As Mr. Jefferson had said, he entertained frequently, and ’twas a very brilliant society that gathered at least once a week in the salon of the minister from the young Republic, drawn thither by policy, curiosity, respect and admiration for Mr. Jefferson, a desire to consult him on the important topics of the hour, and a certain freedom from constraint—­a feeling as of being on neutral ground.  For already the salons of Paris were divided against themselves.  No longer simply the gatherings of fashionable, of charming, of frivolous men and women, they had grown somewhat serious with the seriousness of the time.  In the salon of Madame Necker gathered the solid supporters of the King, and, above all, the solid supporters of Monsieur Necker, who was at the height of his power and complacently ready to play the role of saviour to his country.  At the Palais Royal crowded the queer followers of Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans, the enemies of the King.  At the house of the beautiful Theroigne de Mericourt were to be found the men of the most advanced, the most revolutionary, ideas, the future murderers and despoilers of France.  In the salon of the exquisite Madame de Sabran flocked all those young aristocrats, wits, sprigs of nobility, who believed in nothing in Heaven or earth save in the Old Order.  There was the serious circle around Madame de Tesse, where new ideas were advanced and discussed, and there was the gay circle of Madame de Beauharnais, whose chief attractions were her delightful dinners, and who, the wits declared, had “intended to found a salon, but had only succeeded in starting a restaurant.”  Besides these, there were a dozen other important centres representing as many different shades of political faith.  But in the salon of the American Legation gathered the best of every following, for, although Mr. Jefferson’s democratic principles were, of course, well and widely known, yet was he so respected, his moderation and fairness so recognized, that all considered it an honor to be his friend and his presence a guarantee of amicable discussion and good-fellowship.

“I shall be very glad to meet your new friends, sir,” said Calvert, smiling back at Mr. Jefferson as that gentleman arose and stood with his back to the fire, his tall, thin figure silhouetted by the firelight on the wall (the candles were still unlit), his hands clasped lightly behind his back, as was his wont.  “I had the pleasure of meeting an old one this afternoon.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Jefferson, “and who was that?”

“A poor French private named Bertrand, who served in a company under General de Lafayette’s orders in the attack on Yorktown, and whom I had the occasion to know rather well.  I fancy,” he went on, smiling a little at the recollection of Beaufort’s haughtiness, “that Beaufort was somewhat amazed at the cordiality of our meeting.”