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 Elysées 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
abutting 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
muffler knotted about his throat to keep off the stinging cold. From
under his great shaggy 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
Juigné. '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 curés, the nobles
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 assurance 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, God 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 pièces 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
curés in their long cassocks and crowded around by shivering men and
women. The doors of the churches and hospitals stood open, and a
continual stream of freezing wretches passed 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 Orléans men in these days, and they are fast turning
into a Hell 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 class. 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 massive 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; cafés 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 passed continually through the
velvet curtains hung before Herr Curtius's shop to see his marvellous
waxworks within. Opposite this popular resort was the Théâtre 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
amusement 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 amusement, 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 passed 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 Café de l'École, 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 Café de l'École. As he spoke, the man, who had
stood by passively 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 Café de l'École surpasses 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 passionate 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 ejaculations 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 Café de l'École, 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 caissière, 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-glass
slowly around, "you have asked no word of Mademoiselle d'Azay--or, I
should say, Madame la Marquise de St. André!"
"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 château of the d'Azay family) and
came to dazzle all Paris under the chaperonage of her great aunt, the
old Duchesse 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 passed, Madame d'Azay had arranged a marriage with the rich old St.
André. 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 glass of cognac.
"It was a great match, I suppose," hazarded Calvert.
"Oh, yes; Monsieur de St. André 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 Duchess 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!" ejaculated 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. André, 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'Orléans, 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."
"And who is Monsieur de St. Aulaire?" inquired Calvert.
"A most charming man and consummate villain," says Beaufort, with a
gloomy smile. "The _fine fleur_ of our aristocracy, a maker of tender
rhymes, a singer of tender songs, a good swordsman, a brilliant wit, a
perfect courtier, a lucky gambler--in a word, just that fortunate
combination of noble and ignoble qualities most likely to fascinate
Madame de St. André," and a shadow settled for a moment on the debonair
face of Monsieur de Beaufort.
It did not need that shadow or that effort at light raillery to inform
Calvert that Beaufort himself was an unsuccessful unit in the "score of
gentlemen who dangled after" Madame de St. André, and he would have
essayed to offer his friend some comfort had he known how. But the truth
was that Calvert, never having experienced the anguish and delights of
love, felt a natural hesitation in proffering either sympathy or advice
to one so much wiser than himself.
While he was revolving some expression of interest (it was always his
way to think well before speaking and to keep silent if his thoughts
were not to his entire satisfaction), a sudden murmur, which rapidly
developed into a deep roar as it drew nearer, was heard outside, and at
the Café de l'École the shouting ceased and one man's voice, harsh,
incisive, agitated, could be heard above all the others. Looking through
the wide glass doors Calvert and Beaufort saw in the gathering dusk the
possessor of that voice being raised hurriedly upon the shoulders of
those who stood nearest him in the throng, and in that precarious
position he remained for a few minutes haranguing the turbulent mass of
people. Suddenly he sprang down, and, elbowing his way through the
crowd, he entered the Café de l'École, followed by as many as could
squeeze themselves into the already crowded room.
"What is it?" Beaufort demanded, languidly, of Bertrand. The man, by
tiptoeing, was trying to see over the heads of the smokers and drinkers,
who had risen to their feet and were applauding the orator who had just
entered.
"It is Monsieur Danton who is come in. He is making his way to the
caisse, doubtless to speak with Madame, his wife. Evidently Monsieur
has just addressed a throng in the Gardens."
"Ah! then 'tis certainly time that we go, since Monsieur Danton invades
the place. 'Tis a poverty-stricken young lawyer from Arcis-sur-Aube, my
dear Calvert," said Beaufort, disdainfully, "who has but lately come to
Paris and who, having no briefs to occupy his time, fills it to good
advantage by wooing and marrying the pretty Charpentier. The pretty
Charpentier has a pretty dot. I can't show you the dot, but come with me
and I will show you the beauty."
