was to find a way out of this horrible trap for her, or, failing that, to make it as easy as possible for her. He stilled the wild exultation he felt that was making his feverish pulse leap and sink by turns. He tried to put away temptation from him–to think only for her. This incredible, unlooked-for happiness was not for him. He searched about in his mind for words that would make her understand that he knew what anguish had driven her to this extremity; that would convince her that she had nothing to fear from him and that he would meet her as he felt sure she wished him to meet her.
“What he asks is madness,” he said, at length. “I know only too well the insurmountable objections you have to doing what he demands; if I can convince him of these–if I can convince him that it is also not my wish–that he can best serve me by not insisting on this thing—-“
“Then, indeed, I think all is lost,” said Adrienne, quietly. “He professes that he can do nothing for the French emigrant d’Azay, only for the brother of the American, Calvert. There is no hope left for us except through himself and Danton, since it is already known that d’Azay is to be accused to-morrow, and, indeed, there is scarce time to seek other aid,” she added, despairingly.
“Is Mr. Morris of the opinion that this is the best thing to be done?” asked Calvert, in a low voice.
“He thinks it is the only way to save d’Azay.” Suddenly she came forward from the embrasure of the window and stood once more beside the table, her face lighted up by the glow of the fire. “Believe me, I know how great a thing I ask,” she says, quite wildly, and covering her eyes with her hand. “I ask you now what you once asked me and what I flung away.” Calvert looked up startled, but not being able to read her face, which was concealed, he dropped his head again, and she went on: “If it is possible for you to make this sacrifice, everything I can do to make it bearable shall be done–we need never see each other again–I can follow d’Azay to whatever retreat he may find—-“
“Don’t distress yourself so,” said Calvert, gently, interrupting her. He looked at the appealing, despairing woman before him, she who had been so brilliant, so untouched by sorrow, and a great desire to serve her and a great compassion for her came over him. There was pity for himself, too, in his thoughts, for he had schooled himself for so long to believe that the woman he loved did not love him, and could never love him, that no slightest idea that he was mistaken came to him now to help lighten his sacrifice. As he realized all this he thought, not without a pang, of the future and of the unknown possible happiness it might hold for him and which he was renouncing forever. In the long days to come, he had thought, he might be able to forget that greater happiness denied him and be as contented as many another man, but even that consolation he could now no longer look forward to.
“Do not distress yourself,” he said again, quietly. “Be assured that I shall make no effort to see you–indeed, I think I shall leave Paris myself as soon as this wound permits,” and he touched his bandaged arm. “In the last few days I have thought seriously of entering military service again under Lafayette. He is a good soldier, if a bad statesman, and has need of officers and men in this crisis, if ever general had.”
As he turned away and touched a small bell on the table, Adrienne’s hand dropped at her side and she gave him so strange, so sad a glance that had he looked at her he would have seen that in her pale face and miserable eyes which he had longed to see two years before. She took a step forward–for an instant the wild thought crossed her mind of flinging herself down before him, of confessing her love for him, but sorrow and trouble had not yet wholly humbled that proud nature. With a great effort she drew back. “Will you, then, serve us again?” she said, and her voice sounded far off and strange in her own ears.
“Can you doubt it? I will send for Mr. Morris and we will leave everything to him.”
In a few moments he came in, looking anxiously from Calvert to Madame de St. Andre and back again.
“We are agreed upon this matter,” said Calvert, quietly, interpreting Mr. Morris’s look, “providing, in your opinion, it is a necessity. Is the case as desperate as Madame de St. Andre deems it, and is this the best remedy for it?”
“‘Tis the only remedy, I think,” replied Mr. Morris. “I fear there is no doubt as to d’Azay’s fate when arraigned, as he will be to-morrow. Too many of his friends have already suffered that same fate to leave any reasonable hope that his will be other or happier.” He drew Calvert to one side and spoke in a low tone. “Indeed, I think ’tis more than probable that he is guilty of the charges preferred against him and would go over to Monsieur de Conde had he the chance. I have known for a long while that he has become thoroughly disgusted with the trend of affairs here, and has no thought now but to serve the King. I think he has broken with Lafayette entirely since the affair of St. Cloud, and his change of political faith is only too well known here. If he does not leave Paris to-night, he will never leave it.”
“Then,” said Mr. Calvert, “I am ready to do my part.”
“No, no, ’tis impossible that this thing should be,” broke out Mr. Morris, looking at the young man’s pale, gloomy face. “I had hoped that it would be the greatest happiness; was I, then, mistaken?”
Calvert laid his hand on the elder man’s shoulder.
“Hush, she must not hear. ‘Tis an agreement we have entered into,” he says, hurriedly. “Will you call a priest and send for the Duchess and d’Azay?”
“The Bishop of Autun has just come in,” said Mr. Morris, after a moment’s silence, and pressing the young man’s hand, “and there is no time to send for anyone. I will go myself and ask him to come up.”
They came in together in a very few moments, His Grace of Autun grave and asking no questions (from which Calvert rightly argued that Mr. Morris had confided in him), but with a concerned and kindly air toward the young man, for whom he had always entertained an especial liking. In a simple and impressive manner he repeated the marriage service in the presence of Mr. Morris and some of the servants of the household, called in to be witnesses, Adrienne kneeling beside the couch on which Calvert lay, for he was too weak and ill to stand longer.
The strange scene was quickly over, the two parted almost without a word, Adrienne being led away by Mr. Morris to the Hotel de Ville, and Mr. Calvert remanded to bed by the surgeon, who was just arrived to dress his wound.
CHAPTER XX
MR. CALVERT SEES A SHORT CAMPAIGN UNDER LAFAYETTE
The project which Calvert had formed for joining the army he was able to put into execution within a couple of weeks. The fever which had attacked him having entirely subsided and his wound healing rapidly, he was soon well enough to feel a consuming restlessness and craving for action. The painful experience through which he had just passed, the still more painful future to which he had to look forward, aroused an irresistible longing for some immediate and violent change of scene and thought. His vague plan for joining the army was suddenly crystallized by the situation in which he found himself, and though this resolution was strongly opposed by Mr. Morris, who, with keen foresight, prophesied the speedy overthrow of the constitution and the downfall of Lafayette with the King, he adhered to it. D’Azay being safely out of the country–he had retreated to Brussels and joined a small detachment of the emigrant army still there–and Adrienne protected by his name, his one desire was to forget in action his misfortunes and to remove himself from the scene of them. It was this desire, rather than any enthusiasm for the cause in which he was engaged, which impelled him to offer his services to Lafayette. Indeed, it was with no very sanguine belief in that cause or hope of its success that he prepared to go to Metz. Although he believed, with Mr. Morris, that the only hope of France lay in the suppression of internal disorder and the union of interests which a foreign war would bring about, yet he could not regard with much horror the threatenings of the proscribed emigres and the military preparations making by the allies to prevent the spread of the revolution into their own territories. Indeed, so great was his contempt for the ministers of Louis and for their mad and selfish policy that he confessed to himself, but for his desire to serve under his old commander, he would almost as soon have joined d’Azay at Brussels, or taken a commission with the Austrians under Marshal Bender, who commanded in the Low Countries. This division of sympathies felt by Calvert animated thousands of other breasts, so that whole regiments of cavalry went over to the enemy, and officers and men deserted daily. Berwick, Mirabeau, Bussy, de la Chatre, with their commands, crossed over the Rhine and joined the Prince de Conde at Worms. The highest in command were suspected of intriguing with the enemy; men distrusted their superiors, and officers could place no reliance on their men. Of the widespread and profound character of this feeling of distrust Mr. Calvert had no adequate idea until he joined the army of the centre at Metz in the middle of April. Although Lafayette had, since January, been endeavoring to discipline his troops, to animate them with confidence, courage, and endurance, they had defied his every effort. Indeed, what wonder that an army composed of the scum of a revolutionary populace, without knowledge of arms, suspicious, violent, unused to every form of military restraint, should defy organization in three months? Perhaps no sovereign ever entered upon a great conflict less prepared than did Louis when he declared war against the King of Hungary and Bohemia–for Francis was not yet crowned Emperor of Austria. But that unhappy monarch found himself in a situation from which the only issue was a recourse to arms. Confronted on the one hand by a republican party of daily increasing power and on the other by an aristocratical one openly allied with sovereigns who were suspected of a desire to partition his dominion among themselves as Poland had been, his one hope lay in warring his way out between the two.
That Louis should be the advocate and leader of this war was the one inspiration of Narbonne, and, had the King persevered in this, he might have saved himself and his throne. But, with his fatal vacillation, after having entered upon military preparations and committed himself to Narbonne’s policy, he suddenly abandoned him as he had abandoned so many of his advisers. Grave replaced the dismissed and chagrined young minister, and Dumouriez, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, took into his hands all the power and glory of the war movement. He developed and supplemented the plans which Narbonne had already formed, and, by the New Year, a vast army was assembled and the frontier divided into three great military districts. On the left, the territory from Dunkirk to Philippeville was defended by the army under Rochambeau, forty thousand foot and eight thousand cavalry strong; Lafayette, with his army of the centre, of more than a hundred thousand men and some seven thousand horse, commanded between Philippeville and Weissenberg, while Luckner, with his army of the Rhine, stretched from Weissenberg to Bale. Dumouriez’s diplomatic negotiations were apparently nearly as successful as his military operations. Though he could not dissolve that “unnatural alliance” formed the year before at Pilnitz and enthusiastically adhered to by Prince Henri and the Duke of Brunswick with the young King of Hungary and Bohemia, yet, by the assassination of the King of Sweden, that country was no longer to be feared, England remained neutral by virtue of Pitt’s commercial policy, and many of the petty German principalities openly approved of and aided the French revolutionists.
