CHAPTER IV
AT THE PALAIS ROYAL
It was in pursuance of his favorite plan to make Calvert his secretary, should he be appointed Minister to the court of Louis XVI., that Mr. Jefferson wrote to the young man four years later, inviting him to come to France. This invitation was eagerly accepted, and it was thus that Mr. Calvert found himself in company with Beaufort at the American Legation in Paris on that February evening in the year 1789.
When the great doors of the Legation had shut upon the two young men, they found themselves under the marquise where Beaufort's sleigh—a very elaborate and fantastic affair—awaited them. Covering themselves with the warm furs, they set off at a furious pace down the Champs Elysées to the Place Louis XV. It was both surprising and alarming to Calvert to note with what reckless rapidity Beaufort drove through the crowded boulevard, where pedestrians mingled perforce with carriages, sleighs, and chairs, there being no foot pavements, and with what smiling indifference he watched their efforts to get out of his horses' way.
"'Tis insufferable, my dear Calvert," he said, when his progress was stopped entirely by a crowd of people, who poured out of a small street abutting upon the boulevard, "'tis insufferable that this rabble cannot make way for a gentleman's carriage."
"I should think the rabble would find it insufferable that a gentleman's carriage should be driven so recklessly in this crowded thoroughfare, my dear Beaufort," returned Calvert, quietly, looking intently at that same rabble as it edged and shuffled and slipped its way along into the great street. At Calvert's remark, the young Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his reins over his impatient horses until the chime of silver bells around their necks rang again. "As usual—in revolt against the powers that be," he laughed.
Calvert leaned forward. "What is it?" he said. "There seems to be some commotion. They are carrying something."
'Twas as he had said. In the crowd of poor-looking people was a still closer knot of men, evidently carrying some heavy object.
"Qu'est ce qu'il y a, mon ami?" said Calvert, touching a man on the shoulder who had been pushed close to the sleigh. The man addressed looked around. He was poorly and thinly clothed, with only a ragged muffler knotted about his throat to keep off the stinging cold. From under his great shaggy eyebrows a pair of wild, sunken eyes gleamed ferociously, but there was a smile upon his lips.
"'Tis nothing, M'sieur," he said, nonchalantly. "'Tis only a poor wretch who has died from the cold and they are taking him away. You see he could not get any charcoal this morning when he went to Monsieur Juigné. 'Tis best so." He turned away carelessly, and, forcing himself through the crowd, was soon lost to sight.
"There are many such," said Beaufort, gloomily, in answer to Calvert's look of inquiry. "What will you have? The winter has been one of unexampled, of never-ending cold. The government, the curés, the nobles have done much for the poor wretches, but it has been impossible to relieve the suffering. They have, at least, to be thankful that freezing is such an easy death, and when all is said, they are far better off dead than alive. But it is extremely disagreeable to see the shivering scarecrows on the streets, and they ought to be kept to the poorer quarters of the city." He had thrown off his look of gloom and spoke carelessly, though with an effort, as he struck the horses, which started again down the great avenue.
Calvert looked for an instant at Beaufort. "'Tis unlike you to speak so," he said, at length. Indeed, ever since the young man had come into the breakfast-room at the Legation, Calvert had been puzzled by some strange difference in his former friend. It was not that the young Frenchman was so much more elaborately and exquisitely dressed than in the days when Calvert had known him in America, or that he was older or of more assurance of manner. There was some subtle change in his very nature, in the whole impression he gave out, or so it seemed to Calvert. There was an air of flippancy, of careless gayety, about Beaufort now very unlike the ingenuous candor, the boyish simplicity, of the Beaufort who had served as a volunteer under Rochambeau in the war of American independence.
"What will you have?" he asked again, nonchalantly. "Wait until you have been in Paris awhile and you will better understand our manner of speech. 'Tis a strange enough jargon, God knows," he said, laughing in a disquieted fashion. "And France is not America."
"I see."
"And though the cold is doubtless unfortunate for the poor, the rich have enjoyed the winter greatly. Why, I have not had such sport since d'Azay and I used to go skating on your Schuylkill!" He flicked the horses again. "And as for the ladies!—they crowd to the pièces d'eau in the royal gardens. Those that can't skate are pushed about in chairs upon runners or drive all day in their sleighs. 'Tis something new, and, you know, Folly must be ever amused."
Even while he spoke numbers of elegantly mounted sleighs swept by, and to the fair occupants of many of them Beaufort bowed with easy grace. Here and there along the wide street great fires were burning, tended by curés in their long cassocks and crowded around by shivering men and women. The doors of the churches and hospitals stood open, and a continual stream of freezing wretches passed in to get warmed before proceeding on their way. Upon many houses were large signs bearing a notice to the effect that hot soup would be served free during certain hours, and a jostling, half-starved throng was standing at each door. There was a sort of terror of misery and despair over the whole scene, brilliant though it was, which affected Calvert painfully.
"Where are you going to take me?" he asked Beaufort, as the horses turned into the Place Louis XV.
"Where should I be taking you but to the incomparable Palais Royal, the capital of Paris as Paris is of France?" returned Beaufort, gayly. "'Tis a Parisian's first duty to a stranger. There you will see the world in little, hear all the latest news and the most scandalous gossip, find the best wines and coffee, read the latest pamphlets—and let me tell you, my dear Calvert, they come out daily by the dozens in these times—see the best-known men about town, and—but I forget. I am telling you of what the Palais Royal used to be. In these latter times it has changed greatly," he spoke gloomily now. "'Tis the gathering-place of Orléans men in these days, and they are fast turning into a Hell what was once very nearly an earthly Paradise!"
"You seem to know the place well," said Mr. Calvert.
"No man of fashion but knows it," returned Beaufort, "though I think 'twill soon be deserted by all of us who love the King."
"You were not so fond of kings in America," said Calvert, smiling a little.
"I was young and hot-headed then. No, no, Calvert, I have learned many things since Yorktown. Nor do I regret what I then did, but"—he paused an instant—"I see trouble ahead for my country and my class. Shall I not stick to my King and my order? There will be plenty who will desert both. 'Tis not the fashion to be loyal now," he went on, bitterly. "Even d'Azay hath changed. He, like Lafayette and your great friend Mr. Jefferson and so many others, is all for the common people. Perhaps I am but a feather-headed fool, but it seems to me a dangerous policy, and I think, with your Shakespeare, that perhaps 'twere better 'to bear the ills we have'—how goes it? I can never remember verse."
As he finished speaking, he reined in his horses sharply, and looking about him, Calvert perceived that they had stopped before a building whose massive exterior was most imposing. Alighting and throwing the reins to the groom, Beaufort led Calvert under the arcades of the Palais Royal and into the grand courtyard, where were such crowds and such babel of noises as greatly astonished the young American. Shops lined the sides of the vast building—shops of every variety, filled with every kind of luxury known to that luxurious age; cafés whose reputation had spread throughout Europe, swarming with people, all seemingly under the influence of some strange agitation; book-stalls teeming with brand-new publications and crowded with eager buyers; marionette shows; theatres; dancing-halls—all were there. Boys, bearing trays slung about their shoulders by leathern straps and heaped with little trick toys, moved continually among the throngs, hawking their wares and explaining the operation of them. Streams of people passed continually through the velvet curtains hung before Herr Curtius's shop to see his marvellous waxworks within. Opposite this popular resort was the Théâtre de Seraphim, famed for its "ombres chinoises," and liberally patronized by the frequenters of the Palais Royal. A little farther along under the arcades was the stall where Mademoiselle la Pierre, the Prussian giantess, could be seen for a silver piece. Next to this place of amusement was a small salon containing a mechanical billiard-table, over which a billiard-ball, when adroitly struck, would roll, touching the door of a little gilded chateau and causing the images of celebrated personages to appear at each of the windows, to the huge delight of the easily amused crowds.
