A couple of days afterward, at a dinner at the French Ambassador’s, Monsieur de la Luzerne, Mr. Calvert repeated this famous panegyric of the Queen, as nearly as he could remember it.  ’Twas received with the wildest enthusiasm and Mr. Burke’s health drunk by the loyal refugees who were always to be found at Monsieur de la Luzerne’s table and in his drawing-rooms.  An immense amount of “refugee” was talked there, and the latest news from Paris discussed and rediscussed by the homesick and descouvre emigrants.  Mr. Morris and Calvert were frequent visitors there, liking to hear of their friends in Paris and the events taking place in France.

In spite of all the distractions and pleasures of town life which Mr. Calvert engaged in, he still felt those secret pangs of bitter disappointment and the fever of unsatisfied desire, but he was both too unselfish and too proud to show what he suffered.  There are some of us who keep our dark thoughts and secret, hopeless longings in the background, as the maimed and diseased beggars are kept off the streets in Paris, and only let them come from their hiding-places at long intervals, like the beggars again, who crawl forth once or twice a year to solicit alms and pity.  Although Mr. Morris knew Calvert so well, his impetuous nature could never quite comprehend the calm fortitude, the silent endurance of the younger man, and so, when he saw him apparently amused and distracted by the society to which he had been introduced, and by the thousand gayeties of town life, he left him in September and returned for a brief stay in Paris, happy in the belief that the young man was already half-cured of his passion.

He was back again in December with a budget of news from France.  “The situation grows desperate,” he said to Calvert.  “I told Montmorin and the Due de Liancourt that the constitution the Assemblee had proposed is such that the Almighty Himself could not make it succeed without creating a new species of man.  The assignats have depreciated, just as I predicted, the army is in revolt, and the ministers threatened with la lanterne.  ’Tis much the fashion in Paris, let me tell you.  But murder, duelling, and pillage—­they sacked the hotel of the Duc de Castries the other day because his son wounded Charles de Lameth in a duel—­are every-day occurrences now.  Lafayette is in a peck of trouble, and received me with the utmost coldness.  He knows I cannot commend him, and therefore he feels embarrassed and impatient in my society.  I am seriously pained for d’Azay, too.  I met him at Montmorin’s, and he confessed to me that he knew not how to steer his course.  He is horrified at the insane measures of the Jacobins, he has cut himself loose from his own class, and is beginning to doubt Lafayette’s wisdom and powers.  He is in a hopeless situation.  He told me that Montmorin had asked that Carmichael be appointed to the court of France, but that he and Beaufort and other of my friends had insisted on my appointment.  ’Tis a matter of indifference to me.  Whoever is appointed—­Short, Carmichael, Madison, or myself—­will have no sinecure in France.  Unhappy country!  The closet philosophers who are trying to rule it are absolutely bewildered, and I know not what will save the state unless it be a foreign war.”