That great and desolating change which had swept over France in the two years and more of Calvert's absence was reflected in every heart, in every life left in that wrecked land. On the most insensible, the most frivolous, the most indifferent alike fell the shadow of those terrible times. The sadness and the horror fell on Adrienne de St. André as it fell on so many others, but besides the terror of those days she had to bear a still heavier sorrow. There is no pang which the heart can suffer like the realization, too late, that we have lost what we most prize; that we have missed some great opportunity for happiness which can never come to us again; that we have rejected and passed by what we would now sell our souls to possess. This conviction, slowly borne in upon Adrienne, caused her more anguish than she had supposed, in her ignorance, anything in the world could make her feel. The man whose name she bore was scarcely a memory to her. For the first time she knew what love was and realized that she had cared for Calvert with all the repressed tenderness and unsounded depths of her heart. Her very helplessness, the impossibility to recall him, made him more dear to her by far. A man can stretch out his hand and seize his happiness, but a woman must wait for hers. And if it passes her by she must bear her hurt in silence and as best she can. It was with a sort of blind despair that Adrienne thought of Calvert and all that she had wilfully thrown away. Had he been at her beck and call, fetched and carried for her, she would never have loved him. But the consciousness that he was as proud as she, that, though he was near her for so long, she could not lure him back, that he could master his love and defy her beauty and charm, exercised a fascination over her. And when he left her entirely and was gone away without even seeing her, she suddenly realized how deeply she loved him. We have all had such experiences—we live along, thinking of things after a certain fashion, and suddenly there comes a day when everything seems changed. It was so with Adrienne. All things seemed changed to her, and in that bitter necromancy her pride was humbled. Wherever she went there was but one dear face she longed to see—one dear face with the quiet eyes she loved. There were days when she so longed to see him, when the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand would have been so inexpressibly dear to her, that it seemed as if the very force of her passion must surely draw him back to her. But he never came. During those two long years something went from her forever. She was not conscious of it at the time—only of the dull ache, and feverish longing, and utter apathy that seized her by turns. There was a subtle difference in all things. 'Twas as if some fine spring in the delicate mechanism of her being had broken. It might run on for years, but never again with the perfectness and buoyancy with which it had once moved.
As her life altered so terribly, as all that she had known and valued perished miserably before her eyes day by day, the thought of Calvert and of his calm steadiness and sincerity became constant with her. She heard of him from time to time from Mr. Morris after his frequent visits to London and through letters to her brother and Lafayette, to whom Calvert wrote periodically, but she had no hope of ever seeing him again, and she suffered in the knowledge. Though he seemed cruel to her in his hardness, she was just enough to confess to herself that she so deserved to suffer. But she had learned so much through suffering that a sick distaste for life's lessons grew upon her, and she felt that she wanted no more of them unless knowledge should come to her through love. In her changed life there was little to relieve her suffering, but she devoted herself to the old Duchess, who failed visibly day by day, and in that service she could sometimes forget her own unhappiness. She went with the intrepid old lady (who continued to ignore the revolution as much as possible) wherever they could find distraction—to the play and to the houses of their friends still left in Paris, where a little dinner or a game of quinze or whist could still be enjoyed.
'Twas on one of these occasions that, accompanied by Beaufort, as they were returning along the Champs Elysées from Madame de Montmorin's, where they had spent the evening, they suddenly heard the report of pistols proceeding from an allée by the road-side.
"A duel!" said Beaufort. "'Twas near here that poor Castries was killed. Perhaps it is another friend in trouble, and I had best see," and, calling to the coachman to stop the horses, he jumped out. Almost at the same instant a man stumbled out of the allée and ran down the boulevard. Beaufort would have followed him, but, as he started to do so, he heard his name called and, looking back, saw another man emerge from the allée and gaze down the almost deserted street. By the dim light of the lantern swung from its great iron post the man recognized Monsieur de Beaufort and ran forward.
"Will you come?" he said, hurriedly. "Monsieur Calvert is here—wounded by that villain."
"Calvert—impossible! He is not in Paris."
"But he is!—here," said Bertrand, drawing Beaufort toward the allée.
Adrienne's pale face appeared at the coach-door.
"Did I hear someone speak of Monsieur Calvert?"
Beaufort went up to her. "He is here—wounded, I think," he said in a low voice. "I will go and see—you will not be afraid to wait?"
"To wait!—I am going, too," and before he could prevent it she had stepped from the coach and was making her way toward the allée. A ghastly sight met their eyes as they entered the lane. St. Aulaire lay upon the ground, one of his companions standing over him, and at a little distance, Calvert, white and unconscious, the blood trickling from his left shoulder. With a low cry Adrienne knelt on the ground beside him and felt his pulse to see if he still lived. In an instant she was up.