Cold as the afternoon was, the press of people was tremendous, and besides the numbers bent on amusement, throngs of men stood about under the wind-swept arcades, talking excitedly, some with frightened, furtive face and air, others boldly and recklessly.
As they passed along, Calvert noted with surprise that Beaufort seemed to have but few acquaintances among the crowds of gesticulating, excited men, and that the look of disquiet upon his face was intensifying each moment. When they reached the Café de l'École, the storm burst.
"'Tis an infernal shame," he said, angrily, sinking into a chair at a small table, and pointing Calvert to the one opposite him, "'tis an infernal shame that this pleasure palace should be made the hotbed of political intrigue; that these brawling, demented demagogues should be allowed to rant and rave here to an excited mob; that these disloyal, seditious pamphlets should be distributed and read and discussed beneath the windows of the King's own cousin! The King must be mad to permit this folly, which increases daily. Where will it end?" He looked at Calvert and clapped his hands together. A waiter came running up.
"What will you have, Calvert?—some of the best cognac and coffee?" he asked. "There is no better to be found in all France than here."
"'Twill suit me excellently," said Calvert, absently, thinking more of what Beaufort had told him of the tendencies of the times than of the coffee and cognac of the Café de l'École. As he spoke, the man, who had stood by passively awaiting his orders, suddenly started and looked at the young American attentively.
"But—pardon, Messieurs," he stammered, "is it possible that I see Monsieur Calvert at Paris?" Beaufort looked up in astonishment at the servant who had so far forgotten himself as to address two gentlemen without permission, and Calvert, turning to the man and studying his face for an instant, suddenly seized him by the hand cordially, and exclaimed, "My good Bertrand, is it indeed you?"
"Ah! Monsieur—what happiness! I had never thought to see Monsieur again!"
"Then you were destined to be greatly mistaken, Bertrand," returned Calvert, laughing, "for you are likely to see me often. I am to be here in Paris for an indefinite length of time, and as Monsieur de Beaufort tells me that the Café de l'École surpasses all others, I shall be here very frequently."
"And now," broke in Beaufort, addressing the man, who still stood beaming with delight and surprise upon Calvert, "go and get us our coffee and cognac." The man departed hastily and Beaufort turned to Calvert.
"Allow me to congratulate you upon finding an acquaintance in Paris so soon! May I ask who the gentleman is?"
"The gentleman was once a private in a company under Monsieur de Lafayette's orders before Yorktown, and is my very good friend," says Calvert, quietly, ignoring Beaufort's somewhat disdainful raillery. What he did not tell Beaufort was that Private Bertrand owed his life and much material aid to himself, and that the man was profoundly devoted and grateful. In Calvert's estimation it was but a simple service he had rendered the poor soldier—rescuing him from many dying and wounded comrades who had fallen in that first fierce onslaught upon the Yorktown redoubt. He had directed the surgeon to dress the man's wounds—he had been knocked on the head with a musket—and had eased the poor wretch's mind greatly by speaking to him in his own tongue, for most of the French soldiery under Rochambeau and Lafayette knew not a word of English. When Bertrand recovered, Calvert had sent him a small sum of money and a kind message, neither of which was the man likely to forget. Never, in the whole course of his pinched, oppressed young life in France, had kindness and consideration been shown him from those above him. Tyranny and abuse had been his lot and the lot of those all about him, and such a passionate devotion for the young American officer was kindled in his breast as would have greatly astonished its object had he known it. It was with an almost ludicrous air of solicitude that Bertrand placed the coffee before Calvert and poured out his cognac and then hung about, waiting anxiously for any sign or word from him.
"Is it not the best coffee in the world?" said Beaufort, sipping his complacently and looking about the crowded room for a familiar face. Apparently he found none, for, leaning across the table and speaking to Calvert quite loudly and in an insolent tone, he said, "'Tis a good thing the coffee is of the best, or, my word of honor, I would not come to a place which gentlemen seem to have abandoned and to which canaille flock." And with that he leaned back and looked about him with a fine nonchalance. There was a little murmur of suppressed ejaculations and menaces from those nearest who had heard his words, but it soon subsided at the sight of Monsieur de Beaufort's handsome face and reckless air.
"There is also another charm about the Café de l'École, my dear Calvert," he said, speaking in a slightly lower tone and with an appreciative smile. "Monsieur Charpentier, our host, has a most undeniably pretty daughter. She is the caissière, fortunately, and may be seen—and admired—at any time. We will see her as we go out. And speaking of beauties," he continued, turning the stem of his wine-glass slowly around, "you have asked no word of Mademoiselle d'Azay—or, I should say, Madame la Marquise de St. André!"
"Ah!" said Calvert, politely, "is she married?"
"What a cold-blooded creature!" said Beaufort, laughing. "Let me tell you, Calvert, the marriage which you take so nonchalantly was the sensation of Paris. It was the talk of the town for weeks, and the strangest marriage—if marriage it can be called—ever heard of. 'Tis now three years since Mademoiselle Adrienne d'Azay finished her studies at the Couvent de Marmoutier ('tis an old abbaye on the banks of the Loire, Calvert, near Azay-le-Roi, the château of the d'Azay family) and came to dazzle all Paris under the chaperonage of her great aunt, the old Duchesse d'Azay. As you have seen her portrait—and, I dare say, remember its smallest detail—I will spare you the recital of those charms which captivated half the young gentlemen of our world on her first appearance at court. She became the rage, and, before six months had passed, Madame d'Azay had arranged a marriage with the rich old St. André. She would sell her own soul for riches, Calvert; judge, therefore, how willingly she would sell her niece's soul." He paused an instant and tapped impatiently on the table for another glass of cognac.
"It was a great match, I suppose," hazarded Calvert.
"Oh, yes; Monsieur de St. André was a man high in the confidence of both the King and Queen—and let me tell thee, 'tis no easy matter to please both the King and Queen—and a man of rank and fortune. 'Tis safe to say the Duchess was most concerned as to his fortune, which was enormous. He was a trifle old, however, for Mademoiselle d'Azay, he being near sixty-five, and she but eighteen."
"Gracious Heaven!" ejaculated Calvert. "What a cruel wrong to so young a creature! What a marriage!"
"Upon my word, I believe only the recital of wrong has power to stir that cold American blood of thine," said Beaufort, laughing again. "But do not excite yourself too much. After all 'twas scarcely a marriage, for, within an hour after the ceremony, the elderly bridegroom was alone in his travelling coach on his way to Madrid, sent thither at the instant and urgent command of the King on important private business connected with the Family Compact. From that journey he never returned alive, being attacked with a fatal fluxion of the lungs at a great public banquet given in his honor by Count Florida Blanca. His body was brought back to France, and his soi-disant widow mourned him decorously for a year. Since then she has been the gayest, as she is the fairest, creature in the great world of Paris."
"Is she, indeed, so beautiful?" asked Calvert, indifferently.
