"Yes," said Calvert, "we were talking, but not of politics or the charm of life. He was very interesting and unexpectedly friendly," he added, with some emotion, for he was still under Monsieur de Talleyrand's spell.

"I would have thought him the last man to interest you, my young Bayard," returned Mr. Morris, with some surprise. "He appears to me to be a sly, cunning, ambitious man. I know not why conclusions so disadvantageous to him are formed in my mind, but so it is. I cannot help it."

Mr. Calvert could not repress a smile, for it occurred to him that it was more than possible that Monsieur de Talleyrand's well-known devotion to Madame de Flahaut (whom it was evident Mr. Morris admired greatly, though he so stoutly denied it) might have prejudiced his opinion of the Bishop. Mr. Morris was quick to note the smile and to divine its cause.

"No, no, my dear Ned," he said, laughing, "'tis not Monsieur de Talleyrand's connection with Madame de Flahaut which makes me speak of him after this fashion. Indeed, there is but a Platonic friendship between the fair lady and myself," and, still laughing, Mr. Morris turned away from Calvert and stumped his way back to the side of the lady of his Platonic affections, where he remained until the company broke up.

As for Mr. Calvert, in spite of Mr. Morris's predilections, he was of the opinion that of the two--the unchurchly bishop and the pretty intrigante--Monsieur de Talleyrand was the more admirable character.

Indeed, he had disliked and distrusted Madame de Flahaut from the first time of meeting her, and, to do the lady justice, she had disliked Mr.

Calvert just as heartily and could never be got to believe that he was anything but a most unintelligent and uninteresting young man, convinced that his taciturnity and unruffled serenity before her charms were the signs of cra.s.s stupidity.

If Mr. Calvert found the pretty and vivacious Comtesse de Flahaut little to his taste, the society of which she was a type offended him still more. It had taken him but a short time to realize what shams, what hollowness, what corruption existed beneath the brilliant and gay surface. Amiability, charm, wit, grace were to be found everywhere in their perfection, but nowhere was truth, or sincerity, or real pleasure.

All things were perverted. Constancy was only to be found in inconstancy. Gossip and rumor left no frailty undiscovered, no reputation unsmirched. Religion was scoffed at, love was caricatured.

All about him Calvert saw young n.o.bles, each the slave of some particular G.o.ddess, bowing down and doing duty like the humblest menial, now caressed, now ill-treated, but always at beck and call, always obedient. It was the fashion, and no courtier resented this treatment, which served both to reduce the men to the rank of puppets and to render incredibly capricious the beauties who found themselves so powerful. All the virility of Calvert's nature, all his new-world independence and his sense of honor, was revolted by such a state of things. As he looked around the company, there was not a man or woman to be seen of whom he had not already heard some risque story or covert insinuation, and, though he was no strait-laced Puritan, a sort of disdain for these effeminate courtiers and a horror of these beautiful women took possession of him.

"Decidedly," he thought to himself, "I am not fitted for this society,"

and so, somewhat out of conceit with his surroundings, and the d.u.c.h.ess having withdrawn, he bade good-night to the company without waiting for Mr. Morris, and took himself and his disturbed thoughts back to the Legation.

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH MR. CALVERT'S GOOD INTENTIONS MISCARRY

It was in the midst of such society that Calvert encountered Madame de St. Andre repeatedly during the remainder of the winter and early spring. And though she was as imperious and capricious as possible, followed about by a dozen admirers (of whom poor Beaufort was one of the most constant); though she was as thoughtless, as pleasure-loving as any of that thoughtless, pleasure-loving society in which she moved; though she had a hundred faults easy to be seen, yet, in Calvert's opinion, there was still a saving grace about her, a fragrant youthfulness, a purity and splendor that coa.r.s.ened and cheapened all who were brought into comparison with her. When she sat beside the old d.u.c.h.esse d'Azay at the Opera or Comedie, he had no eyes for la Saint-Huberti or Contat, and thought that she outshone all the beauties both on the stage and in the brilliant audience. Usually, however, he was content to admire her at a distance and rarely left the box which he occupied with Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Morris to pay his respects to her and Madame d'Azay. For while Adrienne attracted him, he was yet conscious that it was best for him not to be drawn into the circle of her fascinations, and, although he made a thousand excuses for her caprice and coquetry, he had no intention of becoming the victim of either. Indeed, he had already experienced somewhat of her caprice and had found it little to his liking. Since the afternoon on which they had skated together she had never again treated him in so unaffected and friendly a fashion. A hundred times had she pa.s.sed him at the opera or the play or in the salons which they both frequented, with scarcely a nod or smile, and Mr.

