"Ainsi, Monsieur, vous connaissez notre cher de Lafayette" (she hated and feared him) "et tout jeune que vous etes vous avez deja vu la guerre—la mort, la victorie, et la deroute!" She spoke with a certain sadness, and Calvert, bowing low again, and speaking only indifferent French in his agitation, told her that under Lafayette it had been "la mort et la victoire," but never defeat.

She glanced around the assemblage. "Monsieur de Lafayette is not come to-night," she said, coldly, to the young man, and then, with a sudden accession of interest, she went on: "We heard much of that America of yours from him when he returned from your war" ('twas she herself who had obtained his forgiveness from the King and a command for him in the Roi Dragons). "I think he loves it and your General Washington better than he does his own King and country," she said, smiling a little bitterly. "Is it, then, so beautiful a country?"

"Tis a very beautiful and a very grateful country, Your Majesty," replied Calvert. "America desires nothing so much as to do some service for Your Majesty in return for all the benefits and assistance France has rendered her."

"We are glad to know that she is grateful. Ingratitude is the last of vices," said the Queen, quietly, looking at the young man with a sombre light in her beautiful eyes. "But, indeed, we fear France hath given her something she can never repay," and she passed on with the King. Together they walked the length of the salon between the ranks of courtiers, after which they mingled freely and without formality with their guests. Though it was easy to see that the Queen was suffering, so charming and easy were her manners, so brilliant her very presence, that a new animation and gayety was diffused throughout the entire assemblage. Mr. Morris, whom she had also treated with the utmost graciousness, was enchanted with her.

"I think Venus herself was not more beautiful," he said, enthusiastically, to Calvert when Her Majesty had passed on. "'Tis no wonder the wits have dubbed the King Vulcan. And this is the paragon of beauty and grace whom her ungallant subjects chose to insult this morning! Have they no hearts, no senses to be charmed with her loveliness, her majesty, her sorrows? I think you and I, Ned, ought to be loyal servants of both the King and Queen, for surely royalty could not have been more courteous in its treatment of two untitled and unimportant gentlemen."

"Certainly their Majesties were most amiable," said Mr. Jefferson, dryly, "and your reception was as unlike the ungracious notice which King George took of Mr. Adams and myself in '86 at Buckingham Palace as possible. But, come, I want to show you a view of the gardens," he went on, pushing back the heavy drapery and drawing the two gentlemen into the embrasure of one of the great windows, from which a perfect view of the extensive park, the bosquets, the artificial lakes and tapis vert, the fountains and statues, was to be had. A thousand lanterns lighted up the scene, though they shone with but a yellow, ineffectual radiance in the moonlight, which rested in splendor on the grass and water, turning to milky whiteness the foam in the basins of the fountains and throwing long shadows on the close-clipped lawns and marble walks.

The three gentlemen gazed for some minutes in silence at the enchanting scene before them.

"'Tis a fitting-setting for the palace of a king," said Mr. Morris, at length.

"Yes—" returned Mr. Jefferson, slowly, "if 'tis ever fitting that a king should arrogate to his sole use the wealth, the toil, the bounty of an empire. I confess I never look at this stately palace, at these magnificent gardens, but I shudder to think of the hundred millions of francs this impoverished nation has been goaded into giving; of the thousands of lives lost in the building of these aqueducts; of the countless years and countless energy spent in devising and carrying out these schemes for royal aggrandizement and pleasure. We come here and gape and wonder at it all, and little think at what stupendous cost our senses are so gratified.

"'The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied— Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies: While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure—all In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.'"

As Mr. Jefferson finished quoting the lines, the sound of voices and exclamations of astonishment came to the gentlemen from the other side of the curtain. Looking into the salon they saw Monsieur de St. Aulaire surrounded by a little group of ladies and gentlemen. He was speaking quite audibly, so that his words reached the astonished group in the embrasure of the window.

"'Tis the latest from the Club des Enrages—the King abdicates to-morrow!" He passed on amid a chorus of dismayed ejaculations.

"What is this?" said Mr. Jefferson, in alarm. "'Tis impossible that it should be true. Yonder I see Montmorin. I will ask him the meaning of this," and he passed hurriedly into the salon, leaving Mr. Morris and Calvert alone.

"'Tis some infernal deviltry of St. Aulaire's, I'll be bound," said Mr. Morris. "I think I will go, too, Ned," he said, after a minute's silence, "and see if I can't find Madame de Flahaut. She will know what this wild report amounts to. Oh, you need not stand there smiling at me with those serious eyes of yours, my young Sir Galahad! She's a very pretty and a very interesting woman, if a good deal of the intrigante, and as for me, I know excellently well how to take care of myself. I wonder if you do!" and with that he passed out, laughing and drawing the velvet curtains of the window together behind him.

Mr. Calvert, thus left alone, and being shut off from the great gallery by the drapery of the window, folded his arms, and, leaning against the open casement, gazed out at the beautiful scene before him. And as he looked up in the heavens at the moon shining with such effulgence on this scene of splendor, the thought came to him that she was shining on other and far different scenes, too—on the tides of the ocean and on the cold snows of the mountain-peaks; on squalor and wretchedness and agitation in the great city so near; and especially did he think of one tranquil and beloved spot across the sea, on which he had seen this self-same moon shining with as serene a radiance many, many times. The sounds of laughter and animated talk, the click of silver swords, the strains of music from the musicians in the gallery above the OEil de Beef came faintly to him. Suddenly he was aware that the curtains had been lifted, and turning around, he saw Madame de St. Andre standing in the light, one hand pulling back the velvet hangings, and, behind her, Monsieur de Beaufort and St. Aulaire.

"I am come to congratulate you, Monsieur," she said, smiling, and coming into the embrasure of the window, followed by the two gentlemen—it was so deep that the four could stand at ease in it, even when the curtains had been dropped. "I am come to congratulate you! Your courtesy to the King was perfection itself. I was over against the OEil de Beef and could see very well what passed. I am sure had His Majesty been General Washington himself you could not have excelled it. You must know, gentlemen," she said, laughing maliciously and turning to St. Aulaire and Beaufort, "you must know that when I expressed my great desire to see how an American would salute a king, Monsieur told me that I need have no fear, as he had paid his respects to General Washington!"

"Monsieur does not mean to compare General Washington with His Majesty Louis XVI, does he?" drawled St. Aulaire, insolently.

"No, Monsieur—no," says Calvert, turning to the nobleman, who was leaning negligently against the ledge of the window. "There can be no comparison. Who, indeed, can be compared with him?" he breaks out suddenly. "There is none like him. None so wise or courageous or truly royal. How can the kings of this world, born in the purple, who, through no act, nor powers, nor fitness of their own, reign over their people; how can they be compared to one who, by the greatness of his talents, the soundness of his judgment, the firmness of his will, the tenderness of his heart, the overtopping majesty of his whole nature, hath raised himself so gloriously above his fellows? To one, the kingly estate is but a gift blindly bestowed; to the other, 'tis the divine right of excelling merit. The one is ruler by sufferance; the other, by acclamation. And do you think, Madame," he goes on, turning to Adrienne, "that that ruler who has been elevated to his greatness by the choice of a people would betray that confidence, abandon that trust, as Monsieur de St. Aulaire has just announced that the King of France is about to do? Surely General Washington would not. Ah, Madame! Could you but see him; but see the noble calm of his countenance, the commanding eye, the consummate majesty of his presence, you would say with me, 'there is no king like him!'"

As Calvert finished his impassioned eulogy of his great commander, there was a slight stir near him and, looking around, he beheld the King draw back the heavy curtains and, standing in the flood of light, look quietly into the embrasure of the window. Behind him was Mr. Jefferson, pale and concerned-looking, but with a glow of ill-concealed pride on his countenance at the patriotic words he had just heard uttered. On either side of His Majesty stood Monsieur le Due de Broglie and Monsieur de Montmorin, white with anger and consternation. As the King stepped forward, Madame de St. Andre sank almost to the ground in a deep courtesy, while Beaufort and St. Aulaire dropped on their knees before him. Calvert alone retained his composure and stood before the King, pale, with folded arms.

For an instant there was a profound silence, and then Louis, drawing himself up to his full height and looking around upon the stricken company, turned to Calvert with so much benignity in his gaze and mien that the young American was startled and awed. He never forgot that unexpected graciousness nor ceased to feel grateful for it.

"Monsieur," said the King, and there was a thrill of deep feeling in his voice, "believe me, whatever failings crowned monarchs may have, they at least know how to value such deep devotion as you give your uncrowned ruler. Tis as you say—this kingly estate is thrust upon us; it is not of our seeking, perhaps it would not be of our choosing; how much more grateful to us, then, is the loyalty and the love of those over whom we find ourselves involuntarily placed and who must of their own free wills give us their faith and service or else withhold them entirely! Gentlemen, proud as I am of my kingdom and my subjects, I still find it in my heart to envy General Washington! And yet, have I not as loyal subjects?" He turned and looked at the company about him. At his glance a hundred cries of "Vive le roi!" were heard, and there was a sharp ring of silver swords as they leaped from their sheaths and were held aloft. The King stood smiling and triumphant. Seeing him thus, with his courtiers about him, who could dream that the 6th of October was but a few months off!