"She is truly incomparable," returned Beaufort, warmly. "And I promise thee, Ned," he went on, in his reckless fashion, "that that cool head of thine and that stony heart—if thou hast a heart, which I scarce believe—will be stirred at sight of Madame de St. André, or I know not the power of a lovely face—and no man knows better the power of a lovely face than I, who am moved by every one I see!" he added, laughing ruefully. "Besides her beauty and her fortune, there is a wayward brilliancy about her, a piquant charm in her state of widowed maid, that makes her fairly irresistible. The Queen finds her charming and that Madame de Polignac is pleased to be jealous. 'Tis even said that d'Artois and d'Orléans, those archenemies, agree only in finding her enchanting, and the rumor goes that 'twas d'Artois's influence that sent the elderly husband off post-haste to Madrid. A score of gentlemen dangle after her constantly, though apparently there is no one she prefers—unless," he hesitated, and Calvert noticed that he paled a little and spoke with an effort, "unless it be Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire."
"And who is Monsieur de St. Aulaire?" inquired Calvert.
"A most charming man and consummate villain," says Beaufort, with a gloomy smile. "The fine fleur of our aristocracy, a maker of tender rhymes, a singer of tender songs, a good swordsman, a brilliant wit, a perfect courtier, a lucky gambler—in a word, just that fortunate combination of noble and ignoble qualities most likely to fascinate Madame de St. André," and a shadow settled for a moment on the debonair face of Monsieur de Beaufort.
It did not need that shadow or that effort at light raillery to inform Calvert that Beaufort himself was an unsuccessful unit in the "score of gentlemen who dangled after" Madame de St. André, and he would have essayed to offer his friend some comfort had he known how. But the truth was that Calvert, never having experienced the anguish and delights of love, felt a natural hesitation in proffering either sympathy or advice to one so much wiser than himself.
While he was revolving some expression of interest (it was always his way to think well before speaking and to keep silent if his thoughts were not to his entire satisfaction), a sudden murmur, which rapidly developed into a deep roar as it drew nearer, was heard outside, and at the Café de l'École the shouting ceased and one man's voice, harsh, incisive, agitated, could be heard above all the others. Looking through the wide glass doors Calvert and Beaufort saw in the gathering dusk the possessor of that voice being raised hurriedly upon the shoulders of those who stood nearest him in the throng, and in that precarious position he remained for a few minutes haranguing the turbulent mass of people. Suddenly he sprang down, and, elbowing his way through the crowd, he entered the Café de l'École, followed by as many as could squeeze themselves into the already crowded room.
"What is it?" Beaufort demanded, languidly, of Bertrand. The man, by tiptoeing, was trying to see over the heads of the smokers and drinkers, who had risen to their feet and were applauding the orator who had just entered.
"It is Monsieur Danton who is come in. He is making his way to the caisse, doubtless to speak with Madame, his wife. Evidently Monsieur has just addressed a throng in the Gardens."
"Ah! then 'tis certainly time that we go, since Monsieur Danton invades the place. 'Tis a poverty-stricken young lawyer from Arcis-sur-Aube, my dear Calvert," said Beaufort, disdainfully, "who has but lately come to Paris and who, having no briefs to occupy his time, fills it to good advantage by wooing and marrying the pretty Charpentier. The pretty Charpentier has a pretty dot. I can't show you the dot, but come with me and I will show you the beauty."
He got up from the table followed by Calvert and, with his hand laid lightly on his silver dress sword, made his way easily through the surly crowd, who, seemingly impelled by some irresistible power and against their wish, opened a passage for him and the young stranger. As they drew near the comptoir, Calvert perceived for the first time, leaning against it, the man who had created such an excitement by his words and sudden entrance. He was a big, burly figure, with a head and face that had something of the bull in them. Indeed, they had come by that resemblance honestly, for a bull had tossed him, goring the lips and flattening the nose, and the marks were never to be effaced. Smallpox, too, had left its sign in the deeply scarred skin. Only the eyes remained to show one what might have been the original beauty of the face. They shone, brilliant and keen, from beneath great tufted eyebrows, above which waved a very lion's mane of rough, dark hair.
"A face to be remembered, this Monsieur Danton's," said Calvert to himself. And, indeed, it was. Years afterward, when he saw it again and for the last time, every detail of that rugged countenance was as fresh in his memory as it was at that moment in the Café de l'École. As for Danton, all unconscious of the young American's scrutiny, his gaze was bent upon the pretty, vivacious little beauty who sat behind the caisse, and had so lately become Madame Danton. As he looked, the harsh features softened and a sentimental expression came into the keen eyes. "'Tis the same conquered, slavish look the painter hath put into the lion's face when Ariadne is by," mused Calvert to himself.
Beaufort was counting out silver pieces slowly, and slowly dropping them on the caissière's desk. He looked at Calvert and nodded appreciatively, coolly toward Madame Danton.
"Quelle charmante tête," he said, lightly, nonchalantly.
The burly figure leaning on the comptoir straightened up as if stung into action; the softened eyes kindled with speechless wrath and flamed into the imperturbable, debonair face of Monsieur de Beaufort. One of the silver pieces rolled upon the floor. Calvert stooped quickly for it. "Madame will permit me," he said, courteously, and, lifting his hat, placed the coin upon the desk. Without another look or word he turned and, followed leisurely by Beaufort, made his way to the door.
"An insolent," said Danton, savagely, to Madame, and gazing after
Beaufort's retreating back.
"Yes," returned Madame, grinding her pretty teeth with rage—"Monsieur le Vicomte de Beaufort is an insolent—and not for the first time."
"I shall remember Monsieur le Vicomte de Beaufort's insolence as well as
I shall remember the Englishman's politeness."
Bertrand edged nearer the herculean Monsieur Danton. "Pardon, M'sieur," he commenced, nervously, "it is not an Englishman—it is an American—a young American officer—Monsieur Calvert—aide-decamp to Monsieur le Marquis de Lafayette, before Yorktown. A patriot of patriots, Messieurs," he went on, turning to the listening throng about him; "a lover of freedom, a compassionate heart. He saved me from death, Messieurs, he gave me money, he sent me clothing, he saw that I was fed and cared for, Messieurs." He told his story with many gesticulations and much emphasis, interrupted now and then by huzzas for the young American.
Calvert would have been vastly astonished to know that the lifting of his hat and his courteous tone had contrived to make a popular hero of him; as much astonished, perhaps, as Beaufort to know that his careless, impertinent compliment to Madame Danton's charming head had sealed the fate of his own. But 'tis in this hap-hazard fashion that the destiny of mortals is decided. We are but the victims of chance or mischance. Of all vainglorious philosophies, that of predestination is the vainest.
Outside, the night had fallen, and the shops, arcades, and gardens of the Palais Royal were ablaze with innumerable candles and illuminated Chinese lanterns. Before the entrance Monsieur de Beaufort's groom was walking his half-frozen and restless horses up and down the icy street.
Beaufort laid his hand on Calvert's arm. "Come," he said, gloomily, "the place is become insufferable. Let me take you back to the Legation." Springing in he turned his horses' heads once more toward the Place Louis XV. and the Champs Elysées, and, while he guided them through the crowded and badly lighted thoroughfare, Calvert had leisure to think upon the events of the last hour. It was with resentment and shame he reflected upon his friend's airy insolence to the pretty caissière of the Café de l'École. That it should have been offered in her husband's presence was a gratuitous aggravation of the offence. That it should have been offered her with such disdainful contempt for any objection on her part or her husband's, with such easy assurance that there could be no objections on their part, was another gratuitous aggravation of the offence. In that noble insolence Calvert read a sign of the times more legible than the clearest writing in the pamphlets flooding the book-stalls of the Palais Royal.