With military and diplomatic affairs in this state and with Austria still holding out for her impossible conditions, ’twas easy for Dumouriez and the war party to browbeat the wellnigh desperate King into a declaration of hostilities that was to convulse the whole of Europe for nearly a quarter of a century. This was done on the 20th of April, three days after Mr. Calvert had joined Lafayette at Metz, and was almost instantly followed by orders from Dumouriez to that general to advance with ten thousand men upon Namur and thence upon Brussels and Liege.
‘Twas Dumouriez’s policy (and surely a wise one) to strike the first blow against Austria through her dependency, Flanders, which country, but two years before, had shown the strongest disposition to throw off Austrian rule. How strong that disposition was, Dumouriez himself knew fully, for he had been sent by Montmorin on a secret mission into Belgium, and he felt assured that the Brabant patriots would rally to the standards of the French army. Had that army been what he supposed, his plans might have succeeded and the humiliations and defeats of the spring campaign averted.
As has been said, Calvert joined the army at Metz a few days before the formal declaration of war was made, and so was there when General de Lafayette received orders to advance upon Namur. He was much touched by the reception which Lafayette accorded him.
“I will give you a regiment, Calvert, but I need you near my person. There is no one upon whom I can rely–I wish you could be my aide-de-camp again. It would be like old times once more,” he said, looking at the young man with so harassed and despondent a glance that Calvert was both surprised and alarmed.
“I could wish for nothing better,” he replied, “but surely you do not mean what you say–you have many others upon whom you can count.”
“Almost no one,” replied Lafayette, briefly. “I distrust my officers and am myself suspected of intriguing with the enemy. I know not what day I may be forced to fly across the frontier. No one is safe, and I dare not count upon my troops to obey commands. Although there are only thirty thousand Austrians in Flanders, I am not sure that we can beat them,” he said, bitterly.
On the 27th of April, Lafayette, who had moved his camp to Givet, received despatches from Dumouriez detailing the plan of campaign against Belgium. According to this plan, Lafayette, with ten thousand picked men, was to advance by forced marches upon Namur. He was to be supported by two divisions of the army of the North, one of four thousand men under General Dillon, which was to move from its encampment at Lille upon Tournay, and the other of ten thousand troops under General Biron, which was to advance from Valenciennes upon Mons. Before daybreak on the morning of the 28th Lafayette had his army in motion and, as they rode out of the city gates together, Calvert noted that the depression and anxiety which had weighed upon the General so heavily had disappeared and that he had regained something of his old fire and intrepidity.
This renewal of confidence was cruelly dissipated three days later when, on reaching Bouvines, half-way to Namur, after a fifty-league march over bad roads, Lafayette was met by frightened, breathless couriers with despatches detailing the humiliating disasters which had befallen both Biron’s and Dillon’s divisions. The former, who had advanced upon Quievrain and succeeded in occupying that town, was utterly routed on arriving before Mons, and fled with the loss of all his baggage. Dillon met with even a more tragic and shameful fate. Moving upon Tournay, where a strong body of Austrians was ready to receive him, his men were seized with a sudden panic and fled back to the gates of Lille, where, mad with fear and crying that Dillon had betrayed them, they brutally murdered him. This disastrous news being confirmed the following day by further despatches, Lafayette was forced to fall back to Maubeuge without striking a blow, and thus ended Calvert’s hopes of seeing a campaign which had promised most brilliantly. The news of these defeats creating the greatest sensation both at the front and in Paris, Rochambeau resigned his command, Grave was replaced by Servan in the ministry, and the army was reorganized.
During the entire month of May Lafayette and his army remained inactive at Maubeuge awaiting orders which the distracted ministers at Paris were incapable of giving. ‘Twas a pretty little place near the Belgian frontier, lying on both sides of the Sambre, and which had been ceded to France by the treaty of Nymwegen. Mr. Calvert spent much of his leisure time–of which he had more than enough–admiring and studying the fortifications of this town, which had been engineered by the great Vauban. Much of it he also spent with Lafayette, who, in the intervals of disciplining his troops and attending to his increased military duties–Rochambeau’s command had been divided between himself and Luckner–conversed freely with his young aide-de-camp. Sometimes, too, at Lafayette’s urgent request, Calvert would sing as he had used to do around the camp-fires in the Virginia campaign. During those days and evenings of inactive and anxious waiting, the old friendship between the two was renewed. Lafayette had heard of Calvert’s marriage through Mr. Morris and, with the utmost delicacy, touched upon the subject. Calvert told him frankly as much of the story as he intended to reveal to anyone, and this confidence became another bond of friendship between them. The years of separation and disagreement somehow melted away. The Lafayette of Maubeuge was like the Lafayette whom Calvert had first known and admired; he noticed how much of his rabid republicanism had vanished–indeed, Lafayette himself owned as much, for if he was impetuous and extreme, he was also courageous and was not afraid or ashamed to confess his faults.
“I have learned much,” he said to Calvert one evening when they were alone in the General’s quarters, “and am beginning to have radically different opinions upon some subjects from those I entertained but a short while ago. Sometimes I ask myself if my call for the States-General did not open for France a Pandora’s box of evils. What has become of all my efforts?” he said, pushing away a map of the Austrian Netherlands which they had been studying together and beginning to pace the room agitatedly. “Instead of the wise ministers prevailing at Paris, a horde of mad, insensate creatures are ruling the Assembly, the city, the whole country! If only there were some man courageous enough to defy the Jacobins and their power–to meet them on their own ground and conquer them! What can I do at this distance, overwhelmed with military duties, restricted by my official position? I have been thinking of addressing a letter to the Assembly,” he went on, suddenly turning to Calvert, “a letter of warning against the Jacobin power, of reproach that they should be ruled by that ignoble faction, or remonstrance against their unwarrantable proceedings, and as soon as I can find the time to write such a letter, I shall do so, and despatch it to Paris by my secretary, let the consequences be what they may.”
This design was not accomplished until the middle of June, for, at the beginning of the month, a number of skirmishes and night attacks took place between the Austrians, who had encamped near Maubeuge, and Lafayette’s troops, and the General was too much occupied with the military situation to busy himself with affairs at Paris. These attacks culminated in a bloody and almost disastrous engagement for the patriot army on the 11th of June.
The Austrians, reinforced by the emigrant army which had been left at Brussels and in which Calvert knew d’Azay held a captain’s commission, advanced during the early afternoon of June 11th and attacked the vanguard of Lafayette’s army, encamped two miles from Maubeuge, farther up the Sambre, and commanded by Gouvion. Although the French occupied a formidable position, being securely intrenched on rising ground fortified by a dozen redoubts and batteries arranged in tiers, the enemy advanced with such fierceness and intrepidity that Gouvion had all he could do to keep his gunners from deserting their posts. The infantry, too, behaved ill, and when ordered to advance, wavered and were driven back at the very first charge from the Austrians. Their cavalry pursued the advantage thus gained and pressed forward, advancing in three lines and driving the disordered French troops before them up the hill. At this juncture, Lafayette, with six thousand men and two thousand horse, arrived, having been sent for in hot haste by Gouvion when the action first began, and, attacking the Austrian and emigres from the flank, after a sharp and bloody struggle, succeeded by nightfall in putting them to flight. Although the forces engaged in this action were small, the slaughter was terrible and the little battle-field by the Sambre presented a ghastly sight in the moonlight of that June night. Gouvion himself was killed leading the last attack, and the Austrian and emigrant forces suffered severely. The regiment which Calvert commanded was in the thick of the engagement the whole time, once it arrived on the scene of action, and no officer of either side more exposed or distinguished himself than did the young American. Indeed, it was not from reckless bravery that he offered himself a target for the bullets of the enemy, but from a feeling that he would not be sorry to end there, to close forever the book of his life. And, as usual with those who seek, rather than avoid, death in battle, from this action, which was the only one he was destined to engage in, he came out unscathed, while many another poor fellow who longed to live, lay quiet and cold on the bloody ground.
So close was the fighting during the late afternoon that Calvert once thought he caught a glimpse of d’Azay and, with a strange presentiment of evil, he determined to look for him among the slain. Accompanied by an orderly bearing a lantern–though the moonlight was so bright that one could easily recognize the pallid, upturned faces–he began his search an hour after the firing had ceased, with many others engaged in the same ghastly work of finding dead comrades. He had looked but a short while, or so it seemed to him, when he came upon d’Azay lying prone upon a little hillock of Austrian slain. As Calvert looked down upon him, grief for this dead friend and an awful sense of the futility of the sacrifice which had been made for him, came upon him. He knelt beside him for a few minutes and looked into the quiet, dead face. He had never before thought that d’Azay resembled Adrienne, but now the resemblance of brother and sister was quite marked, and ’twas with the sharpest pang Calvert had ever known that he looked upon those pallid features. It might have been that other and dearer face, he thought to himself. At length he arose and, helping the orderly place the body upon a stretcher, they bore it back to the camp, where, next day, it was buried with what military honors Calvert could get accorded it. He sent a lock of d’Azay’s hair, his seals and rings, back to Paris to Adrienne (he kept for his own her miniature, which he found in d’Azay’s pocket and which he had first seen that night at Monticello), and the letter she wrote him thanking him for all he had done were the first written words of hers he had ever had. Though there was not a word of love in the note–not even of friendship–Calvert re-read it a score of times and treasured it, and at last put it with the miniature in the little chamois case that rested near his heart.
