"Ah, Madame, I did not come to replace him," corrected Mr. Jefferson, making his best bow, and which was very courtly and deferential, indeed, "not to replace him—no one can do that—only to succeed him."
"Bien, bien, Monsieur," cried the Duchess, tapping her fan against her long, thin fingers and breaking out into an appreciative little cackle. "Monsieur understands our language" (they were both speaking French) "quite as well as that paragon of wit and erudition, Dr. Franklin himself. Ah! what a man," she went on, musingly; "'twas he who gave the Duchesse de Bourbon a lesson in chess! She put her king in prise and Monsieur Franklin promptly took it! 'But we do not take kings so,' cried Her Grace, furiously, for you may be sure she was greatly put out. 'We do in America,' said the Doctor, calmly." And she broke out laughing again in her thin, cracked voice at the recollection of the discomfiture of her archrival, the old Duchesse de Bourbon. "Truly that America of yours must be a wonderful place."
"Ah, Madame," said Mr. Jefferson—and there was a note of sadness in his voice—"I think there is no land like it, no rivers so broad and deep, no woods so green and wild, no soil so fertile, no climate so delightful. I wish I might show you but one garden-spot of it—my Virginia—to prove to you, Madame, that I do not exaggerate when I sing my country's praises. The Duc de la Rochefoucault-Liancourt promises to visit me at Monticello within the next few years. Cannot I persuade you, Madame, to come, too?"
"Ah, Monsieur, 'twould give me infinite pleasure, but I shall never leave my France—although"—and here she lowered her voice and shrugged her lean shoulders contemptuously—"did I listen to but one-half of what I hear prophesied in these revolutionary salons, to but one-half of what I hear openly discussed at the card-tables, I might accept your invitation as a refuge! But I have no fear for my King. I am not shaking with apprehension at the turn affairs are taking, like that poor-spirited little Madame de Montmorin, whose husband knows no more about foreign affairs than does my coachman, but I wish with all my heart, Monsieur, that you had kept your revolution chez vous! 'Tis a fever, this revolution of yours, and our young men return from the war and spread the contagion. They clamor for new rights, for assemblies, for States-Generals—'twas that fever-stricken young Lafayette himself who demanded that, and, instead of being in attendance at court, as a young noble should be, he is buried in Auvergne, trying to get himself elected to his own States-General! Bah! what will it all come to?" She fastened her keen, bright eyes on Mr. Jefferson's face and spoke with indomitable energy and haughtiness. "The noblesse is all-powerful. We have everything—why should we cry for something more? As for the commons, they don't know what is good for them and they have all they deserve. At any rate they will not get anything more. These contentions, these revolts of the lower orders"—she stopped, for at that instant the young Vicomte de Ségur came up and, making a profound bow, offered his arm to the Duchess.
"Madame," he said, "the Duchesse de Chastellux begs that you will join her at a table of whist." He paused a moment, and then, with a languid shrug of his shoulders and a whimsical smile, "Your Grace was speaking of the discontent of the lower orders? They are very unreasonable—these lower orders—they spoil one's Paris so!"
Calvert was about to follow the two figures into the crowd, when suddenly he heard his name called softly, and, turning, found himself beside St. Aulaire and Madame de St. André. She was looking at him, her eyes and lips smiling mockingly. Calvert met her gaze calmly and fully. They stood thus, looking at each other, courteously on Calvert's part, curiously, almost challengingly, on the young girl's. It was Madame de St. André who broke the silence. When she spoke, her voice was exquisitely sweet and low, and her eyes became kind, and the artificial smile faded from her lips. Looking at her so, Calvert could scarce believe that it was the same arrogant beauty who had regarded him so haughtily but a moment before. 'Twas as if she had let fall from her face, for a moment, some lovely but hateful mask, which she could resume instantly at will.
"Mr. Calvert," she said, "I hope my brother has had a chance to talk with you. He is most anxious to see you." As she spoke, Calvert thought he had never heard anything so beautiful as the sound of those clear, French words, each one as sweet and distinct as the carillon of a silver bell.
"Alas, no, Madame! We have exchanged but a dozen words. 'Tis almost five years since we last talked together. That was at Monticello, where, indeed, I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance—in miniature!" He bowed and smiled as he noted her look of surprise. "And where—-"
"And where," interrupted Beaufort, who at that instant joined them and who had overheard Calvert's last words, "d'Azay promised to introduce Mr. Calvert to you as an American savage!"
"Indeed, my brother spoke to me on the subject," returned Madame de St. André, laughing outright at the recollection (and if each word she spoke was like the sound of a silver bell, her laugh was like a whole chime of them). "I had looked for something quite different," she went on, in a mock-disappointed tone, and with an amused glance at Beaufort. "Perhaps paint and feathers and a—a—what is the name, Monsieur? a—tomahawk to kill with! Ah! Monsieur"—here she sighed in a delightfully droll way and swept Calvert a courtesy—"as an American you are a great disappointment!"