In their dire extremity they forgot their animosities, and one is reminded of those pictures of the most irreconcilable wild animals--foxes and hares, or wolves and wild-cats--seeking refuge together from a flood on a floating log. In public they kept a bold front, in spite of the sneers of the English residents in Paris and the shrugging shoulders of the Frenchmen. “Well, doctor,” said an Englishman to Franklin, “Howe has taken Philadelphia.” “I beg your pardon, sir; Philadelphia has taken Howe.” But in his heart Franklin was bowed down with anxiety and apprehension. We all know what happened. Burgoyne and Howe failed to connect, and Burgoyne surrendered his army to the American general, Gates. That was the turning-point of the Revolution, and there was now no doubt in France of the final issue. A young man, Jonathan Austin, of Massachusetts, was sent on a swift ship to carry the news to Paris. The day his carriage rolled into the court-yard of Chaumont’s house at Passy, Franklin, Deane, both the Lees, Izard, Beaumarchais,--in fact, all the snarling and quarrelling agents,--were there, debating, no doubt, where they would drag out the remains of their miserable lives. They all rushed out to see Austin, and Franklin addressed to him one sad question which they all wanted answered, whether Philadelphia really was taken. “Yes, sir,” said Austin. The old philosopher clasped his hands and was stumbling back into the house. “But, sir, I have greater news than that. General Burgoyne and his whole army are prisoners of war.” Beaumarchais drove his carriage back to Paris so fast that it was overturned and his arm dislocated. Austin relates that for a long time afterwards Franklin would often sit musing and dreaming and then break out, “Oh, Mr. Austin, you brought us glorious news.” Austin had arrived on December 3, 1777. On the 6th of the same month the French government requested the commissioners to renew their proposals for an alliance. Eleven days after that they were told that the treaty would be made, and within two months,--namely, on February 6, 1778,--after full discussion of all the details, it was signed. This was certainly very prompt action on the part of France and shows her eagerness. On the day that he signed the treaty, Franklin, it is said, wore the same suit of Manchester velvet in which he had been dressed when Wedderburn made his attack upon him before the Privy Council in London, and after the signing it was never worn again. When asked if there had not been some special meaning attached to the wearing of these clothes at the signing, he would make no other reply than a smile. It was really beautiful philosophic vengeance, and adds point to Walpole’s epigram on the scene before the Council: “Sarcastic Sawney, swol’n with spite and prate, On silent Franklin poured his venal hate. The calm philosopher, without reply, Withdrew, and gave his country liberty.”