The check which Lafayette had put upon the Austrians on the 11th of June having produced a cessation of hostilities, he wrote and despatched to the Assembly the letter which he had had in contemplation for some time and of which he had spoken to Calvert. This courageous letter–the authenticity of which was fiercely denied in the Assembly–not only did not produce the effect Lafayette so hoped for, but was followed by the outrage of the 20th of June. Who does not know the shameful events of that day?–the invasion of the Tuileries by hordes of ruffians and the insults to helpless royalty?
When Lafayette heard of the uprising of the 20th he determined to go in person to Paris, affirm the authorship of his letter, and urge upon the Assembly the destruction of the Jacobin party. He sent Calvert to Luckner’s head-quarters to ask of the Marechal permission to go to Paris and, placing his troops in safety under the guns of Maubeuge, he departed for the capital, whither he arrived on the 28th. After two days spent in incessant and fruitless efforts with the Assembly and National Guard, in audiences with the King and consultations with friends, he sped back to the army, more thoroughly and bitterly convinced than ever that the revolution which he had led and believed in was now fast approaching anarchy; that the throne was lost and his own brilliant popularity vanished. He took with him to Calvert the news of the sudden death of the old Duchesse d’Azay–she had failed rapidly since hearing of the death of d’Azay, and had passed away painlessly on the morning of Lafayette’s arrival in Paris–the escape of St. Aulaire to Canada, and a letter from Mr. Morris.
“He desired me to give you this,” said Lafayette, gravely, handing the letter to Calvert. “The message is of the greatest importance. We had a long interview. I am at last come to the same opinion on certain subjects as himself,” he said, with a gloomy smile, “and we want your co-operation. He will explain all when he sees you. As for myself, I must say no more,” and he went away, leaving the young man to read his letter alone.
CHAPTER XXI
MR. CALVERT QUITS THE ARMY AND ENGAGES IN A HAZARDOUS ENTERPRISE
The letter which Calvert had received from Mr. Morris was short but very urgent. It begged him to resign his commission at once, which affair, the letter hinted, would be immediately arranged by Lafayette, and come to Paris, as Mr. Morris had business of the first importance on hand in which he wished Calvert’s assistance. It went on to add that the exact nature of that business had best not be divulged until the young man should find himself at the American Legation, and ended by urging Mr. Calvert not to delay his departure from Maubeuge by a day, if possible.
Conformably with these requests Calvert set out for Paris on the very next day, after the briefest of preparations, and, arriving in the city on the evening of the 7th, made his way straight to the rue de la Planche, where he found Mr. Morris anxiously awaiting him. With a brief greeting, and scarcely allowing the young man time to divest himself of his travelling things, he drew him into his private study, and there, with locked doors, began eagerly to speak about the business upon which he had called Calvert so hastily to Paris.
“I knew I could trust you,” said Mr. Morris to Calvert. “Lafayette has given you my letter and you have lost no time in coming to me, as I felt assured you would do, my boy. ‘Tis the most satisfactory sensation in the world to feel an absolute trust in one as I do in you,” he went on, with a kindly look at the young man. “Living in the midst of this people who think less than nothing of breaking every agreement, violating every oath, that feeling of confidence becomes doubly precious. But to the business in hand.” He hesitated slightly and then went on, “You must know that in the month of November last (and before my appointment by Congress to this post of American Minister to France), inspired by the unhappy consequences to the Royal Family of the flight to Varennes, I, together with several of the stanchest friends of the harassed monarch, engaged in an enterprise to assist the King and Queen to escape, from France. This plan, in which Favernay, Monciel, Beaufort, Bremond, and some others whom you know, were leagued together, never ripened, because, by the appointment of Narbonne and the preparations for war which immediately commenced, we hoped that Louis might regain his lost power. It was at this juncture and while I thought that this enterprise was at an end and that there would be no further occasion for me to intermeddle in the politics of this unhappy country, that I received and accepted my appointment as Minister to this court. Most unfortunately, the great opportunity which the King had to retrieve his fortunes he flung away by his subsequent vacillation and his secret negotiations with the allies; and this, together with the reverses of the French array, the growing violence of the opposing political factions here, and the terrible events of the 20th of June, have again made it necessary for the friends of the King, if they wish to save him, to exert themselves in his behalf. When this was made plain, those gentlemen with whom I had formerly been associated in the effort to serve His Majesty again applied to me for assistance, so that I found myself in the cruel position of either betraying my official trust or of abandoning the monarch whom I sincerely pitied and whom I had pledged myself to aid. The last and most moving appeal made to me was that of Monsieur Lafayette. I met him at the Tuileries when he went to pay his respects to their Majesties before rejoining his army. I know not what had passed between the King and himself at the levee, for I arrived just as he was going, but I saw by his countenance that he had the gloomiest forebodings. He drew me into a small anteroom and spoke to me with his old familiarity and affection. Indeed, he is greatly changed, and I could not help but be touched by the consternation and grief that weighed upon him. He opened himself to me very freely and confessed that ’twas his opinion that the King was lost if brave and wise friends did not immediately offer their services in his behalf. He knew of the scheme in which I had been before engaged to assist the King, and he besought me to renew those engagements and to prosecute them with the utmost diligence. The King, he said, had let fall some expressions indicating his confidence in myself, ‘a confidence,’ said Lafayette, ‘which he did not hesitate to show he did not feel in me. The Queen is even more distrustful of me than the King, so that I think their safety lies in your hands. But, believe me, though they do not trust me, they have no more devoted servant. I am come, at length, to your belief that in the King alone is to be found the cure for the ills of the present time, and not the most ardent royalist is now more anxious to preserve His Majesty than myself.’ While Lafayette was speaking, a way out of my difficulties suddenly occurred to me. I thought of you, my boy, and, knowing that I could rely on you as on myself, I determined to appeal to you to act in my stead, to take upon yourself those dangers and risks which, in my position of minister from a neutral power to this country, I have now no right to assume. I know how great a thing I am asking, but I also know your generous nature, your steadfastness, your capability to carry through discreetly and swiftly any undertaking you engage in. As an American, you will have the confidence of the King and Queen, and will act as a surety for Lafayette, whom ’tis only too true their Majesties distrust profoundly. I reminded Lafayette of the unalterable obligation which prevented me from interesting myself personally in the political situation here and of the plan I had just formed of appealing to you. He approved of it entirely, saying that there was no one in whose hands he would more willingly leave matters. We made an appointment for that evening at Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld’s, where he was staying, to discuss some plan of assistance to his Majesty. I consented to this interview, for it was impossible at that late hour to call together all those interested in the affair and, as Lafayette was leaving the next morning, something had to be done immediately. Our interview was a long one, but the plan we hit upon was, in the end, very simple and, indeed, the circumstances of the case, the short time, and the necessity for the greatest secrecy demand that the simplest methods should be employed. Shall I tell you that plan?” asked Mr. Morris, suddenly breaking off in the midst of his long talk and regarding Calvert with a keen, questioning glance.
“There is no lead I would follow sooner than yours, Mr. Morris,” replied the young man, quietly and firmly. “As you know, all my sympathies are with the King and Queen, and in whatsoever way I can serve their Majesties I am ready here and now to pledge myself to that service.”
Indeed, the enterprise suited Calvert’s temper well. Any excitement or danger was welcome to him just then. His hopes of seeing military service having been frustrated, he was glad to find some other scheme at hand which promised to divert his melancholy thoughts from himself.
“‘Tis like you to speak so, boy,” said Mr. Morris, grasping Calvert warmly by the hand. “I knew you would not fail me. And, before God, how could I fail them?” he burst out, rising in agitation and stumping about the room. “I have done wrong in engaging in the remotest way in this affair, in urging you to become a party to it, but my humanity forbids me to withhold whatever of aid I can render. Was ever a monarch so cruelly beset, so bereft of wise counsellors, of trusty friends? He knows not where to look for help, nor which way to turn. He suspects every adviser of treachery, of self-interest, of veniality, and he has reason to do so. The wisest, in his desperate position, would scarce know how to bear himself, and what can we expect of so narrow an intellect, so vacillating and timid a nature? I pity him profoundly, but I also despise him, for there is a want of metal in him which will ever prevent him from being truly royal.”
“‘Tis doubly difficult to help those who will not help themselves. Do you think it is really possible to save his Majesty?” asked Calvert, doubtfully.
“We can but make one more desperate effort, and I confess that I rely more on the firmness of the Queen for its success than I do on the King,” said Mr. Morris. “But I will tell you of the plan and you can judge for yourself of its feasibility.”
The scheme agreed upon between Mr. Morris and Lafayette in that interview at Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld’s, and which Mr. Morris proceeded to detail to Calvert, was briefly this: It being evident that as long as the King remained in Paris he was a virtual prisoner and subject to the capricious commands of the Assembly, his ministers, and the mobs, daily increasing in numbers and lawlessness, it seemed to both Mr. Morris and Lafayette that the thing of first importance was to effect the King’s escape from the capital. To accomplish this it was Lafayette’s suggestion that the King should go to the Assembly when affairs should be ripe for that act and announce his intention of passing a few days at one of his country residences within the limits prescribed for his free movements. “I thought he blushed as he made this suggestion, and ’twas all I could do to keep from asking him if he intended to serve his Majesty on this occasion as he had in the St. Cloud affair,” said Mr. Morris, dryly. “But his distress and his sincerity were so evident that I contained myself.” The King established as far from Paris as possible, Lafayette was to arrange a manoeuvre of his troops at a point near the royal residence, and once arrived there, he was to rapidly and secretly march the trustiest of his regiments to the King’s rescue, surround the palace, and call upon the army for a new oath of fidelity to the monarch and constitution. Rendered independent by this stroke, Louis was to issue a proclamation forbidding the allies and emigres to enter his kingdom. Should the army flash in the pan and refuse to swear allegiance, Lafayette was, at all hazards, and with the aid of the regiments whose loyalty was beyond question, to escort the King to a place of safety beyond the border.
