At the chateau Calvert found Mr. Jefferson making his adieux to Madame d'Azay and her guests. The horses had been ordered, and in a few minutes the gentlemen were ready to start. D'Azay walked with Calvert to where Bertrand stood holding them.

"'Tis an infernal shame, Ned," he said, in a low tone, wringing the young man's hand. "I guessed thy mission down here and thy face tells me how it has gone. As for myself, I would have wished for nothing better. Perhaps she may change her mind—all women do," he added, hopefully. But Calvert only shook his head.

"She is for some greater and luckier man than I," he said, quietly, taking the reins from Bertrand, and waving an adieu to the young lord as he rode down the avenue.

As d'Azay slowly made his way back to the chateau, Bertrand stood for a moment looking after him before mounting to follow Mr. Jefferson and Calvert.

"And so," he said, half-aloud, "that was Monsieur's reason for coming to Azay-le-Roi! And she won't have him! All women are fools, and these great ladies seem to be the biggest fools of all. She will not find his equal among the white-livered aristocrats who swarm around her. I wish I could revenge Monsieur for this," he said, savagely, and jumping on his horse he rode after the two gentlemen.

The journey back to Tours was made more quickly than coming, and Mr. Jefferson was so full of his visit to Azay-le-Roi as not to notice Calvert's preoccupation and silence. They rode into the town in the late afternoon and made their way to the Boule d'Or, where Calvert, who had a sudden longing to be alone, left Mr. Jefferson writing letters, and strolled back into the old town.

Almost before he was aware of it he found himself in the little square before the great Cathedral. With a sudden impulse he entered and leaned against one of the fretted columns. A chorister was practising softly in the transept overhead. 'Twas the benedictus from one of Mozart's masses.

"Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini," he sang over and over again. Calvert could not see the singer, but the young voice floated downward, reminding him of his own boyish voice. He closed his eyes and bowed his head against the cold stone. When he could stand it no longer, he went softly down the echoing aisle of the church, out through the great doors, into the yellow sunshine of the deserted little street. There were some linden-trees planted in a hollow square before the parvis of the Cathedral, and stone benches set beneath them. Upon one of these he sank down, as if physically weary. Perhaps he was—at any rate, a sudden, sick disgust for everything, for the melancholy afternoon sunshine and the yellowing grass and blighted flowers, took possession of him. The wind, rising, made a dreary sound among the stiffening leaves. One fluttered downward and lay upon the bench beside him. He noted with surprise the sudden chill, the first touch of coming winter. But that morning it had seemed like spring to him.

He looked up at the great front of the Cathedral, unchanging through so many changing years, and, as he looked, he thought how small and ephemeral a thing he was and his love and grief. The two great spires towering upward seemed to his sick fancy like two uplifted hands drawing benediction down on the weary, grief-stricken world, and before their awful patience and supplication something of his own impatience and bitterness passed from him and, comforted, he left the spot and made his way along the deserted quay and so back to the little inn where Mr. Jefferson awaited him.



CHAPTER XV

CHRISTMAS EVE

Had it not been for Mr. Morris's sudden return from London, Calvert would have felt alone, indeed, in Paris. Having received certain intelligence concerning the plan for the purchase of the American debt to France, Mr. Morris set off hastily for France and arrived there several days before Mr. Jefferson's departure for Havre. This absence, as all thought, was to be but temporary, but, when Mr. Jefferson left Paris on that morning of the 26th of September, it was never to return. He left his affairs in the hands of Calvert and Mr. Short, and, as for the former, he was only too happy to plunge into work and so forget, if possible, his own unhappiness. Mr. Morris easily divined it, however, and its cause, and tried, in his cynical, kindly fashion, to divert the young man. He made it a point to see Calvert frequently, and, indeed, it was not only out of kindness of heart that he did so, but because he had the greatest liking for the young gentleman and enjoyed his society above that of most of his acquaintances. It was easy enough for the two to see much of each other, for although the approach of winter brought a slight return of gayety, Paris was dreary and deserted enough. That first wave of fear which had seized upon the nobles had swept many of them out of France to Turin, to Frankfort, to Metz, to Coblentz, and to London. Many of those salons which Mr. Morris and Calvert had frequented were already closed, hostesses and guests alike in exile and poverty. Alarm succeeded alarm in Paris until, with the ill-starred feast to the Regiment of Flanders and the march on Versailles, alarm rose to panic. The incredible folly and stupidity which precipitated these events aroused Mr. Morris's contempt and indignation to the utmost pitch.

"What malignant devil is it, Ned," he fairly groaned, as he and Calvert sat over their wine one evening after dinner at the Legation, "that urges their unfortunate Majesties on to their destruction? What could have been more ill-advised, nay, more fatal in these starvation times, than the banquet to the Flanders Regiment? And the presence at it of their Majesties! Oh, Luxembourg must have been stricken mad to have urged them to go thither! And once there, who or what could have prevented that tipsy royalist enthusiasm, the wild burst of sympathy, the trampling of the tri-color cockade? They say the Queen moved among the half-crazed soldiers shining and beautiful as a star, boy. I had the whole scene from Maupas, a cousin of Madame de Flahaut, who is in the Body Guard. What wonder that Paris raged to remove the suborned Regiment of Flanders! And, if only the King had remained firm and kept it at Versailles, this other horror of the 5th and 6th of October would never have happened. But what can you expect from such a monarch? As I wrote President Washington this afternoon, 'If the reigning prince were not the small-beer character he is, there can be but little doubt that, watching events and making a tolerable use of them, he would regain his authority; but what will you have from a creature who, situated as he is, eats and drinks, sleeps well and laughs, and is as merry a grig as lives? There is, besides, no possibility of serving him, for, at the slightest show of opposition, he gives up everything and every person.' And yet I would like to attempt it, if only to thwart those rampant, feather-brained philosophers who are hurrying France to her doom."

"It is Lafayette I would like to serve," said Calvert, moodily. "D'Azay and I were with him at the Hotel de Ville for the greater part of the day of the 5th of October. He was no longer master of himself or of those he commanded, and I could scarce believe that this harried, brow-beaten, menaced leader of the Milice was the alert and intrepid soldier I had served under before Yorktown."

"Ah, Ned, there is a man whom this revolution has spoiled and will spoil even more! Another lost reputation, I fear. Truly a dreadful situation to find one's self in. Marched by compulsion, guarded by his own troops, who suspect and threaten him! Obliged to do what he abhors, or suffer an ignominious death, with the certainty that the sacrifice of his own life will not prevent the mischief! And he has but himself to thank—the dreadful events of the 5th and 6th of October were, as far as concerned Lafayette, but the natural consequences of his former policy. Did I not warn him long ago of the madness of trimming between the court and popular party, of the danger of a vast, undisciplined body of troops?"

He got up and stumped about the room, irritation and pity expressed in every feature of his countenance, not wholly unmixed, it must be confessed (or so it seemed to Calvert, who could not help being a little amused thereat), with a certain satisfaction at his perspicacity. Suddenly he burst out laughing.

"After all, there is a humorous side to the Marquis's tardy march to Versailles with his rabble of soldiers. As the old Duchesse d'Azay said the other evening to the Bishop of Autun and myself, 'Lafayette et sa Garde Nationale ressemblent a l'arc-en-ciel et n'arrivent qu'apres l'orage!'—I will be willing to bet you a dinner at the Cafe de l'Ecole that the Bishop repeats it within a week as his own bon mot!"

But Mr. Morris had graver charges against the Bishop than the confiscation of a witty saying. Over Talleyrand's motion for the public sale of church property he lost all patience, and did not hesitate to point out to him one evening, when they supped together at Madame de Flahaut's, the serious objections to be urged against such a step. 'Twas but one, however, of the many signs of the times which both irritated and pained him, for he was genuinely and ardently interested in the fate of France, and looked on with alarm and sadness at the events taking place. His own plan for a supply of flour from America and the negotiations for the purchase to France of the American debt, which he was endeavoring to conclude with Necker, were alternately renewed and broken off in a most exasperating fashion, owing to that minister's short-sighted policy and niggardliness. Indeed, France's finances were in a hopelessly deplorable state, and Mr. Morris looked on in dismay at the various futile plans suggested as remedies—at the proposal to make the bankrupt Caisse d'Escompte a national bank, at the foolish Caisse Patriotique, and at the issue of assignats.

"If they only had a financier of the calibre of Hamilton," said Mr. Morris to Calvert; "but they haven't a man to compare with that young genius. Necker is only a sublimated bank-clerk. Indeed, I think you or I could conduct the finances of this unhappy country better than they are at present conducted," he added, laughing. "I have great hopes of you as a financier, Ned, since that affair of the Holland loans, and as for myself, Luxembourg has urged me seriously to enter the ministry. 'Tis a curious proposition, but these visionary philosophers, who are trying to pilot the ship of state into a safe harbor, know nothing of their business, and will fetch up on some hidden reef pretty soon, if I mistake not. The Assembly is already held in utter contempt—their sittings are tumultuous farces—the thing they call a constitution is utterly good for nothing. And there is Lafayette, with an ambition far beyond his talents, aspiring not only to the command of all the forces, but to a leadership in the Assembly—a kind of Generalissimo-Dictatorship. 'Tis almost inconceivable folly, and, to cap all, that scoundrel Mirabeau has the deputies under his thumb. Can a country be more utterly prostrated than France is at this moment?"

"To get Lafayette and Mirabeau together is her only chance of safety, I think," said Calvert, in reply. "The leader of the people and the leader of the Assembly, working together, might do much."

"Impossible," objected Mr. Morris, decidedly, "and I do not blame Lafayette for refusing to ally himself with so profligate a creature as Mirabeau, great and undeniable as are his talents. Why, boy, all Paris knows that while he leads the Assembly, he is in the pay of the King and Queen."