CHAPTER V
THE PRIVATE SECRETARY
They drove in silence almost to the rue Neuve de Berry, Calvert musing on the strange glimpse he had had of life in Paris, Beaufort busy with his restless horses. At the grille of the Legation Calvert alighted and Beaufort bade him good-by, still with the gloomy, foreboding look on his handsome face.
When Calvert had mounted the great stairway, with the carved salamanders on the balustrade ever crawling their way up and down, he found Mr. Jefferson sitting alone before the bright fire in his library. As soon as he heard the young man's step he looked up eagerly.
"At last!" he cried. "I was wishing that you would come in. Mr. Morris has just been despatched in my carriage to the rue Richelieu, and I was beginning to wonder what that wild Beaufort had done with you to keep you so late."
"We are but just returned from a sight of the Palais Royal," said Calvert, throwing off his great-coat and sitting down beside Mr. Jefferson, who rang for candles and a box of his Virginia tobacco. "And a strange enough sight it was—a turbulent crowd, and much political speaking from hoarse-throated giants held aloft on their friends' shoulders." "A strange enough place, indeed," said Mr. Jefferson, shaking his head and smiling a little at Calvert's wholesale description of it. "'Tis the political centre of Paris, in fact, and though the crowds may be turbulent and the orators windy, yet 'tis there that the fruitful seed of the political harvest, which this great country will reap with such profit, is being sown. 'Despise not the day of small things,'" he went on, cheerfully. "These rude, vehement orators, with their narrow, often erroneous, ideas, are nevertheless doing a good work. They are opening the minds of the ignorant, clearing a way for broader, higher ideals to lodge therein; they are the pioneers, in this hitherto undiscovered country for France, of civil liberty, and of freedom of thought and action."
"And these vehement orators, with their often erroneous ideas—will they do no harm? Will these pioneers not lead their fellows astray in that undiscovered country?" suggested Calvert, not without a blush to think that he had the temerity to question the soundness of Mr. Jefferson's views.
"Were we not inexperienced, hot-headed men who gathered in the Apollo room at the Raleigh to protest against the proceedings in Massachusetts? Were we not rash, windy orators in the House of Burgesses—nay, in Congress itself? Yet did we not accomplish great things—great good?" He laid his hand affectionately on the shoulder of the young man who remained silent, revolving many things, Aeneas-like, but too modest to oppose himself further to Mr. Jefferson.
"No, no, my boy," continued Mr. Jefferson, after an instant's silence, "do not believe that the awakening which made of us a great nation will not be equally glorious for France! And with such leaders as are hers, will she not march proudly and triumphantly forward to her day of glory? Will not a Lafayette do even more for his own country than ever he did for America? Even I have been able to help somewhat. 'Tis true, as Minister from the United States of America, I cannot use my official influence, but surely as a patriot, as an American citizen who is profoundly, overwhelmingly grateful for the aid, the generosity, the friendship of this great country, I can give counsel, the results of our experience, a word of encouragement, of good cheer."
He paused, his noble face alight with enthusiasm and emotion. Of all the fine traits of that fine character none was more strongly marked than that of gratitude. Never ashamed to show it, his only fear was that he might not prove grateful enough. Other Americans, of as great talents and colder hearts, could find it easy to believe that France had extended her aid to us for diplomatic purposes—to guard her own interests and humble her adversary, England—could look on with neutral eyes at her awful struggles, could keep America calmly aloof from all her entanglements. Not so Mr. Jefferson. Such a return for her services seemed to him but the acme of selfishness and ingratitude. It was not bad statesmanship that made him bear so long with the blunders, the impertinences, the fatuity of Monsieur Genet; it was the remembrance of all the benefits showered upon us by the country which that charlatan represented. Perhaps 'tis well that those who hold the welfare of a nation in their hands should, like the gods, feel neither fear, nor anger, nor love, nor hatred, nor gratitude—in a word, should be unmoved by forces that sway the common mortal, so that, free from all earthly claims, that nation soars away to dizzying heights of prosperity and power. Pro bono publico is a wellnigh irresistible plea. But there are statesmen in whose code of morals national virtues are identical with personal virtues, national crimes with personal crimes. Such a one was Mr. Jefferson.
"No, no," he went on, musingly, filling his long pipe with the mild, fragrant Virginia tobacco which had been shipped to him in the packet of two months back, "we must not forget our obligations. Would that we could pay some of the moneyed ones! The finances of this country are in a deplorable state and there are millions of indebtedness on account of our war. But if we cannot do that, we can, at least, give our moral aid to those who are trying to bring about great reforms in this kingdom—reforms which, I hope, will be carried through at the forthcoming States-General to be held in May. Already the elections are preparing, and some of our friends will undoubtedly represent their orders. D'Azay and Lafayette will assuredly be nominated from the noblesse."
"General de Lafayette and d'Azay!" said Calvert. "I should like to see them again. The last time was at Monticello."
"Yes, yes," returned Mr. Jefferson, smiling at the pleasant recollection of that last evening in Virginia. "Lafayette is still in Auvergne, I believe, busy with his elections, so that I fear he will not be here tomorrow, the evening of the weekly Legation reception. But d'Azay will doubtless present himself, since Monsieur de Beaufort tells us he returns tomorrow. Indeed, he and his aunt, Madame la Duchesse d'Azay, and his sister, the lovely Madame de St. André, are among my stanchest friends in this great city and nearly always do me the honor to be my guests at the receptions and dinners I find it both so agreeable and necessary to give. I have already engaged Mr. Morris's company for the evening. It will give me great pleasure to introduce two such Americans to the world of Paris," and he laid his hand affectionately, in his customary fashion, on the young man's shoulder.
As Mr. Jefferson had said, he entertained frequently, and 'twas a very brilliant society that gathered at least once a week in the salon of the minister from the young Republic, drawn thither by policy, curiosity, respect and admiration for Mr. Jefferson, a desire to consult him on the important topics of the hour, and a certain freedom from constraint—a feeling as of being on neutral ground. For already the salons of Paris were divided against themselves. No longer simply the gatherings of fashionable, of charming, of frivolous men and women, they had grown somewhat serious with the seriousness of the time. In the salon of Madame Necker gathered the solid supporters of the King, and, above all, the solid supporters of Monsieur Necker, who was at the height of his power and complacently ready to play the role of saviour to his country. At the Palais Royal crowded the queer followers of Monsieur le Duc d'Orléans, the enemies of the King. At the house of the beautiful Théroigne de Méricourt were to be found the men of the most advanced, the most revolutionary, ideas, the future murderers and despoilers of France. In the salon of the exquisite Madame de Sabran flocked all those young aristocrats, wits, sprigs of nobility, who believed in nothing in Heaven or earth save in the Old Order. There was the serious circle around Madame de Tessé, where new ideas were advanced and discussed, and there was the gay circle of Madame de Beauharnais, whose chief attractions were her delightful dinners, and who, the wits declared, had "intended to found a salon, but had only succeeded in starting a restaurant." Besides these, there were a dozen other important centres representing as many different shades of political faith. But in the salon of the American Legation gathered the best of every following, for, although Mr. Jefferson's democratic principles were, of course, well and widely known, yet was he so respected, his moderation and fairness so recognized, that all considered it an honor to be his friend and his presence a guarantee of amicable discussion and good-fellowship.
