CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH AN UNLOOKED-FOR EVENT TAKES PLACE
That great and desolating change which had swept over France in the two years and more of Calvert's absence was reflected in every heart, in every life left in that wrecked land. On the most insensible, the most frivolous, the most indifferent alike fell the shadow of those terrible times. The sadness and the horror fell on Adrienne de St. André as it fell on so many others, but besides the terror of those days she had to bear a still heavier sorrow. There is no pang which the heart can suffer like the realization, too late, that we have lost what we most prize; that we have missed some great opportunity for happiness which can never come to us again; that we have rejected and passed by what we would now sell our souls to possess. This conviction, slowly borne in upon Adrienne, caused her more anguish than she had supposed, in her ignorance, anything in the world could make her feel. The man whose name she bore was scarcely a memory to her. For the first time she knew what love was and realized that she had cared for Calvert with all the repressed tenderness and unsounded depths of her heart. Her very helplessness, the impossibility to recall him, made him more dear to her by far. A man can stretch out his hand and seize his happiness, but a woman must wait for hers. And if it passes her by she must bear her hurt in silence and as best she can. It was with a sort of blind despair that Adrienne thought of Calvert and all that she had wilfully thrown away. Had he been at her beck and call, fetched and carried for her, she would never have loved him. But the consciousness that he was as proud as she, that, though he was near her for so long, she could not lure him back, that he could master his love and defy her beauty and charm, exercised a fascination over her. And when he left her entirely and was gone away without even seeing her, she suddenly realized how deeply she loved him. We have all had such experiences—we live along, thinking of things after a certain fashion, and suddenly there comes a day when everything seems changed. It was so with Adrienne. All things seemed changed to her, and in that bitter necromancy her pride was humbled. Wherever she went there was but one dear face she longed to see—one dear face with the quiet eyes she loved. There were days when she so longed to see him, when the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand would have been so inexpressibly dear to her, that it seemed as if the very force of her passion must surely draw him back to her. But he never came. During those two long years something went from her forever. She was not conscious of it at the time—only of the dull ache, and feverish longing, and utter apathy that seized her by turns. There was a subtle difference in all things. 'Twas as if some fine spring in the delicate mechanism of her being had broken. It might run on for years, but never again with the perfectness and buoyancy with which it had once moved.
As her life altered so terribly, as all that she had known and valued perished miserably before her eyes day by day, the thought of Calvert and of his calm steadiness and sincerity became constant with her. She heard of him from time to time from Mr. Morris after his frequent visits to London and through letters to her brother and Lafayette, to whom Calvert wrote periodically, but she had no hope of ever seeing him again, and she suffered in the knowledge. Though he seemed cruel to her in his hardness, she was just enough to confess to herself that she so deserved to suffer. But she had learned so much through suffering that a sick distaste for life's lessons grew upon her, and she felt that she wanted no more of them unless knowledge should come to her through love. In her changed life there was little to relieve her suffering, but she devoted herself to the old Duchess, who failed visibly day by day, and in that service she could sometimes forget her own unhappiness. She went with the intrepid old lady (who continued to ignore the revolution as much as possible) wherever they could find distraction—to the play and to the houses of their friends still left in Paris, where a little dinner or a game of quinze or whist could still be enjoyed.
'Twas on one of these occasions that, accompanied by Beaufort, as they were returning along the Champs Elysées from Madame de Montmorin's, where they had spent the evening, they suddenly heard the report of pistols proceeding from an allée by the road-side.
"A duel!" said Beaufort. "'Twas near here that poor Castries was killed. Perhaps it is another friend in trouble, and I had best see," and, calling to the coachman to stop the horses, he jumped out. Almost at the same instant a man stumbled out of the allée and ran down the boulevard. Beaufort would have followed him, but, as he started to do so, he heard his name called and, looking back, saw another man emerge from the allée and gaze down the almost deserted street. By the dim light of the lantern swung from its great iron post the man recognized Monsieur de Beaufort and ran forward.
"Will you come?" he said, hurriedly. "Monsieur Calvert is here—wounded by that villain."
"Calvert—impossible! He is not in Paris."
"But he is!—here," said Bertrand, drawing Beaufort toward the allée.
Adrienne's pale face appeared at the coach-door.
"Did I hear someone speak of Monsieur Calvert?"
Beaufort went up to her. "He is here—wounded, I think," he said in a low voice. "I will go and see—you will not be afraid to wait?"
"To wait!—I am going, too," and before he could prevent it she had stepped from the coach and was making her way toward the allée. A ghastly sight met their eyes as they entered the lane. St. Aulaire lay upon the ground, one of his companions standing over him, and at a little distance, Calvert, white and unconscious, the blood trickling from his left shoulder. With a low cry Adrienne knelt on the ground beside him and felt his pulse to see if he still lived. In an instant she was up.
"Bring him to the carriage. We must take him to the Legation—to Mr. Morris," she says, in a low tone, to Beaufort and Bertrand, whom she had recognized as the servant Calvert had brought with him to Azay-le-Roi. Without a look at St. Aulaire she helped the two to get Calvert to the coach, where he was placed on the cushions as easily as possible and held between herself and Madame d'Azay. She hung over him during the long drive in a sort of passion of pity and love. It was the dearest happiness she had ever known to touch him, to feel his head upon her arm. Even though he were dead, she thought, it were worth all her life to have held him so. She scarcely spoke save to ask Bertrand if he knew the cause of the encounter, and, when he had told her all he knew of the events of the evening, she relapsed again into silence. They reached the Legation as Mr. Morris's guests were leaving, and in a very few minutes the young man was put to bed and a surgeon called.
Though the wound was not fatal—not even very serious—a sharp fever fastened upon Calvert, and, in the delirium of the few days following, Mr. Morris was easily able to learn the cause of the duel. The story he thus gathered from Calvert's wild talk he told Adrienne and Madame d'Azay—the two ladies came daily to inquire how the patient was doing—for he thought that they should know of the noble action of the young man, and he felt sure that as soon as Calvert was himself again he would request him to keep silence about his share in the matter. He was right, for when Calvert was come to his senses again and was beginning to be convalescent—which was at the end of a week—he told Mr. Morris the particulars of his encounter with St. Aulaire, requesting that he make no mention of his part in the affair and begging him to urge d'Azay to leave Paris. This was the more necessary as St. Aulaire, though badly wounded, was fully conscious and might at any moment cause d'Azay's arrest, and, moreover, passports were becoming daily harder to obtain.
Mr. Morris had to confess his inability to comply with Calvert's first request, but promised to see d'Azay immediately, and, ordering his carriage, in half an hour was on his way to the rue St. Honoré. No man in Paris knew better than he the risk an aristocrat ran who was denounced to the Assembly and remained in Paris, nor how difficult it was to get out of the city. He was also aware of rumors concerning d'Azay of which he thought best not to tell Calvert in his present condition, but which made him seriously fear for d'Azay's safety.
On his arrival in the rue St. Honoré he found Adrienne with the old Duchess in one of the smaller salons, but d'Azay was not with them, nor did they know where he was. Mr. Morris had not intended telling the two ladies of his mission, fearing to increase the anxiety which he knew they already felt on d'Azay's account, but he suddenly changed his determination and, in a few words, informed them of Calvert's urgent message to d'Azay and of the reasons for his instant departure from Paris.