"Ah, gentlemen, I am no 'king by trade,' as our cousin of Austria hath called himself. At this moment I feel that I am indeed your King." The tumult of applause which followed these words was suddenly stilled as the King lifted his hand and pointed to St. Aulaire.

"But, Monsieur," says Louis, a sombre expression clouding the triumph in his face as he looked hard at St. Aulaire, "what is the meaning of this speech of yours to which Monsieur Calvert makes reference?"

"Nom de diable!" whispered St. Aulaire to Calvert, deathly pale and almost ready to faint from consternation. "You have ruined me!" He managed to make a step forward and sank down before the King, who glowered at him.

"'Twas but a plaisanterie, Your Majesty!" and if such a jest, with a king for the butt, seems incredible, let one remember that already Louis had been refused his cour pleniere and the Queen lampooned and hissed at the theatre.

"Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire, we have heard before of your plaisanteries," said Louis, his light-blue eyes flashing more wrathfully than one could have believed possible, the red heels of his shoes clicking together, and his heavy figure bent forward menacingly, "but this audacity passes belief. The court of Louis the Sixteenth needs no jester. For a season you can be spared attendance upon us. Your estates in Brittany doubtless need your presence. This unpardonable levity, Monsieur," he went on, severely, "contrasts strangely with the attitude and language of this American subject," and he bowed slightly to Calvert as he turned away.

St. Aulaire, pallid with consternation, stretched out an imploring hand to the King. "Your Majesty," he said, "'twas but a thoughtless jest, too idle to be believed or repeated. Will Your Majesty not deign to remember that St. Aulaire's life and sword have been ever at Your Majesty's service?"

As the prostrate nobleman began to speak, the King hesitated, turned back, and looked perplexedly at him. As he gazed, a look of indecision, of distaste and weariness, crept into his countenance. All the passion, dignity, and just anger which had lit it up faded away. The brief revelation of majesty was quenched, and the customary commonplace, vacant, good-natured expression held sway once more.

"Rise, Monsieur de St. Aulaire," he said, wearily. "We forgive you this unfortunate plaisanterie, since its execrable taste carries with it its own worst punishment. But be careful, sir, how you offend again!" With a last glance of warning, which, however, had lost its severity, the King turned away, followed by the Due de Broglie, and, seeking the Queen, their Majesties retired very shortly.

With the Queen's withdrawal, all the zest and animation of the function disappeared, too, and Mr. Calvert, wearying of the brilliant company, determined to leave the scene and stroll through the gardens. He descended by the Grand Escalier des Ambassadeurs, up which he had come, and, passing out through the Marble Court, quickly found himself on the broad terrace beneath the windows of the Gallery of Mirrors. From this, marble steps led down to a beautiful parterre, below which the Fountain of Latona played in the white moonlight. Standing on the terrace, Calvert could see the marble nymph through the mist of spray flung upon her from the hideous gaping mouths of the gilded frogs lying along the edge of the basin. 'Twas the story of Jupiter's wrath against the Lyceans which the sculptor had told, and Calvert remembered it out of his Ovid. Beyond this lovely fountain the green level of the tapis vert fell away to the great Bassin d'Appollon, where the sun-god disported himself among his Tritons, the foamy tops of the great jets of water blown from their shell-trumpets rising high in the air and scattered into spray by the night wind.

It was a scene not to be forgotten, and Mr. Calvert stood gazing at it a long while—at the softly playing fountains and the sombre bosquets and the sculptured groups on every hand, showing faintly in the moonlight. Fauns and satyrs peeped from the dense foliage. Here there showed a Venus sculptured in some Ionian isle before ever Caesar and his cohorts had pressed the soil of Gallia beneath their Roman sandals; there, a Ganymede or a Ceres or a Minerva gleamed wan and beautiful; beneath an ilex-tree a Bacchus leaned lightly on his marble thyrsus. It seemed as if all the hierarchy of Olympus had descended to dwell in this royal pleasure-ground at the bidding of the Roi Soleil.

Filled with the unrivalled beauty of the scene, Calvert at length turned away and, passing down the great flight of marble steps leading to the Orangery, slowly made his way into the park. The shadows were so dense here that the statues looked ghostly in the dim light. Now and then he could hear a low laugh and catch the flutter of a silken gown along the shadowy walks, or the glint of a stray moonbeam on a silver sword. He strolled about, scarcely knowing whither, guided by the sound of splashing water, and coming upon many a beautiful spot in his solitary ramble, among them that famous Bosquet de la Reine where the scoundrelly, frightened Rohan had sworn the Queen had stooped to him. He passed by the place, all unconscious of its unhappy history, and so on down a broad pathway toward the tapis vert.

As he walked slowly along, charmed with the beauty of the scene around him, and smiling now and again to think that fortune should have placed him in the midst of such unaccustomed splendors, he suddenly heard the sounds of a lute near him, fingered in tentative accord, and an instant later he recognized St. Aulaire's voice.

"'Twas written for you, Madame, and 'tis called 'Le Pays du Tendre,'" he said, still fingering the strings. "I would wander in the land with you, Madame." Suddenly he begins to sing softly, and, in the silence and perfume of the summer night, his hushed voice sounded like a caress:

Land of the madrigal and ode, Of rainbow air and cloudless weather, Tell me what ferny, elfin road Will lead my eager footsteps thither.

Tricked out with gems shall I go hither? Or in a carriage a la mode, Land of the madrigal and ode, Of rainbow air and cloudless weather?

Or in the garb by Love bestow'd? With roses crown'd and sprigs of heather, With mandolin and dart enbow'd Shall Cupid and I go together— Land of the madrigal and ode, Of rainbow air and cloudless weather?

As the last tinkling notes of the lute died away, Calvert was about to go, but he was suddenly startled by hearing a faint scream. Turning quickly and noiselessly in the direction from which the sound seemed to have come, he found himself in an instant in a thick and beautiful bosquet. A double row of ilex-trees, inside of which ran a colonnade of white marble, completely encircled and shut in a cleared space, in the centre of which bubbled a fountain. Into this secluded spot the moon, high in the heavens, shone with unclouded radiance, so that he saw, as clearly as though 'twere noonday, Madame de St. Andre standing at the edge of the basin, her lips white and parted in fear, one hand pressed against her throat, the other held roughly in the grasp of Monsieur de St. Aulaire, who knelt before her, his lute fallen at his side. The rose which she had worn in her hair had escaped from its diamond loop and lay upon the ground; the delicate gaze d'or of her dress was torn and crushed.

For an instant Calvert stood in the shadow of one of the Grecian columns and looked at the scene before him in sick amazement. So it was to Adrienne that St. Aulaire was singing love-songs in this isolated spot at midnight! As he hesitated, Monsieur de St. Aulaire rose from his knees.

"You did not always treat me with such contempt, Madame," he said, with a mocking laugh, "and by God, I have no mind to stand it now," and, putting one arm around her quivering shoulders and crushing in his the hand with which she would have pushed him from her, he leaned lightly over to kiss her.

As he did so, Calvert stepped quietly forward ('twas wonderful how, though he always seemed to move slowly, he was ever in the right place at the right time) and, seizing St. Aulaire by the collar, hurled him backward with such force that he fell heavily against one of the gleaming marble columns and lay, for an instant, stunned and motionless. Feeling herself thus violently released from St. Aulaire's embrace, Adrienne sprang back, uttering a low cry and gazing in surprise at Calvert. The ease with which he had flung off the larger and heavier man aroused her wonder as well as her admiration, for she never imagined Calvert's slender, boyish figure to be possessed of so much brute strength, and, since the days of Hercules and Omphale, brute strength in man has ever appealed to woman. Before either of them could speak, St. Aulaire struggled to his feet and, wrenching his dress sword from its sheath, staggered toward Calvert, thrusting wildly and ineffectually at him.

"Put up your sword, my lord," says Calvert, contemptuously, knocking up the silver blade with his own, which he had drawn. "We cannot fight with these toys. Should you wish to pursue this affair with swords or pistols, if you prefer the English mode, you know where to find me. And now, begone, sir!"

The quiet sternness with which the young man spoke filled Adrienne with fresh wonder and something like fear. She glanced from Calvert's face, with its look of calm authority, to St. Aulaire's convulsed countenance. The nobleman's face, usually so debonair, was now white and seamed with anger. All the hidden evil traits of his soul came out and stamped themselves visibly on his countenance, in that heat of passion, like characters written in a secret ink and brought near a flame.

