IN WHICH AN UNLOOKED-FOR EVENT TAKES PLACE
That great and desolating change which had swept over France in the two
years and more of Calvert's absence was reflected in every heart, in
every life left in that wrecked land. On the most insensible, the most
frivolous, the most indifferent alike fell the shadow of those terrible
times. The sadness and the horror fell on Adrienne de St. André as it
fell on so many others, but besides the terror of those days she had to
bear a still heavier sorrow. There is no pang which the heart can suffer
like the realization, too late, that we have lost what we most prize;
that we have missed some great opportunity for happiness which can never
come to us again; that we have rejected and passed by what we would now
sell our souls to possess. This conviction, slowly borne in upon
Adrienne, caused her more anguish than she had supposed, in her
ignorance, anything in the world could make her feel. The man whose name
she bore was scarcely a memory to her. For the first time she knew what
love was and realized that she had cared for Calvert with all the
repressed tenderness and unsounded depths of her heart. Her very
helplessness, the impossibility to recall him, made him more dear to her
by far. A man can stretch out his hand and seize his happiness, but a
woman must wait for hers. And if it passes her by she must bear her hurt
in silence and as best she can. It was with a sort of blind despair that
Adrienne thought of Calvert and all that she had wilfully thrown away.
Had he been at her beck and call, fetched and carried for her, she would
never have loved him. But the consciousness that he was as proud as she,
that, though he was near her for so long, she could not lure him back,
that he could master his love and defy her beauty and charm, exercised a
fascination over her. And when he left her entirely and was gone away
without even seeing her, she suddenly realized how deeply she loved him.
We have all had such experiences--we live along, thinking of things
after a certain fashion, and suddenly there comes a day when everything
seems changed. It was so with Adrienne. All things seemed changed to
her, and in that bitter necromancy her pride was humbled. Wherever she
went there was but one dear face she longed to see--one dear face with
the quiet eyes she loved. There were days when she so longed to see him,
when the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand would have been so
inexpressibly dear to her, that it seemed as if the very force of her
passion must surely draw him back to her. But he never came. During
those two long years something went from her forever. She was not
conscious of it at the time--only of the dull ache, and feverish
longing, and utter apathy that seized her by turns. There was a subtle
difference in all things. 'Twas as if some fine spring in the delicate
mechanism of her being had broken. It might run on for years, but never
again with the perfectness and buoyancy with which it had once moved.
As her life altered so terribly, as all that she had known and valued
perished miserably before her eyes day by day, the thought of Calvert
and of his calm steadiness and sincerity became constant with her. She
heard of him from time to time from Mr. Morris after his frequent visits
to London and through letters to her brother and Lafayette, to whom
Calvert wrote periodically, but she had no hope of ever seeing him
again, and she suffered in the knowledge. Though he seemed cruel to her
in his hardness, she was just enough to confess to herself that she so
deserved to suffer. But she had learned so much through suffering that a
sick distaste for life's lessons grew upon her, and she felt that she
wanted no more of them unless knowledge should come to her through love.
In her changed life there was little to relieve her suffering, but she
devoted herself to the old Duchess, who failed visibly day by day, and
in that service she could sometimes forget her own unhappiness. She went
with the intrepid old lady (who continued to ignore the revolution as
much as possible) wherever they could find distraction--to the play and
to the houses of their friends still left in Paris, where a little
dinner or a game of quinze or whist could still be enjoyed.
'Twas on one of these occasions that, accompanied by Beaufort, as they
were returning along the Champs Elysées from Madame de Montmorin's,
where they had spent the evening, they suddenly heard the report of
pistols proceeding from an allée by the road-side.
"A duel!" said Beaufort. "'Twas near here that poor Castries was killed.
Perhaps it is another friend in trouble, and I had best see," and,
calling to the coachman to stop the horses, he jumped out. Almost at the
same instant a man stumbled out of the allée and ran down the boulevard.
Beaufort would have followed him, but, as he started to do so, he heard
his name called and, looking back, saw another man emerge from the allée
and gaze down the almost deserted street. By the dim light of the
lantern swung from its great iron post the man recognized Monsieur de
Beaufort and ran forward.
"Will you come?" he said, hurriedly. "Monsieur Calvert is here--wounded
by that villain."
"Calvert--impossible! He is not in Paris."
"But he is!--here," said Bertrand, drawing Beaufort toward the allée.