Calvert was both offended and amused by such cavalier treatment and haughty manners.

"She has the air of a princess royal and treats me as the meanest of her subjects. 'Tis a good thing we Americans have cast off the yoke of royalty," he thought to himself, with a smile. "And as for beauty--there are a dozen belles in Virginia alone almost her equal in loveliness and surely far sweeter, simpler, less spoiled. And yet--and yet--" and the young man would find himself wondering what was that special charm by virtue of which she triumphed over all others. He did not himself yet know why it was that he excused her follies, found her the most beautiful of all women, or fell into a sort of rage at seeing her in the loose society of the day, with such men as St. Aulaire and a dozen others of his kind in her train. But though unable to a.n.a.lyze her charm he was yet vaguely conscious of its danger, and had it depended upon himself he would have seen but little of her. This, however, was an impossibility, as Mr. Jefferson was a constant visitor at the hotel of Madame d'Azay, who, true to her word, seemed to take the liveliest interest in Mr. Calvert and commanded his presence in her salon frequently. Indeed, the old d.u.c.h.ess was pleased to profess herself charmed with the young American, and would have been delighted, apparently, to see him at any and all hours, had his duties permitted him so much leisure. Besides the cordial invitations of the dowager d.u.c.h.ess to the hotel in the rue St. Honore, there were others as pressing from d'Azay himself, who, having secured his election in Touraine, had returned to Paris. The young n.o.bleman was frequently at the American Legation in consultation with the Minister, whose opinions and character excited his greatest admiration, and it was one of his chiefest delights, when business was concluded, to carry Mr. Jefferson and Calvert back to his aunt's drawing-room with him for a dish of tea and an hour's conversation.

It was on one of those occasions that, having accompanied Mr. Jefferson and d'Azay to the rue St. Honore in the latter's coach (Mr. Morris promising to look in later), Mr. Calvert had the opportunity of speaking at length with Madame de St. Andre for the first time since the afternoon on the ice. When the three gentlemen entered the drawing-room a numerous company was already a.s.sembled, the older members of which were busy with quinze and lansquenet in a card-room that opened out of the salon, the younger ones standing or sitting about in groups and listening to a song which Monsieur de St. Aulaire, who was at the harpsichord, had just begun. It was Blondel's song from Gretry's "Richard Coeur de Lion," about which all Paris was crazy and which Garat sang nightly with a prodigious success at the Opera. This aria Monsieur de St. Aulaire essayed in faithful imitation of the great tenor's manner and in a voice which showed traces of having once been beautiful, but which age and excesses had now broken and rendered harsh and forced.

As Calvert saluted Adrienne, when the perfunctory applause which this performance called forth had died away, he thought he had never seen her look so lovely. She wore a dress of some soft water-green fabric shot with threads of silver that fell away from her rounded throat and arms, bringing the creamy fairness of her complexion (which, for the first time, he saw enhanced by black patches) and the dusky brown of her hair to a very perfection of beauty. She was standing by the harpsichord when the gentlemen entered, but, on catching sight of Mr. Jefferson, she went forward graciously, extending her hand, over which he bowed low in admiration of that young beauty which, in his eyes, had no equal in Paris.

There was another pair of eyes upon her which saw as Mr. Jefferson's kindly ones did, but to them the young girl paid little attention, only giving Mr. Calvert a brief courtesy as she went to salute her brother.

"Will you not make Mr. Jefferson a dish of tea, Adrienne?" asked d'Azay, kissing her on both her fair cheeks. "And if we are to have music I beg you will ask Calvert to sing for us, for he has the sweetest voice in the world."

"What!" exclaimed the young girl, a little disdainfully. "Mr. Calvert is a very prodigy of accomplishments!"

"Far from it!" returned Mr. Calvert, good-naturedly. "'Tis but a jest of Henri's. Indeed, Madame, I am nothing of a musician."

"He may not be a musician, but he has a voice as beautiful as Garat's, though I know 'tis heresy to compare anyone with that idol of Paris,"

said Beaufort, joining the group at that instant. "Dost thou remember that pretty ballad that thou sangst at Monticello, Ned?" he asked, turning to Calvert. "Indeed, Madame, I think 'twas of you he sang," he added, smiling mischievously at Madame de St. Andre.

"What is this?" demanded Adrienne, imperiously. "Is this another jest?