"He is not safe for a day," he said. "Calvert has saved him for the time being, but St. Aulaire, though unable himself to go to the Assembly and prefer charges against him, can find a dozen tools among the Orléans party who will do his dirty work for him. The mere assertion that d'Azay is in correspondence with Monsieur de Condé or any of the counter-revolutionists will send him to prison—or worse. As you know, he, like Lafayette, is out of favor with all factions. There is but one thing to do—get him out of Paris."
"He will never go!" said the old Duchess, proudly.
"He must! Listen," said Adrienne, rising and laying her hand on Mr. Morris's arm. "I think he will never ask for a passport himself, but if we could get it for him, if, when he comes in, he should find all in readiness for his going, if we could convince him by these means that his immediate departure was so necessary—" She stood looking at Mr. Morris, forcing herself to be calm, and with such an expression of courage and determination on her pale face that Mr. Morris, who had always admired her, was touched and astonished.
"'Tis the very best thing to be done, my dear young lady," he said. "We must get the passport for d'Azay and force him to quit Paris. I think I am not entirely without influence with some of these scoundrels in authority just now. Danton, for instance. He is, without doubt, the most powerful man in Paris for the moment. Suppose we apply to him and his worthy assistant, Bertrand, and see what can be done. As Danton himself said to me the other evening at the Cordelliers Club, 'in times of revolution authority falls into the hands of rascals!' Bertrand was a good valet, but he knows no more of statescraft than my coachman does. However, what we want is not a statesman but a friend, and I think Bertrand may prove to be that. My carriage is waiting below; shall we go at once?"
"Oh, we cannot go too soon! I will not lose a moment." She ran out of the room and returned almost instantly with her wraps, for the March day was chill and gloomy. The two set out immediately, Mr. Morris giving orders to his coachman to drive to the Palais de Justice, where he hoped to find Danton, the deputy attorney-general of the commune of Paris, and Bertrand, his assistant. As he expected, they were there and, on being announced, he and Madame de St. André were almost instantly admitted to their presence.
There could be no better proof of the unique and powerful position held by the representative of the infant United States than the reception accorded him by this dictator of Paris. Though Mr. Morris was known to disapprove openly of the excesses to which the Assembly and the revolution had already gone, yet this agitator, this leader of the most violent district of Paris, welcomed him with marked deference and consideration. And it was with the deepest regret that he professed himself unable to undertake to obtain, at Mr. Morris's request, a passport for Monsieur d'Azay, brother of Madame de St. André, to whom he showed a coldness and brusqueness in marked contrast to his manner toward Mr. Morris.
"The applications are so numerous, and the emigrant army is becoming so large," and here he darted a keen, mocking look at Madame de St. André out of his small, ardent eyes, "that even were I as influential as Monsieur Morris is pleased to think me, I would scarcely dare to ask for a passport for Monsieur d'Azay. Moreover," and he bent his great, hideous head for an instant over a pile of papers upon the desk before him, "moreover, Monsieur d'Azay is particularly wanted in Paris just now."
"It is not his wish to leave—indeed, he knows nothing of this application for a passport. It is by my wish and on my affairs that he goes to England," says Adrienne, steadily, facing with courage the malignant look of that terrible countenance. Monsieur Danton ignored these remarks and turned to Mr. Morris.
"Receive my regrets, Monsieur, that I can do nothing in this matter. It would give me pleasure to render any favor to an American."
"Then we must ask assistance in other quarters," says Mr. Morris, rising abruptly, and with a show of confidence which he was far from feeling. He had applied in the most powerful and available quarter that he knew of, and he confessed to himself that, having failed here, he had no hope of succeeding elsewhere.
As he and Adrienne turned to go, Bertrand, who had sat quietly by during this short colloquy, arose and accompanied them toward the door.
"It is a pity Madame de St. André is not an American—is not Madame Calvert," he says, in a low tone, and fixing a meaning look on Adrienne. "Passports for the brother-in-law of Monsieur Calvert, the American, were easy to obtain. It is doubly a pity," and he spoke in a still lower tone, "since I have, on good authority, the news that Monsieur d'Azay is to be accused of forwarding military intelligence to Monsieur de Condé in to-morrow's session of the Assembly."
The young girl stopped and stood looking at him, transfixed with terror and astonishment.
"What do you mean?" she says, in a frightened, hushed voice.
"This, Madame. A long time ago, when I was a soldier in America under Lafayette, Monsieur Calvert did me a great service—he saved my life—he was kind to me. He is the only man, the only person in the world I love, and I have sworn to repay that debt of gratitude. I was with Monsieur, as his servant, at Azay-le-Roi, and I guessed, Madame, what passed there between you and him. Afterward I was with him in Paris, and I saw how he suffered, and I swore, if the thing were ever possible, I would make you suffer as he suffered. There is but one thing I would rather do than make you suffer—and that is to make him happy. The passport for the brother of Madame Calvert will be ready at six this evening and Monsieur will be free to leave Paris. Do you understand now, Madame?"
"It is impossible," she says, faintly, leaning for support on Mr. Morris, who stood by, unspeakably astonished at the strange scene taking place.
"Impossible? Then I am sorry," he says. "Frankly, there is but one way, Madame, for you to obtain the passport you wish, and that is by becoming an American subject, the wife of Monsieur Calvert. I can interest myself in the matter only on those conditions. I have but to mention to Danton my good reasons for serving so close a relation of Monsieur Calvert, and he will be inclined to interest himself in obtaining the freedom of Monsieur d'Azay—for such it really is. Should he still be disinclined to serve a friend who has stood him well"—and his face darkened ominously and a sinister smile came to his lips—"I have but to recall to his mind a certain scene which took place in the Cafe de l'École some years ago in which Monsieur Calvert was an actor, and I can answer for it that Monsieur d'Azay leaves Paris to-night. Shall I do these things or not? If not, I think 'tis sure that, let Madame and Monsieur Morris apply to whom they may, Danton and I will see to it that no passport for Monsieur d'Azay is granted. Is it still impossible?" he asks, with an insolent smile.
The girl turned piteously from Bertrand to Mr. Morris and back again, as if seeking some escape from the trap in which she was caught. Her pale lips trembled.
"Is it impossible?" again asks Bertrand, noting her pallor and cruel indecision.
"No, no," she cries, suddenly, shuddering and putting out her hand.
"Then all will be in readiness at six, Monsieur," says Bertrand, addressing himself to Mr. Morris.
"A word aside with you," he says to Bertrand, and, leading Adrienne to a seat, he went back to Bertrand, who waited for him beside the door.
"What is the meaning of this extraordinary scene?" he asked, sternly.
The man shrugged his shoulders. "Just what I have said. You know yourself, Monsieur, whether or not I am devoted to Monsieur Calvert. For Madame de St. André I care less than nothing," he said, snapping his fingers carelessly. "But Monsieur Calvert loves her—it seems a pretty enough way of making them happy, though 'tis a strange métier for me—arranging love-matches among the nobility! However, stranger things than that are happening in France. Besides, it is necessary," he said, his light manner suddenly changing to one more serious. "I swear it is the only way of getting d'Azay out of Paris. I doubt if even Danton, urged on by me, could obtain a passport for him to quit the city. But I can answer for one for the brother of Madame Calvert, wife of the former secretary of Monsieur Jefferson, friend of the present Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States of America to France."
Mr. Morris looked at the man keenly.
"And suppose this thing were done—I can rely upon you?"
"Absolutely. Attend a moment," he said, and, going back to where Danton still sat at his desk, he spoke with him in low and earnest tones. From where Mr. Morris stood he could see Danton's expression change from sternness and anger to astonishment and interest. In a few moments, with a low exclamation, he got up and, followed by Bertrand, came toward Mr. Morris.
