The Light That Lures
by
Percy Brebner
Part 5 out of 6
"Good night, Monsieur l'Abbe."
"Good night, mademoiselle," he said, raising her hand to his lips.
"To-morrow is Saturday. I wonder who goes to-morrow? We are happy in
having no anxiety."
Barrington was by the door and opened it for her.
"Does mademoiselle permit?" and as he bent over her hand he whispered,
"Be ready. Listen. Wait until I come."
CHAPTER XXIII
THE EMPTY HOUSE
The thought of the morrow was pleasant to Dr. Legrand. In his study he
bent over a paper of calculations, figures that appealed to the greedy
soul that was in him.
"Vive la Revolution," he murmured; "it makes me rich. He is careful,
this citizen, and does not trust me to fulfill a bargain. To-morrow I
shall have the papers; it will be early, and then--then the money. He
cannot escape without my help, he cannot escape me."
He put down his pen and rubbed his hands together. He was excited
to-night.
"I am sorry for mademoiselle," he said as he went to bed, but his sorrow
did not keep him awake, his conscience was too dead to trouble him. He
slept as a just man sleeps, soundly.
Jeanne did not sleep. She sat in the dark, waiting, listening. Doors
were shut in distant corridors, the house gradually grew quiet. She sat
with her hands clasped in her lap, a little excited, but not impatient.
How long she had waited, how long she would have to wait, she did not
know, but she had perfect faith, and did not become restless. A moment
was coming when she must act, and she was prepared. Just that moment
mattered and nothing else; all her thoughts were focused upon it.
It came suddenly, a scratching on the door, so light as to be inaudible
except to listening ears. Jeanne rose at once, silently opened the door,
which purposely she had not latched, and stepped into the passage. A
hand touched her on the arm and then slid down her arm until it clasped
her fingers. She was pulled forward gently.
"The stairs--carefully," whispered a voice.
Not a sound was in the house, nor in the world it seemed, as they went
down the stairs and along the passage to the window which overlooked the
roof of the outbuildings. The night was dark, overcast, not a star. This
was a window seldom opened. Last night Barrington had examined it, had
eased the latch; now there was hardly a sound as he opened it, only the
cold night air coming in.
"I go first," said Barrington; and he climbed out and dropped silently
on to the roof some five feet below. Jeanne followed, and he lifted her
down. Then he climbed up again, and, supporting himself on the sill,
closed the window.
"Give me your hand," he whispered; and he led her across the roof,
feeling his way carefully to prevent tripping over a partition or
gutter. Jeanne did not speak, but followed his whispered instructions;
she made no sound when he bent down and taking her foot placed it upon a
little parapet which they had to cross, and she stood perfectly still
until he lifted her down. A few paces more and Barrington stopped. He
guided her hand to a rope.
"Give me your other hand," he whispered.
Thar, too, he guided until it grasped a rope, a second rope. Then he
took her foot and put it upon a strand of rope which gave under her
weight.
"A ladder," he whispered. "I will hold you as far as I can, then you
must go up alone. A hand will be stretched down to help you. My man Seth
is at the window above."
Barrington gave a low whistle, hardly more than a sign, which was
answered from above.
"Now," he said.
He helped her as far as possible, then held the rope ladder as steady as
he could. In a few seconds another low whistle came from above, and
Barrington went up the ladder quickly. He climbed in at the open window,
drew up the ladder, and closed the window.
"An excellent night for our purpose, Master Richard," Seth whispered.
"Here is a sword, it is well to masquerade and be as much like truculent
ruffians as possible; and two cockades, one for mademoiselle."
"We are expected, Seth?"
"Yes, any time before morning. They are prepared for us."
"Where are we going?" whispered Jeanne.
"To the lodgings of a servant of Monsieur de Lafayette," Barrington
answered. "This is an empty house which we shall leave by a window
below. The worst is over. We shall be secure in our retreat until we can
leave Paris. Lead the way, Seth."
A set of rooms opened out into another, a door enclosing them from the
passage without. Seth led the way through the rooms and opened this door
quietly. Then he stopped and drew back a little.
"What is it?" said Barrington under his breath.
"Listen!"
Jeanne's hand was still in Barrington's, and he felt her fingers
tighten. To her the house was as still as death, the blackness of it
empty; but to her companions whose ears were trained to keenness, there
was movement in the air close to them.
"How many," Barrington whispered, not asking information, but rather
confirmation of his own estimate.
"Several," Seth answered.
"Tramps, perhaps, lodging here for the night."
"I fear not. They are on the stairs. We shall soon see," answered Seth.
"Lock the door; we must wait," said Barrington.
It was done in a moment, and immediately there were stealthy, shuffling
feet in the passage without.
"Curse them," muttered Seth. "I have been followed. For all my care I
have brought you into ruin. What can we do?"
"Wait."
"Master Richard, is there no other way of escape from that roof below?"
"None."
Jeanne's hand was still in his, still holding him tightly. He could not
feel that she trembled, yet he could not trust himself to speak to her.
He had failed to rescue her. There were many in the passage without, he
was sure of that. He could fight for her, die for her, but he could not
save her. He dared not speak to her lest he should cry out in the
anguish of his soul.
The handle of the door was tried, gently. Then there was silence again.
"Give us the woman and you may go free."
The words were not spoken loudly. It seemed like the offer of a secret
bargain, a suggestion in it that the woman might not hear, and might
never know that her companions had betrayed her to save themselves.
Then Jeanne spoke, in a whisper but quite clearly.
"It is the end. You have done all that a man could do. I thank you--I
thank you; and you, too, Seth. A woman never had truer friends."
She stretched out a hand to Seth, who caught it almost roughly and
pressed his lips to it.
