“Ah, Monsieur, ’twould give me infinite pleasure, but I shall never leave my France—­although”—­and here she lowered her voice and shrugged her lean shoulders contemptuously—­“did I listen to but one-half of what I hear prophesied in these revolutionary salons, to but one-half of what I hear openly discussed at the card-tables, I might accept your invitation as a refuge!  But I have no fear for my King.  I am not shaking with apprehension at the turn affairs are taking, like that poor-spirited little Madame de Montmorin, whose husband knows no more about foreign affairs than does my coachman, but I wish with all my heart, Monsieur, that you had kept your revolution chez vous!  ’Tis a fever, this revolution of yours, and our young men return from the war and spread the contagion.  They clamor for new rights, for assemblies, for States-Generals—­’twas that fever-stricken young Lafayette himself who demanded that, and, instead of being in attendance at court, as a young noble should be, he is buried in Auvergne, trying to get himself elected to his own States-General!  Bah! what will it all come to?” She fastened her keen, bright eyes on Mr. Jefferson’s face and spoke with indomitable energy and haughtiness.  “The noblesse is all-powerful.  We have everything—­why should we cry for something more?  As for the commons, they don’t know what is good for them and they have all they deserve.  At any rate they will not get anything more.  These contentions, these revolts of the lower orders”—­she stopped, for at that instant the young Vicomte de Segur came up and, making a profound bow, offered his arm to the Duchess.

“Madame,” he said, “the Duchesse de Chastellux begs that you will join her at a table of whist.”  He paused a moment, and then, with a languid shrug of his shoulders and a whimsical smile, “Your Grace was speaking of the discontent of the lower orders?  They are very unreasonable—­these lower orders—­they spoil one’s Paris so!”

Calvert was about to follow the two figures into the crowd, when suddenly he heard his name called softly, and, turning, found himself beside St. Aulaire and Madame de St. Andre.  She was looking at him, her eyes and lips smiling mockingly.  Calvert met her gaze calmly and fully.  They stood thus, looking at each other, courteously on Calvert’s part, curiously, almost challengingly, on the young girl’s.  It was Madame de St. Andre who broke the silence.  When she spoke, her voice was exquisitely sweet and low, and her eyes became kind, and the artificial smile faded from her lips.  Looking at her so, Calvert could scarce believe that it was the same arrogant beauty who had regarded him so haughtily but a moment before.  ’Twas as if she had let fall from her face, for a moment, some lovely but hateful mask, which she could resume instantly at will.

“Mr. Calvert,” she said, “I hope my brother has had a chance to talk with you.  He is most anxious to see you.”  As she spoke, Calvert thought he had never heard anything so beautiful as the sound of those clear, French words, each one as sweet and distinct as the carillon of a silver bell.