MR. CALVERT RIDES DOWN INTO TOURAINE
August was a dreary month in Paris. With the last days of July the heat
became intense, and that, with the constant alarms and ever recurring
outbreaks, caused such an exodus from the city as soon made Paris a
deserted place. Mr. Morris's departure was followed shortly by that of
the old Duchesse d'Azay and Madame de St. André, who went down to
Azay-le-Roi, so that in Calvert's estimation the gayest capital in the
world was but a lonely, uninteresting city. Toward the close of August
Mr. Jefferson received from Congress that permission to return home
which he had solicited for so long, and, without loss of time, he
prepared to leave France for, as he supposed, an absence of a few
months, at most. Among the multitude of public and private affairs to be
arranged before his departure, his friends were not forgotten, and he
made many farewell visits to Versailles, Marly-le-Roi, and St. Germain.
He had not thought it possible, however, to see his friends at
Azay-le-Roi, but the middle of September found his affairs so nearly
settled, and, his passage not being taken until the 26th of the month,
he one day proposed to Calvert that they should make the journey into
Touraine.
"Tis the most beautiful part of France," he said to the young man, "and
I have a fancy to show you the country for the first time and to say
farewell to our friends, Madame d'Azay and Madame de St. André."
To this proposition the young man assented, suddenly determining that he
would see Adrienne and put his fortune to the touch. 'Twas intolerable
to remain longer in such a state of uncertainty and feverish
unhappiness, he decided. Any fate--the cruellest--would be preferable to
the doubt which he suffered. And surely he was right, and uncertainty
the greatest suffering the heart can know.
"At the worst she can hurt me no more cruelly than she has already," he
said to himself. "She shall know that I love her, even though that means
I shall never see her again."
His determination once taken, he was as eager as possible to be off,
and, by the 16th, all was in readiness for their departure. Passports
were obtained from Lafayette and places reserved in the public
diligence. They took only one servant with them--the man Bertrand, whom
Galvert had been at pains to ferret out and take into his employ,
thinking to prevent him from mingling again with the ruffians and
cutthroats of the Palais Royal and faubourgs. Such was the fellow's
devotion to Calvert that he abandoned his revolutionary and bloody
comrades and took service joyfully with the young man, delighted to be
near and of use to him.
The journey into Touraine was a very short and a very pleasant one to
Mr. Jefferson and Calvert. The diligence left Paris by the Ivry gate,
stopping for the night at Orléans. The next morning at dawn they were
again upon their way and bowling swiftly along the great highway that
led down into the valley of the Loire, past Amboise and Blois and
Vouvray to the old town of Tours, lying snugly between the Loire and the
Cher. They came into the rue Royale just as the sun was flinging a
splendor over everything--on the gray cathedral spires and the square
tower of Charlemagne and the gloomy Tour de Guise, and as they crossed
the great stone bridge to the old quarter of St. Symphorien, the Loire
flowed away beneath them like some fabled stream of molten gold.
The diligence put them down at La Boule d'Or, a clean and well-kept inn,
overlooking the river and from the windows of which could be seen the
white façade of the Hôtel de Ville and the numberless towers rising here
and there above the old town. After a night of refreshing sleep to Mr.
Jefferson, but one full of misgivings and broken dreams to Calvert, the
two gentlemen set forth in the morning on horseback, followed shortly
after by Bertrand with light baggage, for Mr. Jefferson's affairs would
not permit him to remain more than twenty-four hours at Azay-le-Roi.
They rode slowly, at first, through the early sweetness of that
September morning, scarcely disturbing the fine, white dust upon the
broad road. The level land stretched away before them like some
tranquil, inland sea, and against the horizon tall, stately poplars
showed like the slender masts of ships against the blue of sky and
ocean.
"It is as though a whole world separated this peaceful valley from the
agitation and uproar of Paris," said Mr. Jefferson to Calvert.
"Yet even here revolt has already left its mark," returned Calvert,
pointing to the half-burnt ruins of a château just visible through an
avenue of trees to the left.
