"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 pa.s.sed, a wave of happiness swept over her that made her blush and then pale as it ebbed. Perhaps, after all, his love for her might not be dead; at all events a curious fate had brought it about that she should see him again and hear him speak and learn for herself if he loved her.

She remembered, with a sudden shock, the words she had spoken at Azay-le-Roi--that should she change her mind it would be she who would ask him to marry her. She could have laughed aloud with joy to think that fate had played her such a trick. She remembered with a sort of shamed wonder the proud condescension with which she had treated him.

She felt now as if she could fling herself before him on her knees and beg him to give her back his love. But did he still love her? At the thought an icy pang of apprehension and fear seized her, and her heart almost stopped beating. It was not alone her own happiness that was at stake, but a life that she held dear, too, was in the hands of one whom she had misprized, to whom she had shown no pity or tenderness.

"I will go up with you to the library, where I think we shall find Calvert, and then I will leave you," said Mr. Morris as the coach stopped.

They went up the broad stairway together and Mr. Morris knocked at the library door. A voice answered "Come," and he entered, leaving Adrienne in the shadow of the archway. A bright fire was burning on the open hearth and before it sat Calvert. He looked ill, and his left arm and shoulder were bandaged and held in a sling. He wore no coat--indeed, he could get none over the bandages--and the whiteness of his linen and the bright flame of the fire made him look very pale. At Mr. Morris's entrance he glanced up smiling and made an effort to go toward him.

"Don't move, my boy," said Mr. Morris, hastily--"I have brought someone to see you. She--she is here," and motioning Adrienne to enter, he went out, softly closing the door behind him.

For an instant Calvert could not see who his visitor was, for, though the firelight was bright, the room was much in shadow from the grayness of the afternoon and the heavy hangings at the long windows. As the young girl came forward, however, he recognized her in spite of her extreme pallor and the change which two years and a half had wrought.

Concealing, as best he could, the shock of surprise and the sudden faintness which attacked him at her unexpected presence (for he was still very weak and ill), he bowed low and placed a chair for her. But she shook her head and remained standing beside a little table in the centre of the room, one hand resting upon it for support. She was so agitated, and so fearful lest Calvert should notice it and guess its true cause, that she summoned all her pride and old imperiousness to her aid. Looking at her so, he wondered how it was that Mr. Morris had found her so softened. Looking at him so, weak and ill and hurt for one she loved, she could have thrown herself at his feet and kissed his wounded arm. It was with difficulty she commanded her voice sufficiently to speak.

"I am come, Mr. Calvert," she said, at length, hurriedly, and in so constrained a tone that he could scarcely hear her, "I am come on an errand for which the sole excuse is your own n.o.bility. Had you not already risked your life for my brother, I could not dare to ask this still greater sacrifice. Indeed, I think I cannot, as it is," she said, clasping her hands and suddenly turning away.

Calvert was inexpressibly surprised by this exhibition of deep emotion in her. He had never seen her so moved before. "There is nothing I would not do for d'Azay, believe me," he said, earnestly. "I had hoped to avert this danger from him, but, unfortunately, I fear I have only postponed it. Is there anything I can do? If so, tell me what it is."

"It is nothing less than the sacrifice of your whole life," she said, in a low tone, and drawing back in the shadow of one of the windows. "It is this--I am come to ask you to marry me, Mr. Calvert, that by becoming an American subject I may save my brother. We--we have just been to obtain a pa.s.sport for him to leave the city--he is to be accused in the a.s.sembly to-morrow," she says, rapidly and breathlessly. "A pa.s.sport for Monsieur d'Azay is refused unconditionally, but one is promised for the brother of Madame Calvert, the American." She was no longer pale. A burning blush was dyeing her whole face crimson, and she drew still farther back into the shadow of the window. She laid one hand on the velvet curtain to steady herself.

Calvert gazed at her in unspeakable surprise. For an instant a wild hope awoke within him, only to die. She had come but to save her brother, as she had said, and the painfulness of her duty was only too apparent.

"And--and who has imposed this strange condition?" he says, at length, quietly, mastering himself.

"Your servant Bertrand, who is all-powerful with Danton and who, he promises, shall obtain the pa.s.sport by six this evening."

"Were I not wounded and weak from fever, Madame, believe me, by that hour he would deeply repent having caused you this humiliation," says Calvert, bitterly.

"My humiliation is a slight thing in comparison with the sacrifice I ask of you, Monsieur."

"And what of yours?" he asks, gloomily, but he did not look at her. Had he done so he would have seen love, not self-sacrifice, shining in her appealing eyes.

"But I have influence over this fellow--he is devoted to me--he shall do this thing without demanding so great, so fabulous a price for his services," he goes on, half-speaking to himself.

