He
rose--for the supper was finished and the company beginning to move--and
laid his hand for an instant on Calvert's broad young shoulder. "Mr.
Calvert," he said, half-mockingly, half-seriously, "do not be too hard
upon us! There are some excuses to be made. In your country all things
are new--your laws, your habits, your civilization are yet plastic. See
that you mould them well! 'Tis too late here--we are as the generations
have made us. 'Other places--other customs!'" and he went off limping.
To his dying day Mr. Calvert never forgot the fascination, the open
frankness of Monsieur de Talleyrand's manner on that occasion, nor the
look of sadness and suffering in his eyes. When he heard him in after
years accused of shameless veniality, of trickery, lying, duplicity,
even murder, he always remembered that impulsive revelation--never
repeated--of a warped, unhappy childhood, of a perverted destiny.
Mr. Morris came to him later as he stood leaning against the wall behind
the chair of Madame de Chastellux.
"How goes it, Ned?" he asked, half-laughing and stifling a yawn. "As for
myself, I am getting confoundedly bored.
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