The Light That Lures
by
Percy Brebner
Part 4 out of 6
the exact standpoint from which he viewed life and his fellows. On the
Virginian estate he had always led an isolated kind of existence,
happier apparently in his own company than any other. His devotion to
his mistress and her boy was known, and passed for one of his
peculiarities, had occasionally indeed been cast in his teeth as a
selfish device for winning favor. Barrington, as a boy, had made use of
him, as a man he had brought him to France knowing that he was to be
trusted, yet hardly realizing that Seth's trustworthiness was rooted in
love, such a love as men do not often receive. Since they had landed in
France, and danger had been as their very shadows, Richard had caught
glimpses of this love, but had understood it rather in terms of
comradeship than in any deeper sense, and had perhaps misinterpreted
Seth's keen desire to return forthwith to Virginia. Seth, in short, was
seldom able to express himself adequately, emotion scarcely ever sounded
in his voice, and the expression of his face was a fixed and
unchangeable one, somewhat dour and ill-tempered in aspect and
reflecting nothing of the man within.
That his master had gone into imminent danger by keeping the
appointment at the Chat Rouge, Seth was convinced, yet for three days he
did nothing, nor did he plan anything in his mind. He had been told to
wait three days, and he waited, no look of anxiety in his eyes, no
suppressed agitation or desire for action apparent in his manner. He
went out and came in as though these days had no particular interest for
him, and ate and drank as a normal man with no care in his mind.
Precisely at the end of those three days, however, he began the labor
which he had fully expected to be obliged to do--the discovery of
Richard Barrington's whereabouts. Seth knew that the Marquis de
Lafayette had left Paris, or at least that his master had been told so,
but, being disposed to take nothing for granted, it was to Lafayette's
apartments that he went first.
The servant who was still there did not remember him, and was not
inclined to give any information.
"I don't expect to see the Marquis though I asked for him," Seth
answered. "I am Monsieur Barrington's man, and it was you no doubt who
delivered your master's message to him. Monsieur Barrington has gone."
"I am glad. I know the Marquis was anxious that he should leave Paris."
"By gone I mean that I don't know where he is," said Seth, "but I don't
think he has left Paris."
"Do you mean that he is arrested? I might get a message through to my
master who is with the army in the north."
"I don't know that he is arrested. No, I think it would be better not to
send a message until I am certain. It is possible, although not
probable, that you may hear of my master; if you do will you let me
know?"
"I will. You are still at the house of Monsieur Fargeau?"
"Yes, and shall remain there."
Seth next went to find Lucien Bruslart. He had no intention of being
open with him. He had concocted an ambiguous message from his master, so
framed as to astonish Bruslart, whether he knew where Richard Barrington
was or not, and Seth hoped to read something of the truth in his face.
Citizen Bruslart's apartment was closed, and the concierge knew nothing
about him. His servants had also gone.
"Ah! like rats from a sinking ship, eh, citizen?"
"Maybe. I'm no politician."
"Nor I," said Seth, "until there's my own skin to keep whole, and then
I'll be politician enough to fight for it. It's not only the aristocrats
who are dangerous, citizen."
"Why, that's true."
"And if there's a wine shop handy we might drink confusion to all the
enemies of liberty," Seth returned.
The porter was nothing loth, and was soon talking glibly enough.
"I'm not to be deceived," he said, eying Seth curiously. "You are a man
with power, and Citizen Bruslart is wanted."
"Ah, you may be no politician, but I see you are no fool," answered
Seth, with a swagger unnatural to him. "Men are brought out of the
provinces to work in Paris sometimes. Maybe that is why you do not know
me. There has been some good work done in the provinces and the
authorities begin to understand the value of the men who have done it.
Now Citizen Bruslart--"
"I know only this," said the porter, confidentially. "He went out very
hurriedly one morning, and has not returned. His man followed and has
not returned either. I do not think Citizen Bruslart intends to come
back."
"But they have not sent to arrest him," said Seth.
"Not until you came, citizen," answered the porter, with a wink to show
how exceedingly knowing he was.
"You're a smart man. I might presently find use for you."
"I have done a little already, citizen. Two aristocrats have looked
through the little window with my help."
"Good, very good. May you receive the reward you deserve," Seth
answered, rising as he finished his wine. "I shall hardly earn my pay if
I stay longer. You're of the kind I should like to reward, an excellent
double-faced man, Judas-like, betraying with a kiss. These are the men
who succeed to-day. I love them as I love hell and the guillotine."
Even the porter was a little afraid of such a patriot, and was rather
glad to see the back of him as he swaggered away.
Bruslart's disappearance was comprehensible. The escape of mademoiselle
would naturally draw suspicion upon him. Was Richard Barrington with
him?
This was the first question Seth asked himself. It gave quick birth to
another. What part had Raymond Latour in the scheme?
The set purpose in Seth's mind was apparent by the fact that he took the
most direct route to the Rue Valette. Twice at intervals of an hour he
knocked at Latour's door and received no answer, nor heard any sound
within. The third time the door was opened, and Latour faced him.
"Your business, citizen."
"I have something important to tell Citizen Latour," Seth answered.
"I do not know you."
"Does Citizen Latour know all his admirers?"
"No, nor all his enemies," was the answer.
"Were I an enemy I do not think you would be afraid. As it happens I
want to be a friend."
"Come in, then, and remember a deputy's time is not his own. You may be
from the provinces, citizen, and therefore I do not know you," said
Latour, as he closed and locked his door, and Seth noticed that he was
armed and prepared to use his pistol at a moment's notice.
"From Louisiana originally, from Virginia recently with my master,
Richard Barrington."
Latour remained standing by the door a moment, then moved to a chair by
the table, and sat down.
"I am interested. What do you want with me?" he said.
"I want to know where my master is."
Latour regarded him fixedly. If Seth expected to read this man's
thoughts in his face he was doomed to disappointment.
"Surely you come to a strange person to make such an inquiry," said
Latour, slowly.
"It will save time, monsieur, if I tell you at once that I am in my
master's confidence."
"Ah! Then you should be able to give me most interesting information."
"I think not, monsieur, nothing more than you know already. I am aware
that you and he planned to rescue Mademoiselle St. Clair, and that she
has escaped from the Abbaye Prison. I know that she is being looked for
in every corner of Paris, and that my master is suspected. It was to me
that Jacques Sabatier gave your message bidding my master go to the Chat
Rouge tavern in the Rue Charonne."
"You must be a faithful servant for your master."
"I am more, a man who loves him."
"Even so I doubt whether such confidence is wise," said Latour.
"Wise or not, it happens to serve a useful purpose on this occasion,"
Seth returned. "If he did not return, my master told me to take what
steps I thought fit, after waiting three days. You will know, monsieur,
that I have waited three days."
"So your first idea is to apply to me. It was natural."
"You think so, without taking any precaution?"
"Precaution! I do not follow you."
"It is easy," said Seth, a sudden inspiration coming to him, perhaps
because he was convinced that this man was bent on baffling inquiry. "To
come here was to put myself in your power. Monsieur Barrington has
trusted you, but I should be a fool to trust you without reason; indeed,
I have reason to distrust you since my master is missing. You could
easily have given word that he would be at the Chat Rouge at a certain
hour, and the doors of a Paris prison would close on him."
"Yes, that could have been done," said Latour, "and, faithful servant
though you be, I fail to see what counter stroke you could have made."
"No? It seems obvious to me. Play the life of Deputy Latour against the
life of Richard Barrington. There would speedily be a yelling crowd on
the stairs if I denounced you as the man who had rescued Mademoiselle
St. Clair."
Seth looked for some change of expression in his companion's face, but
it did not come. Fear never caught at this man's heart.
"I think there would," said Latour, "if you could make the crowd believe
it."
"You can make the mob believe anything at the present moment."
"You may be right. I do not study the mob much. There is one point,
however, which you overlook," said Latour, quietly. "I might take steps
to prevent your telling the mob."
"That is exactly the danger against which I have taken precaution," Seth
answered. "You are not the first person to whom I have applied."
Latour was fully alive to the danger which such a precaution implied. A
casual word had power in it to ruin him, yet he gave no sign of being
disturbed, and Seth appreciated to some extent the kind of man he had to
deal with.
"You see, monsieur, there are those who would not wait three days if I
did not return from my visit to you," he said.
Latour nodded as though the position were quite an ordinary one, as
though he had been aware of it from the first.
"I hope your caution, which I quite understand, but which was
unnecessary, is not likely to injure your master."
"I have been very careful," said Seth.
"I am glad to hear it. At present Monsieur Barrington is safe."
"Then you can take me to him."
"For the moment that is exactly what I cannot do," Latour answered. "In
one sense Monsieur Barrington's danger and mine are the same, but in
another way his is greater than mine, at present. The mob does not
suspect me; it does suspect your master. I can add to your knowledge a
little. As he went to the Chat Rouge that night he was recognized and
had to run for his life. Through Jacques Sabatier, whom you know, I was
instrumental in saving him, but for some little time he will have to lie
very closely. Were you or I to be seen near his hiding-place it would
only be to betray him."
"I only have your word for this," said Seth.
"And it is not enough?" said Latour, with a smile. "I consider myself a
judge of character, and I am not surprised. There is a way out of the
difficulty. Will you be satisfied if your master sends you a letter
telling you to await his further instructions patiently?"
"Yes. I have means of knowing that such a letter could not be forged."
