Calvert of Strathore

by Abbe Carter Goodloe

"Oh, Madame, I must indeed cripple myself in your esteem now," says Mr. Morris, laughing again heartily. "'Twas not in my country's service that I lost my leg—'twas but a runaway accident with two fiery little ponies in Philadelphia! But, indeed," he goes on, still laughing, "I do not miss it greatly, and can get around as easily as though I were a centipede and had a hundred good legs at my disposal!"

As for Calvert, he had been only too glad to make his escape on Madame de Staël's cool dismissal, and had retreated to the side of Madame Necker, who was kindness itself to the young man, pointing out the great celebrities of the Paris world who thronged the rooms, and presenting him to many of the most famous people of the day. Thither had come Monsieur le Maréchal de Castries, Monsieur le Duc d'Aiguillon, Mr. Arthur Young, the noted English traveller, His Grace the Duc de Penthièvre, the richest and best noble of France, together with Monsieur de Montmorin, of the Foreign Affairs, and Monsieur de la Luzerne, Minister of Marine. Monsieur Houdon, the sculptor, was there, with a young poet named André Chenier, and later entered the daintily beautiful Madame de Sabran, followed by her devoted admirer, the Chevalier de Boufflers, abbé, soldier, diplomat, and courtier. Madame de Chastellux, the Duchesse d'Orléans's lady-in-waiting, whom Calvert had once met in America, was also making a tour of the salon, accompanied by that charming hedonist, Monsieur le Vicomte de Ségur, than whom there was no wilder, lighter-headed youth in Paris, unless it was his bosom friend, Beaufort, who, catching sight of Calvert standing beside Madame Necker, straightway went over to him.

"As ever, the Squire of Elderly Dames," he whispered to Calvert, smiling mockingly. "Are you looking for d'Azay? Well, he has not arrived, nor Madame la Marquise, nor Madame la Duchesse. Trust me for seeing them as soon as they come! In the meantime, my dear Calvert, there are some beauties here whom you must meet. Madame de Flahaut, for example. I shall ask Madame Necker's permission to take you to her. But wait," he said, with a little laugh, and, laying a hand on Calvert's arm, "we are forestalled! See, Mr. Morris is just being presented," and he motioned to where a beautiful young woman sat, before whom Mr. Morris was making a most profound bow. Calvert thought he had rarely seen a more lovely face, though there was a touch of artificiality about it, young as it was, which he did not admire. The soft, fair hair was thickly powdered, the cheeks rouged, and the whiteness of the chin and forehead enhanced by many patches. The eyes were intelligent, but restless and insincere, the mouth too small.

"'Twill have to be for another time, Calvert," said Beaufort, after an instant's pause, during which Mr. Morris installed himself beside the lady with the evident intention of staying. "'Tis plain that the beautiful Madame de Flahaut has thrown her spell over him, and 'twill not do to break it just yet. But by St. Denis!" he suddenly whispered to Calvert, "here comes d'Azay with the Duchess and Madame de St. André, attended as usual by St. Aulaire."

Calvert followed Beaufort's glance and saw entering the room his friend d'Azay, at whose side, slowly and proudly, walked an old woman. She bore herself with a nobility of carriage Calvert had never seen equalled, and her face, wrinkled and powdered and painted though it was, was the face of one who had been beautiful and used to command. Her dark eyes were still brilliant and glittered humorously and shrewdly from beneath their bushy brows. The lean, veined neck, bedecked with diamonds, was still poised proudly on the bent shoulders. Her wrecked beauty was a perfect foil for the fresh loveliness of the young girl who, with a splendidly attired cavalier, followed closely behind her.

"Is she not a beauty?" said Beaufort, under his breath, to Calvert. With a start the young man recognized the original of the miniature that d'Azay had shown him that last evening at Monticello, so many years ago. It is to be doubted whether, in the interim, Calvert had bestowed a thought upon the beautiful French girl, but as he looked at the deep blue eyes shining divinely beneath the straight brows, at the crimson mouth, with its determined but lovely curves, at the cloud of dark hair about the white brow, it suddenly seemed to him as if the picture had never been out of his mind. "The Lass with the Delicate Air" was before him, but changed. The look of girlish immaturity was gone—replaced by an imperious decision of manner. A haughty, almost wayward, expression was on the smiling face—a look of dawning worldliness and caprice. 'Twas as if the thought which had once passed through Calvert's mind had come true—that countenance which had been capable of developing into noble loveliness or hardening into unpleasing, though striking, beauty, had somehow chosen the latter way. The spiritual beauty seemed now in eclipse and only the earthly, physical beauty remained.

Calvert had opportunity to note these subtle changes which time had wrought in the original of the miniature while Mr. Jefferson bent low over the withered, beringed hand of the old Duchess, and he waited his turn to be presented to the ladies. The ceremony over, he and d'Azay greeted each other as old friends and comrades-in-arms are wont to do. They had scarce time to exchange a word, however, as Monsieur de Ségur, coming up hurriedly, carried d'Azay and Beaufort away to where a group of young men were waiting for the last news of the elections. Already politics were ousting every other topic of conversation in the salon.

As for Madame de St. André, she did not at all imitate her brother's warmth of manner toward Calvert. He was conscious of an almost contemptuous iciness in her greeting, and that mentally she was unfavorably comparing him, the simply dressed, serious young American before her, with the splendid courtiers who crowded around. Certain it was that she was much more gracious in manner to Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire, who had accompanied her into the salon and still remained at her side. It was the first time that Calvert had seen St. Aulaire, and, remembering Beaufort's words about him, a sudden pang shot through his breast as he saw the young girl turn aside with him to make a tour of the rooms. For, in truth, Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire was the epitome of all that was most licentious, most unworthy, most brilliant in the Old Order, and was known throughout the kingdom by reputation—or, more properly speaking, by lack of it. But in spite of his long life of dissipation and adventure (he had campaigned with the Swiss Guards at thirteen, and, though he was much past forty, looked like a man of scarce thirty), there was still such an unrivalled grace in all he said and did, such an heroic lightness and gallantry in all he dared—and he dared everything—that he seemed to be eternally young and incomparably charming. It was with a new-born and deep disgust that Calvert noted the attentions of this man, whose life he disdained to think of, to the beautiful girl beside him. And it seemed to him that she took a wayward pleasure in charming him, though she kept him at a distance by a sort of imperious coquetry that was not to be presumed upon.

Calvert turned from his almost melancholy contemplation of the young girl to the old Duchesse d'Azay standing beside him and talking volubly to Mr. Jefferson.

"And have your friends newly arrived from America brought you news from our old friend, Dr. Franklin, Monsieur?" she asks, in her grand manner. "Ah, I wish we might see him again! I think there was never an ambassador so popular with us—snuff-boxes with his face upon them, miniatures, fans! I was present when he was crowned with laurel. We had thought it impossible to replace him, Monsieur, until you arrived!"