CHAPTER IV

AT THE PALAIS ROYAL

It was in pursuance of his favorite plan to make Calvert his secretary, should he be appointed Minister to the court of Louis XVI., that Mr.

Jefferson wrote to the young man four years later, inviting him to come to France. This invitation was eagerly accepted, and it was thus that Mr. Calvert found himself in company with Beaufort at the American Legation in Paris on that February evening in the year 1789.

When the great doors of the Legation had shut upon the two young men, they found themselves under the marquise where Beaufort's sleigh--a very elaborate and fantastic affair--awaited them. Covering themselves with the warm furs, they set off at a furious pace down the Champs Elysees to the Place Louis XV. It was both surprising and alarming to Calvert to note with what reckless rapidity Beaufort drove through the crowded boulevard, where pedestrians mingled perforce with carriages, sleighs, and chairs, there being no foot pavements, and with what smiling indifference he watched their efforts to get out of his horses' way.

"'Tis insufferable, my dear Calvert," he said, when his progress was stopped entirely by a crowd of people, who poured out of a small street ab.u.t.ting upon the boulevard, "'tis insufferable that this rabble cannot make way for a gentleman's carriage."

"I should think the rabble would find it insufferable that a gentleman's carriage should be driven so recklessly in this crowded thoroughfare, my dear Beaufort," returned Calvert, quietly, looking intently at that same rabble as it edged and shuffled and slipped its way along into the great street. At Calvert's remark, the young Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his reins over his impatient horses until the chime of silver bells around their necks rang again. "As usual--in revolt against the powers that be," he laughed.

Calvert leaned forward. "What is it?" he said. "There seems to be some commotion. They are carrying something."

'Twas as he had said. In the crowd of poor-looking people was a still closer knot of men, evidently carrying some heavy object.

"Qu'est ce qu'il y a, mon ami?" said Calvert, touching a man on the shoulder who had been pushed close to the sleigh. The man addressed looked around. He was poorly and thinly clothed, with only a ragged m.u.f.fler knotted about his throat to keep off the stinging cold. From under his great s.h.a.ggy eyebrows a pair of wild, sunken eyes gleamed ferociously, but there was a smile upon his lips.

"'Tis nothing, M'sieur," he said, nonchalantly. "'Tis only a poor wretch who has died from the cold and they are taking him away. You see he could not get any charcoal this morning when he went to Monsieur Juigne. 'Tis best so." He turned away carelessly, and, forcing himself through the crowd, was soon lost to sight.

"There are many such," said Beaufort, gloomily, in answer to Calvert's look of inquiry. "What will you have? The winter has been one of unexampled, of never-ending cold. The government, the cures, the n.o.bles have done much for the poor wretches, but it has been impossible to relieve the suffering. They have, at least, to be thankful that freezing is such an easy death, and when all is said, they are far better off dead than alive. But it is extremely disagreeable to see the shivering scarecrows on the streets, and they ought to be kept to the poorer quarters of the city." He had thrown off his look of gloom and spoke carelessly, though with an effort, as he struck the horses, which started again down the great avenue.

Calvert looked for an instant at Beaufort. "'Tis unlike you to speak so," he said, at length. Indeed, ever since the young man had come into the breakfast-room at the Legation, Calvert had been puzzled by some strange difference in his former friend. It was not that the young Frenchman was so much more elaborately and exquisitely dressed than in the days when Calvert had known him in America, or that he was older or of more a.s.surance of manner. There was some subtle change in his very nature, in the whole impression he gave out, or so it seemed to Calvert.

There was an air of flippancy, of careless gayety, about Beaufort now very unlike the ingenuous candor, the boyish simplicity, of the Beaufort who had served as a volunteer under Rochambeau in the war of American independence.

"What will you have?" he asked again, nonchalantly. "Wait until you have been in Paris awhile and you will better understand our manner of speech. 'Tis a strange enough jargon, G.o.d knows," he said, laughing in a disquieted fashion. "And France is not America."

"I see."