"And yet I heard you yourself declare," returned Calvert, with a smile, "that men do not go into the administration as the direct road to Heaven. I think it were well for this country to avail itself of the great abilities of Mirabeau and make it to his interest to be true to it." And in the long argument which ensued over the advisability of taking Monsieur de Mirabeau into the administration, Calvert had all the best of it, and judged Mirabeau's talents and usefulness more accurately than Mr. Morris, keen and practical as that gentleman usually was.

Toward the middle of November word came to the American Legation at Paris, by the British packet, of the appointment of Mr. Jefferson to the Secretaryship of Foreign Affairs under President Washington, and the commission of Mr. Short as charge d'affaires at Paris until a new minister could be appointed. This news was confirmed six weeks later by a letter from Mr. Jefferson himself to Calvert and Mr. Morris:

* * * * *

It had been my ardent wish to return to France and see the ending of the revolution now convulsing that unhappy country, but the sense of duty which sent me thither when I had no wish to leave America now constrains me to remain here. Hamilton has been made Secretary of the Treasury, and he is anxious to have you return, that he may associate you with him in some way. But I have told him that, greatly as I should like to see you and to see you busy in your own country, it was my opinion that you had better stay abroad for a year or two longer and study the governments of the different European powers before returning to the United States. You can learn much in that time, and your usefulness and advancement in your own country will be proportionately greater. At any rate, I will beg of you to stay in Paris until you can arrange some of my private affairs, left at loose ends. I enclose a list of the most important, with instructions. Mr. Short will attend to the official ones for the present. His commission was the first one signed by President Washington. Pray present my kindest regards to Mr. Morris, and, with the hope of hearing from you both soon and frequently,

Your friend and servant,

THOMAS JEFFERSON.

* * * * *

This letter reached Mr. Calvert on the day before Christmas, and added not a little to the gloom of an anniversary already sufficiently depressing, passed so far from friends and home and amid such untoward surroundings. He and Mr. Short were in Mr. Jefferson's little octagonal library, still discussing the letter, among others received by the same packet, when Mr. Morris came in, the three gentlemen intending to have a bachelor dinner at the Legation.

"I see you have the news about Mr. Jefferson," he said, looking at Mr. Calvert and Mr. Short. "I have a letter from him myself and a long one from President Washington, which I have permission to communicate to you two, but which must go no further for the present," and he handed it to Mr. Calvert. "As you see, 'tis my orders to proceed to England as accredited agent to the British Government, with the object of settling the treaty disputes and of establishing, if possible, a commercial alliance with Great Britain. The President has written me at length on the subject, and I shall start for London as soon as possible—within a month, I hope."

"'Tis a great compliment," said Mr. Short, a little enviously.

"And a very delicate mission," added Calvert. And so it was, and an ungrateful one, too. Several of the stipulations of the Peace of Paris, though ratified several years previously, were still unfulfilled. The British had failed to surrender the frontier posts included in the territory of the United States, and the United States, on her side, had failed to pay the debts due to British merchants before the war. Now, although America, at Washington's instigation, was eager to fulfil her part of the treaty, England still held off, and 'twas to learn her ultimate intentions, and persuade her, if possible, to carry out her share of the conditions, that the President had named Mr. Gouverneur Morris as private agent to the British Government. He was furthermore to discover whether England would send a minister to the infant union and also what her dispositions were in regard to making a commercial treaty.

This mission was discussed at length during dinner and until late into the evening, when Mr. Short, pleading a supper engagement with the Duchesse d'Orleans, went away, leaving Mr. Morris and Calvert together.

"And now, Ned," said the older man, as they sat comfortably before the fire after Mr. Short's departure, "your duties here will detain you no longer than mine, so why cannot we take that journey to England together? You remember you would not go the last time I asked you."

"There is nothing to keep me now," returned Calvert, quietly, "and—and in truth I shall be glad enough to get away," he said, rising, and moving restlessly about the room. And, indeed, he was anxious to get away and conquer, if possible, in some unfamiliar scene, the disappointment which was consuming him.

"I saw her a few days ago at Madame de Montmorin's," said Mr. Morris, in a kindly tone. "She was looking very beautiful and asked about you—do you know, boy, I think she would be glad to see you again? Haven't you been to the rue St. Honore all this while?"

"No," replied Calvert, "and I shall not go."

"The hardness of youth! My young philosopher, when you are older you will be glad to make compromises with Happiness and go to meet her half way. I think you can be a little cruel in your sure young strength, Ned, and a woman's heart is easily hurt," said Mr. Morris, with a sudden, unaccustomed seriousness.

"I am not much of a philosopher. I tried my fortune and failed, and I thought I could bear it, but it is unendurable. Perhaps I shall find it more tolerable away from her," said Calvert, gloomily.

"Then if you won't tempt your fortune further, come to London with me, Ned. I promise you diversion and excitement. There are other interesting things to study besides the 'governments of different European powers,'" and Mr. Morris laughed and tapped Mr. Jefferson's letter, which he held in his hand. "I am not averse to going away myself. Ugh! Paris has become insufferable these days, with its riots and murders and houses marked for destruction. 'Tis the irony of fate that this breeding-spot of every kind and degree of vice known under high Heaven should come forward in the sacred cause of liberty! Besides all of which, Madame de Flahaut has found a new admirer. She swore eternal affection for me, but nothing here below can last forever," he went on, in his old cynical fashion. "I embarrass her manoeuvres, and 'twere well I were away and leave a fair field for my rival." As he spoke, the clock on the mantel chimed the hour of half after eleven.

"'Tis Christmas eve, Ned," he said, getting up. "Perhaps we sha'n't be in Paris for another, and so I propose we go and hear mass at Notre Dame. 'Tis a most Christian and edifying ceremony, I believe. Garat is to sing the Te Deum, so Madame de Flauhaut tells me."

The two gentlemen decided to walk, the night being clear and frosty, and so, dismissing Mr. Morris's carriage, they sauntered leisurely down to the Place Louis XV. and so by the way of the Quai de Bourbon and the Quai de l'Ecole over the Pont Neuf to the great parvis of Notre Dame. Arrived at the Cathedral, the Suisse, in scarlet velvet and gold lace, gave them places over against the choir, where they could hear and see all that passed. Though 'twas midnight, the great church was filled with a throng of worshippers, who knelt and rose and knelt again as mass proceeded. From the altar rose clouds of incense from censers swung by acolytes; now and then could be heard the tinkle of a silver bell at the Elevation of the Host and the voice of the priest, monotonous and indistinct, in that vast edifice. Lights twinkled, the air grew heavy with incense, and great bursts of music rolled from the organ-loft. 'Twas a magnificent ceremonial, and Mr. Morris and Calvert came away thrilled and awed. They made their way out by the old rue St. Louis and the Quai des Orfevres, and, keeping still to the left bank of the Seine, did not cross until they came to the Pont Royal. From the bridge they could see far down the river and the lights of Paris on both sides of the water. A feathery sprinkling of snow, which had fallen in the afternoon, lay over everything; but the rack of clouds which had brought it had blown away, and the night was frosty and starlit. A tremulous excitement and unrest seemed to be in the keen air.

"Tis a doomed city, I think, and we are better away," said Mr. Morris, leaning on the stone parapet of the bridge and looking far out over the river and at the silent ranks of houses lining its shore. A great bell from some tower on the left boomed out two strokes. "Two o'clock! 'Tis Christmas morning, and we had best be getting back, Ned." Together they walked under the keen, frosty stars as far as the rue St. Honore, and then, with best Christmas wishes, they parted, Mr. Morris going to the rue Richelieu, and Calvert back to the Legation.



CHAPTER XVI

MR. CALVERT TRIES TO FORGET

It was with the gloomiest forebodings and the doubt whether he should ever see them under happier circumstances, or, indeed, at all, that Mr. Calvert bade farewell to a few friends on the eve of his departure for England. Although he had the greatest power of making devoted friends, yet he was intimate with but very few persons, and so, while Mr. Morris was making a score of farewell visits and engaging to fill a dozen commissions for the Parisian ladies in London, Calvert was saying good-by very quietly to but three or four friends. D'Azay he saw at the Club, and it was not without great anxiety that he parted from him. Calvert had noticed his friend's extreme republicanism and his alliance with Lafayette with grave apprehension, and it was with the keenest uncertainty as to the future that he said good-by to the young nobleman. He was spared the embarrassment of bidding Madame de St. Andre farewell, for, when he called at the hotel in the rue St. Honore to pay his respects to Madame d'Azay, as he felt in duty bound to do, he was told by the lackey that both ladies were out.

Mr. Morris, having obtained information that the banking house in Amsterdam, upon which he was relying for backing in the purchase of the American debt, had opened a loan on account of Congress and had withdrawn from their engagements with him, determined to proceed to England by way of Holland, that he might have personal interviews with the directors relative to the affair. Accordingly, he and Mr. Calvert set out for Amsterdam on the morning of the 17th of February, travelling in a large berline and taking but one servant—Mr. Morris's—with them. 'Twas with much reluctance that Calvert had left Bertrand behind, for the fellow was as devotedly attached to him as a slave, and was never so happy as when doing some service for the young man.

"I am afraid he will go back to his wild companions and become the enrage that he was," said Calvert to Mr. Morris, "and I have given him much good advice, which I dare say he will not follow, however. But my plans are so uncertain that there is no knowing when he would see France again."

They travelled by way of Flanders, stopping a day and night in Brussels, and thence to Malines and Antwerp, where they saw the famous "Descent from the Cross," which Mr. Calvert thought the greatest and most terrible painting he had ever seen. At Amsterdam they were received into the highest society of the place, and were most hospitably entertained; but the state of the whole country was so unsettled that Mr. Morris deemed it most prudent not to press the financial engagements which he had expected to make, and, accordingly, they set out for England.