"You shall have the letter to-morrow morning. Where shall I send it?"
"I will come here for it," Seth answered.
"An excellent idea. You will be able to tell me at once whether you are
satisfied," said Latour, rising and going to the door, which he threw
open with a bow. "The lion's den is not so dangerous a place as you
imagined."
"Monsieur, I shall think well of you until to-morrow," said Seth.
"And afterward, I hope," Latour returned.
The smile faded from Latour's face as he went back into his room, and
an expression of perplexity took its place. This was a new and
unexpected danger. Probably he was honest, but it was hardly likely that
Barrington had told the whole truth to his servant. After a little while
spent in thought and calculation, Latour went upstairs to the rooms
above his own. He knocked at the door, then turned the key and entered.
Pauline Vaison showed no pleasure at the visit, but there was
unmistakable relief. It was quite evident that she half expected a worse
enemy.
"Have you come to release me, citizen?" she asked, doing her utmost to
appear indifferent.
"You are only a prisoner for your own safety."
"You have already said so, but I cannot understand of what importance I
am to the State."
"Mademoiselle, I was a little rough with you when you were first brought
here," said Latour. "I believed you were a party to a plot, to defeat
which you were smuggled out of the Abbaye Prison. You told me a story
which, frankly, I did not believe, but from further knowledge I am
inclined to alter my opinion. Your story was this, correct me if I am
wrong in any detail: You went one morning to visit Citizen Bruslart, he
was out and you waited for him, you have done the same before. The house
was suddenly invaded and you were arrested as an aristocrat, one
Mademoiselle Jeanne St. Clair. You protested, but you were not believed.
Is that so?"
"I was laughed at and insulted," said Pauline.
"Citizen Bruslart is a friend of yours?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever heard that he was to marry Jeanne St. Clair?"
"Whatever he once intended, I have the best reason for knowing that he
has changed his mind. Lucien Bruslart is to marry me."
Latour showed no surprise. "Have you ever seen this Jeanne St. Clair?"
he asked.
"Never."
"You were not voluntarily there that day in her place, so that she might
escape?"
"No. I am a patriot and hate all aristocrats. I am woman enough to hate
this one particularly since Lucien once cared for her."
"When one's life is at stake, it is easy to lie if a lie will be useful,
but I believe you, citizeness," said Latour. "I wish to be your friend,
that kind of friend who is honest even if honesty gives pain. First,
then, it is absolutely necessary that you remain here in hiding for a
little while. The mob which carried you to prison knows you have
escaped. You are being hunted for. So beautiful a woman cannot pass
unnoticed. You would be recognized, and since you are still believed to
be Mademoiselle St. Clair, I doubt not the nearest lantern would be your
destination."
Pauline turned pale. "But, citizen--"
"Believe me, you are perfectly safe here," said Latour. "In a few days
the people will know that they made a mistake, and you will be a
heroine."
"I will stay here," she said. "You are sure the woman who brings my food
and looks after these rooms will not betray me?"
"I am certain of that. She believes you are very dear to me, and she is
mine body and soul. Now I come to the second point. It is known that
this aristocrat is, or was, in Paris. It is certain that Lucien Bruslart
knew this; it is almost certain that he has found her a safe
hiding-place. That makes you angry, but there is something more. He knew
that Jeanne St. Clair was supposed to have been arrested in his
apartment, knew that a mistake had been made, but he has taken no steps
to put that mistake right. Is it not possible, even probable, that he
knows you were arrested in her place, and that it has suited his plans
to remain silent?"
Pauline sprang from her chair, her eyes blazing, her little hands
clinched, her whole frame vibrating with the lust for revenge.
"If I thought--"
"Citizeness, I am your friend," said Latour. "We will find out. At
present, Lucien Bruslart is not to be found. For three days, ever since
your escape, mark you, he has not been near his apartment."
"You shall help me," said Pauline, savagely. "I will not yet believe him
false, but if he is, he shall pay for it. I should laugh to see his neck
under the knife."
"You let me into a secret, citizeness, the greatness of your love."
"Great love like mine means hatred if it is scorned," she said; and then
she added quickly, "But he may have got safely away from Paris."
There was in her attitude that sudden savagery which a cat shows at the
prospect of being robbed of its prey.
"He has not left Paris," said Latour.
"Even if he had, I should find him," she said.
Latour left her and returned to his own rooms.
"This woman will find him, once she is let loose," he muttered. "I can
almost pity Citizen Bruslart, thrice damned villain that he is. And
Barrington? I must see Barrington."
CHAPTER XVIII
DR. LEGRAND'S ASYLUM
The Rue Charonne was a long street extending toward the outer limits of
the city, and while at one end, near the Chat Rouge Tavern, it was a
busy thoroughfare with crowded Streets on either side of it, at the
other end it was quiet, and almost deserted in the evenings. The houses
were less closely packed, and there were walls which trees overhung,
telling of pleasant and shady gardens.
Behind such a wall the passer-by had a glimpse of the upper windows and
steep roof of a house of considerable size. On one side of it stretched
a garden, on the other some outbuildings joined it to another house
which had nothing to do with it, but was one of a block of rather old
houses which faced the street.
This house, in its pleasant garden, was, as every one knew, a private
asylum and sanatorium conducted by Dr. Legrand. He had come there half a
dozen years ago, and for some time there had been only a few inmates,
not dangerously insane, but unfit to be at large, and two or three
others who had retired into this retreat to end their days in peace. In
the last few months, however, the number of residents had vastly
increased. Certainly every room in the house must be occupied, the
larger rooms probably divided into two or three, the neighbors argued,
and most of the inmates did not appear to be insane. It was not a time
to busy one's self about other people's affairs, it was much safer
neither to gossip nor to listen to gossip; so to many persons the riddle
of Monsieur Legrand's sudden prosperity remained unsolved.
Yet many people understood the riddle, and were not slow to profit by
it. This house, although one of the best known, was not the only one of
its kind to be found in Paris. Legrand was a man of business as well as
a doctor, a better man of business than he was a doctor, and perceived,
almost by a stroke of genius, how he might profit by the Revolution. To
many a revolutionary leader gold was better than the head of an
aristocrat, although by that curious twist of conscience which men can
so easily contrive for themselves, direct bribery was not to be thought
of. Dr. Legrand seemed to thoroughly understand this twisted and
diseased conscience, and had a remedy to offer. What persuasion he used,
what proportion of his exorbitant fees found its way into other pockets,
cannot be said, it was a secret he locked up in his own soul, but it
soon became known that aristocrats, fortunate enough to be prisoners in
this house in the Rue Charonne, were safe so long as the fees were paid.
The agents of the Public Prosecutor never came there for food for the
guillotine. If the fees were not paid, it invariably meant that some ill
turn of fortune, which Legrand was quite unable to explain, necessitated
the speedy removal of the delinquent to the Abbaye, to Sainte Pelagie,
or one of the other prisons where their days were almost certain to be
few.
A round-faced man, with generosity beaming in his eyes, was Dr. Legrand.
His prisoners, or guests as he preferred to call them, were free to
roam the house or the grounds at their will; if the table he kept was
not liberal, a certain etiquette was indulged in which did something to
cover the parsimony, and the insane inmates who remained in the house
were pushed out of the way into odd corners as much as possible.
Into the doctor's study one morning there had come a man and a woman.
"I have come as arranged," said the man. "This is the lady."
Legrand bowed low, and appeared to overflow with benevolence.
"I am happy to welcome such a guest," he said. "There are certain
formalities, and then you are as safe, mademoiselle, as you could be at
Beauvais."
So it was that Mademoiselle St. Clair came to be a guest at the house in
the Rue Charonne, brought there for safety by Lucien Bruslart. She had
been there a week when, not far away, Richard Barrington had been
obliged to run for his life, and with the help of a man, whose identity
the dark entry concealed, had jumped into safety. Of this she knew
nothing; she was as ignorant of what was passing in the city as though
hundreds of miles separated her from it. Lucien had found her a safe
retreat, and the time was not so heavy on her hands as she had expected.
Although she chanced upon no intimate friends in Dr. Legrand's house,
she met several acquaintances, men and women she had known something of
before the flight to Beauvais. They had much to talk of in the day, and
in the evenings they sang and danced. If care was heavy upon some of
them, smiling faces were made to mask the fact. Saturday was a day of
apprehension, a day of which the ending was greeted with a sigh of
relief. It was the day for paying fees. Some the inmates paid their own,
their purses refilled by friends who were free; the fees of many were
paid direct to the doctor by their friends. This was the arrangement in
Mademoiselle St. Clair's case. Lucien had told her that it would be the
most satisfactory way, and she had given him power to draw on her money
for the purpose. He had a special agreement with Legrand, he said, for
Jeanne was there on a different footing from the other guests. He hinted
too that Legrand was under such obligations to him that any favor he
asked was practically a command. It was not until the second Saturday
had passed that Jeanne understood all that the payment of these fees
meant. At the table that night there were two empty places, a man's and
a woman's. She asked her neighbor, an elderly Abbe, who had lived well
all his life until he came to the Rue Charonne and was forever grumbling
at the extortion practiced, what had become of them.
"Removed to another prison, mademoiselle. I did not hear which."
"But why?"
"They could not afford to remain here. They are not the first I have
seen made bankrupt by Legrand."
"Ah! this hateful revolution!"
"It will end, mademoiselle. Already the dogs begin to tear one another,
and when that happens, the quarry escapes."
