Though few of Mr. Calvert’s audience could understand the sentiment of his song, all listened with admiration to the voice, which still retained much of its boyish sweetness and thrilling pathos.  Amid the applause which followed the conclusion of the song, Madame d’Azay left the lansquenet table and appeared at the door of the salon.

“Charming,” she cried.  “But I don’t know your English, so sing us something in French, Monsieur, that I may applaud the sentiment as well as the voice.”

Mr. Calvert bowed with as good grace as he could, being secretly much dissatisfied at having to thus exploit his small talent for the benefit of the company, and, seating himself at the harpsichord, began a plaintive little air in a minor key, to which he had fitted the words of a song he had but lately read and greatly admired.  Being, as he had said, nothing of a musician, the delicate accompaniment of the song was quite beyond him, but having a true ear for accord and a firm, light touch, he improvised a not unpleasing melody that fitted perfectly the poem.  ’Twas the “Consolation” of Malherbe, and, as Calvert sang, the tenderness and melancholy beauty of both words and music struck the whole company into silence: 

  “’Mais elle etait du monde ou les plus belles choses
    Ont le pire destin,
  Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses—­
    L’espace d’un matin.

  “La mort a des rigueurs a nulle autre pareilles,
    On a beau la prier,
  La cruelle qu’elle est se bouche les oreilles,
    Et nous laisse crier.

  “Le pauvre en sa cabane, ou le chaume le couvre,
    Est sujet a ses lois,
  Et le garde qui veille aux barrieres du Louvre
    N’en defend pas nos rois.’”

“’Tis a gloomy song,” whispered Beaufort to the young Vicomte de Noailles, Lafayette’s kinsman, and then, turning to Monsieur de St. Aulaire, sulkily looking on at the scene and whom he hated both for his devotion to Adrienne and because he was of the Orleans party, he said, with languid maliciousness, “My dear Baron, a thousand pities that you have taken no care of your voice!  I can remember when it was such a one as Monsieur Calvert’s.”

“You were ever a sad flatterer, my dear Beaufort,” returned St. Aulaire, one hand on the hilt of his silver dress sword, the other holding his chapeau de bras.  He regarded Beaufort for an instant with a sour smile, and then turned and made his way to Calvert.

“Ah, Monsieur,” he said, and his voice was suave, though there was a mocking light in his eyes, “I see I have made a mistake.  I had thought you a past master in the art of skating, now I see that your true role is that of the stage hero.  You would become as spoilt a favorite as Garat himself.  The ladies all commit a thousand follies for him.”

“Sir,” returned Mr. Calvert, quietly, though he was white with unaccustomed anger, “I see that you are one destined to make mistakes.  I am neither skating nor singing-master, nor clown nor coward.  I am an American gentleman, and, should anyone be inclined to doubt that fact, I will convince him of it at the point of my sword—­or with pistols, since English customs are the mode here.”