"And though the cold is doubtless unfortunate for the poor, the rich have enjoyed the winter greatly. Why, I have not had such sport since d'Azay and I used to go skating on your Schuylkill!" He flicked the horses again. "And as for the ladies!--they crowd to the pieces d'eau in the royal gardens. Those that can't skate are pushed about in chairs upon runners or drive all day in their sleighs. 'Tis something new, and, you know, Folly must be ever amused."

Even while he spoke numbers of elegantly mounted sleighs swept by, and to the fair occupants of many of them Beaufort bowed with easy grace.

Here and there along the wide street great fires were burning, tended by cures in their long ca.s.socks and crowded around by shivering men and women. The doors of the churches and hospitals stood open, and a continual stream of freezing wretches pa.s.sed in to get warmed before proceeding on their way. Upon many houses were large signs bearing a notice to the effect that hot soup would be served free during certain hours, and a jostling, half-starved throng was standing at each door.

There was a sort of terror of misery and despair over the whole scene, brilliant though it was, which affected Calvert painfully.

"Where are you going to take me?" he asked Beaufort, as the horses turned into the Place Louis XV.

"Where should I be taking you but to the incomparable Palais Royal, the capital of Paris as Paris is of France?" returned Beaufort, gayly. "'Tis a Parisian's first duty to a stranger. There you will see the world in little, hear all the latest news and the most scandalous gossip, find the best wines and coffee, read the latest pamphlets--and let me tell you, my dear Calvert, they come out daily by the dozens in these times--see the best-known men about town, and--but I forget. I am telling you of what the Palais Royal used to be. In these latter times it has changed greatly," he spoke gloomily now. "'Tis the gathering-place of Orleans men in these days, and they are fast turning into a h.e.l.l what was once very nearly an earthly Paradise!"

"You seem to know the place well," said Mr. Calvert.

"No man of fashion but knows it," returned Beaufort, "though I think 'twill soon be deserted by all of us who love the King."

"You were not so fond of kings in America," said Calvert, smiling a little.

"I was young and hot-headed then. No, no, Calvert, I have learned many things since Yorktown. Nor do I regret what I then did, but"--he paused an instant--"I see trouble ahead for my country and my cla.s.s. Shall I not stick to my King and my order? There will be plenty who will desert both. 'Tis not the fashion to be loyal now," he went on, bitterly. "Even d'Azay hath changed. He, like Lafayette and your great friend Mr.

Jefferson and so many others, is all for the common people. Perhaps I am but a feather-headed fool, but it seems to me a dangerous policy, and I think, with your Shakespeare, that perhaps 'twere better 'to bear the ills we have'--how goes it? I can never remember verse."

As he finished speaking, he reined in his horses sharply, and looking about him, Calvert perceived that they had stopped before a building whose ma.s.sive exterior was most imposing. Alighting and throwing the reins to the groom, Beaufort led Calvert under the arcades of the Palais Royal and into the grand courtyard, where were such crowds and such babel of noises as greatly astonished the young American. Shops lined the sides of the vast building--shops of every variety, filled with every kind of luxury known to that luxurious age; cafes whose reputation had spread throughout Europe, swarming with people, all seemingly under the influence of some strange agitation; book-stalls teeming with brand-new publications and crowded with eager buyers; marionette shows; theatres; dancing-halls--all were there. Boys, bearing trays slung about their shoulders by leathern straps and heaped with little trick toys, moved continually among the throngs, hawking their wares and explaining the operation of them. Streams of people pa.s.sed continually through the velvet curtains hung before Herr Curtius's shop to see his marvellous waxworks within. Opposite this popular resort was the Theatre de Seraphim, famed for its "ombres chinoises," and liberally patronized by the frequenters of the Palais Royal. A little farther along under the arcades was the stall where Mademoiselle la Pierre, the Prussian giantess, could be seen for a silver piece. Next to this place of amus.e.m.e.nt was a small salon containing a mechanical billiard-table, over which a billiard-ball, when adroitly struck, would roll, touching the door of a little gilded chateau and causing the images of celebrated personages to appear at each of the windows, to the huge delight of the easily amused crowds.