"Monsieur l'Americain," he said, lowering his point and coming up quite close to Calvert, "Monsieur, you have a trick of being damnably mal apropos. I have had a lesson from you in skating and one in singing, but I need none in love-making. My patience—never very great, I fear—is at an end, sir! This intrusion, Monsieur l'Americain, is unpardonable," he went on, recovering his composure with a great effort, "unpardonable—unless, indeed, Monsieur hoped to gain what I have just lost," he added, smiling his brilliant, insolent smile, though he had to half-kneel for support upon the marble edge of the fountain.

"Silence!" said Calvert, his white face filled with such sudden horror and disgust that Monsieur de St. Aulaire burst out laughing.

"A poor compliment to you, Madame," he said to Adrienne.

At the words and the mocking laughter, Calvert's wrath blazed up uncontrollably. He went over to St. Aulaire, where he knelt on the basin, and, catching him again by the collar, shook him to and fro without mercy.

"Another word, sir, and I will toss you into this fountain with the hope that you break your head against the bottom! And now, go!"

The water in the marble basin was not very deep, but St. Aulaire did not covet a ducking—'twould be too good a theme for jests at his expense; and though he could still laugh and talk insolently, he felt weak and in no condition to prevent Calvert from carrying out his threat. Retreat seemed to be all left to him. With a sour smile he got upon his feet, and, making an elaborate courtesy to Madame de St. Andre, passed through the colonnade from the bosquet.

When he had quite disappeared, Calvert turned to the young girl. She still stood by the bubbling fountain, pale between anger and fright, one hand yet pressed against her throat, the other clenched and hanging by her side. At her feet the white rose lay crushed and unheeded. As Calvert looked at the wilful, beautiful girl before him, he comprehended for the first time that he loved her—loved and mistrusted her. The shock of surprise that this cruel conviction brought with it held him rooted to the spot for an instant. Love had ever been a vague dream to him, but certainly no woman could be further from his ideal than this brilliant, volatile, worldly creature.

A smile rippled over her face, to which the color was gradually returning.

"Well done, sir! I am only sorry you did not drop him into the fountain, as you threatened. 'Twould have been a light enough punishment, and, for once, we should have had the pleasure of seeing Monsieur de St. Aulaire in something besides his customary immaculate attire!" and she laughed faintly.

As for Calvert, he could not reply to her light banter, but stood looking at her in silence.

"Well, sir, why do you look at me so?" demanded Adrienne, petulantly, after an instant. "Have you nothing to say? But, indeed, I know you have! I can see you are dying to rebuke me for this indiscretion—this stroll with Monsieur de St. Aulaire!" and she gave him a mutinous side glance and tapped the gravel with her satin slipper. "One who dares express himself so frankly before the King will not hesitate to say his mind to a woman!"

"Ah, Madame, I fear, indeed, that you can never forgive me for having betrayed my republican sentiments so freely in the presence of your monarch—unconscious though I was of doing so."

"Oh, no, Monsieur, you mistake," said Adrienne, maliciously. "I can forgive you for having betrayed your republican sentiments, but I can never forgive the King for not having properly rebuked them!"

At these words Calvert let his gaze rest on the haughty face before him for a moment, and then, making a profound obeisance, he said, quietly:

"When you are quite ready, Madame, permit me to escort you back to the palace." He spoke with such formality and dignity that Adrienne blushed scarlet and bit her lips.

"Before I accept Monsieur Calvert's escort, I wish to explain—" but Calvert interrupted her.

"No explanation is necessary, Madame, surely," he said, a little wearily.

She blushed yet more deeply and raised her head imperiously. "You are right, Monsieur. 'Tis not necessary, as you say, but I will accept no favor—not even a safe-conduct back to the palace—from one whose manner"—she hesitated, as if at a loss for words—"whose manner is an accusation. But though I am hurt, I should not be surprised by it, sir!" she went on, advancing a step and drawing herself up proudly. "It has ever been your attitude toward me. From that first night we met I have felt myself under the ban of your disapproval. Poor Monsieur de St. Aulaire and I!" and she laughed mockingly.

"I pray you, Madame, do not name yourself in the same breath with that scoundrel!" said Calvert, in a low voice.

"And why not, Monsieur? We are both of the same world, we have both been brought up after the same fashion, we are probably much alike. Ah, Monsieur," she went on, defiantly, "is it the Quaker in you—Monsieur Jefferson has told me that your mother was a Quakeress—that makes you hate the world, the flesh, and the devil so? Is Paris, then, so much more wicked than your Virginia? Are we so different from the women of your world?" She went up to him and put her beautiful face close to his disturbed one. "Are you so different from the men of our world, Monsieur, or is it only those grand yeux of yours, with their serious expression, that make you seem different—and better?" and her eyes smiled mockingly into his. "Pshaw, sir, you make me feel like a naughty school-girl when you reprove me so. Upon my word, I don't know why I submit to it! Though I am younger than you, sir, I feel a hundred years older in experience—and yet—and yet—there is something about you—" She broke off and again tapped the gravel impatiently with her foot.

"I have said nothing, Madame." Calvert was quiet and unsmiling.

"No, Monsieur, 'tis that I most object to—you keep silence, but your eyes reprove me. Oh, I have seen you looking at me with that reproving glance many times when you did not know I saw it! Am I to blame, sir, for being of the great world of which you do not approve? Am I to be rebuked—even silently—for coming here with Monsieur de St. Aulaire, by you, Monsieur?" Suddenly she dropped her defiant tone and, leaning against the edge of the marble basin, looked intently and silently at the splashing water gleaming white in the moonlight.

"Can you not see?—Do you not understand, Monsieur?" she said at length, hurriedly, and in a low voice. "Do not misjudge me. I have been brought up in this court life, which is the life of intrigue and dissimulation and wickedness—yes, wickedness! We know nothing else. There is no one in our world so pure as to be above suspicion. The walls of this great palace, thick and massive as they are, cannot keep out the whispers of calumny against the Queen herself. Is it so different in your country? Sometimes I abhor this life and would hear of another. Sometimes I hate all this," she went on, speaking as if more to herself than to Calvert. "As for Monsieur de St. Aulaire, I loathe him! I thank you, Monsieur, for ridding me of his presence. If I seemed ungrateful, believe me, I was not! 'Tis but my pride which stands no rebuke. But it is late! Will you do me the favor, Monsieur, of taking me back to the Galerie des Glaces?" She turned her eyes away from the fountain, at which she had gazed steadily while speaking, and looked at Calvert. He saw that they were full of tears. The mask was down again. There was an humbled, shamed expression on that lovely face usually so imperious. The look of appeal and distress went to his heart like a knife. She made him think of some brilliant bird cruelly wounded.

For an instant she looked at him so, and then resuming her imperious air with a palpable effort and forcing a smile to her lips, she gathered up her trailing gown and passed slowly beneath the colonnade, Calvert following at her side. As she turned away, he stooped quickly and picked up the white rose she had worn where it had fallen on the path.



CHAPTER XII

THE FOURTH AND THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY

For the next few weeks Mr. Calvert had little time—and, indeed, little inclination—to see Adrienne. The discovery that he loved her had brought pain, not happiness with it. He felt the gulf too wide between them, both in circumstance and character, to be bridged. How could he, an untitled American, an unknown young gentleman of small fortune, pretend to the hand of one of the most beautiful, most aristocratic, and most capricious women in Paris? He smiled to himself as he mentally compared Adrienne with the simple young beauties of Virginia he had known—with Miss Molly Crenshawe and Miss Peggy Gary—and he wondered a little bitterly why he could not have fallen happily in love with some one of his own countrywomen, whose heart he could have won and kept, instead of falling a victim to the charms of a dazzling creature quite beyond his reach. With that clear good sense which was ever one of his most distinguishing traits, he fully comprehended the difficulties, the impossibility of a happy ending of his passion, and, having no desire to play the role of the disconsolate lover, he again determined to see as little of Adrienne as possible.

For a while circumstances favored this decision. The French government, being entirely absorbed in domestic affairs, Mr. Jefferson found himself with more leisure than he had known for some time, and, being enormously interested in the organization of the States-General, and realizing that their proceedings were of the first order of importance, he drove almost daily from Paris to Versailles to assist at their stormy deliberations. Mr. Calvert attended him thither at his express wish, for he had the young man's diplomatic education greatly at heart, and desired him to profit by the debates in the Salle des Menus. In this way the young gentleman found his days completely filled, while the evenings were frequently as busily occupied in the preparation of letters for the American packet, dictated by Mr. Jefferson and narrating the day's events. Of things to be written there was no lack. Day after day, through the hot months of May and June, events succeeded one another rapidly. Tempestuous debates among the noblesse, the clergy, and the tiers etat, upon the question of the verification of their powers, separately and together, were followed by proposition and counter-proposition, by commissions of conciliation which did not conciliate, by royal letters commanding a fusion of the three orders, by secessions from the nobility and clergy to the grimly determined and united tiers, by courtly intrigues at Marly for the King's favor in behalf of the nobles, by royal seances and ruses which, instead of postponing, only hastened the evil hour, by the famous oath of the Tennis Court, and by the triumph of the third estate. And in this distracting clash of opposing political forces, amid this first crash and downfall of the ancient order of things, there passed, almost unnoticed, save by the weeping Queen and harassed King, who hung over his pillow, the last sigh, the last childish words of the Dauphin. The tired little royal head, which had been greeted eight years before with such acclamations of enthusiastic delight, dropped wearily and all unnoticed for the last time, happily ignorant of the martyr's crown it had escaped. Calvert had the news from Madame de Montmorin when he went to pay his respects to her on the evening of the 3d of June, and in imagination he saw, over and over again, the lovely face of the Queen distorted with unavailing grief.