Adrienne's pale face appeared at the coach-door.
"Did I hear someone speak of Monsieur Calvert?"
Beaufort went up to her. "He is here--wounded, I think," he said in a
low voice. "I will go and see--you will not be afraid to wait?"
"To wait!--I am going, too," and before he could prevent it she had
stepped from the coach and was making her way toward the allée. A
ghastly sight met their eyes as they entered the lane. St. Aulaire lay
upon the ground, one of his companions standing over him, and at a
little distance, Calvert, white and unconscious, the blood trickling
from his left shoulder. With a low cry Adrienne knelt on the ground
beside him and felt his pulse to see if he still lived. In an instant
she was up.
"Bring him to the carriage. We must take him to the Legation--to Mr.
Morris," she says, in a low tone, to Beaufort and Bertrand, whom she had
recognized as the servant Calvert had brought with him to Azay-le-Roi.
Without a look at St. Aulaire she helped the two to get Calvert to the
coach, where he was placed on the cushions as easily as possible and
held between herself and Madame d'Azay. She hung over him during the
long drive in a sort of passion of pity and love. It was the dearest
happiness she had ever known to touch him, to feel his head upon her
arm. Even though he were dead, she thought, it were worth all her life
to have held him so. She scarcely spoke save to ask Bertrand if he knew
the cause of the encounter, and, when he had told her all he knew of the
events of the evening, she relapsed again into silence. They reached the
Legation as Mr. Morris's guests were leaving, and in a very few minutes
the young man was put to bed and a surgeon called.
Though the wound was not fatal--not even very serious--a sharp fever
fastened upon Calvert, and, in the delirium of the few days following,
Mr. Morris was easily able to learn the cause of the duel. The story he
thus gathered from Calvert's wild talk he told Adrienne and Madame
d'Azay--the two ladies came daily to inquire how the patient was
doing--for he thought that they should know of the noble action of the
young man, and he felt sure that as soon as Calvert was himself again he
would request him to keep silence about his share in the matter. He was
right, for when Calvert was come to his senses again and was beginning
to be convalescent--which was at the end of a week--he told Mr. Morris
the particulars of his encounter with St. Aulaire, requesting that he
make no mention of his part in the affair and begging him to urge d'Azay
to leave Paris. This was the more necessary as St. Aulaire, though badly
wounded, was fully conscious and might at any moment cause d'Azay's
arrest, and, moreover, passports were becoming daily harder to obtain.
Mr. Morris had to confess his inability to comply with Calvert's first
request, but promised to see d'Azay immediately, and, ordering his
carriage, in half an hour was on his way to the rue St. Honoré. No man
in Paris knew better than he the risk an aristocrat ran who was
denounced to the Assembly and remained in Paris, nor how difficult it
was to get out of the city. He was also aware of rumors concerning
d'Azay of which he thought best not to tell Calvert in his present
condition, but which made him seriously fear for d'Azay's safety.
On his arrival in the rue St. Honoré he found Adrienne with the old
Duchess in one of the smaller salons, but d'Azay was not with them, nor
did they know where he was. Mr. Morris had not intended telling the two
ladies of his mission, fearing to increase the anxiety which he knew
they already felt on d'Azay's account, but he suddenly changed his
determination and, in a few words, informed them of Calvert's urgent
message to d'Azay and of the reasons for his instant departure from
Paris.
"He is not safe for a day," he said. "Calvert has saved him for the time
being, but St. Aulaire, though unable himself to go to the Assembly and
prefer charges against him, can find a dozen tools among the Orléans
party who will do his dirty work for him. The mere assertion that d'Azay
is in correspondence with Monsieur de Condé or any of the
counter-revolutionists will send him to prison--or worse. As you know,
he, like Lafayette, is out of favor with all factions. There is but one
thing to do--get him out of Paris."
"He will never go!" said the old Duchess, proudly.
"He must! Listen," said Adrienne, rising and laying her hand on Mr.
Morris's arm. "I think he will never ask for a passport himself, but if
we could get it for him, if, when he comes in, he should find all in
readiness for his going, if we could convince him by these means that
his immediate departure was so necessary--" She stood looking at Mr.
Morris, forcing herself to be calm, and with such an expression of
courage and determination on her pale face that Mr. Morris, who had
always admired her, was touched and astonished.