In the early afternoon they came to Azay, and, passing quickly through
the little village and out into the country again, they were soon at the
entrance of the great park surrounding Azay-le-Roi. Calvert never forgot
the look of the great avenue of rustling poplars and the exquisite grace
of the château as he and Mr. Jefferson rode up to it on that September
afternoon. A sunny stillness brooded over it; long shadows from the
pointed turrets lay upon the fine white sand of the driveway and dipped
along the gray walls of the château, which the hand of man had fretted
with lace-like sculpture. In an angle of the courtyard two idle lackeys
in scarlet liveries and powdered hair played with a little terrier. As
Mr. Jefferson and Calvert approached, they ran forward, one taking the
horses and the other opening the great entrance door for the two
gentlemen and ushering them into the salon where a large company was
amusing itself with cards, books, and music. The old Duchess and d'Azay,
who was down from Versailles for a few days, could not welcome the
gentlemen warmly enough, and even Adrienne seemed so pleased to see
them again that, for the first time since beginning the journey, Calvert
felt some of his misgivings quieted and dared to hope that his embassy
might not be unsuccessful. He would have spoken to her that very
evening, she was so gracious to him, but that the numerous company
prevented any conversation alone. Not only did guests arrive for dinner,
but there were several families from the neighboring chateaux staying at
Azay-le-Roi, frightened thither by rumors of outbreaks among the
peasantry and the approach of brigands.
"They cannot frighten me from Azay-le-Roi," says the Duchess, stoutly,
to Mr. Jefferson. "If they burn my house, 'twill be over my head, and as
for the brigands, I believe in them no more than in the alleged plot of
the Queen to blow up the Assembly."
The talk was all of the tumults in Paris, the hasty decrees of the
Assembly, and the agitation spreading over the provinces, and the
evening would have passed gloomily enough had it not been for the
intrepid old Duchess, who scouted all vague alarms, and for Adrienne,
who turned them into ridicule, and who had never appeared to Calvert
more sparkling and charming. It was not until the next morning that he
could get a word with her alone. He found her walking slowly up and down
an allée of elms, through the leaves of which the bright September
sunshine sifted down. She nodded coolly to the young man who joined her.
All her animation and gracious air of the evening before had
disappeared, and Calvert could have cursed himself that he had come
upon her in this capricious mood. But he would not put off saying what
he had come so far to say, for all her changed manner, and, moreover,
there would be no better time, for they were to set out for Tours again
by noon.
"Madame," he said, after an instant's silence, during which they had
paced slowly up and down together, "as you know, this is no farewell
visit I have come to pay, since I do not leave France with Mr.
Jefferson. I have come because I dared to love you," he went on,
bluntly, and meeting the look of surprise, which Adrienne shot at him,
squarely and steadily. They both stopped in their walk and regarded each
other, the young girl blushing slightly as she looked at Calvert's pale
face and met his steady gaze.
"I can make you no fine phrases. Indeed, I know no words either in your
tongue or mine that can express the love I feel for you," he said, a
little sadly.
"'Tis the first time I have ever known Mr. Calvert to be at a loss for
French phrases," returned Adrienne, recovering from her momentary
confusion and smiling mockingly at the young man. "You should have taken
a lesson from Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur de St. Aulaire."
"No doubt they have had much experience which I have missed, and could
teach me much. But I fear Beaufort could only teach me how to fail, and
as for Monsieur de St. Aulaire, I have no time to go to England to find
that gentleman in the retreat which he has so suddenly seen fit to
seek." Madame de St. André blushed and bit her lip. "'Tis the first
time I have ever told a woman I loved her," said Calvert, "and I would
rather tell her in my own blunt fashion. If she loves me, she will know
the things my heart tells her, but which my lips are too unskilled to
translate."
"Ah, we women are too wise to try to divine unspoken things; we scarce
dare believe what we are told," and the young girl laughed lightly.
"Yet I think you once paid me the compliment of saying that you believed
me sincere," said poor Calvert.
"'Tis true--there is something about you which compels belief--'tis your
eyes, I think," and then, throwing off the seriousness with which she
had spoken, she added, jestingly: "But in truth, sir, it is too much to
ask of me to believe that I am the first woman you have ever loved."
"It is nevertheless true," said Calvert, quietly.
"And you told me you could make no fine phrases!" cried the young girl,
with a gesture of pretended disappointment, and glancing with eyes full
of amusement at Calvert.