Cold as the afternoon was, the press of people was tremendous, and besides the numbers bent on amus.e.m.e.nt, throngs of men stood about under the wind-swept arcades, talking excitedly, some with frightened, furtive face and air, others boldly and recklessly.

As they pa.s.sed along, Calvert noted with surprise that Beaufort seemed to have but few acquaintances among the crowds of gesticulating, excited men, and that the look of disquiet upon his face was intensifying each moment. When they reached the Cafe de l'ecole, the storm burst.

"'Tis an infernal shame," he said, angrily, sinking into a chair at a small table, and pointing Calvert to the one opposite him, "'tis an infernal shame that this pleasure palace should be made the hotbed of political intrigue; that these brawling, demented demagogues should be allowed to rant and rave here to an excited mob; that these disloyal, seditious pamphlets should be distributed and read and discussed beneath the windows of the King's own cousin! The King must be mad to permit this folly, which increases daily. Where will it end?" He looked at Calvert and clapped his hands together. A waiter came running up.

"What will you have, Calvert?--some of the best cognac and coffee?" he asked. "There is no better to be found in all France than here."

"'Twill suit me excellently," said Calvert, absently, thinking more of what Beaufort had told him of the tendencies of the times than of the coffee and cognac of the Cafe de l'ecole. As he spoke, the man, who had stood by pa.s.sively awaiting his orders, suddenly started and looked at the young American attentively.

"But--pardon, Messieurs," he stammered, "is it possible that I see Monsieur Calvert at Paris?" Beaufort looked up in astonishment at the servant who had so far forgotten himself as to address two gentlemen without permission, and Calvert, turning to the man and studying his face for an instant, suddenly seized him by the hand cordially, and exclaimed, "My good Bertrand, is it indeed you?"

"Ah! Monsieur--what happiness! I had never thought to see Monsieur again!"

"Then you were destined to be greatly mistaken, Bertrand," returned Calvert, laughing, "for you are likely to see me often. I am to be here in Paris for an indefinite length of time, and as Monsieur de Beaufort tells me that the Cafe de l'ecole surpa.s.ses all others, I shall be here very frequently."

"And now," broke in Beaufort, addressing the man, who still stood beaming with delight and surprise upon Calvert, "go and get us our coffee and cognac." The man departed hastily and Beaufort turned to Calvert.

"Allow me to congratulate you upon finding an acquaintance in Paris so soon! May I ask who the gentleman is?"

"The gentleman was once a private in a company under Monsieur de Lafayette's orders before Yorktown, and is my very good friend," says Calvert, quietly, ignoring Beaufort's somewhat disdainful raillery. What he did not tell Beaufort was that Private Bertrand owed his life and much material aid to himself, and that the man was profoundly devoted and grateful. In Calvert's estimation it was but a simple service he had rendered the poor soldier--rescuing him from many dying and wounded comrades who had fallen in that first fierce onslaught upon the Yorktown redoubt. He had directed the surgeon to dress the man's wounds--he had been knocked on the head with a musket--and had eased the poor wretch's mind greatly by speaking to him in his own tongue, for most of the French soldiery under Rochambeau and Lafayette knew not a word of English. When Bertrand recovered, Calvert had sent him a small sum of money and a kind message, neither of which was the man likely to forget.

Never, in the whole course of his pinched, oppressed young life in France, had kindness and consideration been shown him from those above him. Tyranny and abuse had been his lot and the lot of those all about him, and such a pa.s.sionate devotion for the young American officer was kindled in his breast as would have greatly astonished its object had he known it. It was with an almost ludicrous air of solicitude that Bertrand placed the coffee before Calvert and poured out his cognac and then hung about, waiting anxiously for any sign or word from him.

"Is it not the best coffee in the world?" said Beaufort, sipping his complacently and looking about the crowded room for a familiar face.

Apparently he found none, for, leaning across the table and speaking to Calvert quite loudly and in an insolent tone, he said, "'Tis a good thing the coffee is of the best, or, my word of honor, I would not come to a place which gentlemen seem to have abandoned and to which canaille flock." And with that he leaned back and looked about him with a fine nonchalance. There was a little murmur of suppressed e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns and menaces from those nearest who had heard his words, but it soon subsided at the sight of Monsieur de Beaufort's handsome face and reckless air.

