Madame de St. André lifted her eyes quickly to Calvert's face and, noting the ill-concealed disgust and quiet scorn written there, blushed scarlet and regarded him haughtily.
"Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire is one of the greatest gentlemen in Europe—and—and anyone whom he distinguishes by his attentions must feel honored."
"Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire is one of the greatest roués in Europe," corrected Calvert, calmly, "and anyone whom he distinguishes by his attentions ought to feel disgraced."
Madame de St. André was speechless in sheer amazement and indignation. Though she had been annoyed, even frightened by the nobleman's ardent manner and words, she was now eager to defend him from Calvert's attack. She knew him to be in the right, and the rising admiration for his quiet dignity and courage, which she could not repress, only added to her petulance and desire to be revenged on him. It is so with all women—they hate to be put in the wrong, even when the doing so means protection to themselves. And so it was wellnigh intolerable to the spoiled beauty, who had never been used to the lightest contradiction, that this calm young American should so openly show his disapproval of her.
"I will pass by your reproof of myself, Monsieur," she said at length, haughtily; her eyes flashing and a deep blush mantling her brow, "but I cannot consent to listen in silence to your condemnation of a personage whose talents and rank should protect him from your sarcasms."
"Rank, Madame!" burst out Mr. Calvert at these words. "I never knew before that morality or immorality, loyalty or treason, honor or dishonor had aught to do with rank! In our country 'tis not so. A king's word can make of the meanest scoundrel a duke, a marquis, but an honest man holds his rank by a power greater than any king's." He bent upon her such a compelling gaze that she was forced to turn and look at him. Before Calvert's flashing eyes and manly, honest indignation her own anger died out and an unwilling admiration took its place. She blushed again deeply and bit her lips. This young American, with his noble face, his simplicity of manner and democratic scorn of her rank and pretensions, had not only accused, but silenced her. At any rate he should not see that he had impressed her! She laughed lightly.
"What a noble sentiment, Monsieur! Did you find it in one of Monsieur
Rousseau's books?"
"No, Madame, it was not in the works of the famous Monsieur Rousseau that I found the expression of that sentiment," replied Calvert, hesitating slightly. "'Tis the theme of a little song by a young man named Robert Burns, who writes the sweetest poetry in the world, I think. He is a friend and protege of Dr. Witherspoon, of the College of Princeton, who never tires of reading his verses to us. I wish I could give you some idea of the beauty and power of the poem," and he began to translate "For a' that, and a' that" into the best French at his command, smiling every now and then at the strange substitutes for Burns's Scotch which he was forced to employ and at the curious metamorphosis of the poem into French prose. But he managed to infuse the spirit and sentiment of the original into his offhand translation, and Madame de St. André listened attentively.
"I would like to hear more of your poet," she said, gently, when Calvert had finished speaking. "I do not remember to have heard Monsieur Chenier speak of him or the Abbé Délille, either. The Abbé is often good enough to read poetry to us in my aunt's drawing-room, but 'tis usually his own," and she laughed mischievously. "The poor gentleman makes a great fuss about it, too. He must have his dish of tea at his elbow and the shades all drawn, with only the firelight or a single candle to read by, and when we are all quaking with fear at the darkness and solemn silence, he begins to recite, and imagines that 'tis his verses which have so moved us!" and she laughed merrily again. "You shall come and read to us from your young Scotch poet and snatch the Abbé's laurels from him! Indeed, my aunt has already conceived a great liking for you, Monsieur, so she told me last night on her way from Madame Necker's, and intends to urge upon Mr. Jefferson to bring you to see her immediately." She smiled at Calvert so graciously and with such unaffected good-humor that he looked at her with delight and wonder at the change come over her. Once more the mask was down. All the haughtiness and capricious anger had faded away, and Calvert thought he had never beheld a creature so charming and so beautiful. Her dark eyes shone like stars in a wintry sky, and, though the air was frosty, the roses bloomed in her cheeks. As he looked at her there was a troubled smile on his lips and he felt a sudden quickening of his pulse. A curious sense of remoteness from her impressed itself upon him. He looked around at the unfamiliar scene, at the towering palace walls on his right, at the crowds of spectators on the river's edge, at the brilliant throng of skaters, at the great stone bridge spanning the frozen river over which people were forever passing to and fro, some hurriedly, some with leisure to lean over the parapet for a moment to watch the unaccustomed revelry below. And as he looked, another scene, which he had so lately left, rose before him. In fancy he could see the broad and shining Potomac, on its banks the stately old colonial house with its colonnaded wings, something after the fashion of General Washington's mansion at near-by Mount Vernon, the green lawns stretching away from the portico and the fragrant depths of the woods beyond. A voice recalled him from his abstraction. It was that of Monsieur de St. Aulaire, who, as they neared the crowded terrace of the Tuileries gardens, emerged from a group of skaters and, approaching Calvert and Madame de St. André, made a profound bow before the latter.
"Is Madame de St. André to show favor to none but Monsieur Calvert?" he asks, in a low voice that had an accent of mockery in it as he bent over the young girl's hand.