"It will end, yes; but when? How long?"
"Before our purses run dry, I trust, mademoiselle," answered the Abbe,
with a smile.
Jeanne had no fear for her own safety, but great compassion for others.
She began to hate the smiling face of Dr. Legrand. She heard something
of the enormous sums he charged, and wondered what Lucien was paying for
her, and how long he would have to pay it. He had said that at least a
month must elapse before it would be safe to make an attempt to leave
Paris. Unfortunately, he had to think of his own safety as well as hers.
Poor Lucien! She had braved Paris to help him, and her presence in the
city had only added to his difficulty and danger. What was he doing day
by day to end it all? Was Monsieur Barrington helping him? Lucien would
be foolish not to accept the help of such a man, so brave, so full of
resource, so----
These thoughts concerning Richard Barrington made Jeanne start a little.
She was suddenly conscious that she was comparing the two men, and that
one seemed to take hold of her, hurry her along, as it were, and absorb
her attention, until she could only bring her thoughts back to the other
with an effort. Barrington stood out clear and distinct, definite in
word and action, knowing what he intended to do and doing it without
thinking of failure; Lucien was a shadow in comparison, indistinct,
waiting rather than acting. Barrington would have made an attempt to get
her out of Paris before this, and Jeanne was convinced that she would
have gone without fear. If the enterprise had failed, it would have been
a splendid failure. Lucien had not made the attempt. She did not blame
him, his nature was to exercise greater caution, and when he did move,
perhaps the chances of success would be greater; yet she knew that with
Lucien she would feel greater responsibility, feel that she was obliged
to protect him almost as much as he protected her. Lucien would ask her
advice and be guided by it; Barrington would tell her what to do and be
angry if she did not obey at once.
"It is my love which makes the difference," she told herself. "A woman
must exercise protection over the man she loves. In the love of all good
women there is the mother instinct. That is the reason why I feel like
this toward Lucien." And then she thought of how she had passed the
barrier with Barrington and his servant Seth. It seemed a mad scheme,
yet it had succeeded. And Lucien had asked her whether this man was to
be trusted!
So the days passed, much dreaming in them for want of other employment.
It was sometimes too cold and wet to walk much in the garden, and the
sense of confinement within high walls was depressing. Not always could
cards or music dispel the anxiety which these guests had to endure, and
Jeanne, with all her bravery, had hard work to keep her tears back at
times. She had been at the house in the Rue Charonne a month when Marie,
a maid of all work in the establishment, came to her one morning, a
frightened look in her face and evidences of tears in her eyes. Marie
was generally assumed to be of rather weak intellect, chiefly perhaps
because she made no complaint against the drudgery of her life, and
because, unlike the other servants, she did not copy the rapacity of the
master and extort fees at every opportunity. She was especially attached
to Mademoiselle St. Clair, who had in times past befriended her aged
mother, and she had endeavored to repay the debt by special devotion to
her, and, when they chanced to be alone, by a loquacity which was
intended to be encouraging. Her present doleful appearance was therefore
the more surprising.
"What is the matter, Marie?" Jeanne asked.
"The doctor wants to see you in his study."
"I wasn't thinking of your message, but of your appearance. You have
been crying."
"Yes, that's the reason," Marie answered. "The master wants to see you,
and it's Saturday morning."
Jeanne had forgotten the day, and the information, coupled with the
message, startled her for a moment.
"There is no need to be afraid, Marie," she said quietly.
"I know you're brave, you couldn't be anything else," returned the girl,
"but I know what Saturday morning in that study means. Mademoiselle,
I'll do anything I can. No one takes any notice of me. I can slip out of
the house almost any time I like."
"Thank you, Marie. I will not forget."
In spite of the servant girl's pessimistic view, Jeanne had little
apprehension as she went to the doctor's study, and Legrand's method of
receiving her was reassuring. He rose, bowed low and placed a chair for
her. He spoke of the pleasant crispness in the air, of the little dance
which had taken place in the salon on the previous night.
"Even the Abbe was persuaded to a few steps," he laughed. "It was very
amusing."
"I am waiting to hear the business which necessitates my presence here,"
said Jeanne.
"Ah, mademoiselle, it is a painful matter; it pains me. There is no
remittance from Monsieur Bruslart this week. It has always come on
Friday night, but this is Saturday morning and it is still not here."
Jeanne did not answer for a moment.
"Of course there is some mistake," she said.
"I thought so," said Legrand. "It did not trouble me much last night,
but this morning--mademoiselle, I was so surprised that I called on
Monsieur Bruslart this morning. He has left Paris."
"Gone!"
"Leaving no word behind him, mademoiselle."
"It is more likely that he has been arrested," said Jeanne.
"I have inquired. He has not been arrested, but he would have been had
he remained."
"Are you suggesting that he has run away without a thought for me?"
"Mademoiselle, the most prominent members of my profession have little
knowledge of men's thoughts. Of the working of Monsieur Bruslart's mind
I know nothing; I only know that he has left Paris without sending
money."
"And the consequence to me?" asked Jeanne.
"That is what pains me," Legrand answered. "This house is secure only on
certain conditions, a peculiar arrangement in which I have personally
little influence. Some of my guests are ungracious enough to disbelieve
this. When the fees remain unpaid I have no choice in the matter. My
guest is removed elsewhere."
Jeanne showed not a trace of nervousness or alarm. The whirl of thoughts
and doubts in her brain caused the lines in her face to harden a little,
but there was no quiver in her eyes, no tremble in her voice.
"Is the money paid in advance?" she asked.
"Always, mademoiselle; that is one of the conditions."
"Then it is for the coming week that the money is due?"
"That is so."
"I do not know, Dr. Legrand, whether you are fully aware of Monsieur
Bruslart's position and my own?"
"I think so, mademoiselle. You were, I believe, to be man and wife."
His suggestion that such a thing was now impossible was not lost upon
Jeanne and was a little startling. Did he believe that Lucien Bruslart
was a scoundrel?
"Do you know that the fees paid to you by Lucien Bruslart are paid out
of my money?"
"Officially I only know that they are paid by a certain person, and I
ask no questions. Having some knowledge of Monsieur Bruslart's position,
I have imagined that the necessary money was supplied by you."
"I have only to authorize the banker who has funds of mine in hand to
pay the amount."
"Mademoiselle, I naturally thought of that. All that was necessary was a
form for your signature, so I called upon the banker. I regret to tell
you that he has no longer any funds of yours in hand. The whole amount
has been withdrawn."
"By whom?"
Legrand shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not know. If you wish me to make a guess, I should say by Lucien
Bruslart. You will know whether he had any document in his possession
giving him such power."
Jeanne knew that he had. She had trusted him fully. Even now she did not
jump to the hasty conclusion that he had betrayed that trust. There
might be a dozen good reasons why he had withdrawn the money; to save it
from being misappropriated by the State consequent on the banker's
possible arrest, or to spend carefully in arranging her escape. It was
probably an accident that the messenger had not arrived with the money
this week, and in preparation for escape it was quite likely that Lucien
might let it be understood that he had left Paris. He would not be
likely to confide in Monsieur Legrand. He would certainly not desert
her.
"Will you tell me the amount due for next week?" she asked.
The doctor took a paper from a drawer and handed it to her. She uttered
a sudden exclamation as she saw the amount.
"It is out of all reason," she said.
"Mademoiselle, the security offered by this house may be said to be out
of all reason too."
"If this is paid, I remain a guest for another week?"
"Until next Saturday."
Jeanne took her purse and counted out the money. She had little left
when it was done.
"Count it, Dr. Legrand, and give me the receipt."
His eyes beamed as he counted and found the sum correct.
"I am happy again," he said. "So much may happen in a week. I assure
you, mademoiselle, your ability to pay lifts years from my shoulders."
"Yes, monsieur, I have bought a long respite," Jeanne said, rising as
she took the receipt. "I doubt not much will happen in a week."
As she went out and closed the door, Legrand placed the money in a
drawer which he locked.
"It was a warning," he muttered, "and she has robbed me of seeming
generous by promising to give her a week free of cost. She must have
touched me in some way, or I should never have thought of giving her
such a warning. It was a fortunate idea. Had I left it until next
Saturday she would have been able to pay for another week, and I should
have been obliged to hunt for a pretext for refusing her money. She must
be removed elsewhere next Saturday. My little consideration, my wish to
prepare her, has turned out well; besides, I have received double fees
for this coming week. I cannot complain."
Alone in her own room, Jeanne nearly broke down. The strain of the
interview and all that it implied left her with little strength to fight
the despair that settled upon her. Yet she held back the tears that
threatened, and fought back the disposition to fling herself upon the
mean little bed and give way to her grief. A week! Only a week! She had
bought it at an enormous price and every hour in it was of immense
value. If Lucien Bruslart were a traitor, she had still one friend in
Paris. She was as sure of this as of the emblematic meaning of the small
crucifix which she had hung above her bed. She must act. There was no
time to give way to despair.
On scraps of paper she wrote a long letter, telling the whole history of
the house in the Rue Charonne, how she came to be there, and the peril
she was in. She sealed it, and then waited until she could get Marie
alone.
"Marie, you promised to help me."
"I meant it. What can I do, mademoiselle?"
Jeanne gave the girl minute instructions for finding the house in which
the Marquis de Lafayette had his apartment, and Marie showed little sign
of weak-mindedness as she listened.
"I know the house, mademoiselle."
