at her side.  It was the first time that Calvert had seen St. Aulaire, and, remembering Beaufort’s words about him, a sudden pang shot through his breast as he saw the young girl turn aside with him to make a tour of the rooms.  For, in truth, Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire was the epitome of all that was most licentious, most unworthy, most brilliant in the Old Order, and was known throughout the kingdom by reputation—­or, more properly speaking, by lack of it.  But in spite of his long life of dissipation and adventure (he had campaigned with the Swiss Guards at thirteen, and, though he was much past forty, looked like a man of scarce thirty), there was still such an unrivalled grace in all he said and did, such an heroic lightness and gallantry in all he dared—­and he dared everything—­that he seemed to be eternally young and incomparably charming.  It was with a new-born and deep disgust that Calvert noted the attentions of this man, whose life he disdained to think of, to the beautiful girl beside him.  And it seemed to him that she took a wayward pleasure in charming him, though she kept him at a distance by a sort of imperious coquetry that was not to be presumed upon.

Calvert turned from his almost melancholy contemplation of the young girl to the old Duchesse d’Azay standing beside him and talking volubly to Mr. Jefferson.

“And have your friends newly arrived from America brought you news from our old friend, Dr. Franklin, Monsieur?” she asks, in her grand manner.  “Ah, I wish we might see him again!  I think there was never an ambassador so popular with us—­snuff-boxes with his face upon them, miniatures, fans!  I was present when he was crowned with laurel.  We had thought it impossible to replace him, Monsieur, until you arrived!”

“Ah, Madame, I did not come to replace him,” corrected Mr. Jefferson, making his best bow, and which was very courtly and deferential, indeed, “not to replace him—­no one can do that—­only to succeed him.”

“Bien, bien, Monsieur,” cried the Duchess, tapping her fan against her long, thin fingers and breaking out into an appreciative little cackle.  “Monsieur understands our language” (they were both speaking French) “quite as well as that paragon of wit and erudition, Dr. Franklin himself.  Ah! what a man,” she went on, musingly; “’twas he who gave the Duchesse de Bourbon a lesson in chess!  She put her king in prise and Monsieur Franklin promptly took it!  ‘But we do not take kings so,’ cried Her Grace, furiously, for you may be sure she was greatly put out.  ’We do in America,’ said the Doctor, calmly.”  And she broke out laughing again in her thin, cracked voice at the recollection of the discomfiture of her archrival, the old Duchesse de Bourbon.  “Truly that America of yours must be a wonderful place.”

“Ah, Madame,” said Mr. Jefferson—­and there was a note of sadness in his voice—­“I think there is no land like it, no rivers so broad and deep, no woods so green and wild, no soil so fertile, no climate so delightful.  I wish I might show you but one garden-spot of it—­my Virginia—­to prove to you, Madame, that I do not exaggerate when I sing my country’s praises.  The Duc de la Rochefoucault-Liancourt promises to visit me at Monticello within the next few years.  Cannot I persuade you, Madame, to come, too?”