For the accomplishment of this plan, simple though it was, an enormous sum of money and the greatest diplomacy were necessary. As for the money, that was easily come by; indeed, Monsieur de Monciel had already brought to Mr. Morris two hundred thousand livres contributed by the loyal adherents of His Majesty; more was promised within the next few days. Mr. Morris consented to receive these sums, though he felt obliged to refuse the protection of the Legation to any papers relative to the matter in hand. With such sums at their disposal it was hoped and believed by Mr. Morris and the other ardent friends of the unfortunate sovereign that enough influential members of the Assembly could be bribed to insure the King’s departure from Paris and the allegiance of those doubtful regiments upon the frontier.
“It was my suggestion, Calvert,” said Mr. Morris, “that you should be sent to test and influence those disaffected regiments, and to find a safe retreat for his Majesty in case of failure of our scheme, while we remain here to work with the members of the Assembly and watch the situation for a favorable moment to strike the blow. It was my further suggestion that your wife should be one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen, that we might have sure and swift intelligence of what passes within the palace. By the greatest good fortune I heard the following day, through Madame de Flahaut, of the illness and withdrawal of one of the Queen’s attendants, and the next evening at court, having the opportunity of saying a few words in private to her Majesty, I besought her to give the vacant post to your wife. I intimated to her that the appointment was of the greatest importance to herself and the King, and being, doubtless, impressed by the earnestness of my manner, she promised to grant my request, though she had intended to leave the place vacant, saying bitterly that ’twere best she should draw no other into the circle of danger which surrounded her. I had the satisfaction of learning yesterday that the appointment had been made, and already your wife is installed as a lady-in-waiting at the Tuileries.
“Under cover of letters to her–which, I think, will be more likely to escape patriotic curiosity than any others–you will keep the King and his friends here in Paris informed of your movements and the progress of affairs, and through her we can have intimate knowledge of what passes in the palace, so that they can hardly fail to know when to take the decisive step. Are you willing to undertake this difficult and dangerous enterprise?” asked Mr. Morris, looking at the young man.
“With all my heart,” replied Calvert. “Were I not interested in the cause itself, I would still remember the graciousness of their Majesties when I was presented to them, and hold it a privilege to serve them.”
“You will see them again to-morrow evening and can assure them yourself of your fidelity. I think they have no doubt of it now, nor ever will. Through Monsieur de Favernay I arranged for a private audience with the King and Queen for to-morrow–you see, I counted on you as on myself, and felt assured that you would come at the earliest moment, Ned. At that interview I will again present you to their Majesties, and then I will withdraw definitely from all connection with this affair, leaving you to lay the plan before the King and Queen, and to carry it through should it be agreed to by their Majesties.”
The two gentlemen sat up until far into the night discussing the enterprise, Calvert making many valuable suggestions, and entering so heartily into the arrangement that Mr. Morris began to take a more hopeful view of the situation than he had hitherto allowed himself to do.
On the following evening, about ten o’clock, Beaufort arrived hastily at the Legation with the information that all was in readiness for the private audience which Mr. Morris had requested, and the three gentlemen, entering a coach, were driven rapidly to the Tuileries. They were introduced at a wicket on the little rue du Manege, and, passing up a stairway seldom used and through the Queen’s apartments, at length found themselves at the door of a small and private chamber of his Majesty’s suite. At this door Beaufort tapped gently, and hearing an “Entrez!” from within, he pushed it open, and then, with a low bow, retired, leaving Mr. Morris and Calvert to enter by themselves.
His Majesty was alone and seated beside a small table, on which were a lamp and some writing materials. As Mr. Morris and Calvert advanced into the room he rose and graciously extended a hand to each of the gentlemen.
“Vous etes le bien venu,” he says to Mr. Morris, and then, looking at Calvert with a half-smile. “I remember you very well, now,” he adds, rapidly, in French to the younger man. While the King was speaking, Calvert noticed with a glance the heavy, harassed expression of Louis’s face. The eyes, which had once been benign and rather stupid, had now a haunted, suspicious look in them. While he was yet bowing, and before he could form a reply to the King’s remarks, the Queen entered rapidly from an adjoining apartment. Calvert felt a shock, a thrill of pity, as he looked at her Majesty. A dozen fateful years seemed to have rolled over that countenance, so lovely when last he had seen it. Though she still held herself proudly, the animation and beauty of face and figure had vanished. The large blue eyes were tired and red with weeping, the complexion had lost its brilliancy, and the fair hair was tinged with gray. History hath made it out that the Queen’s hair whitened in a single night of her captivity, but it had already begun to lose its golden color before the days of the Temple, and the lock which she shortly after this sent to Calvert, in token of her appreciation of his services, was thickly streaked with white.
She came forward and stood beside the King, inclining her head graciously to Mr. Morris, who made their Majesties a profound obeisance.
“I am come to again present my friend, Mr. Calvert of Virginia, to your Majesties,” he says, indicating Calvert, who bowed again, and at whom the Queen looked with a keen, suspicious glance that almost instantly kindled into one of kindness and trust. “He is to be my representative in that affair in which it will be my undying regret not to have been able to participate,” continued Mr. Morris, “and I beg of your Majesties to give him your utmost confidence and trust, for I assure your Majesties that he is entirely worthy of both. He will acquaint you with the details of that plan, the existence of which Monsieur de Monciel intimated to your Majesties yesterday, and, should that plan meet with your royal approval, Mr. Calvert is ready to stake his life and his honor in the execution of it. Your Majesties understand how impossible it is for me to say more, and I can only ask permission to withdraw.”
‘Twas the Queen who answered–the King seemed unable to find a word.
“We thank you with all our hearts,” she says, in a low, mournful tone, looking at Mr. Morris, “and we understand.” At her gesture of recognition and dismissal Mr. Morris executed another low obeisance and withdrew.
Left alone with the King and Queen, and being seated, at their Majesties’ invitation, Calvert unfolded to them in detail the plan agreed upon by the King’s friends, leaving out as much as possible Lafayette’s part in it (’twas his own wish, conveyed through Mr. Morris) lest the Queen should take fright and refuse her sanction to the enterprise. Indeed, so deep was her distrust of him, that to Mr. Calvert it seemed that she only gave her consent because of the share Mr. Morris and himself had in it.
“So that is the plan,” she said, musing. “We betrayed ourselves when we succored America. Perhaps we are to be repaid now and Americans are to help us in this desperate strait. ‘Tis a bitter humiliation to have to turn to strangers for aid, but our only true friends are all scattered now; there is no one about us but would betray and sacrifice us,” she says, bitterly, and looking at the King, whose heavy countenance reflected in a dull way her poignant distress.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” says Calvert, ardently, “there are still some stanch friends left to you. I have seen these gentlemen but this morning, when we discussed anew this plan, and they but wait your approval to pledge their lives and fortunes to extricate Your Majesties from the distressing situation you now find yourselves in. It but depends upon you to say whether this scheme shall be carried through. With firmness and confidence on your part it cannot fail.”
“I fear to hope again–do not arouse my expectations only to have them disappointed,” and rising in the greatest agitation, the Queen began to pace up and down the little room. “Who would have thought that Fersen could fail?–and yet he did.” She covered her face with her hands to hide the tears which filled her eyes. Suddenly she stopped before Calvert, who had risen, and gave him so penetrating and anguished a look that the young man could scarce bear to meet her glance.
“There is that in your face which inspires confidence,” says the Queen. “I think you would not know either defeat or deceit. Pray God you may not. We will trust him, shall we not?” she says, turning to the King and putting out her hand so graciously that Calvert fell upon one knee before her and kissed it. He knelt to the suffering woman who had instinctively appealed to him and her faith in him even more than to the desperate Queen.
It was by such moments of genuineness and winning sweetness that Marie Antoinette captivated those with whom she came in contact. Could such bursts of true feeling have endured, could she always have been as sincere and single-hearted as she was at such times, she would have been a great and good woman. Genius, ambition, firmness, courage, all these she had, but insincerity and suspicion warped a noble nature. To Calvert, just then, she seemed the incarnation of great womanhood, and ’twas with the utmost fervor that he pressed her to allow himself and her other faithful friends to serve her.
“In a few weeks all will be ready,” he says. “I go from here to the frontier to visit and, if possible, win over those troops whose loyalty to your Majesties has been in question; then on to secure a safe retreat in case our plan fails, which, pray God, it may not! Either Worms, where Monsieur de Conde is powerful, or Spire, whose Prince-Bishop is most devoted to your Majesties, will surely offer its hospitality and protection. It depends only on your Majesties’ firmness to escape from this capital and captivity. Through letters to my wife” (Calvert hesitated slightly–’twas the first time he had so used the word) “your Majesties will know exactly the situation of affairs outside of Paris, and through her replies we must know what takes place in the palace. Kept informed of each other’s movements, ’twill be easy to fix upon the best day for striking the blow we have in contemplation, and, if you will but do your part, it must needs be successful.” As he concluded his urgent appeal he rose from his knees and stood before the King and Queen, glancing anxiously from one to the other. His face expressed so much earnestness and enthusiasm that their Majesties could not help but be impressed.
“And our engagements with our cousin of Austria?” said the Queen, after an instant’s silence, “for I will not conceal from you, Monsieur, that since Varennes I have no hope save in our allies.”