"Bring him to the carriage. We must take him to the Legation—to Mr. Morris," she says, in a low tone, to Beaufort and Bertrand, whom she had recognized as the servant Calvert had brought with him to Azay-le-Roi. Without a look at St. Aulaire she helped the two to get Calvert to the coach, where he was placed on the cushions as easily as possible and held between herself and Madame d'Azay. She hung over him during the long drive in a sort of passion of pity and love. It was the dearest happiness she had ever known to touch him, to feel his head upon her arm. Even though he were dead, she thought, it were worth all her life to have held him so. She scarcely spoke save to ask Bertrand if he knew the cause of the encounter, and, when he had told her all he knew of the events of the evening, she relapsed again into silence. They reached the Legation as Mr. Morris's guests were leaving, and in a very few minutes the young man was put to bed and a surgeon called.
Though the wound was not fatal—not even very serious—a sharp fever fastened upon Calvert, and, in the delirium of the few days following, Mr. Morris was easily able to learn the cause of the duel. The story he thus gathered from Calvert's wild talk he told Adrienne and Madame d'Azay—the two ladies came daily to inquire how the patient was doing—for he thought that they should know of the noble action of the young man, and he felt sure that as soon as Calvert was himself again he would request him to keep silence about his share in the matter. He was right, for when Calvert was come to his senses again and was beginning to be convalescent—which was at the end of a week—he told Mr. Morris the particulars of his encounter with St. Aulaire, requesting that he make no mention of his part in the affair and begging him to urge d'Azay to leave Paris. This was the more necessary as St. Aulaire, though badly wounded, was fully conscious and might at any moment cause d'Azay's arrest, and, moreover, passports were becoming daily harder to obtain.
Mr. Morris had to confess his inability to comply with Calvert's first request, but promised to see d'Azay immediately, and, ordering his carriage, in half an hour was on his way to the rue St. Honoré. No man in Paris knew better than he the risk an aristocrat ran who was denounced to the Assembly and remained in Paris, nor how difficult it was to get out of the city. He was also aware of rumors concerning d'Azay of which he thought best not to tell Calvert in his present condition, but which made him seriously fear for d'Azay's safety.
On his arrival in the rue St. Honoré he found Adrienne with the old Duchess in one of the smaller salons, but d'Azay was not with them, nor did they know where he was. Mr. Morris had not intended telling the two ladies of his mission, fearing to increase the anxiety which he knew they already felt on d'Azay's account, but he suddenly changed his determination and, in a few words, informed them of Calvert's urgent message to d'Azay and of the reasons for his instant departure from Paris.
"He is not safe for a day," he said. "Calvert has saved him for the time being, but St. Aulaire, though unable himself to go to the Assembly and prefer charges against him, can find a dozen tools among the Orléans party who will do his dirty work for him. The mere assertion that d'Azay is in correspondence with Monsieur de Condé or any of the counter-revolutionists will send him to prison—or worse. As you know, he, like Lafayette, is out of favor with all factions. There is but one thing to do—get him out of Paris."
"He will never go!" said the old Duchess, proudly.
"He must! Listen," said Adrienne, rising and laying her hand on Mr. Morris's arm. "I think he will never ask for a passport himself, but if we could get it for him, if, when he comes in, he should find all in readiness for his going, if we could convince him by these means that his immediate departure was so necessary—" She stood looking at Mr. Morris, forcing herself to be calm, and with such an expression of courage and determination on her pale face that Mr. Morris, who had always admired her, was touched and astonished.
"'Tis the very best thing to be done, my dear young lady," he said. "We must get the passport for d'Azay and force him to quit Paris. I think I am not entirely without influence with some of these scoundrels in authority just now. Danton, for instance. He is, without doubt, the most powerful man in Paris for the moment. Suppose we apply to him and his worthy assistant, Bertrand, and see what can be done. As Danton himself said to me the other evening at the Cordelliers Club, 'in times of revolution authority falls into the hands of rascals!' Bertrand was a good valet, but he knows no more of statescraft than my coachman does. However, what we want is not a statesman but a friend, and I think Bertrand may prove to be that. My carriage is waiting below; shall we go at once?"
"Oh, we cannot go too soon! I will not lose a moment." She ran out of the room and returned almost instantly with her wraps, for the March day was chill and gloomy. The two set out immediately, Mr. Morris giving orders to his coachman to drive to the Palais de Justice, where he hoped to find Danton, the deputy attorney-general of the commune of Paris, and Bertrand, his assistant. As he expected, they were there and, on being announced, he and Madame de St. André were almost instantly admitted to their presence.
