Not far from Lord Grenville's elbow, leaning against one of
the console tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume,
was taking a quiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir
Percy and Lady Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes
glanced quickly towards the door every time a new-comer appeared.
He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary
Government of France was not likely to be very popular in England, at
a time when the news of the awful September massacres, and of the
Reign of Terror and Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the
Channel.
In his official capacity he had been received courteously by
his English colleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord
Grenville had entertained him more than once; but the more intimate
circles of London society ignored him altogether; the women openly
turned their backs upon him; the men who held no official position
refused to shake his hand.
But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these
social amenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic
career. He was blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he
despised all social inequalities, and he had a burning love for his
own country: these three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to
the snubs he received in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned
England.
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