"'Tis the very best thing to be done, my dear young lady," he said. "We
must get the passport for d'Azay and force him to quit Paris. I think I
am not entirely without influence with some of these scoundrels in
authority just now. Danton, for instance. He is, without doubt, the
most powerful man in Paris for the moment. Suppose we apply to him and
his worthy assistant, Bertrand, and see what can be done. As Danton
himself said to me the other evening at the Cordelliers Club, 'in times
of revolution authority falls into the hands of rascals!' Bertrand was a
good valet, but he knows no more of statescraft than my coachman does.
However, what we want is not a statesman but a friend, and I think
Bertrand may prove to be that. My carriage is waiting below; shall we go
at once?"
"Oh, we cannot go too soon! I will not lose a moment." She ran out of
the room and returned almost instantly with her wraps, for the March day
was chill and gloomy. The two set out immediately, Mr. Morris giving
orders to his coachman to drive to the Palais de Justice, where he hoped
to find Danton, the deputy attorney-general of the commune of Paris, and
Bertrand, his assistant. As he expected, they were there and, on being
announced, he and Madame de St. André were almost instantly admitted to
their presence.
There could be no better proof of the unique and powerful position held
by the representative of the infant United States than the reception
accorded him by this dictator of Paris. Though Mr. Morris was known to
disapprove openly of the excesses to which the Assembly and the
revolution had already gone, yet this agitator, this leader of the most
violent district of Paris, welcomed him with marked deference and
consideration. And it was with the deepest regret that he professed
himself unable to undertake to obtain, at Mr. Morris's request, a
passport for Monsieur d'Azay, brother of Madame de St. André, to whom he
showed a coldness and brusqueness in marked contrast to his manner
toward Mr. Morris.
"The applications are so numerous, and the emigrant army is becoming so
large," and here he darted a keen, mocking look at Madame de St. André
out of his small, ardent eyes, "that even were I as influential as
Monsieur Morris is pleased to think me, I would scarcely dare to ask for
a passport for Monsieur d'Azay. Moreover," and he bent his great,
hideous head for an instant over a pile of papers upon the desk before
him, "moreover, Monsieur d'Azay is particularly wanted in Paris just
now."
"It is not his wish to leave--indeed, he knows nothing of this
application for a passport. It is by my wish and on my affairs that he
goes to England," says Adrienne, steadily, facing with courage the
malignant look of that terrible countenance. Monsieur Danton ignored
these remarks and turned to Mr. Morris.
"Receive my regrets, Monsieur, that I can do nothing in this matter. It
would give me pleasure to render any favor to an American."
"Then we must ask assistance in other quarters," says Mr. Morris, rising
abruptly, and with a show of confidence which he was far from feeling.
He had applied in the most powerful and available quarter that he knew
of, and he confessed to himself that, having failed here, he had no hope
of succeeding elsewhere.
As he and Adrienne turned to go, Bertrand, who had sat quietly by
during this short colloquy, arose and accompanied them toward the door.
"It is a pity Madame de St. André is not an American--is not Madame
Calvert," he says, in a low tone, and fixing a meaning look on Adrienne.
"Passports for the brother-in-law of Monsieur Calvert, the American,
were easy to obtain. It is doubly a pity," and he spoke in a still lower
tone, "since I have, on good authority, the news that Monsieur d'Azay is
to be accused of forwarding military intelligence to Monsieur de Condé
in to-morrow's session of the Assembly."
The young girl stopped and stood looking at him, transfixed with terror
and astonishment.
"What do you mean?" she says, in a frightened, hushed voice.
"This, Madame. A long time ago, when I was a soldier in America under
Lafayette, Monsieur Calvert did me a great service--he saved my life--he
was kind to me. He is the only man, the only person in the world I love,
and I have sworn to repay that debt of gratitude. I was with Monsieur,
as his servant, at Azay-le-Roi, and I guessed, Madame, what passed there
between you and him. Afterward I was with him in Paris, and I saw how he
suffered, and I swore, if the thing were ever possible, I would make you
suffer as he suffered. There is but one thing I would rather do than
make you suffer--and that is to make him happy. The passport for the
brother of Madame Calvert will be ready at six this evening and
Monsieur will be free to leave Paris. Do you understand now, Madame?"
"It is impossible," she says, faintly, leaning for support on Mr.
Morris, who stood by, unspeakably astonished at the strange scene taking
place.