But I must hear this song," she went on, impatiently, and with a touch of curiosity.

"'Twas my favorite 'La.s.s with the Delicate Air,'" said Mr. Jefferson, smiling. "You must sing it for us, Ned, and I will play for you as I used to do." He took from its case a violin lying upon the harpsichord and, leaning over it, he began softly the quaint accompaniment that sustains so perfectly the whimsical melodies and surprising cadences of Dr. Arne's ballad.

Though few of Mr. Calvert's audience could understand the sentiment of his song, all listened with admiration to the voice, which still retained much of its boyish sweetness and thrilling pathos. Amid the applause which followed the conclusion of the song, Madame d'Azay left the lansquenet table and appeared at the door of the salon.

"Charming," she cried. "But I don't know your English, so sing us something in French, Monsieur, that I may applaud the sentiment as well as the voice."

Mr. Calvert bowed with as good grace as he could, being secretly much dissatisfied at having to thus exploit his small talent for the benefit of the company, and, seating himself at the harpsichord, began a plaintive little air in a minor key, to which he had fitted the words of a song he had but lately read and greatly admired. Being, as he had said, nothing of a musician, the delicate accompaniment of the song was quite beyond him, but having a true ear for accord and a firm, light touch, he improvised a not unpleasing melody that fitted perfectly the poem. 'Twas the "Consolation" of Malherbe, and, as Calvert sang, the tenderness and melancholy beauty of both words and music struck the whole company into silence:

"'Mais elle etait du monde ou les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin, Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses-- L'es.p.a.ce d'un matin.

"La mort a des rigueurs a nulle autre pareilles, On a beau la prier, La cruelle qu'elle est se bouche les oreilles, Et nous laisse crier.

"Le pauvre en sa cabane, ou le chaume le couvre, Est sujet a ses lois, Et le garde qui veille aux barrieres du Louvre N'en defend pas nos rois.'"

"'Tis a gloomy song," whispered Beaufort to the young Vicomte de Noailles, Lafayette's kinsman, and then, turning to Monsieur de St.

Aulaire, sulkily looking on at the scene and whom he hated both for his devotion to Adrienne and because he was of the Orleans party, he said, with languid maliciousness, "My dear Baron, a thousand pities that you have taken no care of your voice! I can remember when it was such a one as Monsieur Calvert's."

"You were ever a sad flatterer, my dear Beaufort," returned St. Aulaire, one hand on the hilt of his silver dress sword, the other holding his chapeau de bras. He regarded Beaufort for an instant with a sour smile, and then turned and made his way to Calvert.

"Ah, Monsieur," he said, and his voice was suave, though there was a mocking light in his eyes, "I see I have made a mistake. I had thought you a past master in the art of skating, now I see that your true role is that of the stage hero. You would become as spoilt a favorite as Garat himself. The ladies all commit a thousand follies for him."

"Sir," returned Mr. Calvert, quietly, though he was white with unaccustomed anger, "I see that you are one destined to make mistakes. I am neither skating nor singing-master, nor clown nor coward. I am an American gentleman, and, should anyone be inclined to doubt that fact, I will convince him of it at the point of my sword--or with pistols, since English customs are the mode here."

As Calvert looked at the handsome, dissipated face of the n.o.bleman before him a sudden gust of pa.s.sion shook him that so insolent a scoundrel should dare to speak to him in such fashion. And though he retained all his self-control and outward composure, so strange a smile played about his lip and so meaning an expression came into his eye as caused no little surprise to St. Aulaire, who had entirely underestimated the spirit that lay beneath so calm and boyish an exterior. As he was about to reply to Calvert, Madame de St. Andre approached. Making a low bow, and without a word, Monsieur de St.

Aulaire retired, leaving Calvert with the young girl.