"I shall be very glad to meet your new friends, sir," said Calvert, smiling back at Mr. Jefferson as that gentleman arose and stood with his back to the fire, his tall, thin figure silhouetted by the firelight on the wall (the candles were still unlit), his hands clasped lightly behind his back, as was his wont. "I had the pleasure of meeting an old one this afternoon."
"Indeed," said Mr. Jefferson, "and who was that?"
"A poor French private named Bertrand, who served in a company under General de Lafayette's orders in the attack on Yorktown, and whom I had the occasion to know rather well. I fancy," he went on, smiling a little at the recollection of Beaufort's haughtiness, "that Beaufort was somewhat amazed at the cordiality of our meeting."
"Beaufort!" ejaculated Mr. Jefferson, and a slight frown gathered on his forehead. "I fancy that Beaufort and his ilk will be amazed at many things shortly. Ned, I warn you to beware of him. He has changed greatly since the days when he fought so gallantly under Rochambeau in our great War of Independence. He has become an aristocrat of aristocrats, a popinjay, a silken dandy, like most of the young nobles at this court. He is high in the King's favor and devoted to his cause. Though your friendships and opinions can have no official weight, as you are my private secretary, still 'twere well to be careful, to be as neutral as possible, to occasion no offence. And, indeed, Mr. Secretary," he went on, shaking off his serious air and speaking in a lighter tone, "I should be instructing you in your duties, explaining the diplomatic situation to you, instead of discussing foolish young noblemen like Monsieur de Beaufort."
"I shall remember your advice, Mr. Jefferson," said Calvert, quietly, "and I am ready for any instructions and duties."
"After all, 'twill be unwise to begin them this evening," returned Mr. Jefferson, shaking his head. "You are doubtless wearied with your journey, and we had better postpone your induction into office until to-morrow, when we can take the whole day for business. You can have no idea, my dear Ned, of the numberless affairs put into our hands," he went on, with a note of anxiety in his voice, "or with what difficulty many of them are arranged. The constant change of ministers is most disconcerting among the many disconcerting factors of official existence here, and just now I am harassed by my non-success in getting from Congress an appropriation to pay bills for medals and for the redemption of our captives. It seems that the interest on the Dutch loans until 1790 must be paid before other claims, which leaves but a small chance for those bills to be liquidated. By the way, to-morrow you must write me a letter to Monsieur de Villedeuil à propos of a Mr. Nesbit and his debts—an affair lately put into our care. But there! no business this evening. 'Tis but a short while before dinner, which you and I will take quite alone this evening, Ned, and you must tell me of yourself and what you have been doing all these years at the College of Princeton."
Mr. Jefferson looked at the young man before him with such affectionate interest that Calvert, though he was the least talkative or egotistic of mortals, found himself telling of his college life, the vacations at Strathore, and his visits to Philadelphia and New York.
Now and then one sees a person in the mezzo cammin of his years so happily constituted by nature as to attract and be attracted by youth. He seems to hold some fortunate, ever-youthful principle of life denied to the rest of us. It was so with Mr. Jefferson. Statesman, philosopher, scientist himself, he yet numbered the young and inexperienced among his many friends, and not one of them held so warm a place in his affections as young Calvert of Strathore. He had received from Dr. Witherspoon the accounts of his career at college, where, although never greatly popular, he had won his way by his quiet self-reliance, entire sincerity, and the accuracy and solidity of his mind rather than by any brilliancy of intellect. These sterling gifts had first attracted Mr. Jefferson's notice and excited his admiration and affection. The lonely condition of the young man, too, though borne by him in that uncomplaining fashion characteristic of him, touched Mr. Jefferson, the more, perhaps, for the very silence and stoicism with which 'twas supported. He was, therefore, greatly surprised when he heard Calvert allude to it for the first time on that winter's afternoon. The young man had taken Mr. Jefferson's place before the open fire and now stood leaning against the chimney-piece as he talked, while Mr. Jefferson, sitting beside the reading-table, drew deep whiffs of the fragrant tobacco from his long pipe and listened interestedly to what Calvert had to say, smiling now and then appreciatively. After a little the young man ceased to speak and stood gazing meditatively into the glowing logs.
"A word more, Mr. Jefferson," he said, at length, still gazing into the gleaming embers. As he stood so, looking down into the fire, the flickering light leaped up and played upon his quiet face, upon the clean-cut lips, the firm jaw, the aquiline nose, the broad, smooth brow, from which the dark-brown hair, unpowdered, waved back, tied at the neck with a black ribbon whose ends fell down upon the broad young shoulders. Perhaps it was the changing light, or perhaps it was the shadow from his uplifted hand on which he lightly leaned his head, that made his eyes seem dark and troubled, and quite unlike their usual serene selves. As Mr. Jefferson looked at the young man an uneasy thought took shape in his mind that that face's cheerful expression had altered since it had entered his doors, that the shadow of a change had somehow come upon it.
"A word more," said Calvert again, resting his foot upon one of the burnished andirons, and removing his gaze from the flickering fire to Mr. Jefferson's attentive face. "I believe that not in my letters, and assuredly not since getting here, have I thanked you gratefully enough for summoning me to you. 'Tis such an honor and a pleasure to be with you, to work for you, that I cannot express myself as I would like, sir. Indeed, I have long years of kindnesses, of interest, of affectionate concern for my welfare, to thank you for. I do not think you can ever know what all that means to one so entirely alone as I am and have been almost since I could remember. 'Tis only in the last few years," he went on, hurriedly, and lowering his hand still more over his serious eyes, "that I have entirely realized what it is to be without kindred. I have to thank you and a few other kind friends that the knowledge has been so long withheld from me."
Mr. Jefferson looked at the young figure, with its unusual air of sadness, bending over the firelight. Rising, he went over to him and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"There can be no question of thanks between us, Ned," he said at length, simply. "I love you as though you were my son, and it is the greatest pleasure to have you with me." And, indeed, it seemed so and as if he could not do enough for his young secretary. And that night, when the quiet dinner was over and they were ready to retire, he himself lighted Calvert to his bed-chamber and left him with such an affectionate good-night that the young man felt happier and more at home in that strange house in Paris than though he had been at Strathore itself, with no three thousand miles of vexed ocean between himself and Virginia.
CHAPTER VI
MR. CALVERT MEETS OLD AND NEW FRIENDS
The day after Calvert's arrival was a long and busy one for him. He was closeted from morning until night with Mr. Jefferson, who explained to him the many private affairs awaiting transaction, as well as much of the important official business of the Legation. It was also necessary that he should be thoroughly au courant with the political outlook of the times and the entire state of European affairs, and in those shifting, troublesome days it was no easy matter to thoroughly understand the drift of events. Russia was the cynosure of all eyes at that moment, and on her throne sat the most ambitious, the most daring, the most brilliant, and the most successful queen the world has ever seen. Catharine's designs upon Turkey, in which she was abetted by Austria's Emperor, Joseph, threatened to disrupt Europe and caused Chatham's son to look with anxious eyes toward the East, while strengthening his hold in Holland. Poland, desperate, and struggling vainly to keep her place among European nations, was but a plaything in the hands of the Empress, aided by Prussia, who realized only too well that her own prosperity demanded the destruction of the weaker state. In the North, Gustavus ruled in isolated splendor, now lending his aid to some one of the warring continental powers, now arraying himself against the combatants to preserve some semblance of a balance of power.
