At the porter's lodge that functionary frequently left
his little room, with its brazier of glowing coals, and walked up and
down beneath the porte-cochere, flapping his arms vigorously in the
biting wintry air, and glancing between the bars of the great outer gate
up and down the road as if on the lookout for some person or persons. In
the hotel itself, servants moved quickly and quietly about, setting
everything in the most perfect order.
At one of the windows which gave upon the extensive gardens, covered,
like all else, with the freshly fallen snow, Mr. Jefferson himself could
now and then be seen as he moved restlessly about the small, octagonal
room, lined with books and littered with papers, in which he conducted
most of his official business. A letter, just finished, lay upon his
desk. 'Twas to his daughter in her convent of Panthemont, and full of
that good advice which no one ever knew how to give better than he. The
letter being folded and despatched by a servant, Mr. Jefferson was at
liberty to indulge his restless mood. This he did, walking up and down
with his hands clasped behind his back, as was his fashion; but, in
spite of the impatience of his manner, a smile, as of some secret
contentment or happy anticipation, played about his lips.
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