Journeying by way of The Hague and Rotterdam, they set sail in the Holland packet and were landed at Harwich on the 27th of March. They proceeded at once to London, arriving late in the afternoon, and took rooms and lodgings at Froome's Hotel, Covent Garden. There they were waited on, in the course of the evening, by General Morris, Mr. Gouverneur Morris's brother. This gentleman, who had remained a royalist and removed to England, was a general in the British army, and had married the Duchess of Gordon. He was eager to make the travellers from Paris welcome to London, and could scarcely wait for the morrow to begin his kind offices. As Mr. Morris had hoped and, indeed, expected, he took an instant liking to Mr. Calvert, and professed himself anxious that that young gentleman's stay in London should prove agreeable. This kind wish was echoed by his wife, who was as greatly prepossessed in Calvert's favor when he was presented to her the following day as General Morris had been, and, as they moved in the highest circles of society, it was easy enough to introduce the young American to the gayest social life of the capital. With the acquaintances thus made and the large circle of friends which Mr. Morris had formed on his previous visit to London, Calvert soon found himself on pleasant terms.

Perhaps the house they both most liked to frequent was that of Mr. John B. Church. Mr. Morris had known the gentleman when he was Commissary-General under Lafayette in America and before he had married his American wife. Mr. Church's American proclivities made him unpopular with the Tory party on his return to England, but he numbered among his friends the Whig leaders and many of the most eminent men and women of the day. 'Twas at a ball given by Mrs. Church a few days after his arrival in London that Mr. Calvert saw, for the first time, some of the greatest personages in the kingdom—the Prince of Wales, and Mrs. Fitzherbert, the beautiful Mrs. Damer and the Duc d'Orleans, who had but lately come over, sent out of France by the King under pretext of an embassy to the English monarch. Calvert had not seen his hateful face since the opening of the States-General, and 'twas with a kind of horror that he now looked at this royal renegade. Pitt was there, too, but, although Mr. Calvert saw him, he did not meet him until on a subsequent occasion. He marvelled, as did everyone who saw Pitt at this time, at the youth (he was but thirty-one) and the dignity of the Prime Minister of George III. Indeed, he moved among the company with a kind of cold splendor that sat strangely on so young a man, smacking of affectation somewhat, and which rather repelled than invited Calvert's admiration. This first impression Mr. Calvert had little reason to alter when, some weeks later, in company with Mr. Morris, he was presented to Mr. Pitt by the Duke of Leeds, and had the occasion of seeing and conversing with him at some length.

This interview was the second one which Mr. Morris had had with his Grace of Leeds, and was scarcely more satisfactory than the first had been. But a few days after his arrival in London he had requested an interview with the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and presented to him his letter from President Washington. A few minutes' conversation with the incapable, indolent diplomat convinced Mr. Morris that little, if anything, would be done toward settling the treaty difficulties, in spite of his Grace's extreme courtesy of manner and vague assurance of immediate attention to the facts presented to him. It was therefore with no surprise, but a good deal of irritation, that Mr. Morris saw the weeks slip by with but one evasive answer to his demands being sent him. Being importuned to appeal to the British Government on another score—the impressment of American seamen into the English navy—he determined again to urge upon the Minister of Foreign Affairs a settlement of the treaty stipulations at the same time that he presented the new subject of grievance. To Mr. Morris's request for another interview, the Duke of Leeds readily assented.

"He has set to-morrow as the day, Ned," said Mr. Morris, consulting his Grace's letter, which he held in his hand, "and says that 'he and Mr. Pitt will be glad to discuss informally with me any matters I wish to bring to their attention.' As it is to be so 'informal,' and as Leeds is to have the advantage of a friend at the interview, I think I will ask you to accompany me. I can't for the life of me get him to commit himself in writing, so 'tis as well to have a witness to our conversations," he said, smiling a little cynically.

Accordingly, at one o'clock the following day, Mr. Morris and Calvert drove to Whitehall, where they found the Prime Minister and the Duke of Leeds awaiting them. The Duke presented Calvert to Mr. Pitt, who seemed glad to see the young American, and not at all disconcerted by the addition to their numbers. Indeed, the interview was as easy and familiar as possible, the gentlemen sitting about a table whereon were glasses and a decanter of port, of which Mr. Pitt drank liberally.

"'Tis the only medicine Dr. Addington, my father's physician, ever prescribed for me," he said, with a smile, to Mr. Morris and Calvert. "I beg of you to try this—'tis some just sent me from Oporto, and, I think, particularly good. But we are here to discuss more important affairs than port wine, however excellent," he added, with another smile.

"Yes," said Mr. Morris, courteously but firmly, "I have requested this interview that I might place before you the complaint of the United States that your press-gangs enter our American ships and impress our seamen under the pretence that they are British subjects. It has long been a sore subject with America, and calls for a speedy remedy, sir."

"Such conduct meets with no more approval from us than from you, Mr. Morris," said the Duke of Leeds, evasively; "but a remedy will be hard to find because of the difficulties of distinguishing between a seaman of two countries so closely related."

"Closely related we are, sir, but I believe this is the only instance in which we are not treated as aliens," returned Mr. Morris, with a dry irony that caused the Duke to flush and move uneasily in his chair.

"You speak of a speedy remedy, Mr. Morris," said Mr. Pitt, hastily, taking up the conversation. "Have you any suggestions as to what remedy might be employed?"

"I would suggest certificates of citizenship from the Admiralty Court of America to our seamen," replied Mr. Morris, promptly. Both Mr. Pitt and the Duke of Leeds looked somewhat surprised at this bold and concise answer.

"'Tis a good idea," said Mr. Pitt, after an instant's hesitation, "and worthy of mature consideration."

"And now, gentlemen, I would like to again place before you these stipulations in the treaty existing between America and England which are as yet unfulfilled, and would urge you to engage that they will no longer be neglected," said Mr. Morris, content to have made his point in regard to the impressment of seamen.

"Suppose you enumerate them in the order of their importance from your point of view and let us discuss the situation," said Mr. Pitt, and he settled himself in his chair and listened with undivided attention to Mr. Morris, parrying with great animation that gentleman's thrusts (which were made again and again with the utmost shrewdness and coolness), and avoiding, whenever possible, a positive promise or a direct answer to his demands.

In this conversation Mr. Calvert joined but once—when appealed to by Mr. Pitt on the subject of the frontier posts.

"Mr. Morris has a new variation on the old theme of 'Heads I win, tails you lose,'" he said, turning jocularly to Calvert. "He insists that the frontier posts are worth nothing to us, and yet he insists they are most necessary to you."

"England and America are so widely separated, sir," replied Calvert, smiling, "that it would seem to be well to respect laws which Nature has set, and keep them so. Near neighbors are seldom good ones, and, to keep the peace between us, 'twere well to keep the distance, also."

"We do not think it worth while to go to war about these posts," said Mr. Morris, rising and bowing to Mr. Pitt and his Grace of Leeds, "but we know our rights and will avail ourselves of them when time and circumstance suit."

"Another fruitless effort," he said, when they had been ushered out and were in the carriage and driving along Whitehall. "I think there is little chance of making a new commercial treaty when they will not fulfil the peace treaty already in existence. I caught the drift of Mr. Pitt's suggestion about mutual accommodation—'twas but a snare to trip us up into repudiating the old treaty."

"Yes," said Calvert, laughing, "a Pittfall."

"And you will see, Ned," added Mr. Morris, joining in the laugh, "that nothing will be done—unless 'tis to appoint a minister to the United States. 'Tis my conviction that Mr. Pitt has determined, in spite of his suavity and apparent friendliness, to make no move in this matter—he hasn't that damned long, obstinate upper lip for nothing, boy. He is all for looking after home affairs and doesn't want to meddle with any foreign policy. I think he is not wise or great enough to look abroad and seize the opportunities that offer. As Charles Fox said—I met him the other evening at dinner at Mrs. Church's—'Pitt was a lucky man before he was a great one,' and I am inclined to agree with him. But I am convinced that they mean to hold the frontier posts and refuse all indemnity for the slaves taken away. And as for the commercial treaty—this country is too powerful just now to be willing to give us fair terms. We could make but a poor bargain with her now, one which we would probably soon regret, and so I shall write the President."

Affairs eventuated exactly as Mr. Morris had predicted, and, although he conducted the embassy with the greatest possible address, shrewdness, and persistence, this failure was made much of in America, and used as an argument against his later appointment as minister to France.

One of the greatest pleasures of Mr. Calvert's stay in London was the unexpected presence there of Mr. Gilbert Stuart. The Queen, wishing to have a portrait of the King, and fearing lest another attack of that dreadful malady from which the poor gentleman had temporarily recovered, should assail him, had commanded Mr. Stuart's presence from Dublin, where he was by invitation of the Duke of Rutland. The royal commission having been executed, Mr. Stuart was passing a few weeks in London with his friend and former patron, Benjamin West, when he met Calvert at a dinner at the house of General and Mrs. Morris. He recognized the young man instantly and reverted to their former meeting at Monticello. "And I promised both myself and Mr. Jefferson to paint a portrait of you, sir," he said, smiling. "I am to be in London for some weeks, and, if you are to be here, too, what time could be more propitious than the present?"

Calvert's assurance that he was in town indefinitely delighted Mr. Stuart.

"Then I must have that sketch of you I have so long promised myself, and we will send a replica to Mr. Jefferson. From the affectionate manner in which he spoke of you, I think I could send him no more acceptable present, Mr. Calvert," he said, speaking with great animation. "I shall beg a corner of Mr. West's studio, and we must begin our sittings at once."

Indeed, he sent for Calvert the very next day, and for several weeks thereafter the young man was thrown much with Stuart and many of the most interesting and famous men of the time, who delighted to foregather in Mr. West's studio. The portrait which Mr. Stuart made of Calvert at this time he always reckoned one of his masterpieces, as, indeed, all who ever saw it declared it to be. Never did the artist execute anything simpler or purer in outline, never were his wonderful flesh tints better laid on, nor the expression of a noble countenance more perfectly caught than in this sketch, a copy of which he was good enough to make and send to Mr. Jefferson, as he had promised. 'Twas at one of the sittings to Mr. Stuart that Calvert made the acquaintance of Mr. Burke. He came in with Sir Joshua Reynolds—the two gentlemen were the greatest friends—and, on discovering that the young gentleman was an American and had been attached to the Legation in Paris, he immediately entered into an animated conversation with him.