All these public occurrences which filled the hurrying days were reported in Mr. Jefferson's long letters to General Washington, to the Secretary of Foreign Affairs, Mr. Jay, to Mr. Madison, Mr. Carmichael, and other friends in America, whom he knew to be deeply interested in the trend of French affairs. Indeed, he knew fully whereof he wrote, for, although in that summer of '89 the position of the United States in relation to Europe was anything but enviable, though we were deeply in debt and our credit almost gone, though England and Spain turned us the cold shoulder, though our enemies were diligently circulating damaging stories of the disunion, the bankruptcy, the agitation in American affairs, yet so friendly was the French government to us, so deep the personal respect and admiration for Mr. Jefferson as the representative of the infant republic, that he was consulted by the leaders of all parties and received the confidences of the most influential men of the day. So close, indeed, was his connection with the ministers in power that, during the early days of June and in pursuance of an idea which had occurred to him during a conversation with Lafayette, Mr. Short, and Monsieur de St. Etienne, he drew up a paper for the consideration of the King, which, if it had received the royal sanction, might have produced the best results. It was a charter of those rights which the King was willing, nay, glad, to grant, but it was Mr. Jefferson's earnest conviction that Louis should come forward with this charter of his own free will and offer it to his people, to be signed by himself and every member of the National Assembly. But the King's timidity and the machinations of Monsieur and the Comte d'Artois prevented this plan from coming to anything. Mr. Jefferson, thinking, perhaps, that his zeal had over-stepped his discretion, refused again to take an active part in the politics of the day, and declined the invitation of the Archbishop of Bordeaux to attend the deliberations of the committee for the "first drafting" of a constitution.

"My mission is to the King as Chief Magistrate of France," said Mr. Jefferson to His Grace of Bordeaux, "and deeply as I am interested in the affairs of your country, my duties concern my own. But I have requested from Congress a leave of absence for a few months, that I may return to America and settle some important private business, and as General Washington and other friends will be only too anxious to hear a detailed and recent account of the progress of events here, I shall esteem it both my duty and pleasure to acquaint myself with them as fully as may be, without transcending the limits of my office."

This leave of absence which Mr. Jefferson had solicited for some time was anxiously awaited, but packet after packet arrived without it. It had been his hope to receive the authority of Congress for his departure during the early spring, that he might return to Virginia, leaving affairs in the hands of Calvert and Mr. Short, and return before cold weather set in again, but the end of June was at hand and still no word from Congress.

As it was evident that Mr. Jefferson was not to get away from Paris for some time, he determined to celebrate the Fourth of July at the Legation with proper ceremony, and invited quite a little company to dinner for that day. Among the guests were Madame la Duchesse d'Azay, Adrienne, Monsieur and Madame de Montmorin, Monsieur and Madame de Lafayette, Madame de Tesse, Mr. Morris, Beaufort, Calvert, and Mr. Short.

The Duchess of Azay had accepted her invitation with characteristic brusqueness.

"I don't approve of your Fourth of July, Monsieur Jefferson," she said, "but I always approve of a good dinner, and your wines are so excellent that I dare say I shall drink your toasts, too." "I promise you there shall be none to offend the most ardent royalist," returned Mr. Jefferson, laughing at the old woman's sturdy independence. And so she had come, and Madame de St. Andre with her, though Adrienne, too, was a stanch royalist, and had not been carried away by the popular enthusiasm for liberty and Monsieur de Lafayette which was spreading like wildfire through all ranks of Parisian society.

"I am here, not because I am so greatly in love with your fine American principles," she said to Calvert, who was seated beside her at the table, "but because I like your Mr. Jefferson. For myself, I vastly prefer a king and a court, and I like titles and rank and power—all of which is heresy in your American ears, is it not?" she asked, with a perverse look. "However, Henri's enthusiasm is enough for us both," she said, smiling a little scornfully at her brother, who, indeed, was quite wild with enthusiasm, and was on his feet drinking Lafayette's toast of "Long life and prosperity to the United States!"

"Get up, Ned!" he says to Calvert. "We are drinking to your country! We ought to have a toast to Yorktown—see, Mr. Morris is going to give it to us now—'The French at Yorktown!'"

But there was another toast still more vociferously greeted, for the long-delayed American packet having arrived three days before at Havre, Mr. Jefferson was that morning in receipt of letters from Mr. Jay and others containing news of the first importance. It was nothing less than the announcement of the election of General Washington to the first Presidency of the United States, and of his inauguration on the 13th of April in New York City.

"'The oath was administered by Chancellor Livingston,'" says Mr. Jefferson, reading from Mr. Jay's letter, "'in the presence of a vast concourse of people assembled to witness the inauguration. The President, appearing upon the balcony, bowed again and again to the cheering multitude, but could scarcely speak for emotion.' 'Tis a strange and happy coincidence that we should have this news on this day. I give you 'President Washington!'" says Mr. Jefferson, solemnly.

There were tears of joy in Lafayette's eyes as he drank the toast.

"It makes me think of that last night at Monticello, Ned," he said, turning to Calvert, "when we toasted General Washington and bade farewell to Mr. Jefferson."

"'Tis a far cry from Paris to Monticello, Marquis," said Calvert, smiling, "and 'tis a little strange that we should all be gathered here as we were there, discussing our dear General."

"And so your demi-god, your General Washington, is elected to the Presidency," said Adrienne, speaking to Calvert. "'Tis unnecessary to ask whether the choice meets with your approval."

"There could be none other, Madame," returned Calvert.

"You are a loyal admirer of General Washington's, Monsieur. I see you know how to approve as well as to rebuke. 'Tis much pleasanter to be approved of than to be rebuked, as I know by personal experience," said Adrienne, with a slight blush and a half glance at Calvert. She was so lovely as she spoke, there was such sunny laughter in her blue eyes, that Calvert gazed at her, lost in guilty wonder as to how he could ever have doubted this beautiful creature, how he could ever have condemned her by a thought. The inscrutable look in his serious eyes embarrassed her.

"Of what are you thinking, Monsieur?" she asked, after an instant's silence.

"I was wondering who could have the audacity to rebuke Madame de St. Andre."

"'Twas a very rash young gentleman from General Washington's country," returned Adrienne, smiling suddenly, "who, by his courage, saved Madame de St. Andre from the consequences of a foolish action, and who had the still greater courage to silently, but unmistakably, show his disapprobation of her."

"'Tis impossible that he should be a fellow-countryman of mine, Madame," said Calvert, smiling, too. "It would indeed be a rash and ill-considered person who could find fault with Madame de St. Andre."

"Another compliment, Monsieur Calvert! That is the second one you have given me. If you are not more careful I shall begin to doubt your sincerity! I am not jesting, sir," she says, suddenly serious. "I know not quite why I trust you so implicitly, but so it is, and, as sincerity is a rare virtue in our world, I should hate to lose my belief in yours. It takes no very keen vision to see my faults, sir. I recognize and deplore them," and she looked at the young man in so winning and frank a fashion as she rose from the table, that Calvert thought to himself for the hundredth time that he had never seen anyone so incomparably beautiful and charming.

