this kind, and even brilliant, offer of mr. morris's calvert declined, reiterating smilingly to that gentleman that he felt himself a little better of that fever of love and disappointment which he had endured in silence for so long, and that he had no intention of suffering a relapse. indeed, he might have got over it in time, and been as contented as many another man, but that he was suddenly recalled to all that he had tried so sedulously for two years to forget. this was brought about by a meeting with monsieur le baron de st. aulaire a couple of weeks after mr. morris's departure for paris. although it was known that the french nobleman was in london, mr. calvert did not see him until one evening at the house of monsieur de la luzerne. a large company had gathered at the ambassador's, where monsieur de st. aulaire presented himself toward the end of the evening. 'twas so evident that he had been drinking deeply that calvert would have avoided him, but that the tipsy nobleman, catching sight of him, made his way directly to him.

"at last, monsieur," he said, bowing low and laying his hand unsteadily on the small sword he wore at his side.

"well," replied mr. calvert, coldly, by no means pleased at the attention bestowed upon him so unexpectedly. monsieur de st. aulaire sober he found objectionable; monsieur de st. aulaire drunk was insufferable.

"'well' is a cold welcome, mr. calvert," he said, the insolent smile deepening on his lips.

"i am not here to welcome you, monsieur," returned calvert, indifferently.

monsieur de st. aulaire waved his hand lightly as if flinging off the insult, but the flush on his dissipated face deepened. calvert, seeing that he could not be got rid of immediately, drew him into a little anteroom where they were almost alone.

"and yet i wished profoundly that we might meet, monsieur—more so, apparently, i regret to say, than you have. i have seen friends of ours in paris since you have had that pleasure, monsieur," says st. aulaire, throwing himself across a chair and resting his folded arms on the back.

"indeed."

"you are cold-blooded, monsieur—'tis a grave fault. you miss half the pleasures of life—but i think you would like to know whom i mean. confess, monsieur! but there, i see you know—who else could it be but madame de st. andré?" and the insolent smile broke into a still more insolent laugh.

"we will leave madame de st. andré's name out of this conversation,

monsieur."

"pardieu! so you think i am not worthy to mention it, monsieur," cried

st. aulaire, half-rising and laying his hand again on his dress sword.

"i know it, monsieur," retorted calvert, coolly.

"you are not so cold-blooded after all! i have struck fire at last!" said st. aulaire, looking at calvert for an instant and then breaking into a drunken laugh as he reseated himself. "'tis a pity madame de st. andré has not my luck—for, look you, monsieur," he went on, leaning over the back of the chair and shaking his finger at calvert, "i think she likes you and would be kind—very kind—to you, should you be inclined to return to paris and tempt your fortune."

"were you sober, monsieur, i would ask you for five minutes and a pair of pistols or rapiers, if you prefer," says calvert, white and threatening.

"by god, monsieur, how dare you say i am drunk?" flings out the other, rising so unsteadily as to overturn the chair, which crashed upon the floor. "but i have no time for duels just now. i have other and more important business in hand. later—later, sir, and i will be at your service. i add that insult to the long list i have against you. i will punish you when the time comes, but first i must punish her. she would not even listen to me. she crushed me with her disdain. 'tis another favor i have to thank you for, monsieur, i think." he was quite wild and flushed by this time, and spoke so thickly that calvert could scarce understand him. the few gentlemen who had been lounging in the anteroom had retired, thinking not to overhear a conversation evidently so personal and stormy, so that they were quite alone. as st. aulaire reeled forward, a sudden thought came to calvert.

"'in vino veritas,'" he said to himself, and then—"how do you propose punishing madame de st. andré, monsieur?" he asked, slowly, aloud, and looking nonchalantly at the distorted face before him.

st. aulaire laughed. "i am not as drunk as you think me, monsieur calvert," he said. "'tis enough that i know and shall act. by god, sir," he cried, suddenly starting up, "shall a man stand everything and have no revenge? let madame de st. andré take care! let d'azay take care! should you be inclined to go to their rescue, monsieur, perhaps we may meet again!" and with a mocking smile on his wicked, handsome face, he flung himself out of the room.

the young man sat for a long while where st. aulaire had left him, pondering upon this strange meeting and the mysterious hints and threats thrown out. he could make nothing of them, but it was clear that some danger menaced those he loved in france, and he felt only too well assured that st. aulaire would stop at nothing. indeed, it did not need a personal and malignant enemy to bring terror and death to any in paris, as he knew. terror and death were in the air. the last despatches from the capital had told of almost inconceivable horrors being there perpetrated. "aristocrats in paris must keep quiet or the aristocrats will hang," mr. morris had said to him tersely one evening just before leaving.

suddenly an overwhelming desire to go to france, to be near adrienne, to avert, if humanly possible, this unknown, but, as he felt, no less real danger, took possession of him. all the tenderness for her, which he had hoped and believed was dying within him, revived at the thought of the peril she was in. for himself he felt there could be no danger, and it was possible that his standing as an american and his close connection with the american minister might be of service to her. but whatever the consequences to himself—and he thought with far more dread of the revival of his love, which the sight and near presence of her would surely bring, than of any physical danger to himself—he felt it to be unendurable to be so near her and yet not to be near enough to render her aid if danger threatened. he thought of d'azay and beaufort and lafayette, of mr. morris, re-established there, and of all those great and terrible events taking place, and he suddenly found himself a thousand times more anxious to get back to paris than he had ever been to leave it, and wondered how he could have stayed away so long. he sat alone in the little anteroom thinking of these things until almost the last of the guests had gone, and then, bidding the ambassador and ambassadress good-night, he, too, left, walking to his lodgings, thinking the while of his return to paris and the legation, where he felt assured he would receive a warm welcome from mr. morris.