"You ought to be able to give us some interesting information about the present state of affairs in France, Mr. Calvert," said Burke to the young man. "By the way, I have thrown together some reflections on the revolution which I would be glad to have you see. They are elaborated from notes made a year ago and are still in manuscript. I live near here in Gerrard Street, Soho, and I would be happy to welcome you and Mr. Stuart to my home, and to have you give me your opinion on certain points."

Mr. Stuart saying that the sitting was over, suggested that they should go at once, so the three gentlemen accompanied Mr. Burke to Gerrard Street and were hospitably ushered into his library. He brought out the manuscript of which he had spoken so lightly (and which was, indeed, voluminous enough for a book) and, turning over the pages rapidly, read here and there extracts from that remarkable treatise which he thought might most interest his audience.

"It has been nearly a score of years since I was in France," he says to Mr. Calvert, laying down the manuscript, "but the interest which that country aroused in me then has never flagged, and ever since my return I have endeavored to keep myself informed of the progress of events there. While in Paris I was presented to their Majesties and many of the most notable men and women of the day. I remember the Queen well—surely there never was a princess so beautiful and so entrancing. She shone brilliant as the morning star, full of splendor and joy. But stay—I have written what I thought of her here," and so saying, he began to read that wonderful passage, that exquisite panegyric of the Dauphiness of France which was soon to be so justly famous. There was a murmur of applause from the gentlemen when he laid the manuscript down.

"'Tis a beautiful tribute. I wish Mr. Jefferson could hear it," says Mr. Calvert, with a smile. "He is not an admirer of the Queen, like yourself, Mr. Burke, and thinks she should be shut up in a convent and the King left free to follow his ministers, but I think your eloquence would win him over, if anything could."

A couple of days afterward, at a dinner at the French Ambassador's, Monsieur de la Luzerne, Mr. Calvert repeated this famous panegyric of the Queen, as nearly as he could remember it. 'Twas received with the wildest enthusiasm and Mr. Burke's health drunk by the loyal refugees who were always to be found at Monsieur de la Luzerne's table and in his drawing-rooms. An immense amount of "refugee" was talked there, and the latest news from Paris discussed and rediscussed by the homesick and descouvre emigrants. Mr. Morris and Calvert were frequent visitors there, liking to hear of their friends in Paris and the events taking place in France.

In spite of all the distractions and pleasures of town life which Mr. Calvert engaged in, he still felt those secret pangs of bitter disappointment and the fever of unsatisfied desire, but he was both too unselfish and too proud to show what he suffered. There are some of us who keep our dark thoughts and secret, hopeless longings in the background, as the maimed and diseased beggars are kept off the streets in Paris, and only let them come from their hiding-places at long intervals, like the beggars again, who crawl forth once or twice a year to solicit alms and pity. Although Mr. Morris knew Calvert so well, his impetuous nature could never quite comprehend the calm fortitude, the silent endurance of the younger man, and so, when he saw him apparently amused and distracted by the society to which he had been introduced, and by the thousand gayeties of town life, he left him in September and returned for a brief stay in Paris, happy in the belief that the young man was already half-cured of his passion.

He was back again in December with a budget of news from France. "The situation grows desperate," he said to Calvert. "I told Montmorin and the Due de Liancourt that the constitution the Assemblee had proposed is such that the Almighty Himself could not make it succeed without creating a new species of man. The assignats have depreciated, just as I predicted, the army is in revolt, and the ministers threatened with la lanterne. 'Tis much the fashion in Paris, let me tell you. But murder, duelling, and pillage—they sacked the hotel of the Duc de Castries the other day because his son wounded Charles de Lameth in a duel—are every-day occurrences now. Lafayette is in a peck of trouble, and received me with the utmost coldness. He knows I cannot commend him, and therefore he feels embarrassed and impatient in my society. I am seriously pained for d'Azay, too. I met him at Montmorin's, and he confessed to me that he knew not how to steer his course. He is horrified at the insane measures of the Jacobins, he has cut himself loose from his own class, and is beginning to doubt Lafayette's wisdom and powers. He is in a hopeless situation. He told me that Montmorin had asked that Carmichael be appointed to the court of France, but that he and Beaufort and other of my friends had insisted on my appointment. 'Tis a matter of indifference to me. Whoever is appointed—Short, Carmichael, Madison, or myself—will have no sinecure in France. Unhappy country! The closet philosophers who are trying to rule it are absolutely bewildered, and I know not what will save the state unless it be a foreign war."

"'Tis the general opinion here among the ministers that the Emperor is too cautious ever to engage in that war, however," said Calvert.

"I see you have been affiliating with the peaceful Pitt and not carousing with Sheridan and Fox," returned Mr. Morris, with a smile.

"I have been endeavoring to learn some of that useful information which Mr. Jefferson recommended," said Calvert, smiling also. "Upon Mr. Pitt's recommendation I have been reading 'The Wealth of Nations' and studying the political history of Europe. Seriously, I hope my time has not been spent entirely without profit, although I have caroused, as you express it, to some extent. I have drunk more than was good for me, and I have gone to the play and tried to fancy myself in love with Mrs. Jordan, but, to tell the truth, I can't do any of these things with enthusiasm. I'm a quiet fellow, with nothing of the stage hero in me, and I can't go to the devil for a woman after the approved style."

"Don't try it, boy! The pretty ones are not worth it and the good ones are not pretty," said Mr. Morris, cynically. "I found Madame de Flahaut surrounded by half a dozen new admirers, in spite of which she tried to make me believe she had not forgotten me in my absence. I pretended to be convinced, of course, but I devoted myself to the Comtesse de Frize, and I think she liked me all the better for my defection. Come back to Paris with me and see what Madame de St. Andre would say to a like treatment," he went on, laughing, but looking shrewdly at the young man.

"I am best away from Paris—although separation does not seem to help me."

"Absence may extinguish a small passion, but I think it only broadens and deepens a great one," said Mr. Morris. "I saw many of our friends—Madame de Chastellux and the Duchesse d'Orleans, Madame de Stael and Madame d'Azay—she is much broken, Ned; the emigration of so many of her friends, the tragic death of many, the disrupting of her whole social world, has begun to tell seriously on her health, though her spirit is still indomitable. She and Madame de St. Andre and d'Azay are living very quietly in the mansion in the rue St. Honore. In the evenings some of the friends who still remain come in for a dinner or to play quinze or lansquenet, but, in truth, 'tis difficult to get half a dozen people together. Madame de St. Andre is more beautiful than ever, with a new and softer beauty. The horror of the times hath touched her, too, I think, and rendered more serious that capricious nature. But who, indeed, could live in Paris and not be chastened by the awful scenes there enacting? I almost shudder to think of having to return so soon, but I shall only stay to see His Grace of Leeds once more relative to the treaty."

This interview, having been twice postponed, and pressing affairs calling Mr. Morris to France, he finally left London in January with the promise of returning in the spring. This promise he fulfilled, getting back in May and bringing with him news of Mirabeau's death and splendid burial and of the widespread fear of a counter-revolution by the emigrant army under the Prince de Conde. He was warmly welcomed by Calvert, who, in spite of the many kind offices and attentions of the friends he had made, was beginning to weary of the English capital. In truth, he was possessed by a restlessness that would have sent him home had he not wished to respect Mr. Jefferson's advice and make a tour on the continent before returning. He hoped to persuade Mr. Morris to accompany him, and in this he was not disappointed. Accordingly, after a month in London, they set out for Rotterdam and, travelling leisurely through the Low Countries, made their way to Cologne. It was while waiting there for a boat to take them up the Rhine—both Mr. Morris and Calvert were anxious to make this water trip—that they heard the news, already two weeks old, of the flight of their Majesties and of Monsieur from France and of the recapture of the King and Queen at Varennes. Monsieur had escaped safely to Brussels and had made his way to Coblentz, where Mr. Morris and Calvert saw him later. He was installed in a castle, placed at his service by the Elector of Treves, which over-looked the great fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, and there he held his little court and made merry with the officers of the Prince de Conde's army and the throngs of emigres who came and went and did a vast deal of talking and even laughing over their misfortunes, but who never seemed to learn a lesson from them. Coblentz was full of these exiles from France, who treated the townsfolk with a mixture of condescension and rudeness which caused them to speedily become detested. There was one little cafe in particular, Les Trois Colonnes, which they frequented, and where they laughed and gambled and made witty speeches and tremendous threats against the men in France from whom they had run away. It was at this little inn that Mr. Calvert one day saw Monsieur de St. Aulaire for the first time in two years. He came into the gaming-room where Mr. Morris and Calvert were sitting at a side-table drinking a glass of cognac and talking with Monsieur de Puymaigre, one of the Prince de Conde's officers. As his glance met that of Mr. Calvert, he bowed constrainedly, and the red of his face deepened. He was more dissipated-looking, less debonair than he had seemed to Calvert in Madame d'Azay's salon. There was an uneasiness, too, in his manner that was reflected in the attitude toward him of the other gentlemen in the room. In fact, he was welcomed coldly enough, and in a few days he left the town. 'Twas rumored pretty freely that he was an emissary of Orleans and that Monsieur and the Prince de Conde were in a hurry to get rid of him. Mr. Calvert was of this belief, which was confirmed by St. Aulaire himself when Calvert met him unexpectedly during the winter in London.

This journey, so pleasantly begun and which was to have continued through the fall, was interrupted, shortly after the two gentlemen left Coblentz, by a pressing and disquieting letter which urged Mr. Morris's presence in Paris. He therefore left Calvert to continue the tour alone, which the young man did, travelling through Germany and stopping at many of the famous watering-places, and even going as far as the Austrian capital, where he met with a young Mr. Huger of the Carolinas. This young American, who was an ardent admirer of Lafayette and who was destined to attempt to serve him and suffer for him, accompanied Mr. Calvert as far as Lake Constance, where they parted, Mr. Calvert going on to Bale and up through the Austrian Netherlands. He passed through Maubeuge and Lille and Namur, and so was, fortunately, made familiar with places he was to see something of a little later in the service of his Majesty Louis XVI.