"Go there, say you come from me and ask to see him. Give him this letter
and ask him to see that it is safely delivered."
"And if he is away, mademoiselle?"
"Then ask his servant to tell you where the man to whom this letter is
addressed lives."
"And if he does not know?"
"Ah, Marie, I cannot tell what you are to do then. Take the letter, hide
it away. Heaven grant it reaches its destination."
Marie stood with the letter in her hand.
"Who's it to? I cannot read, mademoiselle, but if I know the name, I may
find him even if the servant doesn't know."
"It is addressed to Monsieur Richard Barrington," said Jeanne.
The girl put the letter into her pocket, and patted her dress to
emphasize the security of the hiding-place.
"I'll go to-morrow. I have a holiday all day; that gives me plenty of
time to find the man who loves mademoiselle. Richard Barrington; I shall
not forget the name."
"Not my lover, Marie."
"Ah, mademoiselle, why pretend with me? Yours is not the first secret I
have kept."
CHAPTER XIX
CITIZEN SABATIER TURNS TRAITOR
The Rue Charonne in the neighborhood of the Chat Rouge was a busy
street. Its importance as a business quarter had been on the increase
for some years, yet in the adjoining back streets extreme poverty
existed and there were warrens of iniquity into which the law had feared
to penetrate too deeply. It was an old part of the city, too, built on
land once belonging to a monastery whose memory was still kept alive by
the names of mean streets and alleys into which byways respectable
citizens did not go. There were stories current of men who had ventured
and had never come forth again. With some of the inhabitants, it was
asserted, the attainment of an almost worthless trinket, or a single
coin, or even a garment, was considered cheap as the price of murder;
and so intricate were the streets, so honeycombed with secret
hiding-places known only to the initiated, that attempts to enforce
justice had almost invariably ended in failure. Naturally this squalid
neighborhood materially swelled the yelling crowds who, in the name of
patriotism, openly defied all law and order, and made outrage and murder
a national duty as they drank, and danced, and sang the "Ca-ira,"
flaunting their rags, sometimes even their nakedness.
Into the midst of such a crowd Richard Barrington had walked as he went
to the Chat Rouge; as bloodthirsty a mob as he could possibly have
encountered in all Paris, and the Rue Charonne had been turned into
Pandemonium when it was realized that the quarry had escaped. Houses
were forcibly entered, men and women insulted and ill-used, the Chat
Rouge was invaded and searched, the landlord barely escaping with his
life. The opportunity to drink without cost presently kept the mob busy,
however, and as the liquor took effect the work of searching was
abandoned for the night, but the next morning the crowd came together
again, and for days it was unsafe to go abroad in the Rue Charonne.
Of this quarter was Citizen Jacques Sabatier, never so criminal as many
of his fellows, perhaps, yet a dangerous man. He might pass along these
streets in safety, and since he had become a man of some importance, had
influence with this mob. Through him Raymond Latour could count upon the
support of those who dwelt in the purlieus of the Rue Charonne, but both
he and his henchman knew perfectly well that there were times when any
attempt to exert such influence would be useless. Sabatier, waiting by
the Chat Rouge, had heard the sudden cry, "An aristocrat! The American!"
yet he dared not have interfered openly to save Barrington. Had the
fugitive not turned suddenly into the archway where Sabatier waited, it
is certain that Sabatier would not have gone out to rescue him. The
chance to help him at little risk had offered itself, and he had taken
it.
As Richard Barrington rose to his feet in the straw, he was in pitch
darkness, but not alone. There was a quick movement beside him, and then
a voice whispering in his ear:
"A narrow escape. Give me your hand; I will lead you into a place of
greater safety."
Barrington had no idea who his deliverer was, but he thanked him and
took his hand. He was led along evil-smelling passages into which no ray
of light penetrated, but which were evidently familiar to his guide.
There were turnings, now to right, now to left, an opening and shutting
of doors, and finally entrance into a wider space where the air was
comparatively fresh.
"One moment and I will get a light."
The dim light from the lantern revealed a small chamber, square and
built of stone, the work of a past age. A barred grating high up in the
wall let in air, and possibly light in the daytime. A common chair and
table standing in the center, a bowl with a water can beside it in one
corner, and a heap of straw in another comprised the furniture. These
things Barrington noticed at once, and then recognized that the man who
set the lantern on the table was Jacques Sabatier.
"A prison," said Barrington.
"A place of refuge, citizen," was the answer. "Were you not here, you
would be decorating a lantern by this time."
"We meet in Paris under strange circumstances," said Barrington.
"Still we do meet. Did I not say at Tremont that every true patriot must
sooner or later meet Jacques Sabatier in Paris, though for that matter I
expected it to be in a wine shop and not here, underground."
"Where are we?"
"In a cell of the old monastery which once stood hard by the Rue
Charonne, which has served as a cellar at some time, but now for a long
while has been forgotten. Citizen Latour would have been here with
mademoiselle to meet you, but the mob in the neighborhood will keep them
away to-night. You must wait here, monsieur, it may be for some days."
"Mademoiselle is safe?"
"Quite safe in the care of Deputy Latour. I had the honor of helping him
to bring her out of the Abbaye prison."
"And what are Citizen Latour's plans for getting her out of Paris?"
"He is making them, but they change from day to day as the circumstances
change. At the first opportunity he will come to you."
"I must wait with what patience I can," said Barrington.
"And remain as quiet as you can," said Sabatier. "The crowd will be
hunting for you for some time, and a noise might attract them."
"I shall not court death; I have a good deal to live for," said
Barrington.
"Then, monsieur, I will leave you. Citizen Latour will be distressed
until he knows you are safe."
Richard Barrington's patience was destined to be sufficiently tried. It
was a poor, miserable caricature of daylight which found its way through
the barred grating, and for three days Sabatier visited him every
morning with the same news that the crowds parading the Rue Charonne
made it impossible for Latour to come.
"Is it necessary to lock me in?" Barrington asked.
"It is not to prevent your going out, monsieur, but to insure that your
enemies do not come in."
"I feel like a prisoner."
"Better that than falling into the hands of the mob."
On the fourth day Sabatier brought a message from Latour. Barrington's
servant Seth had been to him inquiring about his master. Naturally,
perhaps, he was not inclined to believe Latour's word that he was safe,
and unless he had some definite proof might ruin everything by making
inquiries in other directions.
"Will you write a letter to your servant, monsieur, telling him to wait
until he has further instructions from you?"
"Might he not come to me here?"
"For the present that would be too dangerous," Sabatier answered. "I
come and go, monsieur, because I was bred in this quarter of the city.
The mob claims me as a part of it, and truly I am, except in this
business. I began by simply obeying Citizen Latour, for my own benefit,
I make no secret of it; now I am also interested in Monsieur
Barrington."
The letter to Seth was written and given to Sabatier to deliver. Two
more weary days of waiting passed, and then late one afternoon Raymond
Latour came.
Barrington welcomed him, both hands held out to him.
"It was bravely done," he exclaimed. "You must have run great risk in
getting her from the Abbaye prison."
"Yes, great risk. I have come to talk to you about it."
Latour ignored the outstretched hands. He stood in front of Barrington
with folded arms. There was something amiss.
"What has happened?" Barrington asked.
"The usual thing when an honest man trusts a liar; the honest man has
been deceived."
"You speak of--"
"Of one Richard Barrington, a liar I was fool enough to trust. Oh, this
is no time for fighting," Latour went on quickly, as sudden anger
stiffened Barrington's figure, and gave a dangerous fire to his eyes.
"You will be wise to hear me out. This was a place of safety, it is a
prison, and a word from me will send you to the guillotine as surely as
we are standing face to face at this moment."
"First prove me a liar; afterward threaten me if you will," Barrington
returned.
Latour regarded him in silence for a few moments and then said slowly:
"Tell me, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"
"Jeanne! She has gone?" cried Barrington. "Sabatier said she was with
you, that she--"
"It is well done, monsieur; I am no longer a fool or I might be
convinced, might still be deceived."
"For Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean," and Barrington spoke
hoarsely.
"If it pleases you to keep up the deception, let me put facts plainly,"
said Latour. "You admit the risk I ran in securing an escape from the
Abbaye Prison; you know that the risk was run to no purpose. It was well
planned, it was successful, but the woman rescued was not Mademoiselle
St. Clair."
"You made a mistake?"
"There was no mistake. The woman was Pauline Vaison, a woman Lucien
Bruslart has promised to marry. The mob found her in his apartment, took
her for the aristocrat, and carried her to prison in the place of
mademoiselle. You are Bruslart's friend and accomplice. I ask you again,
where is Jeanne St. Clair?"
It never occurred to Richard Barrington that Latour might be deceiving
him, and for the moment he had no thought how he could best convince
Latour that he was innocent of any deception. He was utterly overwhelmed
by the news. Deep down in his heart he had never really trusted Lucien
Bruslart, and all this time Jeanne had been in his hands. Bruslart then
had lied from the first, had imposed upon him his feigned grief, and all
the time he had been perfecting some foul plot. What had become of
Jeanne? The horrible possibilities unnerved him, took the heart out of
him. He was as a man who when brought face to face with peril is afraid,
who shrinks back and would fly if he could. Latour knew nothing of the
thoughts rushing through Barrington's brain, he only saw a man with the
courage suddenly gone out of him; he put his own construction upon his
manner and laughed.
"It is always unpleasant when the time comes to pay for such deceit," he
said.