Although Paris was unbearably hot and dusty in that month of July, all the world stayed in town or drove no farther than Versailles to attend the meetings of the National Assembly. Political excitement and interest were intense, and were stimulated every day by the events taking place. But through it all the higher classes feasted and made merry, as though bent on literally obeying the biblical injunction. Mr. Morris, whose success in society continued prodigious, could scarce find the time for his numerous engagements, and was seen everywhere, often in company with Mr. Calvert, of whom he was extremely fond. Indeed, he urged upon Calvert the acceptance of many invitations which the latter would have declined, having an affectionate regard for the young man and a pride in the popularity which Mr. Calvert had won absolutely without effort and in spite of the lack of all brilliant social qualities. Wherever they went Madame de St. Andre was of the party. Perhaps 'twas this fact, rather than a wish to comply with Mr. Morris's requests, that induced Calvert to accept the many invitations extended to him, and, in the constant delight and charm of Adrienne's presence, his caution deserted him and he gradually found himself forgetting the wide gulf between them, of which he had thought so much at first, and eagerly watching for her wherever he went. He was engaged for innumerable pleasure-parties, dinners a la matelote, evenings with Madame de Chastellux, when the Abbe Delille read his verses, the theatre and opera with Gardell and Vestris, about whom all Paris was wild, and water-picnics on the Seine. In early June, at the express wish of the Duchesse d'Orleans, Mr. Calvert and Mr. Morris, with Madame d'Azay and Adrienne, made a visit to Her Highness at Raincy. The gardens and park of this old castle were so beautiful that Calvert would have liked nothing better than to linger in them with Adrienne for all the long summer day, but the Duchess, being very devout, demanded the presence of her guests in the chapel of the chateau to hear mass. Mr. Calvert read another sign of the times in the conduct of Monsieur de Segur and Monsieur de Cubieres during mass, who furnished immoderate amusement to Her Highness's guests by putting lighted candles in the pockets of the Abbe Delille while he was on his knees.

"Truly an edifying example to the domestics opposite and the villagers worshipping below," thought Calvert to himself. "If they but knew what triflers these beings are whom they look up to as their superiors, their respect would be transformed to contempt." And this thought occurred to him again when, at dinner, which was served under a large marquise on the terrace of the chateau, a crowd of the common people gathered at a respectful distance and looked enviously at the exalted company as it dined.

It was at one of these numerous pleasure-parties with which Paris sought to banish care and anxiety that Mr. Calvert and Mr. Morris first heard the astounding news of Necker's dismissal, which woke the city from its false trance of security. They were at the hotel of the Marechal de Castries, whither they had driven for breakfast, when his frightened secretary, calling him from the table, told him the news which he had just heard. Monsieur de Castries, containing himself with difficulty during the rest of the meal, at which was gathered a large and mixed company, drew the American gentlemen aside as soon as possible and confided to them the disastrous intelligence he had just received.

"The King sent Monsieur de la Luzerne with the message," he said. "He found Necker at dinner, and, exacting a promise of absolute secrecy, delivered to him the King's decree. Without a word Monsieur Necker proposed to his wife a visit to some friends, but went instead to his place at St. Ouen, and at midnight set out for Brussels."

"What madness!" exclaimed Mr. Morris. "Does the King, then, not realize that he is no longer the power in the state? The National Assembly will not tolerate Necker's dismissal. Will you not go instantly to Versailles and try to undo this fatal blunder of the King?" he asked. Monsieur de Castries shook his head despondingly.

"'Tis too late."

"Come, Ned, we will go to Mr. Jefferson's and see whether he has heard this terrible news," said Mr. Morris, who was deeply affected by the intelligence.

Together they entered Mr. Morris's carriage and drove toward the Legation. As they made their way along the boulevards, they were astonished to see pedestrians and carriages suddenly turn about and come toward them. In a few moments a troop of German cavalry, with drawn sabres, approached at a hand gallop, and, on reaching the Place Louis Quinze, Mr. Morris and Mr. Calvert found themselves confronted by an angry mob of several hundred persons, who had intrenched themselves among the great blocks of stone piled there for the new bridge building. At the same instant, on looking back, they perceived that the cavalry had faced about and were returning, so that they found themselves hemmed in between the troops and the menacing mob. Many other carriages were caught in the same cul-de-sac, and Calvert, looking out, saw the pale face of Madame de St. Andre at the window of her carriage beside him. Her coachman was trying in vain to get his horses through the crowd and was looking confoundedly frightened. In an instant Calvert was out of his carriage and at her coach-door.

"You must get in Mr. Morris's carriage, Madame," he says, briefly, holding the door open and extending a hand to Adrienne. At his tone of command, without a word, she stepped quickly from her coach into that of Mr. Morris.

"Heavens, Madame! are you alone in this mob?" asks Mr. Morris, in much concern.

"Yes—I have just left my aunt in the rue St. Honore," says Adrienne, sinking down on the cushions. Mr. Morris put his head out of the window.

"Drive on, Martin!" he calls out. "To Mr. Jefferson's." But it is impossible for the plunging horses to move, so dense is the mob and so threatening its attitude.

"They are arming themselves with stones," he says, looking out again. "We are in a pretty pass between this insane mob and the cavalry, which is advancing!" Suddenly he bursts the door open and, standing on the coach-step, so that he is well seen, he calls out, "Drive on there, Martin! Who stops an American's carriage in Paris?"

As he made his appearance at the coach-door a shout went up, and a man standing near and pointing to Mr. Morris's wooden stump, cries out, "Make way for the American patriot crippled in the Revolution!" At his words a great cheer goes up, and Mr. Morris, scrambling back into the coach, bursts out into such a hearty laugh that Calvert, and Adrienne, too, in spite of her fright, cannot refrain from joining in it. The people fall back and a lane is formed, through which Martin urges his horses at a gallop.

"'Twill be a good story to tell Mr. Jefferson," says Mr. Morris, when he can speak. "I think this wooden stump has never done such yeoman service as to-day."

"If I am not mistaken, that was my friend Bertrand," says Calvert, looking back at the man who had started the cheer for Mr. Morris.

They had scarce got through the mob when the cavalry, advancing, were met by a shower of stones.

"The captain is hit," says Calvert, still looking out of the coach-window. Pale with fear, Adrienne laid her hand on his arm and Calvert covered it with one of his. In a few minutes they were out of sight of the fray and, driving as rapidly as possible up the Champs Elysees, were soon at the door of the Legation.

Mr. Jefferson was not at home, but in a few moments he came in with the account of having been stopped also at the Place Louis Quinze as he returned from a visit to Monsieur de Lafayette and a confirmation of the news regarding Necker's dismissal.

"It is sufficiently clear with what indignation the people regard the presence of troops in the city," he said, "and by to-morrow they will make known, I have no doubt, their equally bitter indignation at the removal of Necker. Affairs are coming rapidly to a crisis; the Palais Royal is this evening in a state of the wildest agitation, so d'Azay has just told me, and, indeed, the city is not safe, even on the boulevards. I shall take you back, Madame," he went on, turning to Adrienne. "I believe the carriage of the American Minister will be treated with respect even by this insane mob."

"A thousand thanks, Monsieur," said Madame de St. Andre, rising, "and, as it is late, perhaps we had better go at once, although I hate to take you away from Monsieur Morris and Monsieur Calvert."

"Oh, as for me, I am off to the Club to hear further details of the riot and afterward to a supper with Madame de Flahaut. And as for Ned, I am sure he would rather a thousand times escort you back to the rue St. Honore than to sit here chatting with an old fellow like myself," said Mr. Morris, and he went off limping and laughing, leaving the others to follow quickly. For, in truth, it was late, and the disturbance seemed to be increasing instead of decreasing as the night wore on. Mr. Jefferson and Calvert turned into the Palais Royal on their way back, after leaving Adrienne safe in the rue St. Honore, and found it a seething mass of revolutionary humanity, as d'Azay had reported. The agitation increased all during the following day of the 13th, and on the 14th was struck the first great blow which resounded throughout France. Mr. Jefferson and Calvert, who, unconscious of the disturbance in the distant quarter of the Bastille, were calling at the hotel of Monsieur de Corny, had the particulars from that gentleman himself. He came in hurriedly, pale with emotion and fear and haggard with anxiety.

"Tis all over," he says to Mr. Jefferson when he could speak. "How it has happened God only knows. A fearful crime has been committed. The deputation, of which I was one, advanced, under a flag of truce, to have speech with de Launay, Governor of the Bastile, when a discharge killed several men standing near us. We retired, and instantly the great throng of people—there were, God knows, how many thousand wretches waiting there—rushed forward, and are even now in possession of that impregnable fortification. 'Tis incredible how 'twas done."

"And de Launay?" inquired Calvert.

"He has been beheaded and dragged to the Place de Greve," says de Corny, gloomily. "Come, if you wish to see the work of destruction," and he rose hurriedly.

Together the gentlemen entered Mr. Jefferson's carriage, which was waiting, and were driven along the boulevards toward the Bastille. But the streets near the prison were so crowded with spectators and armed ruffians that they were finally forced to alight from the carriage, which was left in the Place Royale, and proceed on foot. As they passed Monsieur Beaumarchais's garden, they came upon Mr. Morris and Madame de Flahaut, who had also driven thither and were leaning against the fence looking on at the work of demolition.

"You should have been here some moments ago," said Mr. Morris. "Lafayette has just ridden by with the key of the Bastille, which has been given to him and which, he tells me, he proposes sending to General Washington. A strange gift!"

"Why strange?" inquired Mr. Jefferson. "'Tis an emblem of hard-earned liberty."