"Bertrand has just told me facts which alter this case—which impel me to aid Monsieur d'Azay if possible," he said; and then, turning to Adrienne, who, pale with anxiety and terror, had risen from her seat and drawn near, he went on: "I will use all my power to be of service to the wife of the man who once showed a courtesy to mine." At his words the girl drew back and blushed deeply over her whole fair face. "I swore that I would reward him if possible, and I do so to-day. I also swore to reward his companion, Monsieur de Beaufort—the time is not yet come for that, but it will," and he smiled in so terrible a fashion that Adrienne could have cried out in fear. The fierce malignity of his look so filled Mr. Morris with disgust that he could scarce bear to speak to him.
"We will return at six," he said, at length, and leading Adrienne to the door that the painful interview might end.
"At six," said Danton.
They made their way out and found Mr. Morris's coach. In the carriage the courage which had sustained the young girl gave way.
Mr. Morris laid a kindly hand upon her arm. "Be calm. A way is found to save d'Azay, and surely it is no great trial to become an American subject," he said, smiling a little and looking keenly at Adrienne.
"I do not know how I shall dare to ask this great sacrifice of him," said she, in a low tone. "True, he risked his life for d'Azay, but that is not so great a sacrifice as to marry a woman he does not love."
"I think he does love you still," said Mr. Morris, very gently. "He is not like some of us—he is not one to forget easily. He is silent and constant. He has told me that he loved you."
But she only shook her head. "I have no hope that he loves me still."
"Shall I tell him of this strange plan, of the cruel position you find yourself in? I can prepare him——"
"No," she said, in a low tone, "I—I will see him myself and at once."
She sat quiet and thoughtful for the rest of the drive until the coach drew up before the Legation. After the first fear and despair had passed, a wave of happiness swept over her that made her blush and then pale as it ebbed. Perhaps, after all, his love for her might not be dead; at all events a curious fate had brought it about that she should see him again and hear him speak and learn for herself if he loved her. She remembered, with a sudden shock, the words she had spoken at Azay-le-Roi—that should she change her mind it would be she who would ask him to marry her. She could have laughed aloud with joy to think that fate had played her such a trick. She remembered with a sort of shamed wonder the proud condescension with which she had treated him. She felt now as if she could fling herself before him on her knees and beg him to give her back his love. But did he still love her? At the thought an icy pang of apprehension and fear seized her, and her heart almost stopped beating. It was not alone her own happiness that was at stake, but a life that she held dear, too, was in the hands of one whom she had misprized, to whom she had shown no pity or tenderness.
"I will go up with you to the library, where I think we shall find Calvert, and then I will leave you," said Mr. Morris as the coach stopped.
They went up the broad stairway together and Mr. Morris knocked at the library door. A voice answered "Come," and he entered, leaving Adrienne in the shadow of the archway. A bright fire was burning on the open hearth and before it sat Calvert. He looked ill, and his left arm and shoulder were bandaged and held in a sling. He wore no coat—indeed, he could get none over the bandages—and the whiteness of his linen and the bright flame of the fire made him look very pale. At Mr. Morris's entrance he glanced up smiling and made an effort to go toward him.
"Don't move, my boy," said Mr. Morris, hastily—"I have brought someone to see you. She—she is here," and motioning Adrienne to enter, he went out, softly closing the door behind him.
For an instant Calvert could not see who his visitor was, for, though the firelight was bright, the room was much in shadow from the grayness of the afternoon and the heavy hangings at the long windows. As the young girl came forward, however, he recognized her in spite of her extreme pallor and the change which two years and a half had wrought. Concealing, as best he could, the shock of surprise and the sudden faintness which attacked him at her unexpected presence (for he was still very weak and ill), he bowed low and placed a chair for her. But she shook her head and remained standing beside a little table in the centre of the room, one hand resting upon it for support. She was so agitated, and so fearful lest Calvert should notice it and guess its true cause, that she summoned all her pride and old imperiousness to her aid. Looking at her so, he wondered how it was that Mr. Morris had found her so softened. Looking at him so, weak and ill and hurt for one she loved, she could have thrown herself at his feet and kissed his wounded arm. It was with difficulty she commanded her voice sufficiently to speak.
"I am come, Mr. Calvert," she said, at length, hurriedly, and in so constrained a tone that he could scarcely hear her, "I am come on an errand for which the sole excuse is your own nobility. Had you not already risked your life for my brother, I could not dare to ask this still greater sacrifice. Indeed, I think I cannot, as it is," she said, clasping her hands and suddenly turning away.
Calvert was inexpressibly surprised by this exhibition of deep emotion in her. He had never seen her so moved before. "There is nothing I would not do for d'Azay, believe me," he said, earnestly. "I had hoped to avert this danger from him, but, unfortunately, I fear I have only postponed it. Is there anything I can do? If so, tell me what it is."
"It is nothing less than the sacrifice of your whole life," she said, in a low tone, and drawing back in the shadow of one of the windows. "It is this—I am come to ask you to marry me, Mr. Calvert, that by becoming an American subject I may save my brother. We—we have just been to obtain a passport for him to leave the city—he is to be accused in the Assembly to-morrow," she says, rapidly and breathlessly. "A passport for Monsieur d'Azay is refused unconditionally, but one is promised for the brother of Madame Calvert, the American." She was no longer pale. A burning blush was dyeing her whole face crimson, and she drew still farther back into the shadow of the window. She laid one hand on the velvet curtain to steady herself.
Calvert gazed at her in unspeakable surprise. For an instant a wild hope awoke within him, only to die. She had come but to save her brother, as she had said, and the painfulness of her duty was only too apparent.
"And—and who has imposed this strange condition?" he says, at length, quietly, mastering himself.
"Your servant Bertrand, who is all-powerful with Danton and who, he promises, shall obtain the passport by six this evening."
"Were I not wounded and weak from fever, Madame, believe me, by that hour he would deeply repent having caused you this humiliation," says Calvert, bitterly.
"My humiliation is a slight thing in comparison with the sacrifice I ask of you, Monsieur."
"And what of yours?" he asks, gloomily, but he did not look at her. Had he done so he would have seen love, not self-sacrifice, shining in her appealing eyes.
"But I have influence over this fellow—he is devoted to me—he shall do this thing without demanding so great, so fabulous a price for his services," he goes on, half-speaking to himself.
"'Tis indeed a fabulous price," she says, paling a little at Calvert's words and drawing herself up proudly. "But he fancies he is serving you by imposing this condition, and I confess that I—I dared not tell him that you no longer loved me, lest I should lose the one hold I had on him. For d'Azay, for me, he will do absolutely nothing." From the shadow of the curtain she watched Calvert's face for some sign that she was mistaken, that after all he did still love her, that what she had asked of him would be no life-long sacrifice, but the dearest joy. But none came. He stood quiet and thoughtful, looking down into the firelight and betraying nothing of the conflict going on within him. His one thought was to find a way out of this horrible trap for her, or, failing that, to make it as easy as possible for her. He stilled the wild exultation he felt that was making his feverish pulse leap and sink by turns. He tried to put away temptation from him—to think only for her. This incredible, unlooked-for happiness was not for him. He searched about in his mind for words that would make her understand that he knew what anguish had driven her to this extremity; that would convince her that she had nothing to fear from him and that he would meet her as he felt sure she wished him to meet her.