"I swear to you"
"Spare yourself. I have asked you a question. I want it answered."
"I don't know where she is. I wish to Heaven I did."
"It suits my purpose to give you time to think better of your answer,"
said Latour. "You shall even buy your miserable life by telling the
truth. When you tell me where Mademoiselle St. Clair is, you shall leave
this prison, not before. I will even do something to get you safely out
of Paris and to the seacoast."
"I tell you I do not know. Find Bruslart, ask him."
"I have you safe, that is enough; and I would advise you to come to my
terms quickly. There is no escape except through me. Your letter has
silenced your servant, and his patience is likely to outlast mine. Tell
the truth quickly, Monsieur Barrington; it will be safer."
Latour turned to the door, but Barrington sprang toward him and caught
him by the arm.
"Are you mad? Think of her; she is in Bruslart's hands."
Latour wrenched himself free, and as he turned sharply there was a
pistol in his hand.
"Stand where you are! I would shoot you like a dog rather than let you
escape."
"The devil take you for a fool!" exclaimed Barrington. "I thought I had
a man to deal with!" and he turned his back upon Latour, who went out of
the room, locking the door after him.
Barrington's anger was quickly absorbed in the realization of the utter
hopelessness of his position. Latour had trapped him. When he sent him
the appointment to come to the Chat Rouge, he must have known what he
had told him to-day; he had deliberately said nothing until after Seth's
anxiety had been quieted; and his jailer, Jacques Sabatier, was a party
to the deceit. Latour had it firmly fixed in his mind that he was in
league with Bruslart, and it seemed that nothing short of a miracle
would drive this idea out of his mind. Barrington could conceive no way
in which he could convince him, and the thought that all this while
Jeanne was in peril almost drove him mad. Could he escape? For the first
time since he had entered it he examined his stone cellar carefully. It
was a very grave for security.
When Sabatier visited him next morning, his manner gave Barrington an
idea. Sabatier entered more carefully than he was wont to do, his hand
upon a pistol thrust into his tri-color sash. It was evident he feared
attack. His greeting was friendly, however; he showed a keen interest in
the prisoner, and gave him odds and ends of news which were of little
importance.
"Any message for Citizen Latour?" he asked as he was leaving.
"Tell him he is a fool."
Why should Barrington not attack and overpower his jailer? It might be
useless, perhaps others were watching in the passage without, ready to
rush in at the slightest sound; still, it would be something attempted.
He had succeeded in silencing the man at the Lion d'Or that night, why
should he not succeed again?
The next morning Sabatier came before his time, Barrington was not ready
to take him unawares. Again he asked the same question, and Barrington
gave him a similar answer.
"Tell Latour he is a fool."
"I will. He may end by believing it. I may have news for you to-morrow."
There was meaning in the words, a suggestion that the news might be good
news. Barrington decided to give his jailer a chance of telling it.
Sabatier came at the usual hour.
"Do you bring news?" Barrington asked.
"Citizen Latour remains a fool. I mean it. I do not believe you know
where mademoiselle is."
"Then you will help me?"
"Monsieur, I try every day to persuade Deputy Latour that he is
mistaken."
"We must try another way, Sabatier."
"I will, if monsieur will agree to what I say. I have to think of
myself, and Citizen Latour is a dangerous man to thwart. For a day or
two longer I will try and persuade him; if I fail I will do my best to
help you to escape, but you must be patient or you put my neck under the
knife. Do you agree?"
"Agree! I must. I have no choice."
"Your servant Seth might help me; where shall I find him?"
"My good friend, how can I tell? Paris is a large place," was the prompt
answer. Barrington was not going to speak of Monsieur Fargeau. His house
might presently prove the only safe retreat for him in the city.
"It is a pity, but I shall manage alone," Sabatier answered. "Am I to
give the usual answer to Citizen Latour?"
"Yes. Can any answer be better than the truth?"
Had a miracle happened? Was this man honestly meaning to help him, or
had he seen that the prisoner intended to attack him and chosen this way
of protecting himself? Barrington could not tell. He could only wait and
see.
CHAPTER XX
THE LETTER
Jacque Sabatier is busy in these days, also his master Raymond Latour.
Their private affairs must proceed as quickly as possible, but there are
public affairs which must be done at once, which cannot wait, which a
frenzied people loudly demand with cursings and dancings and mad songs.
War thunders along the frontiers, and passes beyond them. Such a
gathering of nations in arms that right and justice may be done, is a
new thing. Paris has realized its danger, has known it for weeks past;
Jacques Danton, mighty in the Club of the Cordeliers, has urged it with
great words, with a great voice which has made the rafters ring; more,
he has shown how the danger must be met. Safety lies in daring, not once
but again and always. "De l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de
l'audace et la France est sauvee." It is a battlecry which has stirred
hearts, and sent ill-conditioned men to face trained regiments, which
are surprised when such a ragged rabble does not turn and run. Courage
is under those rags and something of true patriotism. But there are
other patriots in Paris, and of a different sort. The frontiers are a
long way off, but here to hand is work for them, work which is easy and
pleases them. The Place de la Revolution is their battlefield where they
can yell their war crys and their war songs; their weapon is the
guillotine, and the guillotine is always victorious. The enemy, cursed
aristocrats, and others not aristocrats but equally cursed because they
differ from the people and the people's demigods, are foredoomed to
defeat and death. Only one thing is lacking, sufficient enemies that the
guillotine may not stand idle. Each day must bring its excitement. The
denizens of the slums and alleys of Paris must have their amusement day
by day. The inhabitants of the narrow streets off the Rue Charonne have
forgotten the American they hunted so fiercely, although Richard
Barrington waiting in his underground prison does not know it. They are
yelling, half afraid of their own audacity, for another victim. They
gather daily, in another part of the city, by the Riding Hall close to
the Tuileries. There is excitement in plenty here. In the Rue Charonne
one might walk in safety.
From the Temple prison an aristocrat, more, a king, has been brought to
answer the charges made against him. They are charges only recently
framed and strangely got together. Save that he is a king, which he
cannot help, what charges can be brought against him? None. There are
many who would make them on the flimsiest foundation, but even such a
foundation does not exist. Danton himself cannot send a king to the
Place de la Revolution for nothing. That would be to dare too greatly.
They have found nothing at the Tuileries or at Versailles to condemn
him. Roland has had diligent search made, fearful perchance of some
letters of his own being found; even the cesspools of the palace have
been dragged. There is no result worth the trouble. No drawer has any
secret to give up save one which has no accusation in it, a child's
letter, simple, loving wishes for a happy New Year, signed by the
little Dauphin, addressed to "My dear Papa." Little enough can Roland
make out of this, for he has no ability to understand even the pathos of
it. Then one day there comes from Versailles, one, Francois Gamain by
name, a locksmith of that place, a coward fearful for his own safety.
The king has been fond of lock-making, something of the craft Gamain has
taught him, and the king has shared a secret with him. There is a
hiding-place in a corridor behind the king's bedroom, which Gamain has
helped to make, which he now shows to Roland. There are papers there,
many of them, enough in them to prepare evidence against the king and
many others, if necessary; and lest this should fail Gamain has a story
that when the work was done the king attempted to poison him so that the
secret might be safe. So the king must be tried. And louder than ever
thunders the war along the frontier while this trial goes forward. There
can be no quarter, no terms of peace. The sword is sharply naked, there
is no scabbard in which to sheath it. What gauge shall France hurl at
the feet of her enemies? Once again Danton, mighty in the Club of the
Cordeliers, suggests the answer: Why not the head of a king?
Raymond Latour was busy. Little time could he give to Sabatier when he
came each morning to make report of the prisoner in his cell
underground; he was not inclined to listen to Sabatier's persuasion, or
to be impressed by his henchman's ideas.
"He knows where she is. He shall tell the truth."
It was Latour's daily statement, although Sabatier thought it was less
definitely said as the days passed. He was not sure whether Latour's
faith in his conviction was wavering, or whether it was only that he
had other things to think of.
Those who served Latour were kept busy. It was a time when loss of
popularity might be dangerous, and their master had thrown his into the
balance. His voice had been heard in the Riding Hall where friends were
daily being divided and factions made. He had spoken on behalf of Louis
Capet. The head of a king was not necessary to save France. He had
naught to do with mercy, not even with expedience; Justice spoke louder
than either, and Justice would not be served by the death of Louis
Capet. There were some who roared at him, some who shouted for him; it
was difficult to tell which side was the more numerous. Robespierre
looked at Latour but said nothing. Danton tried argument. Barrere, the
President, tried to understand the popular feeling, and failed. Raymond
Latour had many friends, but he turned some old friends into enemies by
his speech. He was farseeing enough to know that his desire for Justice
was dangerous, would be doubly so unless his hold upon the different
sections of the populace was maintained. So Sabatier, Mercier, Dubois
and the rest had much to do in the districts and among those sections of
the populace where they had influence.
Still every morning, Sabatier kept Latour in mind of his private
affairs, and argued with him. He did not wait to receive advice, he gave
it, and in such a way that Latour listened. He was still convinced of
Barrington's deceit, but time was passing and mademoiselle was not
found.
"Even if he knows, the American is not a man to betray confidence. Under
like circumstances you would not speak yourself, citizen."
"True. I should go to the guillotine as he must."
"Not yet," said Sabatier. "Give him time and opportunity."
"Curse him," said Latour. "I want to hear no more about him, I only want
to know that mademoiselle is found."