"An emblem of madness," said Mr. Morris, with a shrug. "However, I have witnessed some thrilling scenes in this madness. But an hour ago a fellow climbed upon the great iron gate and, failing to bring it down, implored his comrades to pull him by the legs, thus sustaining the rack. He had the courage and strength to hold on until his limbs were torn from the sockets. 'Twould make a great painting, and I shall suggest the idea to d'Angiviliers."

"Do they know of this at Versailles?" asked Calvert.

"The Duc de Liancourt passed in his carriage half an hour ago," said Mr. Morris, "on his way to Versailles to inform the King. Yesterday it was the fashion at Versailles not to believe that there were any disturbances at Paris. I presume that this day's transactions will induce a conviction that all is not perfectly quiet! But, even with this awful evidence, the King is capable of not being convinced, I venture to say." He was quite right in his surmise, and 'twas not until two o'clock in the morning that Monsieur de Liancourt was able to force his way into the King's bed-chamber and compel His Majesty to listen to a narrative of the awful events of the day in Paris.

In the meantime crowds of the greatest ladies and gentlemen flocked to the Place de la Bastille to witness the strange and horrid scenes there enacting, rubbing elbows with the armed and drunken scum of the city, and only retiring when night hid the sight of it all from them. It was amid a very carnival of mad liberty, of flaring lights and hideous noises, of fantastic and terrible figures thrusting their infuriated countenances in at the coach-windows, with a hundred orders to halt and to move on, a hundred demands to know if there were arms in the carriage, that Mr. Jefferson and Calvert finally regained the Champs Elysees and the American Legation. With the next day the foreign troops were dismissed by order of the frightened King, and Paris had an armed Milice Bourgeoise of forty thousand men, at the head of which, to Mr. Jefferson's satisfaction and Mr. Morris's dismay, Lafayette was placed as commander-in-chief. From the 16th to the 18th of that fatal July twenty noble cowards, among them Monsieur de Broglie, Monsieur de St. Aulaire, six princes of the blood royal, including the Comte d'Artois and the Princes of Conde and Conti, fled affrighted before the first gust of the storm gathering over France.



CHAPTER XIII

MONSIEUR DE LAFAYETTE BRINGS FRIENDS TO A DINNER AT THE LEGATION

It was in the midst of the alarms, the horror, and feverish agitation following hard upon the taking of the Bastille and the assassination and flight of so many important personages, that Mr. Jefferson, one evening, received from Monsieur de Lafayette a hurried note, requesting a dinner for himself and several friends. Mr. Morris and Calvert, who were dining with Mr. Jefferson, would have retired, that the company might be alone, but Monsieur de Lafayette, coming in almost instantly, urged upon the gentlemen to remain.

"Tis to be a political deliberation, at which we shall be most happy and grateful to have you assist," he said, graciously, for, though he disliked Mr. Morris, he appreciated his abilities, and as for Calvert, he both liked and admired the young man, having the greatest confidence in his good sense and keen judgment.

Mr. Jefferson, though deeply embarrassed by that thoughtlessness which made the American Legation the rendezvous for the leaders of opposing factions in French politics, made his unexpected guests as welcome as possible, but, though he was urged again and again to express himself by Lafayette and his friends—he had brought with him some of the most brilliant and most influential of the revolutionary leaders, d'Azay, Barnave, Lameth, Mounier, and Duport—he yet remained an almost silent spectator of the prolonged debate which took place when the cloth had been removed and wine placed on the table, according to the American custom. The discussion was opened by Lafayette, who submitted to the consideration of the assembled company his "Rights of Man," to which he was inordinately attached and which he designed as a prelude to the new constitution. With pride and emphasis he read aloud the most important of his dicta, and which, he owned with a profound bow to Mr. Jefferson, had been largely inspired by the great Declaration of Independence.

"The Rights of Man" were received with acclaim and approved almost without a dissenting voice, and then was introduced the main theme of the discussion—the new constitution projected by the Assembly. So incredibly frank were the deliberations that the three American gentlemen could not but marvel that they were allowed to be present. 'Twas a curious exhibition of weakness, thought Calvert, that they should be allowed, nay, urged, to participate in such a session. So intimate, indeed, were the details presented to the company by its different members, so momentous the questions raised and settled, that even Mr. Morris, usually so impetuous, hesitated to express an opinion. Only when it had been decided that the King should have a suspensive veto; that the Legislature should be composed of but one chamber, elected by the people; only when it was evident that the noblesse were to be rendered powerless and that Lafayette had abandoned his King, did Mr. Morris burst forth.

"This is madness, Marquis," he says, scarce able to contain himself. "Take from the King his power and this realm will fall into anarchy, a bloody disunion, the like of which the world has never seen! This country is used to being governed, it must continue to be governed. Strengthen the King's hands—for God's sake, do not weaken them! Attach yourself to the King's party—'tis this unhappy country's only hope of salvation. Range yourself on the side of His Majesty's authority, not on that of this insane, uncontrollable people. What have I seen to-day? As I walked under the arcade of the Palais Royal, what was the horrible, the incredibly horrible sight that met my eyes? The head of one of your chief men—of Foulon, Counsellor of State, borne aloft on a pike, the body dragged naked on the earth, as though 'twere some dishonored slave of Roman days. Gracious God! what a people! Have we gone backward centuries to pagan atrocities? And you talk of making this people the supreme authority in France! Your party is mad!"

"If 'tis madness," says Monsieur de Lafayette, coldly, "I am none the less determined to die with them."

"'Twould be more sensible to bring them to their senses and live with them," returned Mr. Morris, dryly.

"We cannot hope to gain the liberty, so long and so hardly withheld from us, without bloodshed. Mr. Jefferson himself hath said that the tree of liberty must be watered with blood."

"'Tis a different creed from the one you believed in but a short time ago," rejoined Mr. Morris. "'Twas not very long since I heard you prophesying a bloodless revolution. And this horde of undisciplined troops, for which you are responsible—do you not tremble for your authority when you deny the King's?"

"They will obey me, they love me," cried Lafayette, rising in some confusion, not unmixed with anger. "At any rate, 'tis too late to draw back. Our dispositions are taken, gentlemen," he adds, turning to the company, which had risen at his signal, "and we will now withdraw, sensible of the courtesy and hospitality we have received," and with a bow to Mr. Morris and Calvert, he passed from the room, accompanied by Mr. Jefferson and followed by the rest of the gentlemen.

"What madness!" exclaimed Mr. Morris, as the door closed upon the company. "This is a country where everything is talked about and nothing understood, my boy." He sank into a chair opposite Calvert's and poured himself a glass of wine.

"There goes a man who, in his vanity, thinks himself capable of controlling these terrific forces he has helped to awaken, but, if I mistake not, he is not equal to the business in hand. He has the best intentions, but is lacking in judgment and strength. He has le besoin de briller, unfortunately, and does from vanity what he should do from conviction. I am almost glad that affairs call me to England for a while and that I shall not be a witness to the Marquis's mistakes and the horrors toward which I see France fast drifting."

"You are leaving for England?" asked Calvert, in surprise.

"Yes," returned Mr. Morris. "I have thought for some time that it would be necessary for me to go to London on business connected with my brother's estate in America, and letters which I received lately have decided me to go at once. Moreover," and here he hesitated slightly and laughed his dry, humorous laugh, "I have ever thought discretion the better part of valor, my boy. To speak plainly, Madame de Flahaut becomes too exigeante. I have told her that I am perfectly my own master with respect to her, and that, having no idea of inspiring her with a tender passion, I have no idea either of subjecting myself to one, but I hardly think she understands my attitude toward her. Besides," he went on, with so sudden a change of tone and sentiment that Calvert could not forbear smiling, "I find her too agreeable to bear with equanimity her treatment of me. The other day, at Madame de Chastellux's, her reception of me was such that I think I would not again have troubled her with a visit had she not sent for me to-day."

"And did you go?" asked Calvert, smiling.

"Yes," said Mr. Morris, bursting out laughing. "Of course I went, Ned—that is the way with all of us—the women treat us with contempt and we go away in a huff, vowing never to see them again, and they beckon to us and back we go, glad to have a word or glance again. She treated me very civilly indeed, and received me at her toilet—'twas a very decent performance, I assure you, Ned. She undressed, even to the shift, with the utmost modesty, and I would have found it a pleasant enough experience, if a trifle astounding to my American mind, had it not been for the presence of the Bishop of Autun, who came in and who is confoundedly at his ease in Madame de Flahaut's society. High ho! we two are not the only favored ones. She is a thorough-paced flirt and plays off Curt against Wycombe—he is Lansdowne's son and her latest admirer—or the Bishop against myself, as it suits her whim. I would warn you to beware of women as the authors of all mischief and suffering, did I not think it too late," he said, looking keenly at the young man, who blushed deeply. "Come to London with me, Ned," he went on, impulsively, after an instant's silence. "I think you and I will not be bad travelling companions and will enjoy the journey together prodigiously."