Calvert threw himself with enthusiasm into his work, delighted to be able to lighten the immense labors of Mr. Jefferson (who, to tell the truth, was always overworked and underpaid), and happy to think he was of service to one who had always shown such kindness to him. So interested and energetic was the young man that Mr. Jefferson had much difficulty in getting him to lay aside his papers and make himself ready for the reception of the evening. Indeed, when, after dressing quickly, he descended to the great drawing-room, which looked quite splendid, with its multitude of wax lights and gilded mirrors, he found it already filled with a company more splendid than any he had ever before seen. As he approached, he noticed that Mr. Jefferson was conversing with a large gentleman of pompous appearance, to whom he had just presented Mr. Morris, and to whom he presented Calvert in turn as "Monsieur Necker." 'Twas with a good deal of curiosity and disappointment that Calvert saw for the first time the Minister of Finance, the greatest power for the moment in France. He was a large, heavy man, whose countenance, with its high, retreating forehead, chin of unusual length, vivid brown eyes and elevated eyebrows, was intelligent, but did not even hint at genius. There was about him an air of fatigue and laboriousness which suggested the hard-working and successful business man rather than a great statesman and financier, and the courtly richness of his embroidered velvet dress suited ill his commonplace figure. In his whole personality Calvert decided there was no suggestion of that nobility of mind and nature which so distinguished Mr. Jefferson, nor of that keen mentality and easy elegance of manner so characteristic of Mr. Gouverneur Morris.
"His looks seem to say, 'I am the man,'" whispered that gentleman to Calvert as Monsieur Necker turned aside for an instant to speak with Mr. Jefferson, and Calvert could not help smiling at the humorous and swift summing-up of the Minister's character and the merry twinkle in Mr. Morris's eye. But whatever their opinion of his talents, Monsieur Necker's cordiality was above reproach, and it was with elaborate politeness that he presented the Americans to Madame Necker. She was a very handsome woman still, retaining traces of that beauty which had fired Gibbon in his youth, and was all amiability to the two strangers, whom she introduced to her daughter, Madame la Baronne de Staël-Holstein, wife of the ambassador from Gustavus III. to the court of Louis XVI.
Madame de Staël stood with her back to the open fire, her hands clasped behind her, her brilliant black eyes flashing upon the assembled company. Although she had accomplished nothing great ('twas before she wrote "Corinne" or "De l'Allemagne"), she was already famous for her appreciation of Monsieur Rousseau. Indeed, there was something so unusual, so forceful in this large, almost masculine woman, that Calvert was as much impressed with her as he had been disappointed in Monsieur Necker. It seemed as if the mediocre talents of the Minister of Finance had flamed into genius in this leonine creature who was as much her mother's inferior in looks as her father's superior in intelligence. Mingled with this masculinity of mind and appearance was an egotism, a coquetry, a directness of thought and action that combined to make a curious personality. It was amusing to note with what assiduity she showered her attentions on Mr. Morris, the man of the world, of whom she had heard much, and with what polite indifference she dismissed Calvert—though it is but doing her justice to say that later, tiring of her ineffectual efforts to interest Mr. Morris, she made the amende honorable and essayed her coquetries on the younger man, much to his embarrassment. With a slight gesture of command she pointed Mr. Morris to a seat beside her on the divan upon which she had sunk.
"Ah! Monsieur," she said to him, with a languishing glance out of her brilliant eyes and a smile that displayed a row of wonderfully white teeth, "Monsieur de Lafayette tells me that you are un homme d'esprit."
"Madame," returned Mr. Morris, bowing low—perhaps to conceal the ironical smile playing about his lips—"I do not feel myself worthy of such a compliment."
"Mais, si!" insisted Madame de Staël, with another glance, which did not and was not meant to conceal her newly awakened interest in the distinguished-looking American. "We hear that Monsieur has even written a book on the American Constitution."
"Alas, no, Madame! 'Tis a libel, I assure you," returned Mr. Morris, this time laughing outright with the amusement he could no longer conceal. "I have but done my duty in helping to form the Constitution."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Madame de Staël, and then lowering her voice slightly and dropping her coquettish manner for a serious air, "perhaps we shall have occasion to beg of Monsieur Morris some ideas là dessus. There is nothing this poor, distracted France stands so much in need of as a constitution. My father is a great man, on whom the King and country depend for everything" ("In my life I never saw such exuberant vanity," thought Mr. Morris to himself), "but even he must fail at times if not supported by a reasonable constitution. You must come to see me, Monsieur, when we can be alone and discuss this. One who has helped to form his country's laws and has been wounded in her services," and she pointed with an eloquent, somewhat theatrical gesture to Mr. Morris's wooden stump, "cannot fail to be a good adviser."
"Oh, Madame, I must indeed cripple myself in your esteem now," says Mr. Morris, laughing again heartily. "'Twas not in my country's service that I lost my leg—'twas but a runaway accident with two fiery little ponies in Philadelphia! But, indeed," he goes on, still laughing, "I do not miss it greatly, and can get around as easily as though I were a centipede and had a hundred good legs at my disposal!"
As for Calvert, he had been only too glad to make his escape on Madame de Staël's cool dismissal, and had retreated to the side of Madame Necker, who was kindness itself to the young man, pointing out the great celebrities of the Paris world who thronged the rooms, and presenting him to many of the most famous people of the day. Thither had come Monsieur le Maréchal de Castries, Monsieur le Duc d'Aiguillon, Mr. Arthur Young, the noted English traveller, His Grace the Duc de Penthièvre, the richest and best noble of France, together with Monsieur de Montmorin, of the Foreign Affairs, and Monsieur de la Luzerne, Minister of Marine. Monsieur Houdon, the sculptor, was there, with a young poet named André Chenier, and later entered the daintily beautiful Madame de Sabran, followed by her devoted admirer, the Chevalier de Boufflers, abbé, soldier, diplomat, and courtier. Madame de Chastellux, the Duchesse d'Orléans's lady-in-waiting, whom Calvert had once met in America, was also making a tour of the salon, accompanied by that charming hedonist, Monsieur le Vicomte de Ségur, than whom there was no wilder, lighter-headed youth in Paris, unless it was his bosom friend, Beaufort, who, catching sight of Calvert standing beside Madame Necker, straightway went over to him.
"As ever, the Squire of Elderly Dames," he whispered to Calvert, smiling mockingly. "Are you looking for d'Azay? Well, he has not arrived, nor Madame la Marquise, nor Madame la Duchesse. Trust me for seeing them as soon as they come! In the meantime, my dear Calvert, there are some beauties here whom you must meet. Madame de Flahaut, for example. I shall ask Madame Necker's permission to take you to her. But wait," he said, with a little laugh, and, laying a hand on Calvert's arm, "we are forestalled! See, Mr. Morris is just being presented," and he motioned to where a beautiful young woman sat, before whom Mr. Morris was making a most profound bow. Calvert thought he had rarely seen a more lovely face, though there was a touch of artificiality about it, young as it was, which he did not admire. The soft, fair hair was thickly powdered, the cheeks rouged, and the whiteness of the chin and forehead enhanced by many patches. The eyes were intelligent, but restless and insincere, the mouth too small.
"'Twill have to be for another time, Calvert," said Beaufort, after an instant's pause, during which Mr. Morris installed himself beside the lady with the evident intention of staying. "'Tis plain that the beautiful Madame de Flahaut has thrown her spell over him, and 'twill not do to break it just yet. But by St. Denis!" he suddenly whispered to Calvert, "here comes d'Azay with the Duchess and Madame de St. André, attended as usual by St. Aulaire."
