And, indeed, it was. Years afterward, when he saw it again and
for the last time, every detail of that rugged countenance was as fresh
in his memory as it was at that moment in the Cafe de l'Ecole. As for
Danton, all unconscious of the young American's scrutiny, his gaze was
bent upon the pretty, vivacious little beauty who sat behind the caisse,
and had so lately become Madame Danton. As he looked, the harsh features
softened and a sentimental expression came into the keen eyes. "'Tis the
same conquered, slavish look the painter hath put into the lion's face
when Ariadne is by," mused Calvert to himself.
Beaufort was counting out silver pieces slowly, and slowly dropping them
on the caissiere's desk. He looked at Calvert and nodded appreciatively,
coolly toward Madame Danton.
"Quelle charmante tete," he said, lightly, nonchalantly.
The burly figure leaning on the comptoir straightened up as if stung
into action; the softened eyes kindled with speechless wrath and flamed
into the imperturbable, debonair face of Monsieur de Beaufort. One of
the silver pieces rolled upon the floor. Calvert stooped quickly for it.
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