"What he asks is madness," he said, at length. "I know only too well the insurmountable objections you have to doing what he demands; if I can convince him of these—if I can convince him that it is also not my wish—that he can best serve me by not insisting on this thing——"
"Then, indeed, I think all is lost," said Adrienne, quietly. "He professes that he can do nothing for the French emigrant d'Azay, only for the brother of the American, Calvert. There is no hope left for us except through himself and Danton, since it is already known that d'Azay is to be accused to-morrow, and, indeed, there is scarce time to seek other aid," she added, despairingly.
"Is Mr. Morris of the opinion that this is the best thing to be done?" asked Calvert, in a low voice.
"He thinks it is the only way to save d'Azay." Suddenly she came forward from the embrasure of the window and stood once more beside the table, her face lighted up by the glow of the fire. "Believe me, I know how great a thing I ask," she says, quite wildly, and covering her eyes with her hand. "I ask you now what you once asked me and what I flung away." Calvert looked up startled, but not being able to read her face, which was concealed, he dropped his head again, and she went on: "If it is possible for you to make this sacrifice, everything I can do to make it bearable shall be done—we need never see each other again—I can follow d'Azay to whatever retreat he may find——"
"Don't distress yourself so," said Calvert, gently, interrupting her. He looked at the appealing, despairing woman before him, she who had been so brilliant, so untouched by sorrow, and a great desire to serve her and a great compassion for her came over him. There was pity for himself, too, in his thoughts, for he had schooled himself for so long to believe that the woman he loved did not love him, and could never love him, that no slightest idea that he was mistaken came to him now to help lighten his sacrifice. As he realized all this he thought, not without a pang, of the future and of the unknown possible happiness it might hold for him and which he was renouncing forever. In the long days to come, he had thought, he might be able to forget that greater happiness denied him and be as contented as many another man, but even that consolation he could now no longer look forward to.
"Do not distress yourself," he said again, quietly. "Be assured that I shall make no effort to see you—indeed, I think I shall leave Paris myself as soon as this wound permits," and he touched his bandaged arm. "In the last few days I have thought seriously of entering military service again under Lafayette. He is a good soldier, if a bad statesman, and has need of officers and men in this crisis, if ever general had."
As he turned away and touched a small bell on the table, Adrienne's hand dropped at her side and she gave him so strange, so sad a glance that had he looked at her he would have seen that in her pale face and miserable eyes which he had longed to see two years before. She took a step forward—for an instant the wild thought crossed her mind of flinging herself down before him, of confessing her love for him, but sorrow and trouble had not yet wholly humbled that proud nature. With a great effort she drew back. "Will you, then, serve us again?" she said, and her voice sounded far off and strange in her own ears.
"Can you doubt it? I will send for Mr. Morris and we will leave everything to him."
In a few moments he came in, looking anxiously from Calvert to Madame de
St. André and back again.
"We are agreed upon this matter," said Calvert, quietly, interpreting Mr. Morris's look, "providing, in your opinion, it is a necessity. Is the case as desperate as Madame de St. André deems it, and is this the best remedy for it?"
"'Tis the only remedy, I think," replied Mr. Morris. "I fear there is no doubt as to d'Azay's fate when arraigned, as he will be to-morrow. Too many of his friends have already suffered that same fate to leave any reasonable hope that his will be other or happier." He drew Calvert to one side and spoke in a low tone. "Indeed, I think 'tis more than probable that he is guilty of the charges preferred against him and would go over to Monsieur de Condé had he the chance. I have known for a long while that he has become thoroughly disgusted with the trend of affairs here, and has no thought now but to serve the King. I think he has broken with Lafayette entirely since the affair of St. Cloud, and his change of political faith is only too well known here. If he does not leave Paris to-night, he will never leave it."
"Then," said Mr. Calvert, "I am ready to do my part."
"No, no, 'tis impossible that this thing should be," broke out Mr. Morris, looking at the young man's pale, gloomy face. "I had hoped that it would be the greatest happiness; was I, then, mistaken?"
Calvert laid his hand on the elder man's shoulder.
"Hush, she must not hear. 'Tis an agreement we have entered into," he says, hurriedly. "Will you call a priest and send for the Duchess and d'Azay?"
"The Bishop of Autun has just come in," said Mr. Morris, after a moment's silence, and pressing the young man's hand, "and there is no time to send for anyone. I will go myself and ask him to come up."
They came in together in a very few moments, His Grace of Autun grave and asking no questions (from which Calvert rightly argued that Mr. Morris had confided in him), but with a concerned and kindly air toward the young man, for whom he had always entertained an especial liking. In a simple and impressive manner he repeated the marriage service in the presence of Mr. Morris and some of the servants of the household, called in to be witnesses, Adrienne kneeling beside the couch on which Calvert lay, for he was too weak and ill to stand longer.
The strange scene was quickly over, the two parted almost without a word, Adrienne being led away by Mr. Morris to the Hotel de Ville, and Mr. Calvert remanded to bed by the surgeon, who was just arrived to dress his wound.
CHAPTER XX
MR. CALVERT SEES A SHORT CAMPAIGN UNDER LAFAYETTE
The project which Calvert had formed for joining the army he was able to put into execution within a couple of weeks. The fever which had attacked him having entirely subsided and his wound healing rapidly, he was soon well enough to feel a consuming restlessness and craving for action. The painful experience through which he had just passed, the still more painful future to which he had to look forward, aroused an irresistible longing for some immediate and violent change of scene and thought. His vague plan for joining the army was suddenly crystallized by the situation in which he found himself, and though this resolution was strongly opposed by Mr. Morris, who, with keen foresight, prophesied the speedy overthrow of the constitution and the downfall of Lafayette with the King, he adhered to it. D'Azay being safely out of the country—he had retreated to Brussels and joined a small detachment of the emigrant army still there—and Adrienne protected by his name, his one desire was to forget in action his misfortunes and to remove himself from the scene of them. It was this desire, rather than any enthusiasm for the cause in which he was engaged, which impelled him to offer his services to Lafayette. Indeed, it was with no very sanguine belief in that cause or hope of its success that he prepared to go to Metz. Although he believed, with Mr. Morris, that the only hope of France lay in the suppression of internal disorder and the union of interests which a foreign war would bring about, yet he could not regard with much horror the threatenings of the proscribed émigrés and the military preparations making by the allies to prevent the spread of the revolution into their own territories. Indeed, so great was his contempt for the ministers of Louis and for their mad and selfish policy that he confessed to himself, but for his desire to serve under his old commander, he would almost as soon have joined d'Azay at Brussels, or taken a commission with the Austrians under Marshal Bender, who commanded in the Low Countries. This division of sympathies felt by Calvert animated thousands of other breasts, so that whole regiments of cavalry went over to the enemy, and officers and men deserted daily. Berwick, Mirabeau, Bussy, de la Châtre, with their commands, crossed over the Rhine and joined the Prince de Condé at Worms. The highest in command were suspected of intriguing with the enemy; men distrusted their superiors, and officers could place no reliance on their men. Of the widespread and profound character of this feeling of distrust Mr. Calvert had no adequate idea until he joined the army of the centre at Metz in the middle of April. Although Lafayette had, since January, been endeavoring to discipline his troops, to animate them with confidence, courage, and endurance, they had defied his every effort. Indeed, what wonder that an army composed of the scum of a revolutionary populace, without knowledge of arms, suspicious, violent, unused to every form of military restraint, should defy organization in three months? Perhaps no sovereign ever entered upon a great conflict less prepared than did Louis when he declared war against the King of Hungary and Bohemia—for Francis was not yet crowned Emperor of Austria. But that unhappy monarch found himself in a situation from which the only issue was a recourse to arms. Confronted on the one hand by a republican party of daily increasing power and on the other by an aristocratical one openly allied with sovereigns who were suspected of a desire to partition his dominion among themselves as Poland had been, his one hope lay in warring his way out between the two.