"I pray you to still that spirit of mockery and listen to me," said the
young man, turning to her with passion. As Adrienne looked at his white
face and heard the sternness in his voice, the laughter faded from her
eyes.
"I have never known the love of a mother or sister. It is true what I
have told you, whether you believe it or not, that you are the first and
only woman I have loved. And I think I have loved you ever since that
night, years ago at Monticello, when d'Azay showed me your miniature. I
have loved you when you were kind and unkind to me. I love you now,
although I do not dare to hope that you love me in return. I can offer
you nothing," he went on, hurriedly, seeing that she would have stopped
him. "I can offer you nothing but this love and a home over the sea.
'Tis a pretty place, though it would doubtless seem to you poor enough
after the splendors of Versailles and Paris," he says, smiling ruefully;
"but we might be happy there. Is it impossible?"
As she looked into Calvert's serious eyes, lighted with a glow she had
never seen in them, there swept over her that admiration for him which
she had felt before. But she conquered it before it could conquer her.
"Impossible. Ah, you Americans want everything. You have triumphed over
the English; do you wish to conquer France, too? I am not worth being
taken prisoner, Monsieur," she says, suddenly. "I am capricious and cold
and ambitious. I have never been taught to value love above position.
How can I change now? How could I leave this France, and its court and
pleasures, for the wilds of a new country? No, no, Monsieur; I haven't
any of the heroine in me."
"'Tis not exactly to the wilds of a new country that I would take you,
Madame," and Calvert smiled palely, in spite of himself, "but to a very
fertile and beautiful land, where some of the kindest people in the
world live. But I do not deny that our life and pleasures are of the
simplest--'twould, in truth, be a poor exchange for the Marquise de St.
André."
"It might be a happy enough lot for some woman; for me, I own it would
be a sacrifice," said Adrienne, imperiously.
"Believe me, no one realizes more clearly than I do the sacrifice I
would ask you to make, with only the honest love of a plain American
gentleman for compensation. There are no titles, no riches, no courtly
pleasures in my Virginia; I can't even offer you a reputation, a little
fame. But my life is before me, and I swear, if you will but give me
some hope, I will yet bring you honors and some fortune to lay with my
heart at your feet! There have been days when you were so gracious that
I have been tempted to believe I might win your love," says poor
Calvert.
"If you mean I have knowingly encouraged this madness, Monsieur Calvert,
believe me, you mistake and wrong me."
"I do not reproach you," returned Calvert, smiling sadly. "I can easily
believe you did not mean to show me any kindness. This folly is all my
own, and has become so much a part of me that I think I would not have
done with it if I could. I would give you my life if it would do you any
good. You need not smile so mockingly. It is no idle assertion, and it
would be a poor gift, after all, as it is less than nothing since you
will not share it. I used to wonder what this love was," he goes on, as
if to himself, "that seizes upon men and holds them fast and changes
them so. I think I understand it now, and the beauty of it and the
degradation, too. I love you so that, if by some stroke of fate I could
be changed into a prince or a duke, like your Monsieur de Grammont or
Monsieur de Noailles, and you would give me your love, as to some such
exalted personage, I would be base enough to accept it, though I knew
you would never give it to the untitled American."
"Enough, Monsieur!" said Adrienne, rising in some agitation. "This
conversation is painful to me and I know must be to you. Had I guessed
what you had to say, I would have spared you."
"No," returned Calvert, grimly, a wave of crimson suddenly spreading
over his pale face ('twas the only sign he gave of the anger and pain
gnawing at his heart), "you would have had to listen. I came to
Azay-le-Roi to tell you that I love you. Do you think I would have gone
away without speaking?"
Adrienne regarded him in haughty amazement.
"At least you will do me the favor never to refer to this again?"
"You may rest assured, Madame, that I shall never annoy you again." He
spoke as haughtily as she, for he was bitterly hurt, and he was young
enough to feel a fierce pride in the thought that he, too, would have
done with this love which she had so lightly disdained.
He sank down upon the bench and covered his face with his hands. A
sudden spasm of coquetry seized the young girl.
"Then, in case I should ever change my mind, as women have been known
to do since time immemorial, Monsieur, _I_ shall have to ask you to
marry me!" she said, laughing lightly.
