When Bertrand recovered, Calvert had sent him a small sum of
money and a kind message, neither of which was the man likely to forget.
Never, in the whole course of his pinched, oppressed young life in
France, had kindness and consideration been shown him from those above
him. Tyranny and abuse had been his lot and the lot of those all about
him, and such a passionate devotion for the young American officer was
kindled in his breast as would have greatly astonished its object had he
known it. It was with an almost ludicrous air of solicitude that
Bertrand placed the coffee before Calvert and poured out his cognac and
then hung about, waiting anxiously for any sign or word from him.
"Is it not the best coffee in the world?" said Beaufort, sipping his
complacently and looking about the crowded room for a familiar face.
Apparently he found none, for, leaning across the table and speaking to
Calvert quite loudly and in an insolent tone, he said, "'Tis a good
thing the coffee is of the best, or, my word of honor, I would not come
to a place which gentlemen seem to have abandoned and to which canaille
flock.
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