"Impossible? Then I am sorry," he says. "Frankly, there is but one way,
Madame, for you to obtain the passport you wish, and that is by becoming
an American subject, the wife of Monsieur Calvert. I can interest myself
in the matter only on those conditions. I have but to mention to Danton
my good reasons for serving so close a relation of Monsieur Calvert, and
he will be inclined to interest himself in obtaining the freedom of
Monsieur d'Azay--for such it really is. Should he still be disinclined
to serve a friend who has stood him well"--and his face darkened
ominously and a sinister smile came to his lips--"I have but to recall
to his mind a certain scene which took place in the Cafe de l'École some
years ago in which Monsieur Calvert was an actor, and I can answer for
it that Monsieur d'Azay leaves Paris to-night. Shall I do these things
or not? If not, I think 'tis sure that, let Madame and Monsieur Morris
apply to whom they may, Danton and I will see to it that no passport for
Monsieur d'Azay is granted. Is it still impossible?" he asks, with an
insolent smile.
The girl turned piteously from Bertrand to Mr. Morris and back again, as
if seeking some escape from the trap in which she was caught. Her pale
lips trembled.
"Is it impossible?" again asks Bertrand, noting her pallor and cruel
indecision.
"No, no," she cries, suddenly, shuddering and putting out her hand.
"Then all will be in readiness at six, Monsieur," says Bertrand,
addressing himself to Mr. Morris.
"A word aside with you," he says to Bertrand, and, leading Adrienne to a
seat, he went back to Bertrand, who waited for him beside the door.
"What is the meaning of this extraordinary scene?" he asked, sternly.
The man shrugged his shoulders. "Just what I have said. You know
yourself, Monsieur, whether or not I am devoted to Monsieur Calvert. For
Madame de St. André I care less than nothing," he said, snapping his
fingers carelessly. "But Monsieur Calvert loves her--it seems a pretty
enough way of making them happy, though 'tis a strange métier for
me--arranging love-matches among the nobility! However, stranger things
than that are happening in France. Besides, it is necessary," he said,
his light manner suddenly changing to one more serious. "I swear it is
the only way of getting d'Azay out of Paris. I doubt if even Danton,
urged on by me, could obtain a passport for him to quit the city. But I
can answer for one for the brother of Madame Calvert, wife of the former
secretary of Monsieur Jefferson, friend of the present Minister
Plenipotentiary from the United States of America to France."
Mr. Morris looked at the man keenly.
"And suppose this thing were done--I can rely upon you?"
"Absolutely. Attend a moment," he said, and, going back to where Danton
still sat at his desk, he spoke with him in low and earnest tones. From
where Mr. Morris stood he could see Danton's expression change from
sternness and anger to astonishment and interest. In a few moments, with
a low exclamation, he got up and, followed by Bertrand, came toward Mr.
Morris.
"Bertrand has just told me facts which alter this case--which impel me
to aid Monsieur d'Azay if possible," he said; and then, turning to
Adrienne, who, pale with anxiety and terror, had risen from her seat and
drawn near, he went on: "I will use all my power to be of service to the
wife of the man who once showed a courtesy to mine." At his words the
girl drew back and blushed deeply over her whole fair face. "I swore
that I would reward him if possible, and I do so to-day. I also swore to
reward his companion, Monsieur de Beaufort--the time is not yet come for
that, but it will," and he smiled in so terrible a fashion that Adrienne
could have cried out in fear. The fierce malignity of his look so filled
Mr. Morris with disgust that he could scarce bear to speak to him.
"We will return at six," he said, at length, and leading Adrienne to the
door that the painful interview might end.
"At six," said Danton.
They made their way out and found Mr. Morris's coach. In the carriage
the courage which had sustained the young girl gave way.
Mr. Morris laid a kindly hand upon her arm. "Be calm. A way is found to
save d'Azay, and surely it is no great trial to become an American
subject," he said, smiling a little and looking keenly at Adrienne.
"I do not know how I shall dare to ask this great sacrifice of him,"
said she, in a low tone. "True, he risked his life for d'Azay, but that
is not so great a sacrifice as to marry a woman he does not love."
"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
passed, 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 nobility. 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 passport for him to leave the city--he is to be accused in the
Assembly to-morrow," she says, rapidly and breathlessly. "A passport 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 passport 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 compassion 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 assured 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. André 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. André 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 Condé 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 Duchess 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.