"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.
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