest Child among the Nations ought to
have it. It lay at her doors, it was necessary for her growth.

Mr. Livingston arrived in France to find that Louisiana was a mere
pawn on the chess-board, the Republic he represented little more. He
protested, and the great Talleyrand shrugged his shoulders. What was
Monsieur talking about? A treaty. What treaty? A treaty with Spain
ceding back Louisiana to France after forty years. Who said there was
such a treaty? Did Monsieur take snuff? Would Monsieur call again when
the Minister was less busy?

Monsieur did call again, taking care not to make himself disagreeable.
He was offered snuff. He called again, pleasantly. He was offered snuff.
He called again. The great Talleyrand laughed. He was always so happy to
see Monsieur when he (Talleyrand) was not busy. He would give Monsieur
a certificate of importunity. He had quite forgotten what Monsieur was
talking about on former occasions. Oh, yes, a treaty. Well, suppose
there was such a treaty, what then?

What then? Mr. Livingston, the agreeable but importunate, went home and
wrote a memorial, and was presently assured that the inaccessible Man
who was called First Consul had read it with int