That Louis should be the advocate and leader of this war was the one inspiration of Narbonne, and, had the King persevered in this, he might have saved himself and his throne. But, with his fatal vacillation, after having entered upon military preparations and committed himself to Narbonne's policy, he suddenly abandoned him as he had abandoned so many of his advisers. Grave replaced the dismissed and chagrined young minister, and Dumouriez, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, took into his hands all the power and glory of the war movement. He developed and supplemented the plans which Narbonne had already formed, and, by the New Year, a vast army was assembled and the frontier divided into three great military districts. On the left, the territory from Dunkirk to Philippeville was defended by the army under Rochambeau, forty thousand foot and eight thousand cavalry strong; Lafayette, with his army of the centre, of more than a hundred thousand men and some seven thousand horse, commanded between Philippeville and Weissenberg, while Luckner, with his army of the Rhine, stretched from Weissenberg to Bâle. Dumouriez's diplomatic negotiations were apparently nearly as successful as his military operations. Though he could not dissolve that "unnatural alliance" formed the year before at Pilnitz and enthusiastically adhered to by Prince Henri and the Duke of Brunswick with the young King of Hungary and Bohemia, yet, by the assassination of the King of Sweden, that country was no longer to be feared, England remained neutral by virtue of Pitt's commercial policy, and many of the petty German principalities openly approved of and aided the French revolutionists.
With military and diplomatic affairs in this state and with Austria still holding out for her impossible conditions, 'twas easy for Dumouriez and the war party to browbeat the wellnigh desperate King into a declaration of hostilities that was to convulse the whole of Europe for nearly a quarter of a century. This was done on the 20th of April, three days after Mr. Calvert had joined Lafayette at Metz, and was almost instantly followed by orders from Dumouriez to that general to advance with ten thousand men upon Namur and thence upon Brussels and Liège.
'Twas Dumouriez's policy (and surely a wise one) to strike the first blow against Austria through her dependency, Flanders, which country, but two years before, had shown the strongest disposition to throw off Austrian rule. How strong that disposition was, Dumouriez himself knew fully, for he had been sent by Montmorin on a secret mission into Belgium, and he felt assured that the Brabant patriots would rally to the standards of the French army. Had that army been what he supposed, his plans might have succeeded and the humiliations and defeats of the spring campaign averted.
As has been said, Calvert joined the army at Metz a few days before the formal declaration of war was made, and so was there when General de Lafayette received orders to advance upon Namur. He was much touched by the reception which Lafayette accorded him.
"I will give you a regiment, Calvert, but I need you near my person. There is no one upon whom I can rely—I wish you could be my aide-de-camp again. It would be like old times once more," he said, looking at the young man with so harassed and despondent a glance that Calvert was both surprised and alarmed.
"I could wish for nothing better," he replied, "but surely you do not mean what you say—you have many others upon whom you can count."
"Almost no one," replied Lafayette, briefly. "I distrust my officers and am myself suspected of intriguing with the enemy. I know not what day I may be forced to fly across the frontier. No one is safe, and I dare not count upon my troops to obey commands. Although there are only thirty thousand Austrians in Flanders, I am not sure that we can beat them," he said, bitterly.
On the 27th of April, Lafayette, who had moved his camp to Givet, received despatches from Dumouriez detailing the plan of campaign against Belgium. According to this plan, Lafayette, with ten thousand picked men, was to advance by forced marches upon Namur. He was to be supported by two divisions of the army of the North, one of four thousand men under General Dillon, which was to move from its encampment at Lille upon Tournay, and the other of ten thousand troops under General Biron, which was to advance from Valenciennes upon Mons. Before daybreak on the morning of the 28th Lafayette had his army in motion and, as they rode out of the city gates together, Calvert noted that the depression and anxiety which had weighed upon the General so heavily had disappeared and that he had regained something of his old fire and intrepidity.
This renewal of confidence was cruelly dissipated three days later when, on reaching Bouvines, half-way to Namur, after a fifty-league march over bad roads, Lafayette was met by frightened, breathless couriers with despatches detailing the humiliating disasters which had befallen both Biron's and Dillon's divisions. The former, who had advanced upon Quiévrain and succeeded in occupying that town, was utterly routed on arriving before Mons, and fled with the loss of all his baggage. Dillon met with even a more tragic and shameful fate. Moving upon Tournay, where a strong body of Austrians was ready to receive him, his men were seized with a sudden panic and fled back to the gates of Lille, where, mad with fear and crying that Dillon had betrayed them, they brutally murdered him. This disastrous news being confirmed the following day by further despatches, Lafayette was forced to fall back to Maubeuge without striking a blow, and thus ended Calvert's hopes of seeing a campaign which had promised most brilliantly. The news of these defeats creating the greatest sensation both at the front and in Paris, Rochambeau resigned his command, Grave was replaced by Servan in the ministry, and the army was reorganized.
During the entire month of May Lafayette and his army remained inactive at Maubeuge awaiting orders which the distracted ministers at Paris were incapable of giving. 'Twas a pretty little place near the Belgian frontier, lying on both sides of the Sambre, and which had been ceded to France by the treaty of Nymwegen. Mr. Calvert spent much of his leisure time—of which he had more than enough—admiring and studying the fortifications of this town, which had been engineered by the great Vauban. Much of it he also spent with Lafayette, who, in the intervals of disciplining his troops and attending to his increased military duties—Rochambeau's command had been divided between himself and Luckner—conversed freely with his young aide-de-camp. Sometimes, too, at Lafayette's urgent request, Calvert would sing as he had used to do around the camp-fires in the Virginia campaign. During those days and evenings of inactive and anxious waiting, the old friendship between the two was renewed. Lafayette had heard of Calvert's marriage through Mr. Morris and, with the utmost delicacy, touched upon the subject. Calvert told him frankly as much of the story as he intended to reveal to anyone, and this confidence became another bond of friendship between them. The years of separation and disagreement somehow melted away. The Lafayette of Maubeuge was like the Lafayette whom Calvert had first known and admired; he noticed how much of his rabid republicanism had vanished—indeed, Lafayette himself owned as much, for if he was impetuous and extreme, he was also courageous and was not afraid or ashamed to confess his faults.
"I have learned much," he said to Calvert one evening when they were alone in the General's quarters, "and am beginning to have radically different opinions upon some subjects from those I entertained but a short while ago. Sometimes I ask myself if my call for the States-General did not open for France a Pandora's box of evils. What has become of all my efforts?" he said, pushing away a map of the Austrian Netherlands which they had been studying together and beginning to pace the room agitatedly. "Instead of the wise ministers prevailing at Paris, a horde of mad, insensate creatures are ruling the Assembly, the city, the whole country! If only there were some man courageous enough to defy the Jacobins and their power—to meet them on their own ground and conquer them! What can I do at this distance, overwhelmed with military duties, restricted by my official position? I have been thinking of addressing a letter to the Assembly," he went on, suddenly turning to Calvert, "a letter of warning against the Jacobin power, of reproach that they should be ruled by that ignoble faction, or remonstrance against their unwarrantable proceedings, and as soon as I can find the time to write such a letter, I shall do so, and despatch it to Paris by my secretary, let the consequences be what they may."