“Were it not better that you should depend for your safety on your own subjects, Madame?” asked Calvert.
The King agreed with him and said so at once, but it was with reluctance that the Queen gave her consent to the enterprise.
“It is a noble plan and a hazardous one, and we thank you, Monsieur, and those other gentlemen who are imperilling their lives to insure our safety, but I confess to you,” said her Majesty, sadly, “that I sanction the undertaking and enter into it, not in the hope that the first part of it will succeed–alas! I distrust our generals and troops too deeply for that–but in the belief that once out of Paris we may ultimately be able to take refuge with our friends beyond the frontier.”
As she spoke, there came a hurried tapping at the door, and, almost before permission to enter had been given, Beaufort appeared. He signed hastily to Calvert to depart, and on a silent gesture of dismissal from the King and Queen, he followed the young nobleman from the room through a door opposite to the one by which he had been admitted. Hurrying past endless antechambers, down marble stairways, and through long corridors, Calvert at length found himself at a little gate which gave upon the Carrousel. This Beaufort unlocked and, giving the password to the Swiss sentry who stood without, the two young men at length found themselves on the Quai des Tuileries. There, after a moment’s hurried conversation, during which Calvert told Beaufort of the result of the momentous interview with the King and Queen, the two parted, the young Frenchman returning to the palace and Calvert making his way as quickly as possible back to the Legation, where Mr. Morris anxiously awaited him.
CHAPTER XXII
MR. CALVERT STARTS ON A JOURNEY
The Queen’s consent having been obtained, Calvert set out upon his journey to the frontier the next day. He would have carried a lighter heart had he felt better assured of the good faith of the King and Queen. Louis had given his consent readily enough and had approved heartily of the plan, for it had ever been against his real wishes to call in the aid of the allies, but Calvert knew too well how little he dared rely on the King’s firmness or courage. As for the Queen, he could only hope that the continued representations of Beaufort, Favernay, and others about her Majesty cognizant of the enterprise and the confidence she had expressed in himself, would confirm her in her resolution to help carry the undertaking through to a successful termination.
Mr. Calvert first made his way with all possible expedition back to Maubeuge, where he reported to Lafayette the result of his interview with their Majesties and received from him letters to certain officers who were to be taken into the enterprise and whose commands were to be won over if possible.
“Her Majesty can surely no longer doubt my good faith,” said Lafayette, bitterly, to Calvert. “Success, death, or flight is all that is left to me now.”
With these letters Calvert proceeded on his way to Namur, Givet, and Treves, where different detachments of Lafayette’s troops were garrisoned. He was made welcome at every mess-table, and his scheme was received with such enthusiasm that it seemed almost an unnecessary precaution to cross the frontier and seek a possible asylum for the Royal Family in case the great plan failed. But the very enthusiasm of some of these young officers caused Calvert to fear for the success of the enterprise. So loud-tongued were they in their loyalty, with such imprudence did they drink toasts to their Majesties and the success of the undertaking, that Calvert, himself so calm and silent, was both disgusted and alarmed.
With the enthusiastic promise of allegiance to the plan on their own part and that of their regiments, Calvert quitted the society of these officers, and, certain of the hearty co-operation of enough troops to make the safety of the King and Queen amply assured, he proceeded, by way of the Mozelle, to Coblentz. He arrived at that city on the 26th of July, and was immediately granted an interview with the great Prince-Elector of Treves, but recently established in his splendid new palace on the Rhine, and the commander-in-chief of the allied army, his Grace the Duke of Brunswick.
Though Calvert had journeyed with all possible speed, he was come a day too late, and he heard with inexpressible alarm and chagrin of the imprudent manifesto issued by the Duke but the day before. Surely no other great general of the world ever made so colossal, so fatal a blunder. In that arrogant and sanguinary manifesto could be heard the death-knell of the unhappy King of France, or so it seemed to Calvert, who was so deeply impressed with the rashness and danger of his Grace’s diplomacy that he made no attempt to conceal the alarm he felt. This open disapproval so offended the Duke and his friend, the Prince-Elector, that the latter received Calvert’s proposals with the utmost coldness, and would make no promise to receive the royal fugitives in case it became necessary. Perhaps, too, he was weary of royal guests. Seeing that nothing was to be got from the Elector, Calvert hurried on to Worms through that beautiful Rhine country which he had once traversed so leisurely and delightfully with Mr. Morris.
There he found Monsieur le Prince de Conde, with whom he had a long audience. This great leader of the emigrant forces, being apprised of Calvert’s embassy, approved heartily of that scheme which would make the King openly join issue with his nobles, and sent the young man on with all speed to Kehl with secret letters for Monsieur de Viomenil. This General, under Monsieur de Conde’s orders, was stationed with trusty troops from Luckner’s command at the little town of Kehl, opposite Strasburg, and was deep in secret negotiations with officers of the garrison for the capitulation of that city and the entry of the emigrant army. These intrigues had been going on for some time, and so crafty were Viomenil’s plans (he was the greatest diplomat the emigres could boast), and so successful was Monsieur de Thessonnet, aide-de-camp to the Prince de Conde, in carrying them out, that when Calvert arrived at head-quarters the possession of Strasburg by the emigrant forces seemed to be a question of only a few days. ‘Twas in this belief that Monsieur de Conde had despatched Calvert to Monsieur de Viomenil, who joined in the enterprise with the utmost enthusiasm and confidence. So assured was he of the success of his own undertaking that he spoke of it almost as if ’twere already an accomplished triumph, even going to the length of showing the young man the method of attack and occupation traced upon the plan of the city; at this street a regiment was to be stationed; at that gate a body of cavalry was to enter–as though he were master of fate and naught could interfere with his plans. So confident was Viomenil, and so impregnable a defence did Strasburg seem to offer for the King should misfortune overtake him, that Calvert set out on his journey back to Maubeuge the following day buoyed up with the belief that should the army refuse its allegiance and support the King would find, at any rate, a safe asylum at Strasburg. But already Brunswick’s ill-advised manifesto was at work overthrowing these well-laid plans, which were to come to nothing, as were his own, unhappily, though for a different reason.
At Maubeuge, where he arrived on the 1st of August, gloomy forebodings in regard to the disastrous effects of his Grace of Brunswick’s manifesto were fully shared by Lafayette and those officers committed to the conspiracy. Indeed, Lafayette was in the greatest anxiety and dismay.
“We must force our hand,” he said to Calvert. “There is not a moment to lose. This cursed, imprudent, vainglorious mandate of Brunswick’s has set the whole country by the ears, for all Paris and the army believes, aye, knows, that the King had cognizance of it before it was issued. The Queen has usually been the double dealer, but this time I think they have both had a hand in it, although these letters from your wife, which, according to our agreement, I have opened, assure us that their Majesties are still of a mind to trust to the issue of our plan and are ready to make the trial at any moment.”
“What success have you had with the army?” asked Calvert.
“Much. I can count on a dozen regiments–Saurel, Marbois, Pelletet, and their commands will go with me. I have favorable news, too, from Namur and Treves; but there is no more time, I think, to gain over others. We must work with what we have. The advices from Paris make it plain that the King is all but lost,” and he laid before Calvert a budget of despatches lately arrived by couriers from the capital. “You will see for yourself in what a ferment the city is, and how bitterly hostile is the attitude of Assembly and people to the King.”
“And what do you hear from Beaufort, Monciel, and the rest who are working with the members of the Assembly?” asked Calvert, who had heard nothing on his long journey, though he had kept their Majesties informed of his own movements.
“Here is Beaufort’s letter–it reached me yesterday,” replied Lafayette. “He reports a sufficient number engaged on our side by bribery or interest to insure the King’s departure–only it must be instantly, instantly, or all is lost.”
“Then I will go at once to Paris,” said Calvert, “and report all ready here, and the great step must be taken if it is ever to be.”
“It cannot be too soon.”
“And have you made all arrangements?”
“This is my plan,” says the General, laying a military map of France upon the table before Calvert.
“The King must ask permission to retire to Compiegne for a few days–’tis, as you know, one of his Majesty’s favorite residences, hence the request will seem natural. Three days preceding that request (and which, I think, cannot be later than the 9th) I will order several of the most loyal regiments under Saurel and Marbois to proceed to Laon to invest that fortress. I will march with these troops myself, and at La Capelle, which, as you see, is about six leagues from Compiegne, will order them to proceed to the latter point instead of to Laon. The King will find a loyal army surrounding his chateau of Compiegne when he arrives.”
“And if the Assembly refuses to let him leave Paris?”
“Then he and the Queen on that same evening must escape disguised–she is a good actress, Ned, and did not play Beaumarchais’s comedies at the little Trianon for nothing; the King will have more trouble–to Courbevoie, where a detachment of the Swiss Guard will be found to escort their Majesties to Compiegne. We must make sure of Bachman, who is, I think, of the King’s cause, and must have his promise to detail his Guard at Courbevoie and hold them in readiness. His troops will be strengthened by a regiment under Marbois, which will push on from Compiegne to meet them. Should all go well and his Majesty’s request be granted, you must instantly send an aide-de-camp to intercept Marbois and turn him back to Compiegne. Though I do not doubt Bachman’s loyalty, ’tis well to be on the safe side, so that thou, Ned, and Favernay, and other of the King’s friends must be at Courbevoie to aid his Majesty’s flight and see that no treachery is done. We must trust Beaufort to accompany the King to the Assembly and stay beside their Majesties to see that our plans do not miscarry within the palace. And now what dost thou think of the great enterprise?”