In his daily visits to Barrington, Sabatier said little of what was
passing in Paris, but much to persuade him to patience; and as he went
along the streets he kept his eyes open hoping to see Seth. He did not
see him, yet another man gave him the clew and unwittingly directed him
to the house of Citizen Fargeau.
Seth went little abroad in these days. It was not fear which kept him
within doors, but the hope of receiving at any moment further word of
his master. Everything might depend on prompt action when the moment
came. Few men could remain so patiently inactive as Seth, once he was
convinced that inaction was the best course to pursue. This Latour had
not lied to him. The promised letter from Richard Barrington had been
given to him, he knew that it was genuine, and was content to obey that
letter. For the time being he was as little interested in politics as
Fargeau was, and the news of the king's trial which came into this quiet
retreat had an unreal sound about it, like a faint echo of something
happening a great way off. Richard Barrington filled Seth's mind, he had
little room for any other thoughts.
One evening there came a knock at his door and the servant of Monsieur
de Lafayette entered.
"News, at last," Seth said, and in a tone which showed that in spite of
his patience, the waiting had been weary work.
"A letter," the man answered.
Seth looked at it. It was addressed to Richard Barrington, just the
name written, that was all.
"How did you get it?" asked Seth.
"A girl brought it only to-day. She asked for my master, and when I told
her he was not in Paris, she asked where she could find Monsieur
Barrington. I did not tell her, but I said I could deliver the letter."
Seth nodded as he turned the letter over and over, a puzzled expression
in his face.
"She seemed doubtful about leaving it with me, but in the end did so,
saying it was a matter of life and death."
"It's good of you to have brought it," said Seth. "She did not say who
it was from?"
"No."
"Look at the writing again and tell me if by any chance it comes from
the Marquis."
"That's a woman's writing," said the man.
"But not a writing you know?"
"Quite strange to me."
When he was alone, Seth locked his door and again examined the writing.
His master only knew one woman in Paris, and surely she could not be
writing to him. She must know where he was. If she didn't, then in some
fashion Latour had deceived him. He put the letter on the table and
began to walk slowly about the room.
"It is right that I should open it," he said suddenly. "It may be a
matter of life and death to Master Richard. He will forgive me."
He took up the letter, and after a little hesitation tore it open.
"It is from her," he said, glancing at the name on the last of the
scraps of paper of which the letter was composed. "I was right to open
it."
He sat down by the table and read it slowly, certain portions of it he
read a second time, and at intervals made a sound with his mouth like an
oath cut short, or a gasp of surprise half suppressed. So Latour had
lied, and Bruslart had lied, and mademoiselle was--
"A life and death matter! It's true. It is. Oh, Master Richard, where
are you? It's your letter. She calls to you. What can I do?"
The words were muttered in hot haste as though the answer must come
quickly. It did.
"Your letter, yet mine since you are not here. So your work becomes
mine, Master Richard. I must rescue mademoiselle. How? Let me think. Let
me think. God, help me to think."
There was a slow, heavy footstep upon the stairs, and in a moment Seth
had hidden the letter. Then a knock at the door. Seth opened it, and
stood face to face with Jacques Sabatier, who had his finger upon his
lip.
"Let me in, citizen. I have turned traitor and have a story to tell."
CHAPTER XXI
THE MARQUIS DE CASTELLUX
Much the same thing had Sabatier said to Richard Barrington only that
morning.
"Deputy Latour will not believe in you," he explained. "He is a fool as
I have told him each day, giving him your message, and I am tired of
serving fools. A day or two, monsieur, and you shall be free. Sabatier
promises that. I am turning traitor."
Barrington thanked him, he could do no less, yet he felt little trust in
a man who could confess so glibly to treachery. He would believe the
promise when his prison door stood open, when he was free to walk out
unhindered, not before.
That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one
which preceded it. Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on
Barrington. This underground dungeon, it was little better, was
gradually taking the heart out of him. At first he had been able to
forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him.
Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.
To-night he was restless. The silence about him was like the silence of
the grave, this place was almost as hopeless as the grave. He wondered
how thick these stone walls might be, whether there were other dungeons
beyond where other prisoners wore out their hearts. He stood beneath the
barred grating for a little while, listening. Even the world without
seemed dead. No sound ever came through that narrow opening. What saint,
or repentant sinner had dragged out his days here when this was a cell
in a monastery? Had he never regretted his vows and longed for the world
of sunshine and rain, of blue sky and breezy plain, of star-lit nights
and rough weather? Surely he must have done? The world of sinners was a
fairer place than this stone dwelling though a saint lodged in it. Truly
it was a secure hiding place, or a prison where one might easily be
forgotten. The thought was a horrible one, and Barrington went to the
door. It was locked. It was a stout door, too, of wood and iron. If
Latour and Sabatier were arrested, as might easily happen, that door
would remain locked. Probably no other person knew that he was there. He
was in the mood when such thoughts cannot be driven out of the brain.
There was half a bottle of thin wine remaining from his last meal, and
he drank it greedily. His throat was suddenly dry and his hand was
unsteady as he raised the glass to his lips. He was conscious of the
fact, shook himself, stamped his foot sharply on the stone floor, and
spoke to himself aloud.
"This is cowardice, Richard, and for cowardice there is no excuse."
Something like that his mother had once said to him. He had not
remembered it until he had spoken the words, and then the recollection
brought many scenes to his mind, dreams of youth, back, how far back?
how long ago? memories of old times, a green hummock and the blue waters
of Chesapeake Bay. The world had changed since then. Father, mother
gone, voices silent forever, loved voices never to be forgotten; and
yet, in those days there had been no Jeanne.
"Jeanne!" he said aloud. "Jeanne!"
Then he was silent, and his nerves grew tense. The silence was suddenly
broken, not rudely but stealthily as a thief breaks it, or as one who
knows that crime is best accomplished in the night; a key was being
fumbled into the lock. Sabatier would open quickly, knowing the key and
the lock, besides, Sabatier had never come at this hour. It was a
stranger. Friend or foe? Barrington moved towards the door. Whoever came
would find him awake, ready to sell life dearly, perchance to win
freedom. The key was pushed home and turned. The door opened cautiously.
"Seth!"
"Hush, Master Richard. I know not what danger is near us, but come
quickly and quietly. Bring that lantern. We must chance the light until
I find the way."
Barrington caught up the lantern from the table and followed him.
"He said to the right," whispered Seth.
"Who said so?" asked Barrington.
"Sabatier."
"Is he honest?"
"I don't know, Master Richard, but he brought me through many vaults and
showed me the door, then left me quickly. He did not lie when he said
you were behind it; and see, a way to the right and steps. He did not
lie about them either."
They went up the stairs cautiously, Seth leading, and at the top was a
trapdoor, unfastened, easily lifted.
"Again he told the truth," Seth whispered.
They were in a cellar full of rubbish, evil smelling, too, and at the
end was a door; a turned handle opened it, and a few steps brought them
up into a passage.
"Set down the lantern, Master Richard, and blow it out. We shall not
need it. Come quietly."
The passage led to an open door, and they stepped into the street,
little more than a narrow alley, dark and silent.
"Sabatier said to the right. All is well so far. Shall we follow his
instructions to the end?"
"Yes," Barrington answered.
They came without hindrance into a wider street. It was the street in
which Barrington had been attacked by the mob; half of that crowd must
have come down this very alley. They went quickly, their direction
towards Monsieur Fargeau's house. They entered the street in which it
stood, and then Seth stopped.
"We don't go in yet, Master Richard, I have something to show you first.
There is a little wine shop here, unknown to patriots, I think. It is
safe, safer than Monsieur Fargeau's perchance."
The shop was empty. A woman greeted them and brought them wine.
"Read that letter, Master Richard. I will tell you how I got it, and why
I opened it, afterwards."
So Jeanne's letter came into the hands of the man she had turned to in
her peril and distress.
Even as he read it, bending over the scraps of paper in the poorly
lighted wine shop, she was eagerly questioning Marie. The letter was of
such immense importance to her, so much hung upon it, that now it had
gone Jeanne began to wonder whether the best means of getting it into
the right hands had been taken, whether a surer method might not have
been thought of.
"Monsieur Barrington had not left Paris?"
"No, mademoiselle, for the man said he would deliver the letter."
"Will he, Marie, will he? Do you think he was honest?"
"Yes, oh yes, he was honest, or I should not have parted with the
letter."
"But he could have told you where Monsieur Barrington was and let you
deliver it," said Jeanne.
"He would not do that, and he had a reason, a good one," Marie answered.
"It was necessary that Monsieur Barrington's whereabouts should be kept
secret. He could not tell any one where he was, he had promised. For all
he knew I might be an enemy and the letter a trick. He would deliver it
if I left it with him."
"You could do nothing else, Marie."
"What troubles me, mademoiselle, is how the gentleman is to help you to
get away from this house," said the girl. "The master does not let
people go unless he is told to by--by powerful men, men he must obey. I
think he is as afraid of them as I am of him."
"Ah, Marie, if the letter only reaches Monsieur Barrington most of the
danger is gone," said Jeanne. "He will find a way, I know he will.
Somehow, he will help me. He is a brave man, Marie, I know, I know. He
has saved me twice already. I should have no fear at all were I certain
that he had the letter."
The girl was silent for a moment, and then said quietly--
"It must be wonderful to have a lover like that."