He was back in London by Christmas, and was joined there shortly after the New Year by Mr. Morris, who had gone over on private affairs entirely, but whose close connection with the court party in France laid open to the suspicion of being an agent of the aristocratic party.

"I heard the rumors myself," said Mr. Morris. "Indeed, I was openly told of it before leaving Paris. But only a madman would interfere in French politics at this hour. The whole country is in a state of disorganization almost inconceivable. The King—poor creature—has been reinstated, after a fashion, since his flight, but with most unkingly limitations. All political parties are broken up—Lafayette and Bailly and the Lameths find themselves in an impossible position and have seceded from the Jacobins. For two years now they have been preaching the pure democracy of Rousseau, the rights of man, the sovereignty of the people. They have done everything to deprive the King of his power, they have hurled abuse at the throne, at the whole Old Order of things. And now, when they see to what chaos things are coming, when they wish to stop at moderation, at order, at a monarchy based on solid principles and supported by the solid middle class, they are suddenly made to realize how little their theories correspond with their real desires. Incapacity, misrule, is everywhere. Narbonne has been made War Minister! At this crisis, when the allied armies are gathering on the frontier, when war is imminent against two hundred and fifty thousand of the finest soldiers in Europe, a trifler like Narbonne is placed in power! But if others were no worse than he! 'Tis incredible the villains who have pushed themselves into the high places. Can you believe it, boy?—your servant, that scoundrel Bertrand, that soldier of the ranks, that waiter of the Cafe de l'Ecole, is a great man in Paris these days. He is listened to by thousands when he rants in the garden of the Palais Royal; he is hand in glove with Danton; he divides attention with Robespierre; he is a power in himself. Heaven knows how he has become so—but these creatures spring up like mushrooms in a night. I saw much of Danton and not a little of Bertrand, for I frequented the Cordelliers Club a good deal. 'Tis well to stand in with all parties, especially if there is even a remote chance of my being placed as minister at the French court. 'Tis so rumored in Paris, and the elections are now taking place in America," so Mr. Short informs me. "I heard of St. Aulaire," went on Mr. Morris. "Beaufort told me that he had got into Paris secretly on the Due d'Orleans's business, but that he had spent much of his time in the rue St. Honore, pressing his suit with Madame de St. Andre. She would have none of him, however, and seems to have conceived a sort of horror of him—as, indeed, well she might. He went away, raging, Beaufort said, and vowing some mysterious vengeance. He is believed to be in London, Ned, and I dare say we shall meet with him some day. D'Azay has been denounced in the Assembly and is in bad odor with all parties, apparently. I fear he is in imminent peril, and 'tis pitiful to see the anxiety of his sister and the old Duchess for him. I think she would not survive the shock should he be imprisoned. 'Twould be but another gap in the ranks of our friends."

The appointment of American ministers to the different foreign courts was in progress, as Mr. Short had said, and, on January 12th, Mr. Morris, after a stormy debate in the Senate, was chosen Minister to France by a majority of only five votes out of sixteen. He was told of his appointment by Mr. Constable in February and, shortly after, received the official notice of it under the seal of the Secretary of State. Although Mr. Jefferson had differed radically from Mr. Morris in his opinion concerning the French Revolution, knowing him as he did, he could not but affirm both officially and personally so wise a choice.

The President's indorsement of Mr. Morris was even more hearty, and, indeed, 'twas hinted by Mr. Morris's enemies that Washington's open approval of him had alone saved him from defeat. But though the President was of the opinion that Mr. Morris was the best possible choice for the difficult post of Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States to France, he was also entirely aware of those traits of character which, his opponents urged, rendered him unsuited for the place. His impetuosity, occasional haughtiness, and close connection with the aristocratic party, were disabilities undoubtedly, but the President was convinced that they were far more than counterbalanced by his force of character, mental keenness, and wide knowledge of French affairs, and so wrote Mr. Morris in one of the kindest letters that great man ever penned. This letter Mr. Morris received in the spirit in which it was written, and, being already involved in a secret affair, of which, as minister, he should not even have known, much less been engaged in, he determined to withdraw himself from it as speedily as possible and to conduct himself with such discretion that the President would have no occasion to regret his efforts in his behalf. He immediately set about making the necessary arrangements for his new establishment, writing to Paris to engage a hotel in the rue de la Planche, Faubourg St. Germain, for the new Legation, and forwarding to France as rapidly as possible the English horses and coach, the furniture and plate which he had purchased in London. He set out for Paris in early March, leaving Calvert again in London, though he pressed the young man urgently to accompany him back to the capital and accept the post of Secretary of the Legation under him.



CHAPTER XVII

MR. CALVERT MEETS AN OLD ENEMY

This kind, and even brilliant, offer of Mr. Morris's Calvert declined, reiterating smilingly to that gentleman that he felt himself a little better of that fever of love and disappointment which he had endured in silence for so long, and that he had no intention of suffering a relapse. Indeed, he might have got over it in time, and been as contented as many another man, but that he was suddenly recalled to all that he had tried so sedulously for two years to forget. This was brought about by a meeting with Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire a couple of weeks after Mr. Morris's departure for Paris. Although it was known that the French nobleman was in London, Mr. Calvert did not see him until one evening at the house of Monsieur de la Luzerne. A large company had gathered at the Ambassador's, where Monsieur de St. Aulaire presented himself toward the end of the evening. 'Twas so evident that he had been drinking deeply that Calvert would have avoided him, but that the tipsy nobleman, catching sight of him, made his way directly to him.

"At last, Monsieur," he said, bowing low and laying his hand unsteadily on the small sword he wore at his side.

"Well," replied Mr. Calvert, coldly, by no means pleased at the attention bestowed upon him so unexpectedly. Monsieur de St. Aulaire sober he found objectionable; Monsieur de St. Aulaire drunk was insufferable.

"'Well' is a cold welcome, Mr. Calvert," he said, the insolent smile deepening on his lips.

"I am not here to welcome you, Monsieur," returned Calvert, indifferently.

Monsieur de St. Aulaire waved his hand lightly as if flinging off the insult, but the flush on his dissipated face deepened. Calvert, seeing that he could not be got rid of immediately, drew him into a little anteroom where they were almost alone.

"And yet I wished profoundly that we might meet, Monsieur—more so, apparently, I regret to say, than you have. I have seen friends of ours in Paris since you have had that pleasure, Monsieur," says St. Aulaire, throwing himself across a chair and resting his folded arms on the back.

"Indeed."

"You are cold-blooded, Monsieur—'tis a grave fault. You miss half the pleasures of life—but I think you would like to know whom I mean. Confess, Monsieur! But there, I see you know—who else could it be but Madame de St. Andre?" and the insolent smile broke into a still more insolent laugh.

"We will leave Madame de St. Andre's name out of this conversation, Monsieur."

"Pardieu! So you think I am not worthy to mention it, Monsieur," cried St. Aulaire, half-rising and laying his hand again on his dress sword.

"I know it, Monsieur," retorted Calvert, coolly.

"You are not so cold-blooded after all! I have struck fire at last!" said St. Aulaire, looking at Calvert for an instant and then breaking into a drunken laugh as he reseated himself. "'Tis a pity Madame de St. Andre has not my luck—for, look you, Monsieur," he went on, leaning over the back of the chair and shaking his finger at Calvert, "I think she likes you and would be kind—very kind—to you, should you be inclined to return to Paris and tempt your fortune."

"Were you sober, Monsieur, I would ask you for five minutes and a pair of pistols or rapiers, if you prefer," says Calvert, white and threatening.

"By God, Monsieur, how dare you say I am drunk?" flings out the other, rising so unsteadily as to overturn the chair, which crashed upon the floor. "But I have no time for duels just now. I have other and more important business in hand. Later—later, sir, and I will be at your service. I add that insult to the long list I have against you. I will punish you when the time comes, but first I must punish her. She would not even listen to me. She crushed me with her disdain. 'Tis another favor I have to thank you for, Monsieur, I think." He was quite wild and flushed by this time, and spoke so thickly that Calvert could scarce understand him. The few gentlemen who had been lounging in the anteroom had retired, thinking not to overhear a conversation evidently so personal and stormy, so that they were quite alone. As St. Aulaire reeled forward, a sudden thought came to Calvert.

"'In vino veritas,'" he said to himself, and then—"How do you propose punishing Madame de St. Andre, Monsieur?" he asked, slowly, aloud, and looking nonchalantly at the distorted face before him.

St. Aulaire laughed. "I am not as drunk as you think me, Monsieur Calvert," he said. "'Tis enough that I know and shall act. By God, sir," he cried, suddenly starting up, "shall a man stand everything and have no revenge? Let Madame de St. Andre take care! Let d'Azay take care! Should you be inclined to go to their rescue, Monsieur, perhaps we may meet again!" and with a mocking smile on his wicked, handsome face, he flung himself out of the room.

The young man sat for a long while where St. Aulaire had left him, pondering upon this strange meeting and the mysterious hints and threats thrown out. He could make nothing of them, but it was clear that some danger menaced those he loved in France, and he felt only too well assured that St. Aulaire would stop at nothing. Indeed, it did not need a personal and malignant enemy to bring terror and death to any in Paris, as he knew. Terror and death were in the air. The last despatches from the capital had told of almost inconceivable horrors being there perpetrated. "Aristocrats in Paris must keep quiet or the aristocrats will hang," Mr. Morris had said to him tersely one evening just before leaving.