“I think it cannot fail of success, if their Majesties will but do their part, and that they will at last appreciate the Marquis de Lafayette at his true value,” says Calvert, warmly.
“I think I shall get small credit in that quarter,” replies Lafayette, smiling a little sarcastically. “Nor do I feel that I deserve much. ‘Tis to thee and to Mr. Morris that the King’s gratitude is due, and if Louis XVI is saved from his enemies it will be by the courage and generosity of two American gentlemen,” he says, very nobly. “‘Twas Mr. Morris’s shrewd wit which first set the enterprise afoot, and ’tis thy coolness and bravery which has carried it so far on its way to success. I could not have moved hand or foot in the matter without you two.”
After fixing upon the 9th of August as the day on which his Majesty should repair to the Assembly to make his request, and arranging some further details of communication between the army at Compiegne and the troops at Courbevoie, Calvert, in spite of his fatigue (he had ridden for two days and the better part of two nights), set out at once for Paris, where he arrived on the morning of the 5th.
As he feared, he found the city in a state of the greatest agitation. The different sections of Paris had demanded the dethronement of the King, and the temper of the people was so hostile toward their ruler that his Majesty’s friends were of the opinion that their plan to save him must be put to the test instantly or all would be lost. Mr. Calvert met those gentlemen (there were five in all besides Calvert–Monciel, Bremond, Beaufort, Favernay, and d’Angremont) at Monsieur de Monciel’s, together with Mr. Morris, who, although he obeyed the letter of the law he had laid down for himself, could not, to save his life, refrain from being a spectator, if a silent one, at those deliberations in which he was so profoundly interested. ‘Twas agreed by these gentlemen, who were all impatient of any delay, that the date, the 9th, set by Lafayette, should be adopted for the trial of the great enterprise, and Monsieur de Favernay was instantly despatched to the frontier to acquaint him of this decision. Beaufort and d’Angremont, who had knowledge of all that passed within the palace, were to prepare the King’s address to the Assembly and to urge upon their Majesties the necessity of the speedy trial of that plan to which they had committed themselves. This was no easy business, for, since the unfortunate flight to Varennes, both the King and the Queen hesitated to trust themselves to their friends or to take any step, the failure of which would but add to the misfortunes they already had to bear.
Bremond and Monciel were to renew their efforts to insure the King’s departure by the Assembly and to make assurance doubly sure in that quarter; while as for Calvert, he was to sound Bachman, gain his allegiance to the King’s cause, and engage him to detain his Swiss Guard at Courbevoie to aid the King’s flight should it be necessary.
With these arrangements fully agreed upon, the gentlemen separated, Calvert going to the Legation for a talk with Mr. Morris (though he would not stop there for fear of compromising him should the enterprise bring him into peril) and then to the guard-room of the palace, where he found the captain of the Swiss troop. ‘Twas easy enough to engage Bachman in Calvert’s plan, for he was already devoted to the royal cause, and his troops would follow him wherever he led. He entered enthusiastically into the hazardous scheme, agreeing to detail certain regiments at Courbevoie under his own command on the evening of the 9th of August to act as an escort for their Majesties as far as Compiegne if necessary.
When this affair was satisfactorily settled and reported to the other conspirators for the King’s safety, Calvert made his way to the hotel in the rue Richelieu, at which he had stayed with Mr. Morris, and sought the first repose he had known for nearly fifty-six hours.
During the days of the 6th, 7th, and 8th of August, Mr. Calvert and those other devoted friends of the King who were plotting for his safety were kept in the greatest state of alarm by the wildest and most sanguinary rumors of conspiracies to storm the palace and murder the Royal Family. ‘Twas only too evident that the temper of the mob could not be counted on from one hour to the next, and that the King must be got out of Paris at all hazards. No step could be taken until the 9th, however, when Lafayette would be at Compiegne, and, in the meantime, those gentlemen engaged in the service of his Majesty were busy trying to prepare the way for the King’s removal from the capital. The sums of money which were continually brought to Mr. Morris by Monciel, Bremond, and others were expended in bribing those who might stand in the way of the King’s departure or else invested by him for the future use of their Majesties, a rigid account of all of which was given by Mr. Morris to the young Duchesse d’Angouleme when he had audience with her Royal Highness at Vienna, years after, and when the tragedy which he had so ardently tried to avert had been consummated. Memoires and addresses for the King were hastily drawn up by Calvert, Monciel, and Beaufort, assisted by Mr. Morris, who, in the terrible excitement and danger of those last two days preceding the final step, threw prudence to the winds and lent his aid morning and night to the enterprise.
Early on the morning of the 9th, Favernay returned, worn by the fatigue of his long and rapid journey, with the news that Lafayette was on the march; that the troops would reach Compiegne by afternoon, and that he had left them at La Capelle. All being thus in readiness outside of the city, word was borne to his Majesty by Calvert in a secret interview, and after some persuasion, and the address to the legislators, prepared by Mr. Morris, being presented to his Majesty, he agreed to repair to the Assembly at six in the evening to make his request to be allowed to retire to Compiegne for a few days. In the early afternoon, and after every precaution possible had been taken to insure the success of the undertaking, Calvert, Bremond, and Favernay left the city, by different routes, for Courbevoie, agreeing to meet there at the caserne of the Swiss Guard to await the issue of the King’s appeal to the Assembly and be ready to escort his Majesty by force, if necessary, to Compiegne, while Mr. Morris, deeming it best not to appear at the Assembly, remained at the Legation, anxiously waiting for news of the success or failure of the plan.
CHAPTER XXIII
WITHIN THE PALACE
The arrival of Calvert at the chateau with his message that all was in readiness for the taking of the final step, the decision for instant action thus forced upon his Majesty, and the excitement pervading the whole city, threw the King and Queen and those few about them who were in the secret into the greatest agitation. Her Majesty, especially, was in the cruellest apprehension, and, dismissing her other attendants, kept only Adrienne with her during that weary day, which, it seemed, would never end. She was the only soul the Queen could confide in, and the two frightened women clung to each other, waiting in terror for the issue of that day’s great business. A hundred times did her Majesty change her mind about the expediency of risking further the displeasure of the Assembly and the people by this request to leave the capital; a hundred times did she revert to her former purpose of waiting for and trusting in the allies whose approach was now so near. It took all of Adrienne’s courage and persuasiveness to bring the Queen back to her purpose of adhering to the enterprise afoot; she found herself arguing passionately in behalf of Calvert, and at length succeeded in again imbuing the Queen’s mind with that faith in him which she herself had. ‘Twas curious how that old trust she had felt and acknowledged long before she had loved him animated her now, mingled with a pride in him, a passionate devotion, which she had thought never to experience. As for the King, she saw but little of him, for he was either closeted with his ministers or else sat alone, silent and apathetic, as if in resignation of that fate thrust upon him.
Toward seven o’clock Beaufort and d’Angremont were admitted, and, shortly after, his Majesty prepared to go with them to the Assembly. During the two hours which followed, a thousand hopes and fears agitated the two women left alone in a private chamber of the Queen’s apartments. Her Majesty, unable to remain quiet, paced the room in the cruellest apprehension. At exactly nine the King entered, pale and alarmed-looking, and attended only by Beaufort. At sight of him the Queen arose and went to him with a little cry.
“They have refused–all is lost,” says His Majesty, in a hollow voice.
“Impossible!” she exclaims, looking from the King to Beaufort, who stood by, deathly pale, also.
“It is only too true, your Majesty,” says Beaufort, for the King seemed incapable of speech. “In spite of the enormous bribes offered and received, in spite of promises, in spite of his Majesty’s address, which should have mollified all parties and inspired confidence, the temper of the Assembly, which had appeared favorable to his Majesty, suddenly changed and an outrageous scene took place; humiliations and insults and threats were heaped upon his Majesty, who retired as speedily as possible. D’Angremont was arrested as we left the Assembly, which has refused to allow the departure of your Majesties, and there remains nothing but to try the last expedient.”
The Queen stood gazing at the King and Beaufort, anger and despair written on every feature. Her eyes blazed, and into the lately colorless cheeks a deep crimson sprang.
“Impossible,” she says again. “The traitors! To betray us at every turn! Surely there is no one so friendless as the King and Queen of France! And shall we trust ourselves again to flight? Oh, the horrors of that last ride!” She shuddered and sank into a chair. Adrienne knelt beside the despairing woman.
“All is ready–your Majesties have but to follow the instructions–to don the disguises prepared–once at Courbevoie all is secure,” she says, speaking with the greatest energy and confidence and clasping the Queen’s hand in her own.
Suddenly her Majesty started up. “Never–never!” she bursts out, beginning to pace up and down the small chamber. “Never will I again go through with the humiliation of flight and capture. Better death or imprisonment at the hands of this ungrateful, mad people!”
“But, your Majesty–” says Beaufort, beginning to speak, but the Queen interrupted him.
“I know what you would tell me, Beaufort,” she stopped and spoke imperiously–“that this scheme is the best possible one, the only one, perhaps; that in this enterprise lies our only safety, but I cannot believe it! A thousand times would I rather trust myself to the allies!” she said, beginning to pace the floor again.
“I think ’tis not that alone which Monsieur de Beaufort would tell your Majesty,” said Adrienne, rising from beside the chair where the Queen had been sitting. She stood straight and tall before the desperate Queen and spoke rapidly. “He would say, also, that there is a handful of brave gentlemen who have risked their lives to serve your Majesties, who are waiting now but a few miles away and the further opportunity of serving you. Every moment adds to their peril. Should your Majesties fail them, what will become of them?” She threw out her hands with an appealing gesture.