"'Tis indeed a fabulous price," she says, paling a little at Calvert's words and drawing herself up proudly. "But he fancies he is serving you by imposing this condition, and I confess that I--I dared not tell him that you no longer loved me, lest I should lose the one hold I had on him. For d'Azay, for me, he will do absolutely nothing." From the shadow of the curtain she watched Calvert's face for some sign that she was mistaken, that after all he did still love her, that what she had asked of him would be no life-long sacrifice, but the dearest joy. But none came. He stood quiet and thoughtful, looking down into the firelight and betraying nothing of the conflict going on within him. His one thought was to find a way out of this horrible trap for her, or, failing that, to make it as easy as possible for her. He stilled the wild exultation he felt that was making his feverish pulse leap and sink by turns. He tried to put away temptation from him--to think only for her. This incredible, unlooked-for happiness was not for him. He searched about in his mind for words that would make her understand that he knew what anguish had driven her to this extremity; that would convince her that she had nothing to fear from him and that he would meet her as he felt sure she wished him to meet her.

"What he asks is madness," he said, at length. "I know only too well the insurmountable objections you have to doing what he demands; if I can convince him of these--if I can convince him that it is also not my wish--that he can best serve me by not insisting on this thing----"

"Then, indeed, I think all is lost," said Adrienne, quietly. "He professes that he can do nothing for the French emigrant d'Azay, only for the brother of the American, Calvert. There is no hope left for us except through himself and Danton, since it is already known that d'Azay is to be accused to-morrow, and, indeed, there is scarce time to seek other aid," she added, despairingly.

"Is Mr. Morris of the opinion that this is the best thing to be done?"

asked Calvert, in a low voice.

"He thinks it is the only way to save d'Azay." Suddenly she came forward from the embrasure of the window and stood once more beside the table, her face lighted up by the glow of the fire. "Believe me, I know how great a thing I ask," she says, quite wildly, and covering her eyes with her hand. "I ask you now what you once asked me and what I flung away."

Calvert looked up startled, but not being able to read her face, which was concealed, he dropped his head again, and she went on: "If it is possible for you to make this sacrifice, everything I can do to make it bearable shall be done--we need never see each other again--I can follow d'Azay to whatever retreat he may find----"

"Don't distress yourself so," said Calvert, gently, interrupting her. He looked at the appealing, despairing woman before him, she who had been so brilliant, so untouched by sorrow, and a great desire to serve her and a great compa.s.sion for her came over him. There was pity for himself, too, in his thoughts, for he had schooled himself for so long to believe that the woman he loved did not love him, and could never love him, that no slightest idea that he was mistaken came to him now to help lighten his sacrifice. As he realized all this he thought, not without a pang, of the future and of the unknown possible happiness it might hold for him and which he was renouncing forever. In the long days to come, he had thought, he might be able to forget that greater happiness denied him and be as contented as many another man, but even that consolation he could now no longer look forward to.

"Do not distress yourself," he said again, quietly. "Be a.s.sured that I shall make no effort to see you--indeed, I think I shall leave Paris myself as soon as this wound permits," and he touched his bandaged arm.

"In the last few days I have thought seriously of entering military service again under Lafayette. He is a good soldier, if a bad statesman, and has need of officers and men in this crisis, if ever general had."

As he turned away and touched a small bell on the table, Adrienne's hand dropped at her side and she gave him so strange, so sad a glance that had he looked at her he would have seen that in her pale face and miserable eyes which he had longed to see two years before. She took a step forward--for an instant the wild thought crossed her mind of flinging herself down before him, of confessing her love for him, but sorrow and trouble had not yet wholly humbled that proud nature. With a great effort she drew back. "Will you, then, serve us again?" she said, and her voice sounded far off and strange in her own ears.

"Can you doubt it? I will send for Mr. Morris and we will leave everything to him."

In a few moments he came in, looking anxiously from Calvert to Madame de St. Andre and back again.

"We are agreed upon this matter," said Calvert, quietly, interpreting Mr. Morris's look, "providing, in your opinion, it is a necessity. Is the case as desperate as Madame de St. Andre deems it, and is this the best remedy for it?"

"'Tis the only remedy, I think," replied Mr. Morris. "I fear there is no doubt as to d'Azay's fate when arraigned, as he will be to-morrow. Too many of his friends have already suffered that same fate to leave any reasonable hope that his will be other or happier." He drew Calvert to one side and spoke in a low tone. "Indeed, I think 'tis more than probable that he is guilty of the charges preferred against him and would go over to Monsieur de Conde had he the chance. I have known for a long while that he has become thoroughly disgusted with the trend of affairs here, and has no thought now but to serve the King. I think he has broken with Lafayette entirely since the affair of St. Cloud, and his change of political faith is only too well known here. If he does not leave Paris to-night, he will never leave it."

"Then," said Mr. Calvert, "I am ready to do my part."

"No, no, 'tis impossible that this thing should be," broke out Mr.

Morris, looking at the young man's pale, gloomy face. "I had hoped that it would be the greatest happiness; was I, then, mistaken?"

Calvert laid his hand on the elder man's shoulder.

"Hush, she must not hear. 'Tis an agreement we have entered into," he says, hurriedly. "Will you call a priest and send for the d.u.c.h.ess and d'Azay?"

"The Bishop of Autun has just come in," said Mr. Morris, after a moment's silence, and pressing the young man's hand, "and there is no time to send for anyone. I will go myself and ask him to come up."