Suddenly an overwhelming desire to go to France, to be near Adrienne, to avert, if humanly possible, this unknown, but, as he felt, no less real danger, took possession of him. All the tenderness for her, which he had hoped and believed was dying within him, revived at the thought of the peril she was in. For himself he felt there could be no danger, and it was possible that his standing as an American and his close connection with the American Minister might be of service to her. But whatever the consequences to himself—and he thought with far more dread of the revival of his love, which the sight and near presence of her would surely bring, than of any physical danger to himself—he felt it to be unendurable to be so near her and yet not to be near enough to render her aid if danger threatened. He thought of d'Azay and Beaufort and Lafayette, of Mr. Morris, re-established there, and of all those great and terrible events taking place, and he suddenly found himself a thousand times more anxious to get back to Paris than he had ever been to leave it, and wondered how he could have stayed away so long. He sat alone in the little anteroom thinking of these things until almost the last of the guests had gone, and then, bidding the Ambassador and Ambassadress good-night, he, too, left, walking to his lodgings, thinking the while of his return to Paris and the Legation, where he felt assured he would receive a warm welcome from Mr. Morris.



CHAPTER XVIII

MR. CALVERT FIGHTS A DUEL

The welcome which Mr. Calvert received at the Legation was even more cordial than he had dared to hope for, Mr. Morris being surprised and delighted beyond measure by the young man's sudden arrival. As for Calvert, the sight of his old friend and the cheerful, sumptuous air of the new Legation, where Mr. Morris was but just established, were inexpressibly pleasant.

"I think you have a talent for making yourself comfortable even in the midst of horrors," he said, looking about the brilliantly lit drawing-room, for Mr. Morris was expecting a large company to supper. "In these rooms I can scarcely believe I have been for days travelling through a country strangely and terribly changed since I last saw it—so desolate and soldier-ridden and suspicious that I am truly glad to get within these walls. And to-night, when my passport had been examined for the hundredth time since leaving Havre and we had passed the city barrier, I thought the very look and sound of these streets of Paris had changed utterly in the last two years."

"And indeed they have, Ned," returned Mr. Morris, earnestly. "Each day sees that difference grow more and more marked, more and more terrible. Anarchy and bloodshed are becoming rampant, all semblance of order is gone. The rest of the diplomatic corps look upon me as a madman to come here at this time and set up a legation. They are asking for their passports—the Spanish Minister withdrew yesterday and Lord Gower is in the devil of a fright," he says, laughing. "But as for myself, I have no fear and shall uphold the interests and independence of the American Legation to the last gasp. God only knows whether this house will prove a protection, but, in all events, I shall not abandon it, nor my friends here, voluntarily," he adds, intrepidly. "I could have wished, however, boy, that events had kept you out of France just now. Though I urged you to accompany me, when I returned and realized the awful state of affairs here, I was heartily glad you had not yielded to my wishes."

"As it happened, though," said Calvert, "events have brought me," and in a few words he told Mr. Morris of all that had occurred at the house of Monsieur de la Luzerne, and of the uneasiness he felt at the manner and threats of St. Aulaire.

"He is capable of any villany. We must thresh this matter out to-morrow, Ned. Had I known you were coming I would have had no guests here to-night. We could have had a quiet evening together, and I could have shown you over my new establishment. All this must wait, however, and now you had best go to your room and dress for supper." But Mr. Calvert, begging to be excused from the company that evening, and saying that he would go out by himself and get a look at this changed Paris, left Mr. Morris to entertain his guests, who were beginning to arrive.

"I would offer you my carriage," said Mr. Morris, as the young man turned away, "but 'twere best you walked abroad. Carriages are but little the fashion these days—they are being rapidly abolished along with everything else that makes life comfortable in this city."

Mr. Calvert went out into the dimly lit street that, despite the hour, was full of a restless throng of people, who seemed to be wandering about as aimlessly as himself. Here and there he encountered squads of the National Guard being manoeuvred by their lieutenants, here and there mobs of ragged men, shouting and cursing and bearing torches which rained sparks of fire as they were swung aloft, and once, as he passed the Abbaie St. Germain des Pres, a horrible throng pressed by him, holding high in their midst a head on a dripping pike. He turned away, sick at the sight, and, making his way down by the quays, crossed by the Pont Royal to the other side of the city. He stopped for an instant on the bridge to look down the river, and, as he did so, he recalled that Christmas Eve two years before when he and Mr. Morris had stood on that same spot. Much, very much, had happened since; it seemed as if both a long and a short time had elapsed; perhaps, the greatest difference he felt was that then he had been eager to leave Paris; now he was relieved to be back. He strolled along under the glittering stars and the fast-sailing clouds, through ill-lighted streets and past deserted mansions whose owners were in voluntary exile beyond the Rhine, until he suddenly bethought himself of a little cafe in the Champs Elysees not far from the Demi-Lune du Cours de la Reine, where he and Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Morris had often gone together. It occurred to him that he was both thirsty and a little tired, and that he would turn in there for something to drink and to see what might be happening.

Not much was happening, for a wonder. The gusty March wind, sweeping through the gardens and under the lighted arcades, seemed to have swept away the usual throng of strollers in the Champs Elysees. Even the cafe was deserted except for a small group in a far corner of the room, which Mr. Calvert scarce noticed as he passed in. A cheerful fire was burning in an open grate, near which were set a screen and a settle. Mr. Calvert ensconced himself comfortably in this cosy corner and, calling for a glass of wine, fell to reading the day's copy of the Moniteur lying on the table beside him. But his thoughts were other-where than with the account of the Assembly's proceedings. Although he was in Paris and near the woman he loved, he was as greatly in the dark as ever as to what course to pursue to protect her. He knew not in what direction to turn, seeing that he knew not what danger threatened. After he had seen St. Aulaire, pressing affairs had detained him in London three days before he could set out for Paris. He knew not whether that worthy had arrived there before him or not—whether he intended to return to Paris at all or to work through some secret agency. A thousand vague plans for discovering these things floated through his mind and were rejected one after the other. All were alike in one respect—she must not know, if possible, that he was rendering her any service. Though he realized that this danger hanging over her endeared her to him a thousand times more than ever, though the chivalry of his nature impelled him to serve her, he knew she did not love him, nor ever could, and all the pride and hardness of youth made him resolve to guard his secret more jealously than ever. He had humbled himself once before her and she had treated him lightly, indifferently, contemptuously, and he had no mind to suffer a second humiliation.

Upon one thing he was resolved—that he would see d'Azay in the morning and discover if he knew of any peril that threatened. As this thought passed through his mind he suddenly heard d'Azay's name distinctly pronounced from the other side of the room. He laid the copy of the Moniteur, which he had been turning in his hands, quietly down upon the table and listened. The voices from the corner, which had been low and confused on his entrance, were now louder and bolder. Either the speakers did not know that they were not alone or else the wine had made them careless.

"'Tis a pleasure I have long had in contemplation and which has become peculiarly dear to me of late," and the speaker laughed mockingly. "I shall denounce d'Azay to-morrow."

Calvert started and looked hurriedly through the small panel of glass at the top of the screen. Even before he looked he knew he was not mistaken—St. Aulaire sat at the table with three companions, and it was he who had spoken. Two of the men—one of them had a most villainous countenance—Calvert had never seen before, but the third one he discovered, to his intense surprise, was Bertrand—Bertrand, whose honest lackey's face now wore a curious and sinister look of power and importance. So, it was in the society of such that Monsieur de St. Aulaire now talked and drank familiarly!

"He has already been denounced and released," says Bertrand, moodily.

"He will not be released this time," replies St. Aulaire, with so much evident satisfaction as to strike one of the other two drinkers with astonishment.

"Not entirely a matter of patriotism, I judge?" he questioned, with a chuckle.

"A duty I owe myself as well as to my country," says St. Aulaire, so much mocking meaning in his voice and glance that his three listeners fell to laughing.

"There is a lady to whom I owe a small debt of ingratitude, and I like best to settle the case in this fashion."

So that was his method of punishment! To strike Adrienne through her brother—to spare her and take away all that she loved! Calvert thought 'twas a way worthy of its author, and so strong a desire took possession of him to leap upon St. Aulaire and strike him dead that he caught hold of the sides of the chair to restrain himself.

"But you are not a member of the Assembly," objected the man who had hitherto kept silent.

"I have observed that a denunciation from the gallery is more dramatic and effective than one from the floor. Besides, there is no one just at present to do it for me. I am well prepared. When I rise to-morrow and call the attention of Monsieur de Gensonne to the fact that I have proof of the treasonable relations of Monsieur d'Azay with the chiefs of the counter-revolutionists across the Rhine, 'twill be as if Monsieur d'Azay already stood condemned before the bar of the Assembly," and he struck the table with his clinched fist.

While the glasses were still rattling from the blow and St. Aulaire's companions laughing at his vehemence, Mr. Calvert made his decision. By St. Aulaire's own confession there was no one else interested, for the moment, at least, in denouncing d'Azay. If he were out of the way that denunciation would not take place and d'Azay might be got out of Paris. At all hazards and at all costs St. Aulaire must not go to the Assembly on the next day. At all hazards and at all costs St. Aulaire must not know that he, Calvert, desired to prevent his going. He must be surprised, driven to his own destruction, if it could be done.

Very quietly Calvert arose from his place by the fire, and, passing out by a door concealed from the rest of the room by the screen, he made his way through a vestibule, where he put on his coat and hat again and so back into the room he had just left. But this time he entered noisily and by an entrance near the table, at which were seated St. Aulaire and his friends. At sight of St. Aulaire Mr. Calvert affected an extreme surprise. He bowed low, and smiling, but without a word, he advanced to him and, drawing off his heavy glove, struck him with it across his flushed face. The four sprang to their feet, and Bertrand, recognizing Calvert, called out, "Monsieur—Monsieur Calvert!" All his airs of equality and importance fell from him, and he ran toward his former master, but Calvert waved him aside.

"The last time Monsieur de St. Aulaire and I met, gentlemen," says Calvert, looking around contemptuously at the company, "he insulted me grossly. Unfortunately he was drunk—drunk, I repeat it, and in no condition to answer for himself. I demand satisfaction to-night."