“‘Tis true,” murmured the King. “It must not be said that we sacrificed the last of our friends,” he said, smiling a little bitterly and looking at the Queen, who continued to pace the little room in the cruellest agitation.
“I pray your Majesties not to think of us,” said Beaufort. “Your devoted friends and servants think only of what is best for your Majesties. ‘Tis their opinion, as well as my own, that there is nothing left but flight.”
“Never, never!” exclaimed the Queen, with increasing firmness.
“But think of the danger of remaining in Paris!” urged Beaufort. “We know not at what moment this insurrection prepared by the Jacobins may burst out, we know not at what moment this palace and the sacred persons of your Majesties may be at the mercy of an infuriated, insensate mob.”
“Let them come–these dangers–these horrors,” says the Queen, intrepidly; “they will bring Brunswick and the allies that much sooner to this Paris which I will not leave until they enter it.” She stamped her foot upon the velvet carpet and clinched her white hands at her sides.
“Then your Majesty is resolved to give up the enterprise she has promised to support, to abandon those loyal servants who have depended upon her and his Majesty the King?” asks Adrienne, looking at the Queen, her face pale as marble and her eyes burning with indignation.
“Does Madame Calvert permit herself to question our actions?” says the Queen, turning imperiously upon her. Suddenly her beautiful eyes filled with tears. “Forgive me–you are right,” she says. “‘Tis our fate–our wretched fate–to seem to abandon and injure all who are brought near us, all who attempt to serve us. We cannot help ourselves–even now we must break our faith with these loyal friends, for now I see that after the refusal of the Assembly to allow us to leave Paris, ’twere madness to attempt to go. We would but increase the danger, the humiliation we already have to endure. The only wise course is to await Brunswick and the allies. I see now the folly of this plan of escape–indeed, I was never fully persuaded of its wisdom. The confidence I felt in this young American–his devotion to us and that of those other friends–blinded me to the dangers and difficulties of the undertaking.”
“And the King?” asks Adrienne, turning from the Queen to his Majesty, who sat by, indecision and weariness and timidity written on all his heavy features.
“We dare not,” he says, at length, apathetically. “The Queen is right–after the refusal by the Assembly to allow us to depart, after this new humiliation, it were worse than folly to think of escaping. We are surrounded by spies–treachery is within these very walls–how can we hope to get away? It is best to await our doom quietly here. What think you, Beaufort?” he asks.
“I implore your Majesty to make the effort,” says Beaufort. “Once outside Paris, the Swiss Guards await you, Lafayette with his loyal regiments is even now at Compiegne—-“
“Lafayette at Compiegne?–who knows?” says the Queen, gloomily, interrupting Beaufort again. “Monsieur de Lafayette hath betrayed us before and may do so again. I trust him not! To know that he has a share in this enterprise is to make me fear to pursue it! No, no,” she goes on, shuddering and turning away. “St. Cloud and the 5th of October are too well remembered. I should have thought of all this before,” she says, striking her hands together in an agony of doubt and despair. “It is too late now.”
“And who will tell these gentlemen waiting at Courbevoie, and the regiments advancing from Compiegne at the risk of their lives, of this sudden change in your Majesties’ plans? Should Monsieur d’Angremont be induced to divulge their names they will inevitably be lost–their only hope is in immediate flight,” says Adrienne, looking from the King, sunk in resigned silence, to the frantic, hapless Queen, and back again.
“Who but myself, Madame?” said Beaufort, advancing. “And if your Majesties are fully determined to go no further in this business, I will ask leave to withdraw and set out for Courbevoie at once. Every moment is precious, and an hour’s delay may mean the loss of many lives.”
“No, no, Beaufort, I cannot let you go,” cried the King, starting up. “Nom de Dieu, I forbid you!–d’Angremont is taken from me–there is no one in whom I can confide or trust–we must send another,” he went on, incoherently, and raising his hand as if to check Beaufort’s departure.
For an instant the Queen swept him a glance of disdain. ‘Twas not timidity that made her falter. She could not understand the physical weakness of the King; with her the abandonment of the great undertaking was a matter of expediency, not of fear, and she deserted her friends as relentlessly from interest as he did from cowardice.
“There is no one, your Majesty–no one whom we can send. ‘Tis too late to trust others with this great secret–“
“Then I will go,” said Adrienne, suddenly stepping forward. “Send me–I am in the secret, I can be trusted! I can put on the disguise intended for your Majesty and go.” She turned to the Queen and spoke eagerly and rapidly. “I fear nothing. Let me go, let me go!” She dropped on her knees before the Queen. “I must go–I must,” she said, wildly.
“Is there no other?” asked the Queen, turning to Beaufort. “Surely we are not so destitute of friends that we must send this girl upon such a dangerous mission!” she said, sorrowfully.
“I implore your Majesty to let me go,” said Adrienne, once more. “‘Tis a service I would do myself as well as your Majesty,” she went on, her white face suddenly covered with a burning blush.
The Queen looked at her keenly for a moment, and then she put out her hand with a sad, comprehending smile. “You may go,” she said.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE TENTH OF AUGUST
According to agreement, Bremond sped instantly from the Assembly to Courbevoie with news of the fresh humiliation put upon the King and the outrageous scene which had taken place. He found Calvert, Monciel, Favernay, Bachman, and several officers of the Swiss Guard, upon whose loyalty they could depend, assembled in a room of the officers’ quarters of the barracks, anxiously awaiting the issue of the day’s events. He told his news amid a dead silence, broken only now and then by an exclamation of indignation or disappointment from one of the listeners. When he had finished speaking, Calvert turned to the little group, “Then, gentlemen,” he says, “pursuant to the plan, the King’s request having been denied, we may expect their Majesties here before ten, and shall have the honor of guarding them to Compiegne.”
As he looked around upon the little company, there was not a face but expressed some secret doubt and misgiving. The King’s timidity and vacillation were so well known that ’twas impossible not to question his good faith even in this last extremity. As ten o’clock passed and eleven and no message or sign of the royal fugitives came to the anxious, impatient watchers, those secret doubts and misgivings began to be openly expressed.
“‘Tis the Austrian who has kept him, I will bet a hundred louis,” said one of the Guard’s officers, gloomily. “I never believed she would keep faith with us–she is too deeply committed to Brunswick–nor will she let the King do so.” Even while he spoke there was a sound of someone’s running hurriedly up the stairs–they were assembled in an upper room–and in an instant an orderly was hammering at the door, which was flung open by Monciel.
“A messenger for Monsieur Calvert,” he says, saluting.
Calvert followed the man hastily down the steps to where a figure waited for him which made him start back with an exclamation of surprise and consternation.
Adrienne–for it was she–came forward, taking off the cap pulled over her eyes and letting fall the great cloak with which she had enveloped herself in spite of the intense heat, and appearing in the outrider’s livery which was to have been the Queen’s disguise.
“C’est moi,” she says, hurriedly, and putting a finger to her lips, “and I am come to tell you that their Majesties have failed you–have abandoned the plan–and to implore you to escape while there is time.” She stood straight and tall in her boy’s clothes, but the dim light, falling upon her upturned face, showed it pale as death, and her voice trembled as she spoke.
“You are come to tell me this?” says Calvert, slowly, still staring at her as though scarce able to believe his senses. “And where is Beaufort?”
“The King refused to let him go; he is with his Majesty,” she says, breathlessly–“d’Angremont is taken–’tis reported that the palace is to be attacked to-night. The King and Queen will not come–the King is afraid to attempt the escape, and the Queen will rely on no one save the allies–we implored them in vain to come but they refused–they have failed you–save yourselves!” She leaned heavily against the door.
“It is quite certain?–they will not come?” asked Calvert. Adrienne shook her head.
“Then wait–come in here,” he said, drawing her into a little anteroom. He ran back up the stairs and burst into the room he had just left, with an imprecation.
“Their Majesties have flashed in the pan,” he said to the gentlemen who crowded about him. “‘Tis no use to wait longer. D’Angremont is taken. You, Monciel and Favernay, set out instantly to intercept Marbois’s regiment and turn it back to Compiegne. You will go back with the troops and report to General de Lafayette what has happened. As for you, gentlemen,” he says to the officers of the Guard, “not being needed here longer, you had best lead your men back with all speed to Paris to guard the palace. The attack is for to-night.”
Almost before he had finished speaking the little company had vanished which it had taken such secrecy and courage and fidelity to call together; the great plan was overthrown which had taken such daring and patience and wealth to set afoot. Timidity and bad faith had, in a moment, destroyed what had taken so many weeks to build up, and for the future calamities the King and Queen of France were to bear, they had only themselves to thank.
Calvert ran down the stairs again quickly to the anteroom, where the boyish figure in the long cloak awaited him.
“Come,” he said, briefly, and, ordering a fresh horse for the rider, whose mount was weary, almost without a word the two galloped back together under the fading stars to the city of tumult and horror and crime. And as they raced forward in silence, a thousand hopes and fears crowded in upon Calvert’s mind, but he put them steadily from him, trying to think but of the King and Queen and if there might yet be help for them or service to render. Only as he looked at the pale face beside him, at the blue eyes, tired and strained now, a mad wonder would steal over him that she had done this thing. And with this wonder tugging at his heart and brain they pressed onward with all speed. They entered Paris as the first streaks of dawn were beginning to redden the sky, and in this rosy morning glow the haggard faces of the multitudes of men and women pacing the streets–for who could sleep during that awful night?–looked more haggard and wretched than ever before. Bands of armed ruffians marched through the streets from all sections of the city. ‘Twas plain that some movement of importance was going forward.
