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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sured 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 Amba.s.sador and Amba.s.sadress good-night, he, too, left, walking to his lodgings, thinking the while of his return to Paris and the Legation, where he felt a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sport had been examined for the hundredth time since leaving Havre and we had pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sports--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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sembly'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 pa.s.sed through his mind he suddenly heard d'Azay's name distinctly p.r.o.nounced 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 gla.s.s 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 ingrat.i.tude, 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 a.s.sembly," 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 a.s.sembly," and he struck the table with his clinched fist.

While the gla.s.ses 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 a.s.sembly 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, pa.s.sing 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 G.o.d! 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 pa.s.sers-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 G.o.d!" 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 a.s.sistance of St.

Aulaire, he suddenly heard the sound of coach-wheels pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sion 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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.