They came in together in a very few moments, His Grace of Autun grave and asking no questions (from which Calvert rightly argued that Mr.

Morris had confided in him), but with a concerned and kindly air toward the young man, for whom he had always entertained an especial liking. In a simple and impressive manner he repeated the marriage service in the presence of Mr. Morris and some of the servants of the household, called in to be witnesses, Adrienne kneeling beside the couch on which Calvert lay, for he was too weak and ill to stand longer.

The strange scene was quickly over, the two parted almost without a word, Adrienne being led away by Mr. Morris to the Hotel de Ville, and Mr. Calvert remanded to bed by the surgeon, who was just arrived to dress his wound.

CHAPTER XX

MR. CALVERT SEES A SHORT CAMPAIGN UNDER LAFAYETTE

The project which Calvert had formed for joining the army he was able to put into execution within a couple of weeks. The fever which had attacked him having entirely subsided and his wound healing rapidly, he was soon well enough to feel a consuming restlessness and craving for action. The painful experience through which he had just pa.s.sed, the still more painful future to which he had to look forward, aroused an irresistible longing for some immediate and violent change of scene and thought. His vague plan for joining the army was suddenly crystallized by the situation in which he found himself, and though this resolution was strongly opposed by Mr. Morris, who, with keen foresight, prophesied the speedy overthrow of the const.i.tution and the downfall of Lafayette with the King, he adhered to it. D'Azay being safely out of the country--he had retreated to Brussels and joined a small detachment of the emigrant army still there--and Adrienne protected by his name, his one desire was to forget in action his misfortunes and to remove himself from the scene of them. It was this desire, rather than any enthusiasm for the cause in which he was engaged, which impelled him to offer his services to Lafayette. Indeed, it was with no very sanguine belief in that cause or hope of its success that he prepared to go to Metz.

Although he believed, with Mr. Morris, that the only hope of France lay in the suppression of internal disorder and the union of interests which a foreign war would bring about, yet he could not regard with much horror the threatenings of the proscribed emigres and the military preparations making by the allies to prevent the spread of the revolution into their own territories. Indeed, so great was his contempt for the ministers of Louis and for their mad and selfish policy that he confessed to himself, but for his desire to serve under his old commander, he would almost as soon have joined d'Azay at Brussels, or taken a commission with the Austrians under Marshal Bender, who commanded in the Low Countries. This division of sympathies felt by Calvert animated thousands of other b.r.e.a.s.t.s, so that whole regiments of cavalry went over to the enemy, and officers and men deserted daily.

Berwick, Mirabeau, Bussy, de la Chatre, with their commands, crossed over the Rhine and joined the Prince de Conde at Worms. The highest in command were suspected of intriguing with the enemy; men distrusted their superiors, and officers could place no reliance on their men. Of the widespread and profound character of this feeling of distrust Mr.

Calvert had no adequate idea until he joined the army of the centre at Metz in the middle of April. Although Lafayette had, since January, been endeavoring to discipline his troops, to animate them with confidence, courage, and endurance, they had defied his every effort. Indeed, what wonder that an army composed of the sc.u.m of a revolutionary populace, without knowledge of arms, suspicious, violent, unused to every form of military restraint, should defy organization in three months? Perhaps no sovereign ever entered upon a great conflict less prepared than did Louis when he declared war against the King of Hungary and Bohemia--for Francis was not yet crowned Emperor of Austria. But that unhappy monarch found himself in a situation from which the only issue was a recourse to arms. Confronted on the one hand by a republican party of daily increasing power and on the other by an aristocratical one openly allied with sovereigns who were suspected of a desire to part.i.tion his dominion among themselves as Poland had been, his one hope lay in warring his way out between the two.

That Louis should be the advocate and leader of this war was the one inspiration of Narbonne, and, had the King persevered in this, he might have saved himself and his throne. But, with his fatal vacillation, after having entered upon military preparations and committed himself to Narbonne's policy, he suddenly abandoned him as he had abandoned so many of his advisers. Grave replaced the dismissed and chagrined young minister, and Dumouriez, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, took into his hands all the power and glory of the war movement. He developed and supplemented the plans which Narbonne had already formed, and, by the New Year, a vast army was a.s.sembled and the frontier divided into three great military districts. On the left, the territory from Dunkirk to Philippeville was defended by the army under Rochambeau, forty thousand foot and eight thousand cavalry strong; Lafayette, with his army of the centre, of more than a hundred thousand men and some seven thousand horse, commanded between Philippeville and Weissenberg, while Luckner, with his army of the Rhine, stretched from Weissenberg to Bale.

Dumouriez's diplomatic negotiations were apparently nearly as successful as his military operations. Though he could not dissolve that "unnatural alliance" formed the year before at Pilnitz and enthusiastically adhered to by Prince Henri and the Duke of Brunswick with the young King of Hungary and Bohemia, yet, by the a.s.sa.s.sination of the King of Sweden, that country was no longer to be feared, England remained neutral by virtue of Pitt's commercial policy, and many of the petty German princ.i.p.alities openly approved of and aided the French revolutionists.