"What!" exclaimed the young girl, a little disdainfully. "Mr. Calvert is a very prodigy of accomplishments!"
"Far from it!" returned Mr. Calvert, good-naturedly. "'Tis but a jest of
Henri's. Indeed, Madame, I am nothing of a musician."
"He may not be a musician, but he has a voice as beautiful as Garat's, though I know 'tis heresy to compare anyone with that idol of Paris," said Beaufort, joining the group at that instant. "Dost thou remember that pretty ballad that thou sangst at Monticello, Ned?" he asked, turning to Calvert. "Indeed, Madame, I think 'twas of you he sang," he added, smiling mischievously at Madame de St. André.
"What is this?" demanded Adrienne, imperiously. "Is this another jest? But I must hear this song," she went on, impatiently, and with a touch of curiosity.
"'Twas my favorite 'Lass with the Delicate Air,'" said Mr. Jefferson, smiling. "You must sing it for us, Ned, and I will play for you as I used to do." He took from its case a violin lying upon the harpsichord and, leaning over it, he began softly the quaint accompaniment that sustains so perfectly the whimsical melodies and surprising cadences of Dr. Arne's ballad.
Though few of Mr. Calvert's audience could understand the sentiment of his song, all listened with admiration to the voice, which still retained much of its boyish sweetness and thrilling pathos. Amid the applause which followed the conclusion of the song, Madame d'Azay left the lansquenet table and appeared at the door of the salon.
"Charming," she cried. "But I don't know your English, so sing us something in French, Monsieur, that I may applaud the sentiment as well as the voice."
Mr. Calvert bowed with as good grace as he could, being secretly much dissatisfied at having to thus exploit his small talent for the benefit of the company, and, seating himself at the harpsichord, began a plaintive little air in a minor key, to which he had fitted the words of a song he had but lately read and greatly admired. Being, as he had said, nothing of a musician, the delicate accompaniment of the song was quite beyond him, but having a true ear for accord and a firm, light touch, he improvised a not unpleasing melody that fitted perfectly the poem. 'Twas the "Consolation" of Malherbe, and, as Calvert sang, the tenderness and melancholy beauty of both words and music struck the whole company into silence:
"'Mais elle était du monde où les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin,
Et, rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses—
L'espace d'un matin.
"La mort a des rigueurs à nulle autre pareilles,
On a beau la prier,
La cruelle qu'elle est se bouche les oreilles,
Et nous laisse crier.