"I thank you, Mr. Morris," said Calvert, shaking his head, "but—but 'tis impossible for me to leave France."

"Ah, 'tis as I thought," said Mr. Morris, slowly, "and Madame de St. Andre is a most charming and beautiful woman. Forgive me for having guessed your secret, boy. 'Tis my interest in you which makes me seem impertinent. Have you told her that you love her?"

"'Tis a poor game to tell all one knows," says Calvert, again shaking his head and smiling a little bitterly. "Besides, it would be but folly in this case."

"Folly!" exclaimed Mr. Morris. "Don't be above committing follies, Ned! Old age will be but a dreary thing if we have not the follies of youth to look back upon. Happiness and folly go hand in hand sometimes. Don't miss one in avoiding the other, boy! Besides, why do you call your love for her folly? By the Lord Harry," he burst out, "why shouldn't she love you in return? 'Tis true you are not one of the dukes or marquises who follow her about, but I think that no disability, and, were she not a capricious, worldly woman, she would have the wit vastly to prefer a clean, honest American gentleman to these dissolute popinjays, whose titles, riches, and very life are being menaced. Were I a woman, Ned," and he gave the young man a kindly look, "I think I could find it in my heart to admire and respect you above most men."

"'Tis far more than I can hope for in Madame de St. Andre, and it has been madness for me to think of her for a moment," said Calvert, gloomily.

"Then come away," urged Mr. Morris. "Come with me to London." But Calvert was not to be persuaded.

"You counselled me a while ago not to be afraid of committing follies," he said, looking at the older man. "I think I am capable of all folly—I don't dare hope, but I cannot leave her."

"Ah, you are not as wise as I, my boy," returned Mr. Morris, smiling cynically. "You stay because you care too much and I go for the same reason. Believe me, mine is the better plan. But if you stay, speak! Perhaps, after all, she may have the sense to appreciate you. Though she is worldly and ambitious, there is a leaven of sincerity and purity in her nature, I think. And then, who can guess what is in a woman's heart? 'Tis the greatest of puzzles. Who knows what you may find in Adrienne de St. Andre's, Ned? She is a high-spirited creature, trained in her world to conceal her feelings, should she be unfashionable enough to have any, and perhaps the indifference with which she treats you is but a mask. There are women like that, boy, who are as great actresses as Raucourt or Contat, and who would die before they betrayed themselves, just as there are women to whom candor is as natural as breathing and who can no more help showing the depth and tenderness of their hearts than the sun can help shining. And now," he said, rising as Mr. Jefferson entered the room, "I must be going or I shall be imprudent enough to make some observations on the extraordinary proceedings of this evening."

"Extraordinary indeed," said Mr. Jefferson, with a troubled air, as he seated himself. "I shall wait upon Montmorin in the morning and explain how it has happened that the American Legation has been the rendezvous for the political leaders of France. But though this affair has deeply embarrassed me, I would not, for a great deal, have missed hearing the coolness and candor of argument, the logical reasoning and chaste eloquence of the discussion this evening. Would that it had all been employed in a better cause! It seems almost pitiful that these men should be battling for a King who, though meaning well toward the nation, is swayed absolutely by a Queen, proud, disdainful of all restraint, concerned only in the present pleasure, a gambler and intrigante. Dr. Franklin and I have seen her in company with d'Artois and Coigny and the Duchesse de Polignac, than whom there is no more infamous woman in France, gambling and looking on at the wild dances and buffoonery of a guinguette, and, though her incognita was respected, think you the people did not know the Queen? 'Tis to preserve the throne of a woman such as that that Lafayette and d'Azay and Barnave bend all their powerful young energies and talents and may, perhaps, give their young lives!"

"There are those who think differently about Louis and Marie Antoinette, and who consider the Queen the better man of the two," replied Mr. Morris, dryly. "But 'tis past my patience, the whole thing, and I can scarce trust myself to think of it. By the way, Ned," he said, suddenly turning to Calvert, "'twas that villain Bertrand, that protege of yours, who was carrying the head of that poor devil, Foulon, on his pike this afternoon. I recognized the fellow instantly, and I think he knew me, too, though he was near crazed with blood and excitement. He handed the bike to a companion and slunk into the crowd when he saw me. Have a care of him, boy. 'Twas the most awful sight my eyes ever rested on! And now, good-night." At the door he looked back and saw Mr. Jefferson filling his long pipe with fragrant Virginia tobacco and Calvert still sitting beside the table with the troubled look on his thoughtful young face.

A week later, after having bidden good-by to his friends in Versailles and Paris and having obtained a passport from Lafayette at the Hotel de Ville, he set out for London, from which capital he did not return until the middle of September.



CHAPTER XIV

MR. CALVERT RIDES DOWN INTO TOURAINE

August was a dreary month in Paris. With the last days of July the heat became intense, and that, with the constant alarms and ever recurring outbreaks, caused such an exodus from the city as soon made Paris a deserted place. Mr. Morris's departure was followed shortly by that of the old Duchesse d'Azay and Madame de St. Andre, who went down to Azay-le-Roi, so that in Calvert's estimation the gayest capital in the world was but a lonely, uninteresting city. Toward the close of August Mr. Jefferson received from Congress that permission to return home which he had solicited for so long, and, without loss of time, he prepared to leave France for, as he supposed, an absence of a few months, at most. Among the multitude of public and private affairs to be arranged before his departure, his friends were not forgotten, and he made many farewell visits to Versailles, Marly-le-Roi, and St. Germain. He had not thought it possible, however, to see his friends at Azay-le-Roi, but the middle of September found his affairs so nearly settled, and, his passage not being taken until the 26th of the month, he one day proposed to Calvert that they should make the journey into Touraine.

"Tis the most beautiful part of France," he said to the young man, "and I have a fancy to show you the country for the first time and to say farewell to our friends, Madame d'Azay and Madame de St. Andre."

To this proposition the young man assented, suddenly determining that he would see Adrienne and put his fortune to the touch. 'Twas intolerable to remain longer in such a state of uncertainty and feverish unhappiness, he decided. Any fate—the cruellest—would be preferable to the doubt which he suffered. And surely he was right, and uncertainty the greatest suffering the heart can know.

"At the worst she can hurt me no more cruelly than she has already," he said to himself. "She shall know that I love her, even though that means I shall never see her again."

His determination once taken, he was as eager as possible to be off, and, by the 16th, all was in readiness for their departure. Passports were obtained from Lafayette and places reserved in the public diligence. They took only one servant with them—the man Bertrand, whom Galvert had been at pains to ferret out and take into his employ, thinking to prevent him from mingling again with the ruffians and cutthroats of the Palais Royal and faubourgs. Such was the fellow's devotion to Calvert that he abandoned his revolutionary and bloody comrades and took service joyfully with the young man, delighted to be near and of use to him.

The journey into Touraine was a very short and a very pleasant one to Mr. Jefferson and Calvert. The diligence left Paris by the Ivry gate, stopping for the night at Orleans. The next morning at dawn they were again upon their way and bowling swiftly along the great highway that led down into the valley of the Loire, past Amboise and Blois and Vouvray to the old town of Tours, lying snugly between the Loire and the Cher. They came into the rue Royale just as the sun was flinging a splendor over everything—on the gray cathedral spires and the square tower of Charlemagne and the gloomy Tour de Guise, and as they crossed the great stone bridge to the old quarter of St. Symphorien, the Loire flowed away beneath them like some fabled stream of molten gold.

The diligence put them down at La Boule d'Or, a clean and well-kept inn, overlooking the river and from the windows of which could be seen the white facade of the Hotel de Ville and the numberless towers rising here and there above the old town. After a night of refreshing sleep to Mr. Jefferson, but one full of misgivings and broken dreams to Calvert, the two gentlemen set forth in the morning on horseback, followed shortly after by Bertrand with light baggage, for Mr. Jefferson's affairs would not permit him to remain more than twenty-four hours at Azay-le-Roi. They rode slowly, at first, through the early sweetness of that September morning, scarcely disturbing the fine, white dust upon the broad road. The level land stretched away before them like some tranquil, inland sea, and against the horizon tall, stately poplars showed like the slender masts of ships against the blue of sky and ocean.

"It is as though a whole world separated this peaceful valley from the agitation and uproar of Paris," said Mr. Jefferson to Calvert.

"Yet even here revolt has already left its mark," returned Calvert, pointing to the half-burnt ruins of a chateau just visible through an avenue of trees to the left.

