august was a dreary month in paris. with the last days of july the heat became intense, and that, with the constant alarms and ever recurring outbreaks, caused such an exodus from the city as soon made paris a deserted place. mr. morris's departure was followed shortly by that of the old duchesse d'azay and madame de st. andré, who went down to azay-le-roi, so that in calvert's estimation the gayest capital in the world was but a lonely, uninteresting city. toward the close of august mr. jefferson received from congress that permission to return home which he had solicited for so long, and, without loss of time, he prepared to leave france for, as he supposed, an absence of a few months, at most. among the multitude of public and private affairs to be arranged before his departure, his friends were not forgotten, and he made many farewell visits to versailles, marly-le-roi, and st. germain. he had not thought it possible, however, to see his friends at azay-le-roi, but the middle of september found his affairs so nearly settled, and, his passage not being taken until the 26th of the month, he one day proposed to calvert that they should make the journey into touraine.
"tis the most beautiful part of france," he said to the young man, "and i have a fancy to show you the country for the first time and to say farewell to our friends, madame d'azay and madame de st. andré."
to this proposition the young man assented, suddenly determining that he would see adrienne and put his fortune to the touch. 'twas intolerable to remain longer in such a state of uncertainty and feverish unhappiness, he decided. any fate—the cruellest—would be preferable to the doubt which he suffered. and surely he was right, and uncertainty the greatest suffering the heart can know.
"at the worst she can hurt me no more cruelly than she has already," he said to himself. "she shall know that i love her, even though that means i shall never see her again."
his determination once taken, he was as eager as possible to be off, and, by the 16th, all was in readiness for their departure. passports were obtained from lafayette and places reserved in the public diligence. they took only one servant with them—the man bertrand, whom galvert had been at pains to ferret out and take into his employ, thinking to prevent him from mingling again with the ruffians and cutthroats of the palais royal and faubourgs. such was the fellow's devotion to calvert that he abandoned his revolutionary and bloody comrades and took service joyfully with the young man, delighted to be near and of use to him.
the journey into touraine was a very short and a very pleasant one to mr. jefferson and calvert. the diligence left paris by the ivry gate, stopping for the night at orléans. the next morning at dawn they were again upon their way and bowling swiftly along the great highway that led down into the valley of the loire, past amboise and blois and vouvray to the old town of tours, lying snugly between the loire and the cher. they came into the rue royale just as the sun was flinging a splendor over everything—on the gray cathedral spires and the square tower of charlemagne and the gloomy tour de guise, and as they crossed the great stone bridge to the old quarter of st. symphorien, the loire flowed away beneath them like some fabled stream of molten gold.
the diligence put them down at la boule d'or, a clean and well-kept inn, overlooking the river and from the windows of which could be seen the white fa?ade of the h?tel de ville and the numberless towers rising here and there above the old town. after a night of refreshing sleep to mr. jefferson, but one full of misgivings and broken dreams to calvert, the two gentlemen set forth in the morning on horseback, followed shortly after by bertrand with light baggage, for mr. jefferson's affairs would not permit him to remain more than twenty-four hours at azay-le-roi. they rode slowly, at first, through the early sweetness of that september morning, scarcely disturbing the fine, white dust upon the broad road. the level land stretched away before them like some tranquil, inland sea, and against the horizon tall, stately poplars showed like the slender masts of ships against the blue of sky and ocean.
"it is as though a whole world separated this peaceful valley from the agitation and uproar of paris," said mr. jefferson to calvert.