"And, by God! you shall have it," cried St. Aulaire, half beside himself. His face was quite white now except for the red mark across it, which Calvert's blow had furrowed, and his eyes were wild and staring. The suddenness and fierceness of Calvert's attack had driven every thought out of his mind but the wish to avenge the insult offered him, and almost without a word more the party left the room and went out into one of the allees of the Champs Elysees close beside the cafe. Such affairs were so common in the Champs Elysees and elsewhere in Paris in those days that, though they were but a few feet from the public thoroughfare, they apprehended no interference from the guard or the passers-by. 'Twas the aristocratic mode of helping forward the revolution, and there were almost as many victims by it as by the more republican one of la lanterne and the pike.

Though it was the first affair of honor that Calvert had ever been engaged in, the compelling necessity he was under and that unusual steadiness and calmness of character he possessed rendered him less nervous and more master of himself than was the older man, who had had numberless affairs of the kind.

"Will you choose swords or will you fight in the English mode with pistols?" said Calvert, with another low bow to St. Aulaire.

"Both, by God!" shouted St. Aulaire. "We will follow the lead of Bazencourt and St. Luce!" But here Bertrand and another of his companions interfered (the third and villainous-looking fellow said nothing and seemed indifferent on the subject), and declared they could not be party to murder, and that terrible affair had been no less. It had been known and talked of all over Paris, the shameful conditions being—that the combatants should fight first with swords, and the one who fell, and fell wounded only, was to have his brains blown out by the other.

One of the company brought from the house a lantern and a pair of English pistols, and both agreeing to fight with them, and the ground being hastily measured, the two gentlemen threw off their coats and took up their positions. The light was so uncertain from the occasional fitful brightness of the moon shining through the clouds and the light from the swaying lantern, held aloft by Bertrand, who took his stand near Calvert and watched him with his old devotion, that 'twas almost impossible for either combatant to take accurate aim.

At the word "Fire!" both pistols cracked, and St. Aulaire, staggering forward a few steps, fell, wounded in the groin. Calvert was untouched, but before he could collect himself or move to the assistance of St. Aulaire, he suddenly heard the sound of coach-wheels passing close to the allee, and, at the same instant, to his astonishment, he felt a sharp pain tear its way from his left shoulder to the wrist. He turned his head an instant to see who had attacked him from this unexpected quarter and was just in time to see the scoundrel who had been in St. Aulaire's company throw down his stained sword and make for the boulevard. And then as he reeled forward, the blood spurting from the long gash in his arm, all grew black before him and he knew no more.



CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH AN UNLOOKED-FOR EVENT TAKES PLACE

That great and desolating change which had swept over France in the two years and more of Calvert's absence was reflected in every heart, in every life left in that wrecked land. On the most insensible, the most frivolous, the most indifferent alike fell the shadow of those terrible times. The sadness and the horror fell on Adrienne de St. Andre as it fell on so many others, but besides the terror of those days she had to bear a still heavier sorrow. There is no pang which the heart can suffer like the realization, too late, that we have lost what we most prize; that we have missed some great opportunity for happiness which can never come to us again; that we have rejected and passed by what we would now sell our souls to possess. This conviction, slowly borne in upon Adrienne, caused her more anguish than she had supposed, in her ignorance, anything in the world could make her feel. The man whose name she bore was scarcely a memory to her. For the first time she knew what love was and realized that she had cared for Calvert with all the repressed tenderness and unsounded depths of her heart. Her very helplessness, the impossibility to recall him, made him more dear to her by far. A man can stretch out his hand and seize his happiness, but a woman must wait for hers. And if it passes her by she must bear her hurt in silence and as best she can. It was with a sort of blind despair that Adrienne thought of Calvert and all that she had wilfully thrown away. Had he been at her beck and call, fetched and carried for her, she would never have loved him. But the consciousness that he was as proud as she, that, though he was near her for so long, she could not lure him back, that he could master his love and defy her beauty and charm, exercised a fascination over her. And when he left her entirely and was gone away without even seeing her, she suddenly realized how deeply she loved him. We have all had such experiences—we live along, thinking of things after a certain fashion, and suddenly there comes a day when everything seems changed. It was so with Adrienne. All things seemed changed to her, and in that bitter necromancy her pride was humbled. Wherever she went there was but one dear face she longed to see—one dear face with the quiet eyes she loved. There were days when she so longed to see him, when the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand would have been so inexpressibly dear to her, that it seemed as if the very force of her passion must surely draw him back to her. But he never came. During those two long years something went from her forever. She was not conscious of it at the time—only of the dull ache, and feverish longing, and utter apathy that seized her by turns. There was a subtle difference in all things. 'Twas as if some fine spring in the delicate mechanism of her being had broken. It might run on for years, but never again with the perfectness and buoyancy with which it had once moved.

As her life altered so terribly, as all that she had known and valued perished miserably before her eyes day by day, the thought of Calvert and of his calm steadiness and sincerity became constant with her. She heard of him from time to time from Mr. Morris after his frequent visits to London and through letters to her brother and Lafayette, to whom Calvert wrote periodically, but she had no hope of ever seeing him again, and she suffered in the knowledge. Though he seemed cruel to her in his hardness, she was just enough to confess to herself that she so deserved to suffer. But she had learned so much through suffering that a sick distaste for life's lessons grew upon her, and she felt that she wanted no more of them unless knowledge should come to her through love. In her changed life there was little to relieve her suffering, but she devoted herself to the old Duchess, who failed visibly day by day, and in that service she could sometimes forget her own unhappiness. She went with the intrepid old lady (who continued to ignore the revolution as much as possible) wherever they could find distraction—to the play and to the houses of their friends still left in Paris, where a little dinner or a game of quinze or whist could still be enjoyed.

'Twas on one of these occasions that, accompanied by Beaufort, as they were returning along the Champs Elysees from Madame de Montmorin's, where they had spent the evening, they suddenly heard the report of pistols proceeding from an allee by the road-side.

"A duel!" said Beaufort. "'Twas near here that poor Castries was killed. Perhaps it is another friend in trouble, and I had best see," and, calling to the coachman to stop the horses, he jumped out. Almost at the same instant a man stumbled out of the allee and ran down the boulevard. Beaufort would have followed him, but, as he started to do so, he heard his name called and, looking back, saw another man emerge from the allee and gaze down the almost deserted street. By the dim light of the lantern swung from its great iron post the man recognized Monsieur de Beaufort and ran forward.

"Will you come?" he said, hurriedly. "Monsieur Calvert is here—wounded by that villain."

"Calvert—impossible! He is not in Paris."

"But he is!—here," said Bertrand, drawing Beaufort toward the allee.

Adrienne's pale face appeared at the coach-door.

"Did I hear someone speak of Monsieur Calvert?"

Beaufort went up to her. "He is here—wounded, I think," he said in a low voice. "I will go and see—you will not be afraid to wait?"

"To wait!—I am going, too," and before he could prevent it she had stepped from the coach and was making her way toward the allee. A ghastly sight met their eyes as they entered the lane. St. Aulaire lay upon the ground, one of his companions standing over him, and at a little distance, Calvert, white and unconscious, the blood trickling from his left shoulder. With a low cry Adrienne knelt on the ground beside him and felt his pulse to see if he still lived. In an instant she was up.

"Bring him to the carriage. We must take him to the Legation—to Mr. Morris," she says, in a low tone, to Beaufort and Bertrand, whom she had recognized as the servant Calvert had brought with him to Azay-le-Roi. Without a look at St. Aulaire she helped the two to get Calvert to the coach, where he was placed on the cushions as easily as possible and held between herself and Madame d'Azay. She hung over him during the long drive in a sort of passion of pity and love. It was the dearest happiness she had ever known to touch him, to feel his head upon her arm. Even though he were dead, she thought, it were worth all her life to have held him so. She scarcely spoke save to ask Bertrand if he knew the cause of the encounter, and, when he had told her all he knew of the events of the evening, she relapsed again into silence. They reached the Legation as Mr. Morris's guests were leaving, and in a very few minutes the young man was put to bed and a surgeon called.

Though the wound was not fatal—not even very serious—a sharp fever fastened upon Calvert, and, in the delirium of the few days following, Mr. Morris was easily able to learn the cause of the duel. The story he thus gathered from Calvert's wild talk he told Adrienne and Madame d'Azay—the two ladies came daily to inquire how the patient was doing—for he thought that they should know of the noble action of the young man, and he felt sure that as soon as Calvert was himself again he would request him to keep silence about his share in the matter. He was right, for when Calvert was come to his senses again and was beginning to be convalescent—which was at the end of a week—he told Mr. Morris the particulars of his encounter with St. Aulaire, requesting that he make no mention of his part in the affair and begging him to urge d'Azay to leave Paris. This was the more necessary as St. Aulaire, though badly wounded, was fully conscious and might at any moment cause d'Azay's arrest, and, moreover, passports were becoming daily harder to obtain.

Mr. Morris had to confess his inability to comply with Calvert's first request, but promised to see d'Azay immediately, and, ordering his carriage, in half an hour was on his way to the rue St. Honore. No man in Paris knew better than he the risk an aristocrat ran who was denounced to the Assembly and remained in Paris, nor how difficult it was to get out of the city. He was also aware of rumors concerning d'Azay of which he thought best not to tell Calvert in his present condition, but which made him seriously fear for d'Azay's safety.

On his arrival in the rue St. Honore he found Adrienne with the old Duchess in one of the smaller salons, but d'Azay was not with them, nor did they know where he was. Mr. Morris had not intended telling the two ladies of his mission, fearing to increase the anxiety which he knew they already felt on d'Azay's account, but he suddenly changed his determination and, in a few words, informed them of Calvert's urgent message to d'Azay and of the reasons for his instant departure from Paris.

"He is not safe for a day," he said. "Calvert has saved him for the time being, but St. Aulaire, though unable himself to go to the Assembly and prefer charges against him, can find a dozen tools among the Orleans party who will do his dirty work for him. The mere assertion that d'Azay is in correspondence with Monsieur de Conde or any of the counter-revolutionists will send him to prison—or worse. As you know, he, like Lafayette, is out of favor with all factions. There is but one thing to do—get him out of Paris."

