“And now,” broke in Beaufort, addressing the man, who still stood beaming with delight and surprise upon Calvert, “go and get us our coffee and cognac.”  The man departed hastily and Beaufort turned to Calvert.

“Allow me to congratulate you upon finding an acquaintance in Paris so soon!  May I ask who the gentleman is?”

“The gentleman was once a private in a company under Monsieur de Lafayette’s orders before Yorktown, and is my very good friend,” says Calvert, quietly, ignoring Beaufort’s somewhat disdainful raillery.  What he did not tell Beaufort was that Private Bertrand owed his life and much material aid to himself, and that the man was profoundly devoted and grateful.  In Calvert’s estimation it was but a simple service he had rendered the poor soldier—­rescuing him from many dying and wounded comrades who had fallen in that first fierce onslaught upon the Yorktown redoubt.  He had directed the surgeon to dress the man’s wounds—­he had been knocked on the head with a musket—­and had eased the poor wretch’s mind greatly by speaking to him in his own tongue, for most of the French soldiery under Rochambeau and Lafayette knew not a word of English.  When Bertrand recovered, Calvert had sent him a small sum of money and a kind message, neither of which was the man likely to forget.  Never, in the whole course of his pinched, oppressed young life in France, had kindness and consideration been shown him from those above him.  Tyranny and abuse had been his lot and the lot of those all about him, and such a passionate devotion for the young American officer was kindled in his breast as would have greatly astonished its object had he known it.  It was with an almost ludicrous air of solicitude that Bertrand placed the coffee before Calvert and poured out his cognac and then hung about, waiting anxiously for any sign or word from him.

“Is it not the best coffee in the world?” said Beaufort, sipping his complacently and looking about the crowded room for a familiar face.  Apparently he found none, for, leaning across the table and speaking to Calvert quite loudly and in an insolent tone, he said, “’Tis a good thing the coffee is of the best, or, my word of honor, I would not come to a place which gentlemen seem to have abandoned and to which canaille flock.”  And with that he leaned back and looked about him with a fine nonchalance.  There was a little murmur of suppressed ejaculations and menaces from those nearest who had heard his words, but it soon subsided at the sight of Monsieur de Beaufort’s handsome face and reckless air.

“There is also another charm about the Cafe de l’Ecole, my dear Calvert,” he said, speaking in a slightly lower tone and with an appreciative smile.  “Monsieur Charpentier, our host, has a most undeniably pretty daughter.  She is the caissiere, fortunately, and may be seen—­and admired—­at any time.  We will see her as we go out.  And speaking of beauties,” he continued, turning the stem of his wine-glass slowly around, “you have asked no word of Mademoiselle d’Azay—­or, I should say, Madame la Marquise de St. Andre!”