Calvert followed Beaufort's glance and saw entering the room his friend d'Azay, at whose side, slowly and proudly, walked an old woman. She bore herself with a nobility of carriage Calvert had never seen equalled, and her face, wrinkled and powdered and painted though it was, was the face of one who had been beautiful and used to command. Her dark eyes were still brilliant and glittered humorously and shrewdly from beneath their bushy brows. The lean, veined neck, bedecked with diamonds, was still poised proudly on the bent shoulders. Her wrecked beauty was a perfect foil for the fresh loveliness of the young girl who, with a splendidly attired cavalier, followed closely behind her.
"Is she not a beauty?" said Beaufort, under his breath, to Calvert. With a start the young man recognized the original of the miniature that d'Azay had shown him that last evening at Monticello, so many years ago. It is to be doubted whether, in the interim, Calvert had bestowed a thought upon the beautiful French girl, but as he looked at the deep blue eyes shining divinely beneath the straight brows, at the crimson mouth, with its determined but lovely curves, at the cloud of dark hair about the white brow, it suddenly seemed to him as if the picture had never been out of his mind. "The Lass with the Delicate Air" was before him, but changed. The look of girlish immaturity was gone—replaced by an imperious decision of manner. A haughty, almost wayward, expression was on the smiling face—a look of dawning worldliness and caprice. 'Twas as if the thought which had once passed through Calvert's mind had come true—that countenance which had been capable of developing into noble loveliness or hardening into unpleasing, though striking, beauty, had somehow chosen the latter way. The spiritual beauty seemed now in eclipse and only the earthly, physical beauty remained.
Calvert had opportunity to note these subtle changes which time had wrought in the original of the miniature while Mr. Jefferson bent low over the withered, beringed hand of the old Duchess, and he waited his turn to be presented to the ladies. The ceremony over, he and d'Azay greeted each other as old friends and comrades-in-arms are wont to do. They had scarce time to exchange a word, however, as Monsieur de Ségur, coming up hurriedly, carried d'Azay and Beaufort away to where a group of young men were waiting for the last news of the elections. Already politics were ousting every other topic of conversation in the salon.
As for Madame de St. André, she did not at all imitate her brother's warmth of manner toward Calvert. He was conscious of an almost contemptuous iciness in her greeting, and that mentally she was unfavorably comparing him, the simply dressed, serious young American before her, with the splendid courtiers who crowded around. Certain it was that she was much more gracious in manner to Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire, who had accompanied her into the salon and still remained at her side. It was the first time that Calvert had seen St. Aulaire, and, remembering Beaufort's words about him, a sudden pang shot through his breast as he saw the young girl turn aside with him to make a tour of the rooms. For, in truth, Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire was the epitome of all that was most licentious, most unworthy, most brilliant in the Old Order, and was known throughout the kingdom by reputation—or, more properly speaking, by lack of it. But in spite of his long life of dissipation and adventure (he had campaigned with the Swiss Guards at thirteen, and, though he was much past forty, looked like a man of scarce thirty), there was still such an unrivalled grace in all he said and did, such an heroic lightness and gallantry in all he dared—and he dared everything—that he seemed to be eternally young and incomparably charming. It was with a new-born and deep disgust that Calvert noted the attentions of this man, whose life he disdained to think of, to the beautiful girl beside him. And it seemed to him that she took a wayward pleasure in charming him, though she kept him at a distance by a sort of imperious coquetry that was not to be presumed upon.
Calvert turned from his almost melancholy contemplation of the young girl to the old Duchesse d'Azay standing beside him and talking volubly to Mr. Jefferson.
"And have your friends newly arrived from America brought you news from our old friend, Dr. Franklin, Monsieur?" she asks, in her grand manner. "Ah, I wish we might see him again! I think there was never an ambassador so popular with us—snuff-boxes with his face upon them, miniatures, fans! I was present when he was crowned with laurel. We had thought it impossible to replace him, Monsieur, until you arrived!"
"Ah, Madame, I did not come to replace him," corrected Mr. Jefferson, making his best bow, and which was very courtly and deferential, indeed, "not to replace him—no one can do that—only to succeed him."
"Bien, bien, Monsieur," cried the Duchess, tapping her fan against her long, thin fingers and breaking out into an appreciative little cackle. "Monsieur understands our language" (they were both speaking French) "quite as well as that paragon of wit and erudition, Dr. Franklin himself. Ah! what a man," she went on, musingly; "'twas he who gave the Duchesse de Bourbon a lesson in chess! She put her king in prise and Monsieur Franklin promptly took it! 'But we do not take kings so,' cried Her Grace, furiously, for you may be sure she was greatly put out. 'We do in America,' said the Doctor, calmly." And she broke out laughing again in her thin, cracked voice at the recollection of the discomfiture of her archrival, the old Duchesse de Bourbon. "Truly that America of yours must be a wonderful place."
"Ah, Madame," said Mr. Jefferson—and there was a note of sadness in his voice—"I think there is no land like it, no rivers so broad and deep, no woods so green and wild, no soil so fertile, no climate so delightful. I wish I might show you but one garden-spot of it—my Virginia—to prove to you, Madame, that I do not exaggerate when I sing my country's praises. The Duc de la Rochefoucault-Liancourt promises to visit me at Monticello within the next few years. Cannot I persuade you, Madame, to come, too?"
"Ah, Monsieur, 'twould give me infinite pleasure, but I shall never leave my France—although"—and here she lowered her voice and shrugged her lean shoulders contemptuously—"did I listen to but one-half of what I hear prophesied in these revolutionary salons, to but one-half of what I hear openly discussed at the card-tables, I might accept your invitation as a refuge! But I have no fear for my King. I am not shaking with apprehension at the turn affairs are taking, like that poor-spirited little Madame de Montmorin, whose husband knows no more about foreign affairs than does my coachman, but I wish with all my heart, Monsieur, that you had kept your revolution chez vous! 'Tis a fever, this revolution of yours, and our young men return from the war and spread the contagion. They clamor for new rights, for assemblies, for States-Generals—'twas that fever-stricken young Lafayette himself who demanded that, and, instead of being in attendance at court, as a young noble should be, he is buried in Auvergne, trying to get himself elected to his own States-General! Bah! what will it all come to?" She fastened her keen, bright eyes on Mr. Jefferson's face and spoke with indomitable energy and haughtiness. "The noblesse is all-powerful. We have everything—why should we cry for something more? As for the commons, they don't know what is good for them and they have all they deserve. At any rate they will not get anything more. These contentions, these revolts of the lower orders"—she stopped, for at that instant the young Vicomte de Ségur came up and, making a profound bow, offered his arm to the Duchess.
"Madame," he said, "the Duchesse de Chastellux begs that you will join her at a table of whist." He paused a moment, and then, with a languid shrug of his shoulders and a whimsical smile, "Your Grace was speaking of the discontent of the lower orders? They are very unreasonable—these lower orders—they spoil one's Paris so!"
Calvert was about to follow the two figures into the crowd, when suddenly he heard his name called softly, and, turning, found himself beside St. Aulaire and Madame de St. André. She was looking at him, her eyes and lips smiling mockingly. Calvert met her gaze calmly and fully. They stood thus, looking at each other, courteously on Calvert's part, curiously, almost challengingly, on the young girl's. It was Madame de St. André who broke the silence. When she spoke, her voice was exquisitely sweet and low, and her eyes became kind, and the artificial smile faded from her lips. Looking at her so, Calvert could scarce believe that it was the same arrogant beauty who had regarded him so haughtily but a moment before. 'Twas as if she had let fall from her face, for a moment, some lovely but hateful mask, which she could resume instantly at will.