In the early afternoon they came to Azay, and, passing quickly through the little village and out into the country again, they were soon at the entrance of the great park surrounding Azay-le-Roi. Calvert never forgot the look of the great avenue of rustling poplars and the exquisite grace of the chateau as he and Mr. Jefferson rode up to it on that September afternoon. A sunny stillness brooded over it; long shadows from the pointed turrets lay upon the fine white sand of the driveway and dipped along the gray walls of the chateau, which the hand of man had fretted with lace-like sculpture. In an angle of the courtyard two idle lackeys in scarlet liveries and powdered hair played with a little terrier. As Mr. Jefferson and Calvert approached, they ran forward, one taking the horses and the other opening the great entrance door for the two gentlemen and ushering them into the salon where a large company was amusing itself with cards, books, and music. The old Duchess and d'Azay, who was down from Versailles for a few days, could not welcome the gentlemen warmly enough, and even Adrienne seemed so pleased to see them again that, for the first time since beginning the journey, Calvert felt some of his misgivings quieted and dared to hope that his embassy might not be unsuccessful. He would have spoken to her that very evening, she was so gracious to him, but that the numerous company prevented any conversation alone. Not only did guests arrive for dinner, but there were several families from the neighboring chateaux staying at Azay-le-Roi, frightened thither by rumors of outbreaks among the peasantry and the approach of brigands.

"They cannot frighten me from Azay-le-Roi," says the Duchess, stoutly, to Mr. Jefferson. "If they burn my house, 'twill be over my head, and as for the brigands, I believe in them no more than in the alleged plot of the Queen to blow up the Assembly."

The talk was all of the tumults in Paris, the hasty decrees of the Assembly, and the agitation spreading over the provinces, and the evening would have passed gloomily enough had it not been for the intrepid old Duchess, who scouted all vague alarms, and for Adrienne, who turned them into ridicule, and who had never appeared to Calvert more sparkling and charming. It was not until the next morning that he could get a word with her alone. He found her walking slowly up and down an allee of elms, through the leaves of which the bright September sunshine sifted down. She nodded coolly to the young man who joined her. All her animation and gracious air of the evening before had disappeared, and Calvert could have cursed himself that he had come upon her in this capricious mood. But he would not put off saying what he had come so far to say, for all her changed manner, and, moreover, there would be no better time, for they were to set out for Tours again by noon.

"Madame," he said, after an instant's silence, during which they had paced slowly up and down together, "as you know, this is no farewell visit I have come to pay, since I do not leave France with Mr. Jefferson. I have come because I dared to love you," he went on, bluntly, and meeting the look of surprise, which Adrienne shot at him, squarely and steadily. They both stopped in their walk and regarded each other, the young girl blushing slightly as she looked at Calvert's pale face and met his steady gaze.

"I can make you no fine phrases. Indeed, I know no words either in your tongue or mine that can express the love I feel for you," he said, a little sadly.

"'Tis the first time I have ever known Mr. Calvert to be at a loss for French phrases," returned Adrienne, recovering from her momentary confusion and smiling mockingly at the young man. "You should have taken a lesson from Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur de St. Aulaire."

"No doubt they have had much experience which I have missed, and could teach me much. But I fear Beaufort could only teach me how to fail, and as for Monsieur de St. Aulaire, I have no time to go to England to find that gentleman in the retreat which he has so suddenly seen fit to seek." Madame de St. Andre blushed and bit her lip. "'Tis the first time I have ever told a woman I loved her," said Calvert, "and I would rather tell her in my own blunt fashion. If she loves me, she will know the things my heart tells her, but which my lips are too unskilled to translate."

"Ah, we women are too wise to try to divine unspoken things; we scarce dare believe what we are told," and the young girl laughed lightly.

"Yet I think you once paid me the compliment of saying that you believed me sincere," said poor Calvert.

"'Tis true—there is something about you which compels belief—'tis your eyes, I think," and then, throwing off the seriousness with which she had spoken, she added, jestingly: "But in truth, sir, it is too much to ask of me to believe that I am the first woman you have ever loved."

"It is nevertheless true," said Calvert, quietly.

"And you told me you could make no fine phrases!" cried the young girl, with a gesture of pretended disappointment, and glancing with eyes full of amusement at Calvert.

"I pray you to still that spirit of mockery and listen to me," said the young man, turning to her with passion. As Adrienne looked at his white face and heard the sternness in his voice, the laughter faded from her eyes.

"I have never known the love of a mother or sister. It is true what I have told you, whether you believe it or not, that you are the first and only woman I have loved. And I think I have loved you ever since that night, years ago at Monticello, when d'Azay showed me your miniature. I have loved you when you were kind and unkind to me. I love you now, although I do not dare to hope that you love me in return. I can offer you nothing," he went on, hurriedly, seeing that she would have stopped him. "I can offer you nothing but this love and a home over the sea. 'Tis a pretty place, though it would doubtless seem to you poor enough after the splendors of Versailles and Paris," he says, smiling ruefully; "but we might be happy there. Is it impossible?"

As she looked into Calvert's serious eyes, lighted with a glow she had never seen in them, there swept over her that admiration for him which she had felt before. But she conquered it before it could conquer her.

"Impossible. Ah, you Americans want everything. You have triumphed over the English; do you wish to conquer France, too? I am not worth being taken prisoner, Monsieur," she says, suddenly. "I am capricious and cold and ambitious. I have never been taught to value love above position. How can I change now? How could I leave this France, and its court and pleasures, for the wilds of a new country? No, no, Monsieur; I haven't any of the heroine in me."

"'Tis not exactly to the wilds of a new country that I would take you, Madame," and Calvert smiled palely, in spite of himself, "but to a very fertile and beautiful land, where some of the kindest people in the world live. But I do not deny that our life and pleasures are of the simplest—'twould, in truth, be a poor exchange for the Marquise de St. Andre."

"It might be a happy enough lot for some woman; for me, I own it would be a sacrifice," said Adrienne, imperiously.

"Believe me, no one realizes more clearly than I do the sacrifice I would ask you to make, with only the honest love of a plain American gentleman for compensation. There are no titles, no riches, no courtly pleasures in my Virginia; I can't even offer you a reputation, a little fame. But my life is before me, and I swear, if you will but give me some hope, I will yet bring you honors and some fortune to lay with my heart at your feet! There have been days when you were so gracious that I have been tempted to believe I might win your love," says poor Calvert.

"If you mean I have knowingly encouraged this madness, Monsieur Calvert, believe me, you mistake and wrong me."

"I do not reproach you," returned Calvert, smiling sadly. "I can easily believe you did not mean to show me any kindness. This folly is all my own, and has become so much a part of me that I think I would not have done with it if I could. I would give you my life if it would do you any good. You need not smile so mockingly. It is no idle assertion, and it would be a poor gift, after all, as it is less than nothing since you will not share it. I used to wonder what this love was," he goes on, as if to himself, "that seizes upon men and holds them fast and changes them so. I think I understand it now, and the beauty of it and the degradation, too. I love you so that, if by some stroke of fate I could be changed into a prince or a duke, like your Monsieur de Grammont or Monsieur de Noailles, and you would give me your love, as to some such exalted personage, I would be base enough to accept it, though I knew you would never give it to the untitled American."

"Enough, Monsieur!" said Adrienne, rising in some agitation. "This conversation is painful to me and I know must be to you. Had I guessed what you had to say, I would have spared you."

"No," returned Calvert, grimly, a wave of crimson suddenly spreading over his pale face ('twas the only sign he gave of the anger and pain gnawing at his heart), "you would have had to listen. I came to Azay-le-Roi to tell you that I love you. Do you think I would have gone away without speaking?"

Adrienne regarded him in haughty amazement.

"At least you will do me the favor never to refer to this again?"

"You may rest assured, Madame, that I shall never annoy you again." He spoke as haughtily as she, for he was bitterly hurt, and he was young enough to feel a fierce pride in the thought that he, too, would have done with this love which she had so lightly disdained.

He sank down upon the bench and covered his face with his hands. A sudden spasm of coquetry seized the young girl.

"Then, in case I should ever change my mind, as women have been known to do since time immemorial, Monsieur, I shall have to ask you to marry me!" she said, laughing lightly.

Calvert raised his head wearily. His face looked as though a dozen years had left their mark upon it since he entered the little allee of elms; there were fine lines of pain about the mouth and a curious, listless look in his usually serene eyes.

"After this morning I cannot believe that you will ever change your mind," he said, rising as he spoke. "But be assured that whatever may happen I shall never forget your command and offend again. And now, as I shall not see you again before we leave, I bid you farewell, Madame." He pressed the hand which Adrienne held out to his pale lips, and then holding it for an instant in both of his, turned quickly and left the allee.

Madame de St. Andre looked after the clean-limbed, athletic young figure as it disappeared rapidly through the trees. And suddenly a keen regret for what she had done swept over her. Did she love him, then, that she should wish him back? She sank upon the bench with a beating heart. She would have called out to him, have brought him back to her side, but that her pride held her in check.

"What insolence!" she said, half-starting up. "And yet—and yet—'tis more to my liking than fine phrases! And it was true—what he said—had he been Monsieur le Duc de Montmorency or Monsieur de Villeroi—! At least I shall see him again—he will come back—they always do." But though she smiled, a curious foreboding and a sort of fear seized upon her.