This design was not accomplished until the middle of June, for, at the beginning of the month, a number of skirmishes and night attacks took place between the Austrians, who had encamped near Maubeuge, and Lafayette's troops, and the General was too much occupied with the military situation to busy himself with affairs at Paris. These attacks culminated in a bloody and almost disastrous engagement for the patriot army on the 11th of June.
The Austrians, reinforced by the emigrant army which had been left at Brussels and in which Calvert knew d'Azay held a captain's commission, advanced during the early afternoon of June 11th and attacked the vanguard of Lafayette's army, encamped two miles from Maubeuge, farther up the Sambre, and commanded by Gouvion. Although the French occupied a formidable position, being securely intrenched on rising ground fortified by a dozen redoubts and batteries arranged in tiers, the enemy advanced with such fierceness and intrepidity that Gouvion had all he could do to keep his gunners from deserting their posts. The infantry, too, behaved ill, and when ordered to advance, wavered and were driven back at the very first charge from the Austrians. Their cavalry pursued the advantage thus gained and pressed forward, advancing in three lines and driving the disordered French troops before them up the hill. At this juncture, Lafayette, with six thousand men and two thousand horse, arrived, having been sent for in hot haste by Gouvion when the action first began, and, attacking the Austrian and émigrés from the flank, after a sharp and bloody struggle, succeeded by nightfall in putting them to flight. Although the forces engaged in this action were small, the slaughter was terrible and the little battle-field by the Sambre presented a ghastly sight in the moonlight of that June night. Gouvion himself was killed leading the last attack, and the Austrian and emigrant forces suffered severely. The regiment which Calvert commanded was in the thick of the engagement the whole time, once it arrived on the scene of action, and no officer of either side more exposed or distinguished himself than did the young American. Indeed, it was not from reckless bravery that he offered himself a target for the bullets of the enemy, but from a feeling that he would not be sorry to end there, to close forever the book of his life. And, as usual with those who seek, rather than avoid, death in battle, from this action, which was the only one he was destined to engage in, he came out unscathed, while many another poor fellow who longed to live, lay quiet and cold on the bloody ground.
So close was the fighting during the late afternoon that Calvert once thought he caught a glimpse of d'Azay and, with a strange presentiment of evil, he determined to look for him among the slain. Accompanied by an orderly bearing a lantern—though the moonlight was so bright that one could easily recognize the pallid, upturned faces—he began his search an hour after the firing had ceased, with many others engaged in the same ghastly work of finding dead comrades. He had looked but a short while, or so it seemed to him, when he came upon d'Azay lying prone upon a little hillock of Austrian slain. As Calvert looked down upon him, grief for this dead friend and an awful sense of the futility of the sacrifice which had been made for him, came upon him. He knelt beside him for a few minutes and looked into the quiet, dead face. He had never before thought that d'Azay resembled Adrienne, but now the resemblance of brother and sister was quite marked, and 'twas with the sharpest pang Calvert had ever known that he looked upon those pallid features. It might have been that other and dearer face, he thought to himself. At length he arose and, helping the orderly place the body upon a stretcher, they bore it back to the camp, where, next day, it was buried with what military honors Calvert could get accorded it. He sent a lock of d'Azay's hair, his seals and rings, back to Paris to Adrienne (he kept for his own her miniature, which he found in d'Azay's pocket and which he had first seen that night at Monticello), and the letter she wrote him thanking him for all he had done were the first written words of hers he had ever had. Though there was not a word of love in the note—not even of friendship—Calvert re-read it a score of times and treasured it, and at last put it with the miniature in the little chamois case that rested near his heart.
The check which Lafayette had put upon the Austrians on the 11th of June having produced a cessation of hostilities, he wrote and despatched to the Assembly the letter which he had had in contemplation for some time and of which he had spoken to Calvert. This courageous letter—the authenticity of which was fiercely denied in the Assembly—not only did not produce the effect Lafayette so hoped for, but was followed by the outrage of the 20th of June. Who does not know the shameful events of that day?—the invasion of the Tuileries by hordes of ruffians and the insults to helpless royalty?
When Lafayette heard of the uprising of the 20th he determined to go in person to Paris, affirm the authorship of his letter, and urge upon the Assembly the destruction of the Jacobin party. He sent Calvert to Luckner's head-quarters to ask of the Maréchal permission to go to Paris and, placing his troops in safety under the guns of Maubeuge, he departed for the capital, whither he arrived on the 28th. After two days spent in incessant and fruitless efforts with the Assembly and National Guard, in audiences with the King and consultations with friends, he sped back to the army, more thoroughly and bitterly convinced than ever that the revolution which he had led and believed in was now fast approaching anarchy; that the throne was lost and his own brilliant popularity vanished. He took with him to Calvert the news of the sudden death of the old Duchesse d'Azay—she had failed rapidly since hearing of the death of d'Azay, and had passed away painlessly on the morning of Lafayette's arrival in Paris—the escape of St. Aulaire to Canada, and a letter from Mr. Morris.
"He desired me to give you this," said Lafayette, gravely, handing the letter to Calvert. "The message is of the greatest importance. We had a long interview. I am at last come to the same opinion on certain subjects as himself," he said, with a gloomy smile, "and we want your co-operation. He will explain all when he sees you. As for myself, I must say no more," and he went away, leaving the young man to read his letter alone.
CHAPTER XXI
MR. CALVERT QUITS THE ARMY AND ENGAGES IN A HAZARDOUS ENTERPRISE
The letter which Calvert had received from Mr. Morris was short but very urgent. It begged him to resign his commission at once, which affair, the letter hinted, would be immediately arranged by Lafayette, and come to Paris, as Mr. Morris had business of the first importance on hand in which he wished Calvert's assistance. It went on to add that the exact nature of that business had best not be divulged until the young man should find himself at the American Legation, and ended by urging Mr. Calvert not to delay his departure from Maubeuge by a day, if possible.
Conformably with these requests Calvert set out for Paris on the very next day, after the briefest of preparations, and, arriving in the city on the evening of the 7th, made his way straight to the rue de la Planche, where he found Mr. Morris anxiously awaiting him. With a brief greeting, and scarcely allowing the young man time to divest himself of his travelling things, he drew him into his private study, and there, with locked doors, began eagerly to speak about the business upon which he had called Calvert so hastily to Paris.