Calvert raised his head wearily. His face looked as though a dozen years
had left their mark upon it since he entered the little allée of elms;
there were fine lines of pain about the mouth and a curious, listless
look in his usually serene eyes.
"After this morning I cannot believe that you will ever change your
mind," he said, rising as he spoke. "But be assured that whatever may
happen I shall never forget your command and offend again. And now, as I
shall not see you again before we leave, I bid you farewell, Madame." He
pressed the hand which Adrienne held out to his pale lips, and then
holding it for an instant in both of his, turned quickly and left the
allée.
Madame de St. André looked after the clean-limbed, athletic young figure
as it disappeared rapidly through the trees. And suddenly a keen regret
for what she had done swept over her. Did she love him, then, that she
should wish him back? She sank upon the bench with a beating heart. She
would have called out to him, have brought him back to her side, but
that her pride held her in check.
"What insolence!" she said, half-starting up. "And yet--and yet--'tis
more to my liking than fine phrases! And it was true--what he said--had
he been Monsieur le Duc de Montmorency or Monsieur de Villeroi--! At
least I shall see him again--he will come back--they always do." But
though she smiled, a curious foreboding and a sort of fear seized upon
her.
At the château Calvert found Mr. Jefferson making his adieux to Madame
d'Azay and her guests. The horses had been ordered, and in a few minutes
the gentlemen were ready to start. D'Azay walked with Calvert to where
Bertrand stood holding them.
"'Tis an infernal shame, Ned," he said, in a low tone, wringing the
young man's hand. "I guessed thy mission down here and thy face tells me
how it has gone. As for myself, I would have wished for nothing better.
Perhaps she may change her mind--all women do," he added, hopefully. But
Calvert only shook his head.
"She is for some greater and luckier man than I," he said, quietly,
taking the reins from Bertrand, and waving an adieu to the young lord as
he rode down the avenue.
As d'Azay slowly made his way back to the château, Bertrand stood for a
moment looking after him before mounting to follow Mr. Jefferson and
Calvert.
"And so," he said, half-aloud, "that was Monsieur's reason for coming
to Azay-le-Roi! And she won't have him! All women are fools, and these
great ladies seem to be the biggest fools of all. She will not find his
equal among the white-livered aristocrats who swarm around her. I wish I
could revenge Monsieur for this," he said, savagely, and jumping on his
horse he rode after the two gentlemen.
The journey back to Tours was made more quickly than coming, and Mr.
Jefferson was so full of his visit to Azay-le-Roi as not to notice
Calvert's preoccupation and silence. They rode into the town in the late
afternoon and made their way to the Boule d'Or, where Calvert, who had a
sudden longing to be alone, left Mr. Jefferson writing letters, and
strolled back into the old town.
Almost before he was aware of it he found himself in the little square
before the great Cathedral. With a sudden impulse he entered and leaned
against one of the fretted columns. A chorister was practising softly in
the transept overhead. 'Twas the _benedictus_ from one of Mozart's
masses.
"_Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini_," he sang over and over again.
Calvert could not see the singer, but the young voice floated downward,
reminding him of his own boyish voice. He closed his eyes and bowed his
head against the cold stone. When he could stand it no longer, he went
softly down the echoing aisle of the church, out through the great
doors, into the yellow sunshine of the deserted little street. There
were some linden-trees planted in a hollow square before the parvis of
the Cathedral, and stone benches set beneath them. Upon one of these he
sank down, as if physically weary. Perhaps he was--at any rate, a
sudden, sick disgust for everything, for the melancholy afternoon
sunshine and the yellowing grass and blighted flowers, took possession
of him. The wind, rising, made a dreary sound among the stiffening
leaves. One fluttered downward and lay upon the bench beside him. He
noted with surprise the sudden chill, the first touch of coming winter.
But that morning it had seemed like spring to him.
He looked up at the great front of the Cathedral, unchanging through so
many changing years, and, as he looked, he thought how small and
ephemeral a thing he was and his love and grief. The two great spires
towering upward seemed to his sick fancy like two uplifted hands drawing
benediction down on the weary, grief-stricken world, and before their
awful patience and supplication something of his own impatience and
bitterness passed from him and, comforted, he left the spot and made his
way along the deserted quay and so back to the little inn where Mr.
Jefferson awaited him.