"yet even here revolt has already left its mark," returned calvert, pointing to the half-burnt ruins of a chateau just visible through an avenue of trees to the left.
in the early afternoon they came to azay, and, passing quickly through the little village and out into the country again, they were soon at the entrance of the great park surrounding azay-le-roi. calvert never forgot the look of the great avenue of rustling poplars and the exquisite grace of the chateau as he and mr. jefferson rode up to it on that september afternoon. a sunny stillness brooded over it; long shadows from the pointed turrets lay upon the fine white sand of the driveway and dipped along the gray walls of the chateau, which the hand of man had fretted with lace-like sculpture. in an angle of the courtyard two idle lackeys in scarlet liveries and powdered hair played with a little terrier. as mr. jefferson and calvert approached, they ran forward, one taking the horses and the other opening the great entrance door for the two gentlemen and ushering them into the salon where a large company was amusing itself with cards, books, and music. the old duchess and d'azay, who was down from versailles for a few days, could not welcome the gentlemen warmly enough, and even adrienne seemed so pleased to see them again that, for the first time since beginning the journey, calvert felt some of his misgivings quieted and dared to hope that his embassy might not be unsuccessful. he would have spoken to her that very evening, she was so gracious to him, but that the numerous company prevented any conversation alone. not only did guests arrive for dinner, but there were several families from the neighboring chateaux staying at azay-le-roi, frightened thither by rumors of outbreaks among the peasantry and the approach of brigands.
"they cannot frighten me from azay-le-roi," says the duchess, stoutly, to mr. jefferson. "if they burn my house, 'twill be over my head, and as for the brigands, i believe in them no more than in the alleged plot of the queen to blow up the assembly."
the talk was all of the tumults in paris, the hasty decrees of the assembly, and the agitation spreading over the provinces, and the evening would have passed gloomily enough had it not been for the intrepid old duchess, who scouted all vague alarms, and for adrienne, who turned them into ridicule, and who had never appeared to calvert more sparkling and charming. it was not until the next morning that he could get a word with her alone. he found her walking slowly up and down an allée of elms, through the leaves of which the bright september sunshine sifted down. she nodded coolly to the young man who joined her. all her animation and gracious air of the evening before had disappeared, and calvert could have cursed himself that he had come upon her in this capricious mood. but he would not put off saying what he had come so far to say, for all her changed manner, and, moreover, there would be no better time, for they were to set out for tours again by noon.
"madame," he said, after an instant's silence, during which they had paced slowly up and down together, "as you know, this is no farewell visit i have come to pay, since i do not leave france with mr. jefferson. i have come because i dared to love you," he went on, bluntly, and meeting the look of surprise, which adrienne shot at him, squarely and steadily. they both stopped in their walk and regarded each other, the young girl blushing slightly as she looked at calvert's pale face and met his steady gaze.
"i can make you no fine phrases. indeed, i know no words either in your tongue or mine that can express the love i feel for you," he said, a little sadly.
"'tis the first time i have ever known mr. calvert to be at a loss for french phrases," returned adrienne, recovering from her momentary confusion and smiling mockingly at the young man. "you should have taken a lesson from monsieur de beaufort or monsieur de st. aulaire."
"no doubt they have had much experience which i have missed, and could teach me much. but i fear beaufort could only teach me how to fail, and as for monsieur de st. aulaire, i have no time to go to england to find that gentleman in the retreat which he has so suddenly seen fit to seek." madame de st. andré blushed and bit her lip. "'tis the first time i have ever told a woman i loved her," said calvert, "and i would rather tell her in my own blunt fashion. if she loves me, she will know the things my heart tells her, but which my lips are too unskilled to translate."
"ah, we women are too wise to try to divine unspoken things; we scarce dare believe what we are told," and the young girl laughed lightly.
"yet i think you once paid me the compliment of saying that you believed me sincere," said poor calvert.
"'tis true—there is something about you which compels belief—'tis your eyes, i think," and then, throwing off the seriousness with which she had spoken, she added, jestingly: "but in truth, sir, it is too much to ask of me to believe that i am the first woman you have ever loved."
"it is nevertheless true," said calvert, quietly.
"and you told me you could make no fine phrases!" cried the young girl, with a gesture of pretended disappointment, and glancing with eyes full of amusement at calvert.
"i pray you to still that spirit of mockery and listen to me," said the young man, turning to her with passion. as adrienne looked at his white face and heard the sternness in his voice, the laughter faded from her eyes.