"He will never go!" said the old Duchess, proudly.

"He must! Listen," said Adrienne, rising and laying her hand on Mr. Morris's arm. "I think he will never ask for a passport himself, but if we could get it for him, if, when he comes in, he should find all in readiness for his going, if we could convince him by these means that his immediate departure was so necessary—" She stood looking at Mr. Morris, forcing herself to be calm, and with such an expression of courage and determination on her pale face that Mr. Morris, who had always admired her, was touched and astonished.

"'Tis the very best thing to be done, my dear young lady," he said. "We must get the passport for d'Azay and force him to quit Paris. I think I am not entirely without influence with some of these scoundrels in authority just now. Danton, for instance. He is, without doubt, the most powerful man in Paris for the moment. Suppose we apply to him and his worthy assistant, Bertrand, and see what can be done. As Danton himself said to me the other evening at the Cordelliers Club, 'in times of revolution authority falls into the hands of rascals!' Bertrand was a good valet, but he knows no more of statescraft than my coachman does. However, what we want is not a statesman but a friend, and I think Bertrand may prove to be that. My carriage is waiting below; shall we go at once?"

"Oh, we cannot go too soon! I will not lose a moment." She ran out of the room and returned almost instantly with her wraps, for the March day was chill and gloomy. The two set out immediately, Mr. Morris giving orders to his coachman to drive to the Palais de Justice, where he hoped to find Danton, the deputy attorney-general of the commune of Paris, and Bertrand, his assistant. As he expected, they were there and, on being announced, he and Madame de St. Andre were almost instantly admitted to their presence.

There could be no better proof of the unique and powerful position held by the representative of the infant United States than the reception accorded him by this dictator of Paris. Though Mr. Morris was known to disapprove openly of the excesses to which the Assembly and the revolution had already gone, yet this agitator, this leader of the most violent district of Paris, welcomed him with marked deference and consideration. And it was with the deepest regret that he professed himself unable to undertake to obtain, at Mr. Morris's request, a passport for Monsieur d'Azay, brother of Madame de St. Andre, to whom he showed a coldness and brusqueness in marked contrast to his manner toward Mr. Morris.

"The applications are so numerous, and the emigrant army is becoming so large," and here he darted a keen, mocking look at Madame de St. Andre out of his small, ardent eyes, "that even were I as influential as Monsieur Morris is pleased to think me, I would scarcely dare to ask for a passport for Monsieur d'Azay. Moreover," and he bent his great, hideous head for an instant over a pile of papers upon the desk before him, "moreover, Monsieur d'Azay is particularly wanted in Paris just now."

"It is not his wish to leave—indeed, he knows nothing of this application for a passport. It is by my wish and on my affairs that he goes to England," says Adrienne, steadily, facing with courage the malignant look of that terrible countenance. Monsieur Danton ignored these remarks and turned to Mr. Morris.

"Receive my regrets, Monsieur, that I can do nothing in this matter. It would give me pleasure to render any favor to an American."

"Then we must ask assistance in other quarters," says Mr. Morris, rising abruptly, and with a show of confidence which he was far from feeling. He had applied in the most powerful and available quarter that he knew of, and he confessed to himself that, having failed here, he had no hope of succeeding elsewhere.

As he and Adrienne turned to go, Bertrand, who had sat quietly by during this short colloquy, arose and accompanied them toward the door.

"It is a pity Madame de St. Andre is not an American—is not Madame Calvert," he says, in a low tone, and fixing a meaning look on Adrienne. "Passports for the brother-in-law of Monsieur Calvert, the American, were easy to obtain. It is doubly a pity," and he spoke in a still lower tone, "since I have, on good authority, the news that Monsieur d'Azay is to be accused of forwarding military intelligence to Monsieur de Conde in to-morrow's session of the Assembly."

The young girl stopped and stood looking at him, transfixed with terror and astonishment.

"What do you mean?" she says, in a frightened, hushed voice.

"This, Madame. A long time ago, when I was a soldier in America under Lafayette, Monsieur Calvert did me a great service—he saved my life—he was kind to me. He is the only man, the only person in the world I love, and I have sworn to repay that debt of gratitude. I was with Monsieur, as his servant, at Azay-le-Roi, and I guessed, Madame, what passed there between you and him. Afterward I was with him in Paris, and I saw how he suffered, and I swore, if the thing were ever possible, I would make you suffer as he suffered. There is but one thing I would rather do than make you suffer—and that is to make him happy. The passport for the brother of Madame Calvert will be ready at six this evening and Monsieur will be free to leave Paris. Do you understand now, Madame?"

"It is impossible," she says, faintly, leaning for support on Mr. Morris, who stood by, unspeakably astonished at the strange scene taking place.

"Impossible? Then I am sorry," he says. "Frankly, there is but one way, Madame, for you to obtain the passport you wish, and that is by becoming an American subject, the wife of Monsieur Calvert. I can interest myself in the matter only on those conditions. I have but to mention to Danton my good reasons for serving so close a relation of Monsieur Calvert, and he will be inclined to interest himself in obtaining the freedom of Monsieur d'Azay—for such it really is. Should he still be disinclined to serve a friend who has stood him well"—and his face darkened ominously and a sinister smile came to his lips—"I have but to recall to his mind a certain scene which took place in the Cafe de l'Ecole some years ago in which Monsieur Calvert was an actor, and I can answer for it that Monsieur d'Azay leaves Paris to-night. Shall I do these things or not? If not, I think 'tis sure that, let Madame and Monsieur Morris apply to whom they may, Danton and I will see to it that no passport for Monsieur d'Azay is granted. Is it still impossible?" he asks, with an insolent smile.

The girl turned piteously from Bertrand to Mr. Morris and back again, as if seeking some escape from the trap in which she was caught. Her pale lips trembled.

"Is it impossible?" again asks Bertrand, noting her pallor and cruel indecision.

"No, no," she cries, suddenly, shuddering and putting out her hand.

"Then all will be in readiness at six, Monsieur," says Bertrand, addressing himself to Mr. Morris.

"A word aside with you," he says to Bertrand, and, leading Adrienne to a seat, he went back to Bertrand, who waited for him beside the door.

"What is the meaning of this extraordinary scene?" he asked, sternly.

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Just what I have said. You know yourself, Monsieur, whether or not I am devoted to Monsieur Calvert. For Madame de St. Andre I care less than nothing," he said, snapping his fingers carelessly. "But Monsieur Calvert loves her—it seems a pretty enough way of making them happy, though 'tis a strange metier for me—arranging love-matches among the nobility! However, stranger things than that are happening in France. Besides, it is necessary," he said, his light manner suddenly changing to one more serious. "I swear it is the only way of getting d'Azay out of Paris. I doubt if even Danton, urged on by me, could obtain a passport for him to quit the city. But I can answer for one for the brother of Madame Calvert, wife of the former secretary of Monsieur Jefferson, friend of the present Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States of America to France."

Mr. Morris looked at the man keenly.

"And suppose this thing were done—I can rely upon you?"

"Absolutely. Attend a moment," he said, and, going back to where Danton still sat at his desk, he spoke with him in low and earnest tones. From where Mr. Morris stood he could see Danton's expression change from sternness and anger to astonishment and interest. In a few moments, with a low exclamation, he got up and, followed by Bertrand, came toward Mr. Morris.

"Bertrand has just told me facts which alter this case—which impel me to aid Monsieur d'Azay if possible," he said; and then, turning to Adrienne, who, pale with anxiety and terror, had risen from her seat and drawn near, he went on: "I will use all my power to be of service to the wife of the man who once showed a courtesy to mine." At his words the girl drew back and blushed deeply over her whole fair face. "I swore that I would reward him if possible, and I do so to-day. I also swore to reward his companion, Monsieur de Beaufort—the time is not yet come for that, but it will," and he smiled in so terrible a fashion that Adrienne could have cried out in fear. The fierce malignity of his look so filled Mr. Morris with disgust that he could scarce bear to speak to him.

"We will return at six," he said, at length, and leading Adrienne to the door that the painful interview might end.

"At six," said Danton.

They made their way out and found Mr. Morris's coach. In the carriage the courage which had sustained the young girl gave way.

Mr. Morris laid a kindly hand upon her arm. "Be calm. A way is found to save d'Azay, and surely it is no great trial to become an American subject," he said, smiling a little and looking keenly at Adrienne.

"I do not know how I shall dare to ask this great sacrifice of him," said she, in a low tone. "True, he risked his life for d'Azay, but that is not so great a sacrifice as to marry a woman he does not love."

"I think he does love you still," said Mr. Morris, very gently. "He is not like some of us—he is not one to forget easily. He is silent and constant. He has told me that he loved you."

But she only shook her head. "I have no hope that he loves me still."

"Shall I tell him of this strange plan, of the cruel position you find yourself in? I can prepare him——"

"No," she said, in a low tone, "I—I will see him myself and at once."

She sat quiet and thoughtful for the rest of the drive until the coach drew up before the Legation. After the first fear and despair had passed, a wave of happiness swept over her that made her blush and then pale as it ebbed. Perhaps, after all, his love for her might not be dead; at all events a curious fate had brought it about that she should see him again and hear him speak and learn for herself if he loved her. She remembered, with a sudden shock, the words she had spoken at Azay-le-Roi—that should she change her mind it would be she who would ask him to marry her. She could have laughed aloud with joy to think that fate had played her such a trick. She remembered with a sort of shamed wonder the proud condescension with which she had treated him. She felt now as if she could fling herself before him on her knees and beg him to give her back his love. But did he still love her? At the thought an icy pang of apprehension and fear seized her, and her heart almost stopped beating. It was not alone her own happiness that was at stake, but a life that she held dear, too, was in the hands of one whom she had misprized, to whom she had shown no pity or tenderness.