“Where are you going to take me?” he asked Beaufort, as the horses turned into the Place Louis XV.

“Where should I be taking you but to the incomparable Palais Royal, the capital of Paris as Paris is of France?” returned Beaufort, gayly. “’Tis a Parisian’s first duty to a stranger.  There you will see the world in little, hear all the latest news and the most scandalous gossip, find the best wines and coffee, read the latest pamphlets—­and let me tell you, my dear Calvert, they come out daily by the dozens in these times—­see the best-known men about town, and—­but I forget.  I am telling you of what the Palais Royal used to be.  In these latter times it has changed greatly,” he spoke gloomily now. “’Tis the gathering-place of Orleans men in these days, and they are fast turning into a Hell what was once very nearly an earthly Paradise!”

“You seem to know the place well,” said Mr. Calvert.

“No man of fashion but knows it,” returned Beaufort, “though I think ’twill soon be deserted by all of us who love the King.”

“You were not so fond of kings in America,” said Calvert, smiling a little.

“I was young and hot-headed then.  No, no, Calvert, I have learned many things since Yorktown.  Nor do I regret what I then did, but”—­he paused an instant—­“I see trouble ahead for my country and my class.  Shall I not stick to my King and my order?  There will be plenty who will desert both.  ’Tis not the fashion to be loyal now,” he went on, bitterly.  “Even d’Azay hath changed.  He, like Lafayette and your great friend Mr. Jefferson and so many others, is all for the common people.  Perhaps I am but a feather-headed fool, but it seems to me a dangerous policy, and I think, with your Shakespeare, that perhaps ’twere better ’to bear the ills we have’—­how goes it?  I can never remember verse.”

As he finished speaking, he reined in his horses sharply, and looking about him, Calvert perceived that they had stopped before a building whose massive exterior was most imposing.  Alighting and throwing the reins to the groom, Beaufort led Calvert under the arcades of the Palais Royal and into the grand courtyard, where were such crowds and such babel of noises as greatly astonished the young American.  Shops lined the sides of the vast building—­shops of every variety, filled with every kind of luxury known to that luxurious age; cafes whose reputation had spread throughout Europe, swarming with people, all seemingly under the influence of some strange agitation; book-stalls teeming with brand-new publications and crowded with eager buyers; marionette shows; theatres; dancing-halls—­all were there.  Boys, bearing trays slung about their shoulders by leathern straps and heaped with little trick toys, moved continually among the throngs, hawking their wares and explaining the operation of them.  Streams of people passed continually through the velvet curtains hung before Herr Curtius’s shop to see his marvellous waxworks