"i have never known the love of a mother or sister. it is true what i have told you, whether you believe it or not, that you are the first and only woman i have loved. and i think i have loved you ever since that night, years ago at monticello, when d'azay showed me your miniature. i have loved you when you were kind and unkind to me. i love you now, although i do not dare to hope that you love me in return. i can offer you nothing," he went on, hurriedly, seeing that she would have stopped him. "i can offer you nothing but this love and a home over the sea. 'tis a pretty place, though it would doubtless seem to you poor enough after the splendors of versailles and paris," he says, smiling ruefully; "but we might be happy there. is it impossible?"
as she looked into calvert's serious eyes, lighted with a glow she had never seen in them, there swept over her that admiration for him which she had felt before. but she conquered it before it could conquer her.
"impossible. ah, you americans want everything. you have triumphed over the english; do you wish to conquer france, too? i am not worth being taken prisoner, monsieur," she says, suddenly. "i am capricious and cold and ambitious. i have never been taught to value love above position. how can i change now? how could i leave this france, and its court and pleasures, for the wilds of a new country? no, no, monsieur; i haven't any of the heroine in me."
"'tis not exactly to the wilds of a new country that i would take you, madame," and calvert smiled palely, in spite of himself, "but to a very fertile and beautiful land, where some of the kindest people in the world live. but i do not deny that our life and pleasures are of the simplest—'twould, in truth, be a poor exchange for the marquise de st. andré."
"it might be a happy enough lot for some woman; for me, i own it would be a sacrifice," said adrienne, imperiously.
"believe me, no one realizes more clearly than i do the sacrifice i would ask you to make, with only the honest love of a plain american gentleman for compensation. there are no titles, no riches, no courtly pleasures in my virginia; i can't even offer you a reputation, a little fame. but my life is before me, and i swear, if you will but give me some hope, i will yet bring you honors and some fortune to lay with my heart at your feet! there have been days when you were so gracious that i have been tempted to believe i might win your love," says poor calvert.
"if you mean i have knowingly encouraged this madness, monsieur calvert, believe me, you mistake and wrong me."
"i do not reproach you," returned calvert, smiling sadly. "i can easily believe you did not mean to show me any kindness. this folly is all my own, and has become so much a part of me that i think i would not have done with it if i could. i would give you my life if it would do you any good. you need not smile so mockingly. it is no idle assertion, and it would be a poor gift, after all, as it is less than nothing since you will not share it. i used to wonder what this love was," he goes on, as if to himself, "that seizes upon men and holds them fast and changes them so. i think i understand it now, and the beauty of it and the degradation, too. i love you so that, if by some stroke of fate i could be changed into a prince or a duke, like your monsieur de grammont or monsieur de noailles, and you would give me your love, as to some such exalted personage, i would be base enough to accept it, though i knew you would never give it to the untitled american."
"enough, monsieur!" said adrienne, rising in some agitation. "this conversation is painful to me and i know must be to you. had i guessed what you had to say, i would have spared you."
"no," returned calvert, grimly, a wave of crimson suddenly spreading over his pale face ('twas the only sign he gave of the anger and pain gnawing at his heart), "you would have had to listen. i came to azay-le-roi to tell you that i love you. do you think i would have gone away without speaking?"
adrienne regarded him in haughty amazement.
"at least you will do me the favor never to refer to this again?"
"you may rest assured, madame, that i shall never annoy you again." he spoke as haughtily as she, for he was bitterly hurt, and he was young enough to feel a fierce pride in the thought that he, too, would have done with this love which she had so lightly disdained.
he sank down upon the bench and covered his face with his hands. a sudden spasm of coquetry seized the young girl.
"then, in case i should ever change my mind, as women have been known to do since time immemorial, monsieur, i shall have to ask you to marry me!" she said, laughing lightly.
calvert raised his head wearily. his face looked as though a dozen years had left their mark upon it since he entered the little allée of elms; there were fine lines of pain about the mouth and a curious, listless look in his usually serene eyes.