"Mr. Calvert," she said, "I hope my brother has had a chance to talk with you. He is most anxious to see you." As she spoke, Calvert thought he had never heard anything so beautiful as the sound of those clear, French words, each one as sweet and distinct as the carillon of a silver bell.
"Alas, no, Madame! We have exchanged but a dozen words. 'Tis almost five years since we last talked together. That was at Monticello, where, indeed, I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance—in miniature!" He bowed and smiled as he noted her look of surprise. "And where—-"
"And where," interrupted Beaufort, who at that instant joined them and who had overheard Calvert's last words, "d'Azay promised to introduce Mr. Calvert to you as an American savage!"
"Indeed, my brother spoke to me on the subject," returned Madame de St. André, laughing outright at the recollection (and if each word she spoke was like the sound of a silver bell, her laugh was like a whole chime of them). "I had looked for something quite different," she went on, in a mock-disappointed tone, and with an amused glance at Beaufort. "Perhaps paint and feathers and a—a—what is the name, Monsieur? a—tomahawk to kill with! Ah! Monsieur"—here she sighed in a delightfully droll way and swept Calvert a courtesy—"as an American you are a great disappointment!"
"I am inexpressibly grieved to be the cause of any disappointment to you, Madame," replied Calvert, calmly. "But as for paint and feathers, surely they can be no novelties to you," and here he looked meaningly around at the bedaubed, bedecked ladies of fashion (though 'tis but fair to say that the young beauty before him disdained the use of furbelows or cosmetics, as well she might with such a brilliant complexion); "and as for tomahawks—the ladies of this country need no more deadly weapons than their own bright glances. But truly, Madame, did you expect to see a young savage?"
"I was hoping to," she said, demurely. "'Twould have been more interesting than—than—" And here she stopped as if in seeming embarrassment and loss for words. "Is not America full of them?" she asked, innocently.
"Assuredly, Madame, as you must know, since they have so often been your allies!"
As Calvert spoke, all the amusement and good-nature died out of Madame de St. André's face, and she resumed her mask, becoming again the haughty and distant young beauty.
"But 'tis not an uncivilized land by any means," went on Calvert, who was young and ardent enough to espouse warmly the cause of his country from even the badinage of a spoilt young girl. "There is much learning and the most gracious manners to be found there, as you must also know, since we have been able to spare two such shining examples of both to this court—Dr. Franklin and Mr. Jefferson."
"Monsieur does not mean to compare the civilization of his own country to that of ours?" contemptuously demanded St. Aulaire, who, up to that time, had stood superciliously by, taking no part in the conversation.
"Indeed, no!" returned Calvert, with suspicious promptness. "In my mind there can be no comparison, and surely you will acknowledge that a country which has produced the greatest man of the age is not one to be despised."
"And who may that be?" asked Monsieur de St. Aulaire, with lazy insolence.
"I had thought, my lord," returned Calvert, bowing low, "that the subject of so enlightened a state as you say France is would surely have heard the name of General Washington. Monsieur does not read history?"
"'Tis impossible to read yours, since you have none," returned St.
Aulaire, with a contemptuous little laugh.
"We are making it every day, Monsieur," said Calvert, calmly.
"Ah, sir!" demanded Madame de St. André, "are all Americans so presumptuous?"
"Yes, Madame—if 'tis presumptuous to admire General Washington."
"We have heard of him in effect," sneeringly broke in Monsieur de St. Aulaire. "A lucky adventurer with a pretty talent for fighting British cowards, a beggar who has not been turned away empty from our doors. Why, hasn't the whole country given to him?—from the King down—and truth to tell we were glad to give as long as he whipped the English."
"No, no, Monsieur de St. Aulaire," suddenly interrupted Madame de St. André, turning upon him, "do not wrong France, do not wrong your King, do not wrong Lafayette and Rochambeau and Dillon and so many others! We gave because France was strong and America weak, because it was our greatest happiness to help right her wrongs, because 'tis ever France's way to succor the oppressed. As for General Washington, Monsieur Calvert does well to admire him. The King admires him—can Monsieur de St. Aulaire do less? We are devoted royalists, but we can still respect and admire patriotism and genius under whatever government they flourish." She changed her tone of authority and accusation and turned to Calvert. Again the mask had been dropped, the eyes were once more kind, the voice and smile once more tender. "I should like to hear more of your General Washington and of America, Monsieur," she said, almost shyly, and Calvert wondered at the change in her. "If Monsieur skates, we should be happy to have him join us to-morrow afternoon on the ice near the Pont Royal. 'Tis for three o'clock." And she smiled as she turned away, followed by Monsieur de St. Aulaire, apparently in no very good-humor.
When Calvert again looked around him, after having watched Madame de St. André disappear, he noticed Mr. Jefferson at the farther end of the room looking much disturbed and talking earnestly with Monsieur Necker, Monsieur le Comte de Montmorin, and Mr. Gouverneur Morris, who had at length left the side of the charming Madame de Flahaut. Calvert approached the group, and, as he drew near, he could hear Necker speaking in an anxious, despondent tone.
"My dear friend," he was saying, "'tis not only difficulties with the finances which alarm us! Obedience is not to be found anywhere. Even the troops are not to be relied on." And he turned wearily away.
When Mr. Jefferson caught sight of Calvert, who had stopped, hesitating to join the group lest he should intrude on some important and private business, he beckoned the young man forward.
"Is anything the matter?" asked Calvert, in a low tone. "You look anxious."
"I will tell you later, my boy," returned Mr. Jefferson, smiling reassuringly. "Go and talk to Madame de Flahaut—Mr. Morris has promised to send you to her."
Calvert did as he was desired, and found Madame de Flahaut a very entertaining lady, but who, in spite of her charms, he was not sorry to see go, as she did presently, with Madame de Coigny and Monsieur de Curt. And soon after she retired the company broke up and only Mr. Morris remained behind to have a last glass of wine and a few moments' quiet chat with Mr. Jefferson and Calvert. It was while they were thus engaged in the now deserted drawing-room that Mr. Jefferson told Calvert the cause of his perturbed look, which was none other than a conversation concerning the state of the kingdom confided to himself and Mr. Morris by Monsieur Necker. He explained at great length to Calvert the delicacy and danger of the Comptroller-General's position and the wretched condition of the country's finances and army. To which Mr. Morris added some of his own observations, made with the rapidity and justness so characteristic of him.
"Monsieur Necker seems to me, indeed, to be in a disagreeable and sufficiently dangerous position. His business stands thus: if any mischiefs happen they will be charged to him. If he gets well through the business others will claim the reputation of what good is done by the States-General. If he is a really great man, I am deceived. If he is not a laborious man, I am also deceived. He loves flattery—for he flatters. He is therefore easily imposed upon."
But here Mr. Jefferson would not allow Mr. Morris to proceed with his dicta, declaring that he did Monsieur Necker a gross injustice, and defending him warmly, both as a financier and statesman. Mr. Morris still clinging to his hastily formed opinion, the two gentlemen continued to argue the matter until, Mr. Morris's carriage having been announced, he took his final leave and stumped his way down the broad staircase, attended to the door by Calvert.
But deeply as Calvert was already interested in the affairs of France, it was not the miscarried business of a nation that troubled his sleep that night. For the first time in his life the face of a woman haunted his dreams, now luring him on with glance and voice, as it seemed to him, now sending him far from her with teasing laughter and disdainful eyes.