Part 3 (1/2)

CHAPTER IV

AT THE PALAIS ROYAL

It was in pursuance of his favorite plan to make Calvert his secretary, should he be appointed Minister to the court of Louis XVI., that Mr.

Jefferson wrote to the young man four years later, inviting him to come to France. This invitation was eagerly accepted, and it was thus that Mr. Calvert found himself in company with Beaufort at the American Legation in Paris on that February evening in the year 1789.

When the great doors of the Legation had shut upon the two young men, they found themselves under the marquise where Beaufort's sleigh--a very elaborate and fantastic affair--awaited them. Covering themselves with the warm furs, they set off at a furious pace down the Champs Elysees to the Place Louis XV. It was both surprising and alarming to Calvert to note with what reckless rapidity Beaufort drove through the crowded boulevard, where pedestrians mingled perforce with carriages, sleighs, and chairs, there being no foot pavements, and with what smiling indifference he watched their efforts to get out of his horses' way.

”'Tis insufferable, my dear Calvert,” he said, when his progress was stopped entirely by a crowd of people, who poured out of a small street ab.u.t.ting upon the boulevard, ”'tis insufferable that this rabble cannot make way for a gentleman's carriage.”

”I should think the rabble would find it insufferable that a gentleman's carriage should be driven so recklessly in this crowded thoroughfare, my dear Beaufort,” returned Calvert, quietly, looking intently at that same rabble as it edged and shuffled and slipped its way along into the great street. At Calvert's remark, the young Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his reins over his impatient horses until the chime of silver bells around their necks rang again. ”As usual--in revolt against the powers that be,” he laughed.

Calvert leaned forward. ”What is it?” he said. ”There seems to be some commotion. They are carrying something.”

'Twas as he had said. In the crowd of poor-looking people was a still closer knot of men, evidently carrying some heavy object.

”Qu'est ce qu'il y a, mon ami?” said Calvert, touching a man on the shoulder who had been pushed close to the sleigh. The man addressed looked around. He was poorly and thinly clothed, with only a ragged m.u.f.fler knotted about his throat to keep off the stinging cold. From under his great s.h.a.ggy eyebrows a pair of wild, sunken eyes gleamed ferociously, but there was a smile upon his lips.

”'Tis nothing, M'sieur,” he said, nonchalantly. ”'Tis only a poor wretch who has died from the cold and they are taking him away. You see he could not get any charcoal this morning when he went to Monsieur Juigne. 'Tis best so.” He turned away carelessly, and, forcing himself through the crowd, was soon lost to sight.

”There are many such,” said Beaufort, gloomily, in answer to Calvert's look of inquiry. ”What will you have? The winter has been one of unexampled, of never-ending cold. The government, the cures, the n.o.bles have done much for the poor wretches, but it has been impossible to relieve the suffering. They have, at least, to be thankful that freezing is such an easy death, and when all is said, they are far better off dead than alive. But it is extremely disagreeable to see the s.h.i.+vering scarecrows on the streets, and they ought to be kept to the poorer quarters of the city.” He had thrown off his look of gloom and spoke carelessly, though with an effort, as he struck the horses, which started again down the great avenue.

Calvert looked for an instant at Beaufort. ”'Tis unlike you to speak so,” he said, at length. Indeed, ever since the young man had come into the breakfast-room at the Legation, Calvert had been puzzled by some strange difference in his former friend. It was not that the young Frenchman was so much more elaborately and exquisitely dressed than in the days when Calvert had known him in America, or that he was older or of more a.s.surance of manner. There was some subtle change in his very nature, in the whole impression he gave out, or so it seemed to Calvert.

There was an air of flippancy, of careless gayety, about Beaufort now very unlike the ingenuous candor, the boyish simplicity, of the Beaufort who had served as a volunteer under Rochambeau in the war of American independence.

”What will you have?” he asked again, nonchalantly. ”Wait until you have been in Paris awhile and you will better understand our manner of speech. 'Tis a strange enough jargon, G.o.d knows,” he said, laughing in a disquieted fas.h.i.+on. ”And France is not America.”

”I see.”

”And though the cold is doubtless unfortunate for the poor, the rich have enjoyed the winter greatly. Why, I have not had such sport since d'Azay and I used to go skating on your Schuylkill!” He flicked the horses again. ”And as for the ladies!--they crowd to the pieces d'eau in the royal gardens. Those that can't skate are pushed about in chairs upon runners or drive all day in their sleighs. 'Tis something new, and, you know, Folly must be ever amused.”

Even while he spoke numbers of elegantly mounted sleighs swept by, and to the fair occupants of many of them Beaufort bowed with easy grace.

Here and there along the wide street great fires were burning, tended by cures in their long ca.s.socks and crowded around by s.h.i.+vering men and women. The doors of the churches and hospitals stood open, and a continual stream of freezing wretches pa.s.sed in to get warmed before proceeding on their way. Upon many houses were large signs bearing a notice to the effect that hot soup would be served free during certain hours, and a jostling, half-starved throng was standing at each door.

There was a sort of terror of misery and despair over the whole scene, brilliant though it was, which affected Calvert painfully.

”Where are you going to take me?” he asked Beaufort, as the horses turned into the Place Louis XV.

”Where should I be taking you but to the incomparable Palais Royal, the capital of Paris as Paris is of France?” returned Beaufort, gayly. ”'Tis a Parisian's first duty to a stranger. There you will see the world in little, hear all the latest news and the most scandalous gossip, find the best wines and coffee, read the latest pamphlets--and let me tell you, my dear Calvert, they come out daily by the dozens in these times--see the best-known men about town, and--but I forget. I am telling you of what the Palais Royal used to be. In these latter times it has changed greatly,” he spoke gloomily now. ”'Tis the gathering-place of Orleans men in these days, and they are fast turning into a h.e.l.l what was once very nearly an earthly Paradise!”

”You seem to know the place well,” said Mr. Calvert.

”No man of fas.h.i.+on but knows it,” returned Beaufort, ”though I think 'twill soon be deserted by all of us who love the King.”

”You were not so fond of kings in America,” said Calvert, smiling a little.

”I was young and hot-headed then. No, no, Calvert, I have learned many things since Yorktown. Nor do I regret what I then did, but”--he paused an instant--”I see trouble ahead for my country and my cla.s.s. Shall I not stick to my King and my order? There will be plenty who will desert both. 'Tis not the fas.h.i.+on to be loyal now,” he went on, bitterly. ”Even d'Azay hath changed. He, like Lafayette and your great friend Mr.

Jefferson and so many others, is all for the common people. Perhaps I am but a feather-headed fool, but it seems to me a dangerous policy, and I think, with your Shakespeare, that perhaps 'twere better 'to bear the ills we have'--how goes it? I can never remember verse.”