"There is also another charm about the Cafe de l'ecole, my dear Calvert," he said, speaking in a slightly lower tone and with an appreciative smile. "Monsieur Charpentier, our host, has a most undeniably pretty daughter. She is the caissiere, fortunately, and may be seen--and admired--at any time. We will see her as we go out. And speaking of beauties," he continued, turning the stem of his wine-gla.s.s slowly around, "you have asked no word of Mademoiselle d'Azay--or, I should say, Madame la Marquise de St. Andre!"

"Ah!" said Calvert, politely, "is she married?"

"What a cold-blooded creature!" said Beaufort, laughing. "Let me tell you, Calvert, the marriage which you take so nonchalantly was the sensation of Paris. It was the talk of the town for weeks, and the strangest marriage--if marriage it can be called--ever heard of. 'Tis now three years since Mademoiselle Adrienne d'Azay finished her studies at the Couvent de Marmoutier ('tis an old abbaye on the banks of the Loire, Calvert, near Azay-le-Roi, the chateau of the d'Azay family) and came to dazzle all Paris under the chaperonage of her great aunt, the old d.u.c.h.esse d'Azay. As you have seen her portrait--and, I dare say, remember its smallest detail--I will spare you the recital of those charms which captivated half the young gentlemen of our world on her first appearance at court. She became the rage, and, before six months had pa.s.sed, Madame d'Azay had arranged a marriage with the rich old St.

Andre. She would sell her own soul for riches, Calvert; judge, therefore, how willingly she would sell her niece's soul." He paused an instant and tapped impatiently on the table for another gla.s.s of cognac.

"It was a great match, I suppose," hazarded Calvert.

"Oh, yes; Monsieur de St. Andre was a man high in the confidence of both the King and Queen--and let me tell thee, 'tis no easy matter to please _both_ the King and Queen--and a man of rank and fortune. 'Tis safe to say the d.u.c.h.ess was most concerned as to his fortune, which was enormous. He was a trifle old, however, for Mademoiselle d'Azay, he being near sixty-five, and she but eighteen."

"Gracious Heaven!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Calvert. "What a cruel wrong to so young a creature! What a marriage!"

"Upon my word, I believe only the recital of wrong has power to stir that cold American blood of thine," said Beaufort, laughing again. "But do not excite yourself too much. After all 'twas scarcely a marriage, for, within an hour after the ceremony, the elderly bridegroom was alone in his travelling coach on his way to Madrid, sent thither at the instant and urgent command of the King on important private business connected with the Family Compact. From that journey he never returned alive, being attacked with a fatal fluxion of the lungs at a great public banquet given in his honor by Count Florida Blanca. His body was brought back to France, and his soi-disant widow mourned him decorously for a year. Since then she has been the gayest, as she is the fairest, creature in the great world of Paris."

"Is she, indeed, so beautiful?" asked Calvert, indifferently.

"She is truly incomparable," returned Beaufort, warmly. "And I promise thee, Ned," he went on, in his reckless fashion, "that that cool head of thine and that stony heart--if thou hast a heart, which I scarce believe--will be stirred at sight of Madame de St. Andre, or I know not the power of a lovely face--and no man knows better the power of a lovely face than I, who am moved by every one I see!" he added, laughing ruefully. "Besides her beauty and her fortune, there is a wayward brilliancy about her, a piquant charm in her state of widowed maid, that makes her fairly irresistible. The Queen finds her charming and that Madame de Polignac is pleased to be jealous. 'Tis even said that d'Artois and d'Orleans, those archenemies, agree only in finding her enchanting, and the rumor goes that 'twas d'Artois's influence that sent the elderly husband off post-haste to Madrid. A score of gentlemen dangle after her constantly, though apparently there is no one she prefers--unless," he hesitated, and Calvert noticed that he paled a little and spoke with an effort, "unless it be Monsieur le Baron de St.

Aulaire."