"Tis like His Highness," whispered Mr. Morris to Calvert. "He is as
thirsty for popularity as Lafayette himself."
Though he spoke in a low tone and in English, Madame de St. Andre
overheard and understood him.
"You and Mr. Calvert seem to be in a conspiracy to malign His Royal
Highness," she said, turning around.
"No, no. If there is a conspirator in the case 'tis Monsieur d'Orleans
himself," replied Mr. Morris, meaningly. To this Madame de St. Andre
deigned no reply, and, shrugging her beautiful shoulders, turned her
back once more to the gentlemen and her attention to the assemblage. Mr.
Calvert, who sat directly behind her, could only see the pink ear and
outline of the fair, displeased face thus turned away, but he thought
she looked more imperiously lovely and more distant than the painted
goddesses of the Olympian hierarchy who disported themselves, after the
artist's fancy, upon the great dome of the hall.
"Madame," he said, leaning over the back of Madame de Chastellux's
chair, "can you tell me who is that deputy of the tiers just making his
way in? 'Tis the strangest and most terrible face I have ever seen," and
he looked hard at the seamed, scarred visage, at the gloomy eyes,
shining darkly in their great sockets, at the immense, burly figure of
the man who was forcing his way contemptuously past the gallant Monsieur
de Breze to a seat among the commoners.
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