"I knew I could trust you," said Mr. Morris to Calvert. "Lafayette has given you my letter and you have lost no time in coming to me, as I felt assured you would do, my boy. 'Tis the most satisfactory sensation in the world to feel an absolute trust in one as I do in you," he went on, with a kindly look at the young man. "Living in the midst of this people who think less than nothing of breaking every agreement, violating every oath, that feeling of confidence becomes doubly precious. But to the business in hand." He hesitated slightly and then went on, "You must know that in the month of November last (and before my appointment by Congress to this post of American Minister to France), inspired by the unhappy consequences to the Royal Family of the flight to Varennes, I, together with several of the stanchest friends of the harassed monarch, engaged in an enterprise to assist the King and Queen to escape, from France. This plan, in which Favernay, Monciel, Beaufort, Brémond, and some others whom you know, were leagued together, never ripened, because, by the appointment of Narbonne and the preparations for war which immediately commenced, we hoped that Louis might regain his lost power. It was at this juncture and while I thought that this enterprise was at an end and that there would be no further occasion for me to intermeddle in the politics of this unhappy country, that I received and accepted my appointment as Minister to this court. Most unfortunately, the great opportunity which the King had to retrieve his fortunes he flung away by his subsequent vacillation and his secret negotiations with the allies; and this, together with the reverses of the French array, the growing violence of the opposing political factions here, and the terrible events of the 20th of June, have again made it necessary for the friends of the King, if they wish to save him, to exert themselves in his behalf. When this was made plain, those gentlemen with whom I had formerly been associated in the effort to serve His Majesty again applied to me for assistance, so that I found myself in the cruel position of either betraying my official trust or of abandoning the monarch whom I sincerely pitied and whom I had pledged myself to aid. The last and most moving appeal made to me was that of Monsieur Lafayette. I met him at the Tuileries when he went to pay his respects to their Majesties before rejoining his army. I know not what had passed between the King and himself at the levee, for I arrived just as he was going, but I saw by his countenance that he had the gloomiest forebodings. He drew me into a small anteroom and spoke to me with his old familiarity and affection. Indeed, he is greatly changed, and I could not help but be touched by the consternation and grief that weighed upon him. He opened himself to me very freely and confessed that 'twas his opinion that the King was lost if brave and wise friends did not immediately offer their services in his behalf. He knew of the scheme in which I had been before engaged to assist the King, and he besought me to renew those engagements and to prosecute them with the utmost diligence. The King, he said, had let fall some expressions indicating his confidence in myself, 'a confidence,' said Lafayette, 'which he did not hesitate to show he did not feel in me. The Queen is even more distrustful of me than the King, so that I think their safety lies in your hands. But, believe me, though they do not trust me, they have no more devoted servant. I am come, at length, to your belief that in the King alone is to be found the cure for the ills of the present time, and not the most ardent royalist is now more anxious to preserve His Majesty than myself.' While Lafayette was speaking, a way out of my difficulties suddenly occurred to me. I thought of you, my boy, and, knowing that I could rely on you as on myself, I determined to appeal to you to act in my stead, to take upon yourself those dangers and risks which, in my position of minister from a neutral power to this country, I have now no right to assume. I know how great a thing I am asking, but I also know your generous nature, your steadfastness, your capability to carry through discreetly and swiftly any undertaking you engage in. As an American, you will have the confidence of the King and Queen, and will act as a surety for Lafayette, whom 'tis only too true their Majesties distrust profoundly. I reminded Lafayette of the unalterable obligation which prevented me from interesting myself personally in the political situation here and of the plan I had just formed of appealing to you. He approved of it entirely, saying that there was no one in whose hands he would more willingly leave matters. We made an appointment for that evening at Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld's, where he was staying, to discuss some plan of assistance to his Majesty. I consented to this interview, for it was impossible at that late hour to call together all those interested in the affair and, as Lafayette was leaving the next morning, something had to be done immediately. Our interview was a long one, but the plan we hit upon was, in the end, very simple and, indeed, the circumstances of the case, the short time, and the necessity for the greatest secrecy demand that the simplest methods should be employed. Shall I tell you that plan?" asked Mr. Morris, suddenly breaking off in the midst of his long talk and regarding Calvert with a keen, questioning glance.
"There is no lead I would follow sooner than yours, Mr. Morris," replied the young man, quietly and firmly. "As you know, all my sympathies are with the King and Queen, and in whatsoever way I can serve their Majesties I am ready here and now to pledge myself to that service."
Indeed, the enterprise suited Calvert's temper well. Any excitement or danger was welcome to him just then. His hopes of seeing military service having been frustrated, he was glad to find some other scheme at hand which promised to divert his melancholy thoughts from himself.
"'Tis like you to speak so, boy," said Mr. Morris, grasping Calvert warmly by the hand. "I knew you would not fail me. And, before God, how could I fail them?" he burst out, rising in agitation and stumping about the room. "I have done wrong in engaging in the remotest way in this affair, in urging you to become a party to it, but my humanity forbids me to withhold whatever of aid I can render. Was ever a monarch so cruelly beset, so bereft of wise counsellors, of trusty friends? He knows not where to look for help, nor which way to turn. He suspects every adviser of treachery, of self-interest, of veniality, and he has reason to do so. The wisest, in his desperate position, would scarce know how to bear himself, and what can we expect of so narrow an intellect, so vacillating and timid a nature? I pity him profoundly, but I also despise him, for there is a want of metal in him which will ever prevent him from being truly royal."
"'Tis doubly difficult to help those who will not help themselves. Do you think it is really possible to save his Majesty?" asked Calvert, doubtfully.
"We can but make one more desperate effort, and I confess that I rely more on the firmness of the Queen for its success than I do on the King," said Mr. Morris. "But I will tell you of the plan and you can judge for yourself of its feasibility."
The scheme agreed upon between Mr. Morris and Lafayette in that interview at Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld's, and which Mr. Morris proceeded to detail to Calvert, was briefly this: It being evident that as long as the King remained in Paris he was a virtual prisoner and subject to the capricious commands of the Assembly, his ministers, and the mobs, daily increasing in numbers and lawlessness, it seemed to both Mr. Morris and Lafayette that the thing of first importance was to effect the King's escape from the capital. To accomplish this it was Lafayette's suggestion that the King should go to the Assembly when affairs should be ripe for that act and announce his intention of passing a few days at one of his country residences within the limits prescribed for his free movements. "I thought he blushed as he made this suggestion, and 'twas all I could do to keep from asking him if he intended to serve his Majesty on this occasion as he had in the St. Cloud affair," said Mr. Morris, dryly. "But his distress and his sincerity were so evident that I contained myself." The King established as far from Paris as possible, Lafayette was to arrange a manoeuvre of his troops at a point near the royal residence, and once arrived there, he was to rapidly and secretly march the trustiest of his regiments to the King's rescue, surround the palace, and call upon the army for a new oath of fidelity to the monarch and constitution. Rendered independent by this stroke, Louis was to issue a proclamation forbidding the allies and émigrés to enter his kingdom. Should the army flash in the pan and refuse to swear allegiance, Lafayette was, at all hazards, and with the aid of the regiments whose loyalty was beyond question, to escort the King to a place of safety beyond the border.
For the accomplishment of this plan, simple though it was, an enormous sum of money and the greatest diplomacy were necessary. As for the money, that was easily come by; indeed, Monsieur de Monciel had already brought to Mr. Morris two hundred thousand livres contributed by the loyal adherents of His Majesty; more was promised within the next few days. Mr. Morris consented to receive these sums, though he felt obliged to refuse the protection of the Legation to any papers relative to the matter in hand. With such sums at their disposal it was hoped and believed by Mr. Morris and the other ardent friends of the unfortunate sovereign that enough influential members of the Assembly could be bribed to insure the King's departure from Paris and the allegiance of those doubtful regiments upon the frontier.
"It was my suggestion, Calvert," said Mr. Morris, "that you should be sent to test and influence those disaffected regiments, and to find a safe retreat for his Majesty in case of failure of our scheme, while we remain here to work with the members of the Assembly and watch the situation for a favorable moment to strike the blow. It was my further suggestion that your wife should be one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen, that we might have sure and swift intelligence of what passes within the palace. By the greatest good fortune I heard the following day, through Madame de Flahaut, of the illness and withdrawal of one of the Queen's attendants, and the next evening at court, having the opportunity of saying a few words in private to her Majesty, I besought her to give the vacant post to your wife. I intimated to her that the appointment was of the greatest importance to herself and the King, and being, doubtless, impressed by the earnestness of my manner, she promised to grant my request, though she had intended to leave the place vacant, saying bitterly that 'twere best she should draw no other into the circle of danger which surrounded her. I had the satisfaction of learning yesterday that the appointment had been made, and already your wife is installed as a lady-in-waiting at the Tuileries.