There could be no better proof of the unique and powerful position held by the representative of the infant United States than the reception accorded him by this dictator of Paris. Though Mr. Morris was known to disapprove openly of the excesses to which the Assembly and the revolution had already gone, yet this agitator, this leader of the most violent district of Paris, welcomed him with marked deference and consideration. And it was with the deepest regret that he professed himself unable to undertake to obtain, at Mr. Morris's request, a passport for Monsieur d'Azay, brother of Madame de St. André, to whom he showed a coldness and brusqueness in marked contrast to his manner toward Mr. Morris.
"The applications are so numerous, and the emigrant army is becoming so large," and here he darted a keen, mocking look at Madame de St. André out of his small, ardent eyes, "that even were I as influential as Monsieur Morris is pleased to think me, I would scarcely dare to ask for a passport for Monsieur d'Azay. Moreover," and he bent his great, hideous head for an instant over a pile of papers upon the desk before him, "moreover, Monsieur d'Azay is particularly wanted in Paris just now."
"It is not his wish to leave—indeed, he knows nothing of this application for a passport. It is by my wish and on my affairs that he goes to England," says Adrienne, steadily, facing with courage the malignant look of that terrible countenance. Monsieur Danton ignored these remarks and turned to Mr. Morris.
"Receive my regrets, Monsieur, that I can do nothing in this matter. It would give me pleasure to render any favor to an American."
"Then we must ask assistance in other quarters," says Mr. Morris, rising abruptly, and with a show of confidence which he was far from feeling. He had applied in the most powerful and available quarter that he knew of, and he confessed to himself that, having failed here, he had no hope of succeeding elsewhere.
As he and Adrienne turned to go, Bertrand, who had sat quietly by during this short colloquy, arose and accompanied them toward the door.
"It is a pity Madame de St. André is not an American—is not Madame Calvert," he says, in a low tone, and fixing a meaning look on Adrienne. "Passports for the brother-in-law of Monsieur Calvert, the American, were easy to obtain. It is doubly a pity," and he spoke in a still lower tone, "since I have, on good authority, the news that Monsieur d'Azay is to be accused of forwarding military intelligence to Monsieur de Condé in to-morrow's session of the Assembly."
The young girl stopped and stood looking at him, transfixed with terror and astonishment.
"What do you mean?" she says, in a frightened, hushed voice.
"This, Madame. A long time ago, when I was a soldier in America under Lafayette, Monsieur Calvert did me a great service—he saved my life—he was kind to me. He is the only man, the only person in the world I love, and I have sworn to repay that debt of gratitude. I was with Monsieur, as his servant, at Azay-le-Roi, and I guessed, Madame, what passed there between you and him. Afterward I was with him in Paris, and I saw how he suffered, and I swore, if the thing were ever possible, I would make you suffer as he suffered. There is but one thing I would rather do than make you suffer—and that is to make him happy. The passport for the brother of Madame Calvert will be ready at six this evening and Monsieur will be free to leave Paris. Do you understand now, Madame?"
"It is impossible," she says, faintly, leaning for support on Mr. Morris, who stood by, unspeakably astonished at the strange scene taking place.
"Impossible? Then I am sorry," he says. "Frankly, there is but one way, Madame, for you to obtain the passport you wish, and that is by becoming an American subject, the wife of Monsieur Calvert. I can interest myself in the matter only on those conditions. I have but to mention to Danton my good reasons for serving so close a relation of Monsieur Calvert, and he will be inclined to interest himself in obtaining the freedom of Monsieur d'Azay—for such it really is. Should he still be disinclined to serve a friend who has stood him well"—and his face darkened ominously and a sinister smile came to his lips—"I have but to recall to his mind a certain scene which took place in the Cafe de l'école some years ago in which Monsieur Calvert was an actor, and I can answer for it that Monsieur d'Azay leaves Paris to-night. Shall I do these things or not? If not, I think 'tis sure that, let Madame and Monsieur Morris apply to whom they may, Danton and I will see to it that no passport for Monsieur d'Azay is granted. Is it still impossible?" he asks, with an insolent smile.
The girl turned piteously from Bertrand to Mr. Morris and back again, as if seeking some escape from the trap in which she was caught. Her pale lips trembled.
"Is it impossible?" again asks Bertrand, noting her pallor and cruel indecision.
"No, no," she cries, suddenly, shuddering and putting out her hand.
"Then all will be in readiness at six, Monsieur," says Bertrand, addressing himself to Mr. Morris.
"A word aside with you," he says to Bertrand, and, leading Adrienne to a seat, he went back to Bertrand, who waited for him beside the door.
"What is the meaning of this extrao............