"after this morning i cannot believe that you will ever change your mind," he said, rising as he spoke. "but be assured that whatever may happen i shall never forget your command and offend again. and now, as i shall not see you again before we leave, i bid you farewell, madame." he pressed the hand which adrienne held out to his pale lips, and then holding it for an instant in both of his, turned quickly and left the allée.
madame de st. andré looked after the clean-limbed, athletic young figure as it disappeared rapidly through the trees. and suddenly a keen regret for what she had done swept over her. did she love him, then, that she should wish him back? she sank upon the bench with a beating heart. she would have called out to him, have brought him back to her side, but that her pride held her in check.
"what insolence!" she said, half-starting up. "and yet—and yet—'tis more to my liking than fine phrases! and it was true—what he said—had he been monsieur le duc de montmorency or monsieur de villeroi—! at least i shall see him again—he will come back—they always do." but though she smiled, a curious foreboding and a sort of fear seized upon her.
at the chateau calvert found mr. jefferson making his adieux to madame d'azay and her guests. the horses had been ordered, and in a few minutes the gentlemen were ready to start. d'azay walked with calvert to where bertrand stood holding them.
"'tis an infernal shame, ned," he said, in a low tone, wringing the young man's hand. "i guessed thy mission down here and thy face tells me how it has gone. as for myself, i would have wished for nothing better. perhaps she may change her mind—all women do," he added, hopefully. but calvert only shook his head.
"she is for some greater and luckier man than i," he said, quietly, taking the reins from bertrand, and waving an adieu to the young lord as he rode down the avenue.
as d'azay slowly made his way back to the chateau, bertrand stood for a moment looking after him before mounting to follow mr. jefferson and calvert.
"and so," he said, half-aloud, "that was monsieur's reason for coming to azay-le-roi! and she won't have him! all women are fools, and these great ladies seem to be the biggest fools of all. she will not find his equal among the white-livered aristocrats who swarm around her. i wish i could revenge monsieur for this," he said, savagely, and jumping on his horse he rode after the two gentlemen.
the journey back to tours was made more quickly than coming, and mr. jefferson was so full of his visit to azay-le-roi as not to notice calvert's preoccupation and silence. they rode into the town in the late afternoon and made their way to the boule d'or, where calvert, who had a sudden longing to be alone, left mr. jefferson writing letters, and strolled back into the old town.
almost before he was aware of it he found himself in the little square before the great cathedral. with a sudden impulse he entered and leaned against one of the fretted columns. a chorister was practising softly in the transept overhead. 'twas the benedictus from one of mozart's masses.
"benedictus qui venit in nomine domini," he sang over and over again. calvert could not see the singer, but the young voice floated downward, reminding him of his own boyish voice. he closed his eyes and bowed his head against the cold stone. when he could stand it no longer, he went softly down the echoing aisle of the church, out through the great doors, into the yellow sunshine of the deserted little street. there were some linden-trees planted in a hollow square before the parvis of the cathedral, and stone benches set beneath them. upon one of these he sank down, as if physically weary. perhaps he was—at any rate, a sudden, sick disgust for everything, for the melancholy afternoon sunshine and the yellowing grass and blighted flowers, took possession of him. the wind, rising, made a dreary sound among the stiffening leaves. one fluttered downward and lay upon the bench beside him. he noted with surprise the sudden chill, the first touch of coming winter. but that morning it had seemed like spring to him.
he looked up at the great front of the cathedral, unchanging through so many changing years, and, as he looked, he thought how small and ephemeral a thing he was and his love and grief. the two great spires towering upward seemed to his sick fancy like two uplifted hands drawing benediction down on the weary, grief-stricken world, and before their awful patience and supplication something of his own impatience and bitterness passed from him and, comforted, he left the spot and made his way along the deserted quay and so back to the little inn where mr. jefferson awaited him.