Perhaps Jeanne was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the
girl's words, perhaps she considered it impossible to make Marie
understand that it is not only a lover who will do great things for a
woman; at any rate, she made no answer. It mattered little what the girl
thought.
It was difficult for Jeanne to live her days quietly, to look and behave
as though the coming Saturday had no especial meaning for her. Legrand,
when she met him, was more than usually courteous, and Jeanne was
careful to treat him as she had always done. He might be watching her,
and it would be well to attract as little attention as possible. She
could not tell what might happen if only her letter had found its way
into Richard Barrington's hands. How could he help her? What could he
do?
It was January, and cold, but the weather was fine and sunny. At noon it
was pleasant to walk in the garden, and many of the guests did so. The
Abbe took his daily walk there even when it rained. He might have been
the host by his manner, and was certainly the ruling spirit. Even
Legrand seemed a little afraid of him and treated him with marked
respect. The Abbe was a worldling, a lover of purple and fine linen and
of the people who lived in them; he was therefore especially attentive
to Jeanne St. Clair, knowing that she belonged to one of the noblest
families in the land. With him Jeanne took her daily walk in the garden,
and had little need to say much, for the Abbe loved to hear himself
talk; she could think her own thoughts, could even be depressed without
the Abbe noticing the fact. His companionship enabled her to escape from
the other guests for a while without any apparent effort on her part to
withdraw herself from the daily routine. She took her place in the
evening amusements, occupied a seat at one of the card tables, danced
and smiled, met wit with wit, and was envied by some who were not so
sure of the coming Saturday as mademoiselle must surely be.
In her walks Jeanne's eyes wandered along the top of the high garden
walls. Richard Barrington might come that way, or at least give her a
sign that way; and when she could be alone without raising comment she
watched from her window which overlooked the garden.
So the Monday and the Tuesday passed, and Wednesday dawned. How fast the
week was passing! Her letter to Richard Barrington had been very urgent.
She had told him all about this house, the purpose for which it was
used, how the garden stood in regard to it. She had explained the
general routine, had given the names of the guests. If he was to help
her the fullest information would be of use. There might be some point
in her description of which he could take advantage. This was Wednesday,
and he had made no sign. Surely he had never got the letter.
Had not the Abbe been so fond of hearing the sound of his own voice, had
he not been so used to his brilliant listener, he must surely have noted
that Jeanne was not herself to-day as they walked in the garden.
"There is a new arrival I hear, mademoiselle."
"Indeed. I thought every room was occupied."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I fear there must be some one who is not able to pay
next Saturday. I have often noticed that new arrivals have come a day or
two before the time, putting up with anything until the room was left
vacant for them on Saturday."
"I wonder who is going," said Jeanne.
"It is a pity we cannot pick and choose," the Abbe returned. "There are
one or two in the company we could well dispense with."
Jeanne's eyes flashed at his callousness, but he did not notice.
"There are some here that Legrand ought not to have taken," the Abbe
went on.
"But they pay."
"Ah, mademoiselle, you have hit it. They pay, and this fellow Legrand is
satisfied. He has no sense of the fitness of things, yet this house has
the name of being exclusive."
"I am sorry for those who go, whoever they may be," said Jeanne.
"It is natural. I am not unsympathetic; but since some one must go it
seems a pity we cannot choose."
"Is it a man or woman who has come?"
"A man; his name the Marquis de Castellux. If my memory serves me, it is
a Breton name, a good family, but one which has not figured largely at
Court."
"He should be an acquisition," said Jeanne.
"I hope so, mademoiselle. We may find him provincial, yet not without
wit or merit. I will make his acquaintance, and with your permission
will present him to you. You can give me your opinion when we talk
together to-morrow."
How near Saturday was! This new arrival emphasized the fact. She was the
one who was going, and it was this room, her room, that he would occupy
presently. Even the selfish, callous Abbe would regret that she was the
one to go. She could picture the surprise in his face when he saw her
empty place. She would not tell him.
Jeanne stayed in her room this afternoon. It could not matter whether
her absence was heeded or not. Nothing mattered now. Richard Barrington
had not got her letter. The one friend she had in Paris did not know
how sorely she needed him. Somehow, somewhere, he might hear what had
happened, what would he say? No actual answer came to this mental
question, but a train of thought was started in her brain bringing
strange fancies. Perhaps Richard Barrington loved her. In an indefinite
way she had considered this possibility before, but it was a passing
fancy, not to be dwelt upon. Homage from such a man was pleasant, but
she loved Lucien. She must be careful in this man's company, and if he
overstepped ordinary courtesy in the least, she must show him plainly
that she loved Lucien. Surely she had shown him this already. But to-day
the thought was not to be so lightly dismissed, and a warm glow at her
heart told her how pleasant the idea was. Lucien appeared to have faded
out of her life. She could not believe him false, but his image had
grown altogether dim, while this other man was real, vital. Even now she
could feel the pressure of his hand as it had held hers as they ran
together from the Lion d'Or that night. She could see the encouragement
in his eyes when they had quarreled loudly as they entered the barrier
next morning. She remembered the look in his face when she had last seen
him in Monsieur de Lafayette's apartment, when he had said he was always
at her service. He would surely remember that last meeting, too, should
he ever know that she had sent him a letter which had never reached him.
"Yes, he loves me, it must be so," she said, and she rose and looked
from her window into the empty garden which was growing dark now at the
close of the short day. "I am glad. It gives me courage. I will be
worthy of the love of such a man, though he will never know that he
influenced me, will never know that I was glad he loved me. This Doctor
Legrand, this miserable bargainer in lives, shall not see a trace of
fear or regret in me. Wednesday passes. Three more days. I will make a
brave show in them, and pass out to whatever fate awaits me with steady
step and head erect, worthy of my father's name, worthy of--worthy of
him."
There was a smile on her lips as she entered the salon that night, no
brilliant apartment, it is true, and somewhat dimly lighted for a scene
of festivity. Some one said they were to dance that night, and card
tables were set ready for players. There were many brave hearts there,
shadowed hearts--misery concealed by a smile.
"Yes, I will dance presently," said Jeanne to a man who greeted her.
"Cards! Yes, I will play. How, else should we fill such long evenings?"
Others caught her spirit. An animation came into the conversation, there
was real laughter.
"Mademoiselle," said a voice behind her, the voice of the Abbe, sonorous
and important. "Mademoiselle, permit me the honor to present to you the
Marquis de Castellux."
Jeanne turned, the smile still upon her lips. The Marquis bowed so low
his face was hidden for a moment, but he took her hand and, as he raised
it to his lips, pressed it sharply.
"I am honored, mademoiselle."
Then his head was raised. The smile was still upon her lips, kept there
by a great effort. The sudden pressure of her fingers had warned her,
and she gave no sign of her astonishment.
She was looking into the face of Richard Barrington.
CHAPTER XXII
THE COMING OF SATURDAY
"Monsieur L'Abbe."
"Mademoiselle."
"I find Monsieur de Castellux very pleasant, a little provincial as you
supposed, but with wit. We have common friends, too, who have suffered.
We shall have much to talk about."
Barely an hour had passed since the introduction, and very little
conversation had passed between Jeanne and Barrington, but that little
had been to the point.
"We have much to say to one another, mademoiselle," Barrington said; "we
must let these people believe that we have common interests to account
for our friendship. The Abbe is inclined to be inquisitive, you must
explain to him. I will casually let others know that our families are
connected. Where is it easiest to be alone here?"
"In the breakfast room."
"No one watches us there?"
"I think not. There is no desire to run away; people remain here to be
safe."
"Then to-morrow, mademoiselle," said Barrington. "We will not notice
each other much further to-night."
Jeanne did as she was told, it seemed natural to obey Richard
Barrington, and she explained to the Abbe, who was delighted that so
presentable a person had joined the company.
"Mademoiselle, I shall look to become better acquainted with him," he
said. "Most probably he and I have common friends, too."
It was not until Jeanne had shut herself in her own room that night,
that she realized fully what the coming of Richard Barrington meant to
her. It was still Wednesday, but what a difference a few short hours had
made! Saturday had lost its meaning for her. There was no sense of fear
or apprehension at her heart; she was strangely happy. Not a word of his
plans had Richard Barrington whispered to her, no explanation of how he
came to be there; he told her that he had got her letter, that was all.
Yet she suddenly felt safe. That which was best to be done, Richard
Barrington would do, and it would certainly be successful. On this point
no doubts disturbed her. Doubts came presently in another way. The
reflection in her mirror brought them. She remembered the face which had
looked out at her only a few hours ago, and the face that laughed at her
now was a revelation. There was color in the cheeks, so bright a color
she did not remember to have noticed before, not even in those moments
when she had been tempted to compare herself favorably with other women;
there was a sparkle in the eyes that never since the flight from Paris
to Beauvais had she seen in them. It was a joyous, happy girl who looked
back at her from the depths of the mirror, and Jeanne turned away
wondering. It was natural she should feel safe now Richard Barrington
had come, but how was the great joy in her heart to be accounted for?
Would it have been there had it been Lucien who had come to save her?
The question seemed to ask itself, without any will of hers, and the
little room seemed suddenly alive with the answer. It almost frightened
her, yet still she was happy. She sank on her knees beside the bed and
her head was lowered before the crucifix. The soul of a pure, brave
woman was outpoured in thankfulness; "Mother of God, for this help
vouchsafed I thank thee. Keep me this night, this week, always. Bring me
peace. Bring me--" The head sank lower, the lips not daring to ask too
much.