He got up from the table followed by Calvert and, with his hand laid
lightly on his silver dress sword, made his way easily through the surly
crowd, who, seemingly impelled by some irresistible power and against
their wish, opened a passage for him and the young stranger. As they
drew near the comptoir, Calvert perceived for the first time, leaning
against it, the man who had created such an excitement by his words and
sudden entrance. He was a big, burly figure, with a head and face that
had something of the bull in them. Indeed, they had come by that
resemblance honestly, for a bull had tossed him, goring the lips and
flattening the nose, and the marks were never to be effaced. Smallpox,
too, had left its sign in the deeply scarred skin. Only the eyes
remained to show one what might have been the original beauty of the
face. They shone, brilliant and keen, from beneath great tufted
eyebrows, above which waved a very lion's mane of rough, dark hair.
"A face to be remembered, this Monsieur Danton's," said Calvert to
himself. And, indeed, it was. Years afterward, when he saw it again and
for the last time, every detail of that rugged countenance was as fresh
in his memory as it was at that moment in the Café de l'École. As for
Danton, all unconscious of the young American's scrutiny, his gaze was
bent upon the pretty, vivacious little beauty who sat behind the caisse,
and had so lately become Madame Danton. As he looked, the harsh features
softened and a sentimental expression came into the keen eyes. "'Tis the
same conquered, slavish look the painter hath put into the lion's face
when Ariadne is by," mused Calvert to himself.
Beaufort was counting out silver pieces slowly, and slowly dropping them
on the caissière's desk. He looked at Calvert and nodded appreciatively,
coolly toward Madame Danton.
"Quelle charmante tête," he said, lightly, nonchalantly.
The burly figure leaning on the comptoir straightened up as if stung
into action; the softened eyes kindled with speechless wrath and flamed
into the imperturbable, debonair face of Monsieur de Beaufort. One of
the silver pieces rolled upon the floor. Calvert stooped quickly for it.
"Madame will permit me," he said, courteously, and, lifting his hat,
placed the coin upon the desk. Without another look or word he turned
and, followed leisurely by Beaufort, made his way to the door.
"An insolent," said Danton, savagely, to Madame, and gazing after
Beaufort's retreating back.
"Yes," returned Madame, grinding her pretty teeth with rage--"Monsieur
le Vicomte de Beaufort is an insolent--and not for the first time."
"I shall remember Monsieur le Vicomte de Beaufort's insolence as well as
I shall remember the Englishman's politeness."
Bertrand edged nearer the herculean Monsieur Danton. "Pardon, M'sieur,"
he commenced, nervously, "it is not an Englishman--it is an American--a
young American officer--Monsieur Calvert--aide-decamp to Monsieur le
Marquis de Lafayette, before Yorktown. A patriot of patriots,
Messieurs," he went on, turning to the listening throng about him; "a
lover of freedom, a compassionate heart. He saved me from death,
Messieurs, he gave me money, he sent me clothing, he saw that I was fed
and cared for, Messieurs." He told his story with many gesticulations
and much emphasis, interrupted now and then by huzzas for the young
American.
Calvert would have been vastly astonished to know that the lifting of
his hat and his courteous tone had contrived to make a popular hero of
him; as much astonished, perhaps, as Beaufort to know that his careless,
impertinent compliment to Madame Danton's charming head had sealed the
fate of his own. But 'tis in this hap-hazard fashion that the destiny of
mortals is decided. We are but the victims of chance or mischance. Of
all vainglorious philosophies, that of predestination is the vainest.
Outside, the night had fallen, and the shops, arcades, and gardens of
the Palais Royal were ablaze with innumerable candles and illuminated
Chinese lanterns. Before the entrance Monsieur de Beaufort's groom was
walking his half-frozen and restless horses up and down the icy street.
Beaufort laid his hand on Calvert's arm. "Come," he said, gloomily, "the
place is become insufferable. Let me take you back to the Legation."
Springing in he turned his horses' heads once more toward the Place
Louis XV. and the Champs Elysées, and, while he guided them through the
crowded and badly lighted thoroughfare, Calvert had leisure to think
upon the events of the last hour. It was with resentment and shame he
reflected upon his friend's airy insolence to the pretty caissière of
the Café de l'École. That it should have been offered in her husband's
presence was a gratuitous aggravation of the offence. That it should
have been offered her with such disdainful contempt for any objection on
her part or her husband's, with such easy assurance that there could be
no objections on their part, was another gratuitous aggravation of the
offence. In that noble insolence Calvert read a sign of the times more
legible than the clearest writing in the pamphlets flooding the
book-stalls of the Palais Royal.