Morris, dryly. "But 'tis past my patience, the whole thing, and I can
scarce trust myself to think of it. By the way, Ned," he said, suddenly
turning to Calvert, "'twas that villain Bertrand, that protege of yours,
who was carrying the head of that poor devil, Foulon, on his pike this
afternoon. I recognized the fellow instantly, and I think he knew me,
too, though he was near crazed with blood and excitement. He handed the
bike to a companion and slunk into the crowd when he saw me. Have a care
of him, boy. 'Twas the most awful sight my eyes ever rested on! And now,
good-night." At the door he looked back and saw Mr. Jefferson filling
his long pipe with fragrant Virginia tobacco and Calvert still sitting
beside the table with the troubled look on his thoughtful young face.
A week later, after having bidden good-by to his friends in Versailles
and Paris and having obtained a passport from Lafayette at the Hotel de
Ville, he set out for London, from which capital he did not return until
the middle of September.
CHAPTER XIV
MR. CALVERT RIDES DOWN INTO TOURAINE
August was a dreary month in Paris.
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