The morning came with sunlight in it, cold but clear. Jeanne peeped from
her window and was satisfied, peeped into the mirror, and wondered no
more at the smiling face there. She knew why such joy had come. She
could not reason about it, she did not attempt to do so; the knowledge
was all sufficient. It was Thursday morning. Saturday was very near.
What did it signify? Nothing. To-day it would be like spring in the
garden.
Barrington greeted Jeanne with the studied courtesy of a comparative
stranger.
"We must be careful," he whispered, "there are certain to be watchful
eyes. Show no interest or astonishment in what I tell you as we eat.
Remember, you are merely being courteous to a new arrival of whose
existence you have known something in the past."
"I understand. I shall listen very carefully."
"I am greatly honored, mademoiselle, by your letter. I need not ask
whether you trust me."
"Indeed, no," she answered.
"It might easily have come into my hands too late," Barrington went on.
"We are both victims of deception, and where the truth lies I cannot
tell even now. I will recount what has happened; you may be able to
throw some light upon it."
Barrington told her everything from his first meeting with Raymond
Latour when a filthy crowd was yelling round a prisoner, to the moment
when her letter had been handed to him by Seth.
"Your letter gave me an idea, mademoiselle. To help you I must become an
inmate of this house. Yesterday Seth brought me here, posing as a
wealthy eccentric relative anxious to place me in safety. I am a little
mad, and there is no knowing what folly I might commit were I allowed to
continue at liberty. My stay here is likely to be a long one, and my
relatives care little what they pay so long as I am out of their hands.
You may guess perhaps that Dr. Legrand asked few questions with such a
golden bribe before him. Now, mademoiselle, what do you know of this
Raymond Latour?"
"Nothing."
"But--"
"Nothing at all," Jeanne answered. "I have heard him spoken of as being
one of the leaders of the Revolution. To my knowledge I have never seen
him."
"Has Lucien Bruslart never mentioned him?"
"As we drove here that morning he said that this Latour was one of the
most bitter antagonists of aristocrats, and that he would do all in his
power to capture me. Lucien said this was the chief reason for bringing
me to this place of safety. I must tell you, Monsieur Barrington, that
on leaving you that morning, we got into a coach and drove straight
here. My coming had already been arranged for. I did not go to Lucien's
apartments at all. He did not seem inclined to trust either you or the
Marquis de Lafayette."
"He was justified perhaps in not trusting me on so slight an
acquaintance. I do not blame him. Still, I am much puzzled by his
subsequent actions, and the fact remains that while Lucien Bruslart has
done little for you, or so at least it appears, this man Latour most
certainly risked his life to get you out of the Abbaye prison."
"Yes; I do not understand it," said Jeanne; and then after a pause she
went on, "You read all my letter?"
"A dozen times," Barrington answered.
"Does it not help you to understand something?"
"Mademoiselle, you ask me a difficult question. I answer it directly,
and in spite of the fact that it must pain you, only because of the
seriousness of your position. I have never trusted Lucien Bruslart. I
believe he has played you false from first to last in this affair. I
believe he sent for you to come to Paris; how else could your coming
here have been arranged for? Honestly, I have tried to drive these
thoughts out of my mind as treacherous and unworthy, but your letter
seems only to confirm them. How is it your fees to this scoundrel
Legrand have not been paid? How is it your own money has been taken?
Bruslart is not in prison. Where is he? Could anything short of locks
and bars stop your lover from coming to you?"
He spoke in a low, passionate tone, but his face remained calm, and he
made no gesture of anger, of impatience. Watching him, the keenest eyes
could not have detected that he was moved in any way.
"My letter must have shown you the doubts in my mind," Jeanne answered
quietly. "Since you helped me into Paris at so much risk to yourself, I
cannot see that your thoughts could be called unworthy or treacherous."
"For all that, they were. Had you not loved Lucien Bruslart it would
have been different."
"Why?"
"That question must remain unanswered, mademoiselle."
Jeanne turned to him for a moment, but Barrington did not look at her.
"I think I know," she said quietly, after a pause. "Some other day I
shall ask the question again, monsieur--if we live. I wrote my letter to
the one friend I knew I had in Paris; that man is now beside me. I have
no fear, Monsieur Barrington, just because you are here. You are risking
your life for me, not for the first time. If you fail it means my death
as well as yours. I would rather it came that way than any other, and I
am not afraid. Tell me your plans."
For a few moments Barrington was silent. "We will not fail," he said
suddenly. "I want to laugh and cry out for joy but dare not. I have been
in a dream, mademoiselle, while you have been speaking; sitting on a
small green mound looking across the bluest waters in the world. I shall
tell you about that mound and those waters some day. We shall live,
mademoiselle, never doubt that we shall live. My plan is not yet
complete, but--"
"This is Thursday," said Jeanne. "Saturday is very near."
[Illustration: "Never fear, Mademoiselle, we shall live."]
"I know. We go to-morrow night, but the exact details I cannot tell you
yet. There are one or two things I must find out first. I have arranged
everything as far as I can, but we cannot hope for much help from
others. The first thing is to get out of this trap, the rest we must
leave for the present. The Abbe yonder looks as though he envied me your
company, mademoiselle. I think you should go to him. I shall not
attempt to speak to you much more to-day. To-morrow morning we will meet
here again for a final word."
The Abbe was more than ever convinced of his own attractions as Jeanne
left the Marquis de Castellux with a little grave courtesy and joined
him. He had found her substitute a poor companion and walked much less
in the garden than usual.
"You find the Marquis very interesting?" he asked.
"Yes, but very provincial. One soon becomes weary of such company, yet
one must be kind, Monsieur l'Abbe," and Jeanne laughed lightly. She
appeared much more interested in him than she had been in the Marquis.
Richard Barrington talked to others for a little while, and then went
into the office. He found a servant and asked if he could see Legrand.
The doctor was out. Barrington was rather annoyed. He wanted to see the
room he was to have after Saturday. At present he was stalled like a
pig, he declared.
"Monsieur will have nothing to complain of after Saturday," the servant
answered.
"Which guest is leaving?"
"Pardon, monsieur, it is not etiquette to speak of it; but if monsieur
likes I can show him the room."
"Show it to me, then."
"I am a poor man, monsieur, and cannot afford to work for nothing."
"How much?" Barrington asked.
The servant named a price, and if he received many such fees he would
not long be able to call himself a poor man. Barrington paid him, and
was taken upstairs and shown Jeanne's room. He did not cross the
threshold, hardly glanced in at the door, in fact, but grumbled at its
size and its position. He would have liked this room or that. Why not
one at the end of this passage? He liked to be in a light passage.
"It is not a pleasant outlook this side, monsieur, stable roofs, a bare
wall and no garden."
"Truly, a prospect to drive a man to despair," growled Barrington,
looking from the passage window on to the roofs of outbuildings a few
feet below, and across at the house which these buildings joined, and
which was at the end of a row of houses facing the street. There was
only one window in that opposite wall, twelve or fourteen feet above
these outbuildings, a dirty window, fast shut.
"I think very little of Monsieur Legrand's asylum," said Barrington,
turning away in disgust. "I shall tell him so."
"Certainly, monsieur, if it will ease your mind."
"He is out, you say?"
"Since early this morning."
"He ought to stop here and look after his guests," and then Barrington
became apprehensive. "He would be angry if I told him so. Would he?"
"He might."
"Or if you told him I had said so?"
"Probably."
"You must not tell him. See, here is more money, and there will be more
still so long as you do not tell him."
The servant promised to be silent, and told the other servants that the
Marquis could be plundered at will. Barrington considered the money well
spent. He had examined the house without any risk of being caught
taking observations, and he had ascertained that Legrand could not have
spied upon him had he walked in the garden.
That night the Abbe decided that, although the Marquis had not made any
great impression on Mademoiselle St. Clair, he was a decided acquisition
to the establishment, witty within his provincial limits, the breed in
him unmistakable. At Versailles he would speedily have learned how to
become a courtier.
In the salon that evening there was dancing, and Barrington danced, but
not with Jeanne.
"I dare not, mademoiselle," he said in a whispered explanation. "I can
trust myself only to a certain point, and to touch you would be to
betray my happiness. I dare not run that risk. I am bent on showing that
I have no special regard for you, and that there is no reason why you
should give any special thought to me."
She did not answer, but the color was in her face, a glow was in her
heart.
When the Abbe went out into the garden on the following morning Jeanne
left the Marquis at once, and joined him for their usual walk. Certainly
she had not given the Marquis more than five minutes of her company. The
Abbe would have talked of him, but Jeanne pleaded that he should talk of
something interesting.
"Upon my honor, mademoiselle, I believe you will end by disliking poor
Monsieur de Castellux."
"Would that be worth while?" Jeanne asked.
She seemed to listen eagerly to all the Abbe said to her, but she was
thinking of her short conversation with Barrington. She must show no
excitement.
Legrand came into the salon that night. He took no notice of
Barrington, who was playing cards, totally absorbed in his game, but he
watched Jeanne for a little while, and presently approached her.
"You are very brave, mademoiselle," he said.
"Is it not best?"
"I am very grieved," said Legrand.
"Monsieur, you have heard nothing from--from Lucien Bruslart?"
"Nothing."
"To-morrow! Where will they take me to-morrow?"
"I do not know, mademoiselle. I am never told."
Late hours were not kept at the Maison Legrand, candles were an
expensive item. Jeanne was among the first to move this evening.
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