"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."