"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!"