The two riders made their way as quickly as possible past the Place du Carrousel, where Calvert could see the faithful Swiss regiment at their post, over the Pont Royal and so to the Faubourg St. Germain and the American Legation.
“Mr. Morris’s house is the only safe place in all this mad city, I think,” he said to Adrienne. “I will leave you in his care while I go and see what has befallen the King and Queen.”
Early as was the hour, the Legation was all astir, and Mr. Morris himself came out to meet Calvert and Adrienne as they dismounted. He had not been to bed during the night and looked harassed and weary. He drew them into the house, where they found a large company assembled. Madame de Montmorin was there, agony and terror written on her pallid face; the old Count d’Estaing, who had fought so gallantly in America; Dillon, Madame de Flahaut, and a dozen others, who had taken refuge with the American Minister during that terrible night.
“You see!” said Mr. Morris, in a low tone, to Calvert, and indicating the little group. “They have fled for protection here, but God knows whether even this spot will afford them safety! I call you to witness, Calvert, that if my protection of these persons should become a matter of reproach to me here, or at home (and I have reason to expect it will, from what I have already experienced), I call you to witness that I have not violated the neutrality of this place by inviting them here, but I will never put them out now that they are here, let the consequences be what they may!”
“Who could believe that you could act in any other way!” said Calvert, warmly, touched by the nobility and earnestness of Mr. Morris’s manner, very different from his usual cynical one. “And I am come to put another in your charge until the Queen sends for her,” he went on. “She has ridden through this terrible night–God knows how–to give us warning that the King and Queen have abandoned us and the great plan and have chosen to remain at the palace. I must go to the Tuileries and find out what has befallen their Majesties and then I will return.”
“I know all,” said Mr. Morris, bitterly. “I scarcely dared to hope that their Majesties would stand by us or their promises. ‘Tis as I thought, my boy. Sacrifices and devotion, time and money have all been wasted in their behalf. So be it! I think no power can save them now. You have bravely done your share. Let this end it. And it were best that you should leave Paris at once. D’Angremont has died nobly without revealing our secrets–he was murdered within two hours of his capture–but this is no safe place for you. Go to the Tuileries, if you will, but return to me as soon as possible. You have lost at the palace, but I think there is a reward waiting for you here at the Legation,” he says, smiling a little and turning away.
Scarcely had Calvert left the Legation when he heard the alarm from the great bell of St. Germain l’Auxerrois–that fatal bell which had rung in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew two hundred and twenty years before–and almost immediately after there came the sounds of musketry and cannonading from the direction of the palace of the Tuileries. The attack had already begun, and Calvert thought with a thrill of horror of the fate that awaited Beaufort and those other loyal servants of their Majesties within the palace.
The fearful drama of that day is too well known to need repeating. On that day Louis XVI of France passed from history and the revolution was consummated. By the time Calvert had reached the Quai opposite the Louvre the battle was begun, the mob was forcing its way past the scattered National Guard, whose commander lay murdered on the steps of the Hotel de Ville, past the stanch, true Swiss Guard, who, left without orders, stood, martyrs at their posts, _ne sacramenti fidem fallerent_, through the Carrousel up to the very palace itself. There, surrounded by seven hundred loyal gentlemen, whom he was to abandon as he had abandoned all his friends and servants, the King awaited his doom in apathetic resignation. It was impossible to reach his Majesty or to do aught for him, and Calvert could only look on from afar. There was no place in that fearful scene for an American. The French at last knew their power, had at last got the bit between their teeth, and no outside interference could stay that fearful pace. The mob surged about Calvert, increased every instant by fresh additions from the lowest quarters of the city, reinforced by deputations from the provinces. The firing from without grew quicker and quicker; from within fainter and less frequent, as those devoted servants of the King were shot down, until finally there was silence within the palace and the scarlet of the Swiss could be seen scattered and fleeing in every direction as the armed and triumphant mob pushed its way forward. Looking into the mad whirlwind of faces, Calvert saw the great, disfigured head, the massive shoulders of Danton, (but just come, on that fearful morning, to the fulness of his infamy and power), followed by Bertrand, battling his way beside his great leader.
“And ’twas for this I saved him!” said Calvert to himself. “Truly the ways and ends of Providence are inscrutable!”
He watched the terrible scene a long while, and then, seeing that he was powerless to aid those in the palace, he made his way back to the Legation with a beating heart. The great disappointment the night had brought, the failure of all those plans in which he had been so profoundly interested and for which he had hazarded so much, even the peril of the King and Queen, faded from before his mind as he thought of Adrienne and asked himself why she had risked her life to come to him. He saw her still galloping by his side, her face pale in the light of the full August moon, her dusky hair blown backward, the strange, inscrutable expression in her eyes.
She was not with the rest of the little company when Calvert once more entered the Legation. He found her in an upper chamber, where she stood alone beside an open window, looking out on the agitation and tumult of the city below. She had doffed her travel-stained boy’s clothes and now wore a dress, which Madame de Montmorin had offered her, of some soft black stuff that fell in heavy folds about her slender young figure. As he entered she turned, hearing the sound, and their eyes met. He stood silent, trying to fathom the strange look on that pale face. It was the same beautiful face that he had seen in pictured loveliness that last night at Monticello, the same that he had seen in reality for the first time at Mr. Jefferson’s levee at the Legation, and yet how changed! All the haughty pride, the caprice, the vanity, the artificiality were gone, and instead, upon the finely chiselled features and in the blue eyes, rested a serene, if melancholy beauty, a quiet nobility born of suffering. There rushed through Calvert’s mind the thought that, after all, that loveliness had at last developed into all that was best and finest.
He stood thus looking at her in silence and thinking of these things, and then he went slowly forward, scarce knowing how to address her or explain his presence, who had so long avoided her.
“I am come,” he says, at length, “to thank you for the great service that you have this night rendered me and those other gentlemen engaged with myself in the King’s business. I dare not think what might have been the fate of us all had you not come to our assistance. Were they here they would, like myself, thank you with all their hearts.”
“‘Twas no great service,” she says, “and I could scarce have done less for one who has done so much–who has sacrificed so much for me.”
“I have sacrificed nothing,” says Calvert, in a low, compassionate voice. “‘Twas you who sacrificed yourself, and all in vain! Believe me, I suffered for you in that knowledge. I should not have let you–should have found a way, but I was weak and ill and scarcely struggled against the fate that gave you to me. I wish that ’twere as easy to undo the evil as for you to forget me.”
“Forget you! I wish I could forget you. I have thought of you so much that sometimes I wish I could forget you entirely. But I think ’tis out of my power to do so now. I think I should have to be quite dead–and even then I do not know–I am not sure–if you should speak to me I think I would hear,” she says, wildly, and covering her eyes with her hand.
He looked at the dark-robed figure, the dark head bowed on the heaving breast, and suddenly a joy such as he had never thought to feel ran through his veins. He went over to her, and, lifting the hand from the closed eyes, he put it to his lips.
“Adrienne,” he says, tenderly and wonderingly, “you are crying! Why?”
“I am crying for so many things! For joy and despair and hope and dead love, because this means nothing to you and everything to me, because I love you and you love me not, because you once loved me–!” She stopped in an access of anguish and, sobbing, knelt before him. The humility of true love had at last mastered her.
“Not to me–not to me,” he said, unsteadily, lifting her.
“And why not to you? There is no one so true, no one I honor so much! In my pride and ignorance I thought you were not the equal of these fine gentlemen who have abandoned their King and their country. But I have learned to know you, and my own heart, and what I have thrown away! I am not ashamed to say this–to own to you that I love you.” She threw back her head and looked at Calvert with eyes that shone with a sorrowful light. “For you once told me that you loved me, and though I know I have lost that love, the memory that I once had it will stay with me and be my pride forever.”
“‘Tis yours still, believe me,” said Calvert. “‘Tis yours now and forever–forever.” He put his arm around her and drew her to him. “Far or near I have loved you since the first day I saw you, but I never dreamed that you would come to care, and in my pride I swore I would never tell you of my love after that day in the garden at Azay.”
“I must have been mad, I think,” she said, wonderingly. “Mad to have laughed at you–mad to have thrown away your love. Ah, I have learned since then!”
“‘Tis like a miracle that you should have come to care for me,” said Calvert, his lips upon her dark hair.
“The hour you left me I knew that I loved you. Oh, the agony of that knowledge and the thought that I would never see you again! Even then my pride would not let me tell you–I thought you would come again–and then–then when later you turned from me–my heart broke, I think–’twas quite numb–I was neither sorry nor glad–” She stopped again.
“Are you glad now, Adrienne?” asked Calvert, looking at her tenderly.
“Yes,” she said, quietly.
“And will you be content to leave this France of yours and come with me to America? There is a home waiting for you there–’tis not a splendid place like those you know, but only a country house that stands near the noblest and loveliest river of the land, upon whose banks peace and happiness dwell.” As he spoke, grim sounds of tumult, cannonading, fierce cries, and hoarse commands came to them from the hot, crowded street below, but they did not heed them–they were far away from that terrible, doomed city. Words were scarcely needed–they stood there soul to soul, alone in all the world, and happy.
“I am going back to that land of mine, where there is work for me to do. Will you not go with me? There is nothing more we can do here. The last chance to save their Majesties is gone. Will you leave this troubled, fated land and come with me to that other one, where I will make you forget the horrors, the sufferings you have endured in this–where I swear I will make you happy? Will you go to this America of mine?” he asked.
She gazed into the eyes she so loved and trusted with a glance as serene and true as their own.
“I will go,” she said.