"Come with me, sir," she said, smiling imperiously on the young man and speaking rapidly. "I have many questions to ask you! You are full of surprises, Monsieur, and I must have my curiosity satisfied. We have many arrears of conversation to make up. Did you not promise to tell me of General Washington, of America, of your young Scotch poet? But, first of all, I must have a list of your accomplishments," and she laughed musically. Calvert thought it was like seeing the sun break through the clouds on a stormy day to see this sudden change to girlish gayety and naturalness from her grand air of princess royal, and which, after all, he reflected, she had something of a right to a.s.sume. Indeed, she bore the name of one who had been a most distinguished officer of the King and who had died in his service, and she was herself the descendant of a long line of n.o.bles who, if they had not all been benefactors of their race, had, at least, never shirked the brunt of battle nor any service in the royal cause. On her father's side she was sprung from that great warrior, Jacques d'Azay, who fought side by side with Lafayette's ancestor in the battle of Beauge, when the brother of Harry of England was defeated and slain. On her mother's side she came of the race of the wise and powerful Duc de Sully, Henry of Navarre's able minister. One of her great uncles had been a Grand Almoner of France, and another had commanded one of the victorious battalions at Fontenoy under the Marechal Saxe. The portraits of some of these great gentlemen and of many another of her ill.u.s.trious ancestors hung upon the walls of the salons and galleries of this mansion in the rue St. Honore. The very house bespoke the pride of race and generations of affluence, and was only equalled in magnificence by the Noailles hotel near by. As Mr.

Calvert looked about him at the splendor of this mansion, which had been in the d'Azay family for near two centuries and a half; at the s.p.a.cious apartment with its shining marquetry floor, its marble columns separating it from the great entrance hall; at the lofty ceiling, decorated by the famous Lagrenee with a scene from Virgil ('twas the meeting of Dido and Aeneas); at the brilliant company gathered together--as Mr. Calvert looked at all this, he felt a thousand miles removed from her in circ.u.mstance and sentiment, and thought to himself that it was not strange that she, who had been accustomed to this splendor since her birth, should treat an una.s.suming, unt.i.tled gentleman from an almost unknown country, without fortune or distinction, with supercilious indifference. Indeed, in his heart Mr. Calvert was of the opinion that this dazzling creature's beauty alone was enough to place her above princesses, and (thinking of the fresco on the ceiling) that had Aeneas but met her instead of Queen Dido he had never abandoned her as he did the Carthagenian.

Perhaps something of the ardor of his thoughts was reflected in his expression, for it was with a somewhat embarra.s.sed look that Adrienne pointed to a low gilt chair beside her own.

"Will you be seated, sir? And now for your confession! But even before that I must know why you come to see us so seldom. Were you provoked because I rebelled at being taken to task that afternoon on the ice? But see! Am I not good now?" and she threw him a demure glance of mock humility that seemed to make her face more charming than ever.

"You are very beautiful," said Mr. Calvert, quietly.

"Tiens! You will be a courtier yet if you are not careful," returned Adrienne, smiling divinely at the young man from beneath her dark lashes.

"Tis no compliment, Madame, but the very truth."

"The truth," murmured the young girl, in some embarra.s.sment at Calvert's sincere, if detached, manner. "One hears it so seldom these days that 'tis difficult to recognize it! But if it was the truth I fear it was not the whole truth, sir. I am sure I detected an uncomplimentary arriere pensee in your speech!" and she laughed mockingly at the young man, whose turn it was to be embarra.s.sed. "I am very beautiful, but--what, sir?"

"But you would be even more so without those patches, which may be successful enhancements for lesser beauties but are beneath the uses of Madame de St. Andre," returned Calvert, bravely, and joining in the laugh which the young girl could not repress.

"Pshaw, sir! What an idea!" said Adrienne. "Am I then so amiable that you dare take advantage of it to call me to account again? I am beginning to think, sir, that I, who have been a.s.sured by so many gentlemen to be perfection itself, must, after all, be a most faulty creature since you find reason to reprove me constantly," and she threw Calvert so bewildering a glance that that young gentleman found himself unable to reply to her badinage.

"Besides, Monsieur," she went on, "you do not do justice to these patches. Is it possible that there exists a gentleman so ignorant of women and fashion as not to know the origin and uses of the mouche?

Come, sir, attend closely while I give you a lesson in beauty and gallantry! These patches which you so disdain were once tiny plasters stretched upon black velvet or silk for the cure of headache, and, though no one was ever known to be so cured, 'twas easy for the illest beauty to perceive that they made her complexion appear more brilliant by contrast. The poets declared that Venus herself must have used them and that they spoke the language of love; thus one on the lip meant the 'coquette,' on the nose the 'impertinent,' on the cheek the 'gallant,'

on the neck the 'scornful,' near the eye 'pa.s.sionate,' on the forehead, such as this one I wear, sir, the 'majestic.'" As she spoke, so rapidly and archly did her mobile features express in their changes her varying thought that Calvert sat entranced at her piquancy and daring. "And now, Monsieur, have you no apology to make to these maligned patches?" and she touched the tiny plaster upon her brow.