"Under cover of letters to her—which, I think, will be more likely to escape patriotic curiosity than any others—you will keep the King and his friends here in Paris informed of your movements and the progress of affairs, and through her we can have intimate knowledge of what passes in the palace, so that they can hardly fail to know when to take the decisive step. Are you willing to undertake this difficult and dangerous enterprise?" asked Mr. Morris, looking at the young man.
"With all my heart," replied Calvert. "Were I not interested in the cause itself, I would still remember the graciousness of their Majesties when I was presented to them, and hold it a privilege to serve them."
"You will see them again to-morrow evening and can assure them yourself of your fidelity. I think they have no doubt of it now, nor ever will. Through Monsieur de Favernay I arranged for a private audience with the King and Queen for to-morrow—you see, I counted on you as on myself, and felt assured that you would come at the earliest moment, Ned. At that interview I will again present you to their Majesties, and then I will withdraw definitely from all connection with this affair, leaving you to lay the plan before the King and Queen, and to carry it through should it be agreed to by their Majesties."
The two gentlemen sat up until far into the night discussing the enterprise, Calvert making many valuable suggestions, and entering so heartily into the arrangement that Mr. Morris began to take a more hopeful view of the situation than he had hitherto allowed himself to do.
On the following evening, about ten o'clock, Beaufort arrived hastily at the Legation with the information that all was in readiness for the private audience which Mr. Morris had requested, and the three gentlemen, entering a coach, were driven rapidly to the Tuileries. They were introduced at a wicket on the little rue du Manège, and, passing up a stairway seldom used and through the Queen's apartments, at length found themselves at the door of a small and private chamber of his Majesty's suite. At this door Beaufort tapped gently, and hearing an "Entrez!" from within, he pushed it open, and then, with a low bow, retired, leaving Mr. Morris and Calvert to enter by themselves.
His Majesty was alone and seated beside a small table, on which were a lamp and some writing materials. As Mr. Morris and Calvert advanced into the room he rose and graciously extended a hand to each of the gentlemen.
"Vous êtes le bien venu," he says to Mr. Morris, and then, looking at Calvert with a half-smile. "I remember you very well, now," he adds, rapidly, in French to the younger man. While the King was speaking, Calvert noticed with a glance the heavy, harassed expression of Louis's face. The eyes, which had once been benign and rather stupid, had now a haunted, suspicious look in them. While he was yet bowing, and before he could form a reply to the King's remarks, the Queen entered rapidly from an adjoining apartment. Calvert felt a shock, a thrill of pity, as he looked at her Majesty. A dozen fateful years seemed to have rolled over that countenance, so lovely when last he had seen it. Though she still held herself proudly, the animation and beauty of face and figure had vanished. The large blue eyes were tired and red with weeping, the complexion had lost its brilliancy, and the fair hair was tinged with gray. History hath made it out that the Queen's hair whitened in a single night of her captivity, but it had already begun to lose its golden color before the days of the Temple, and the lock which she shortly after this sent to Calvert, in token of her appreciation of his services, was thickly streaked with white.
She came forward and stood beside the King, inclining her head graciously to Mr. Morris, who made their Majesties a profound obeisance.
"I am come to again present my friend, Mr. Calvert of Virginia, to your Majesties," he says, indicating Calvert, who bowed again, and at whom the Queen looked with a keen, suspicious glance that almost instantly kindled into one of kindness and trust. "He is to be my representative in that affair in which it will be my undying regret not to have been able to participate," continued Mr. Morris, "and I beg of your Majesties to give him your utmost confidence and trust, for I assure your Majesties that he is entirely worthy of both. He will acquaint you with the details of that plan, the existence of which Monsieur de Monciel intimated to your Majesties yesterday, and, should that plan meet with your royal approval, Mr. Calvert is ready to stake his life and his honor in the execution of it. Your Majesties understand how impossible it is for me to say more, and I can only ask permission to withdraw."
'Twas the Queen who answered—the King seemed unable to find a word.
"We thank you with all our hearts," she says, in a low, mournful tone, looking at Mr. Morris, "and we understand." At her gesture of recognition and dismissal Mr. Morris executed another low obeisance and withdrew.
Left alone with the King and Queen, and being seated, at their Majesties' invitation, Calvert unfolded to them in detail the plan agreed upon by the King's friends, leaving out as much as possible Lafayette's part in it ('twas his own wish, conveyed through Mr. Morris) lest the Queen should take fright and refuse her sanction to the enterprise. Indeed, so deep was her distrust of him, that to Mr. Calvert it seemed that she only gave her consent because of the share Mr. Morris and himself had in it.
"So that is the plan," she said, musing. "We betrayed ourselves when we succored America. Perhaps we are to be repaid now and Americans are to help us in this desperate strait. 'Tis a bitter humiliation to have to turn to strangers for aid, but our only true friends are all scattered now; there is no one about us but would betray and sacrifice us," she says, bitterly, and looking at the King, whose heavy countenance reflected in a dull way her poignant distress.
"Pardon me, Your Majesty," says Calvert, ardently, "there are still some stanch friends left to you. I have seen these gentlemen but this morning, when we discussed anew this plan, and they but wait your approval to pledge their lives and fortunes to extricate Your Majesties from the distressing situation you now find yourselves in. It but depends upon you to say whether this scheme shall be carried through. With firmness and confidence on your part it cannot fail."
"I fear to hope again—do not arouse my expectations only to have them disappointed," and rising in the greatest agitation, the Queen began to pace up and down the little room. "Who would have thought that Fersen could fail?—and yet he did." She covered her face with her hands to hide the tears which filled her eyes. Suddenly she stopped before Calvert, who had risen, and gave him so penetrating and anguished a look that the young man could scarce bear to meet her glance.
"There is that in your face which inspires confidence," says the Queen. "I think you would not know either defeat or deceit. Pray God you may not. We will trust him, shall we not?" she says, turning to the King and putting out her hand so graciously that Calvert fell upon one knee before her and kissed it. He knelt to the suffering woman who had instinctively appealed to him and her faith in him even more than to the desperate Queen.
It was by such moments of genuineness and winning sweetness that Marie Antoinette captivated those with whom she came in contact. Could such bursts of true feeling have endured, could she always have been as sincere and single-hearted as she was at such times, she would have been a great and good woman. Genius, ambition, firmness, courage, all these she had, but insincerity and suspicion warped a noble nature. To Calvert, just then, she seemed the incarnation of great womanhood, and 'twas with the utmost fervor that he pressed her to allow himself and her other faithful friends to serve her.
"In a few weeks all will be ready," he says. "I go from here to the frontier to visit and, if possible, win over those troops whose loyalty to your Majesties has been in question; then on to secure a safe retreat in case our plan fails, which, pray God, it may not! Either Worms, where Monsieur de Condé is powerful, or Spire, whose Prince-Bishop is most devoted to your Majesties, will surely offer its hospitality and protection. It depends only on your Majesties' firmness to escape from this capital and captivity. Through letters to my wife" (Calvert hesitated slightly—'twas the first time he had so used the word) "your Majesties will know exactly the situation of affairs outside of Paris, and through her replies we must know what takes place in the palace. Kept informed of each other's movements, 'twill be easy to fix upon the best day for striking the blow we have in contemplation, and, if you will but do your part, it must needs be successful." As he concluded his urgent appeal he rose from his knees and stood before the King and Queen, glancing anxiously from one to the other. His face expressed so much earnestness and enthusiasm that their Majesties could not help but be impressed.