There was pressure upon the door, and the cracking of the wood.
"There's quick death for the first man who crosses this threshold," Seth
muttered as he went to the door.
"Richard! Richard!"
"Jeanne!"
Barrington's head was lowered as he whispered her name. It seemed as
though failure had made him ashamed.
"I know your secret, dear, I know it and am glad," she whispered. "I
thank God that I am loved by such a man. I would rather be where I am at
this moment, by your side, than in the place of any other woman in the
world, however free she may be. Richard, kiss me."
"Jeanne! Jeanne!" he cried as he caught her in his arms. "I love you! I
love you! God, send a miracle to help us."
"He will let us be together soon and for always, if not here, in
heaven," she whispered.
"The door gives, Master Richard," Seth said.
"Back into the corner, Jeanne. Who knows what may happen?"
"We may win through, Master Richard. Be ready, the door will be down in
a moment."
The clumsy saber with which Seth had provided him was in his hand, as he
stepped forward in readiness. They might have retreated through the
other rooms, to the one into which they had climbed, closing every door
they could in the face of their enemies, but for what purpose? There was
no escape that way, time was no object to them, whereas it was just
possible that their assailants would expect them to do this and rush
past them. Barrington hastily whispered this possibility to Seth. There
was no time for an answer. The door splintered and broke, and the
foremost ruffians were shot into the room by the pressure of those
behind. There was no rush towards the rooms beyond, nor a shout of
triumph even. The first articulate sound was a cry from the man cut down
by Seth.
In the fierce struggle of an unequal fight a man thinks little. The
forcible present of each moment obliterates the past and future. Just
for one instant it occurred to Barrington that Jeanne might possibly
escape unnoticed if Seth and he fought savagely enough, and the next
moment he was putting this idea into action without any thought beyond
it. In the doorway there were men holding dim lanterns, and the light
flickered on savage faces, now here, now there. The room seemed full of
men, crowded, there was hardly room to fight effectually. Barrington
struck on this side and that, yet his blows never seemed to reach their
destination. For a little while he and Seth were back to back, but had
soon been separated. Now there seemed no order or purpose in the
struggle. It was a nightmare of confusion. A face glared into his for a
moment then disappeared, its place taken the next instant by another.
Strangely familiar faces some of them seemed, memories from dreams long
ago. There had been hands on the estate in Virginia, men he had been
rather afraid of when he was a little child; they seemed to stare at him
now for a moment, lit by a red fire which no longer seemed merely the
light from the lanterns. Then came other faces; that of the man he and
Seth had found on the Tremont road, that of Sabatier's companion at the
inn. Then the faces of the men who had made a rush for the stairs that
night at the Lion d'Or fiercely glared at him; then Mercier's, so close
that he could feel the hot breath upon his cheek. And then suddenly out
of the darkness glowed another face, that of the man who had looked at
him when he was caught in the crowd on his way to the Rue Charonne that
night, and it seemed to Barrington that once again he sprang forward to
make an attempt to save himself by flight. The illusion was complete,
for there was a voice of command in his ear. He struck at something that
was in his way, something which seemed to catch him by the throat, then
he jumped and fell. He was in darkness and silence.
Jeanne had started from her corner. Everything happened quickly. She
heard the door break inwards, saw a rush of men, and lanterns in the
opening. For a few moments she could distinguish Richard Barrington and
Seth. Then Seth fell, dragging others with him. For a little longer
Barrington struggled, and then from behind something was thrown over his
head and he was pulled backwards. Jeanne started from her corner with a
cry, and immediately arms were about her, holding her back.
"No harm will come to him, we are friends," said a voice in her ear. "A
sound may betray you and us."
She tried to speak, but could not. Her words were turned into a mumble.
A cloth was over her mouth and face, fastened tightly, strong arms
lifted her and carried her forwards. She could not see, she could not
struggle. The noise of the fighting grew rapidly less. She was being
swiftly carried away from it, now along a passage, now down two or three
flights of stairs. She was in the open air, the cold wind of the night
was about her. There were voices, a quick word or two, then other arms
were about her, placing her in a chair it seemed--no, a coach. Wheels
turned quickly on the uneven cobbles of the street, a horse galloped,
and then settled into a fast trot. Whether the journey was long or
short, Jeanne hardly knew, her brain was in a whirl, refusing to work
consecutively. The coach stopped, again strong arms lifted her, again a
passage, the night air still about her, then stairs up which she was
borne. A door opened and she was gently placed in a chair. The door
closed again. For a moment there was silence.
"You're quite safe, cherie," said a woman's voice, and fingers were
undoing the cloth which was bound round Jeanne's head. "You're quite
safe. No one in Paris would think of looking for you here."
The cloth fell off, and Jeanne, half dazed, only partly understanding
what had happened, looked about her. Her companion, an old woman with a
tri-color cockade fastened to her dress, watched her.
The room, one of two opening into each other, was small, mean, yet fresh
and dainty. Cheap curtains hung before the windows and about the alcove
where the bed was; the curtains and the paintwork were white, two or
three cheap prints were upon the walls, a strip of carpet and a rug lay
on the polished boards.
"Where am I?" Jeanne asked.
"In safety," answered the old woman.
So Mademoiselle St. Clair came at last to the rooms which Raymond Latour
had so carefully prepared.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE AMBITION OF RAYMOND LATOUR
The dawn came slowly creeping over Paris, cold and with a whip of gusty
rain in it. It stole in to touch the faces of many sleepers, innocent
sleepers, in hiding and in prison, who for a little while had forgotten
their fear and peril; brutal sleepers who for a little space lay
harmless, heavy with satisfied lust and wine. It stole into empty rooms,
rooms that should be occupied; into Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne
where two beds had not been slept in; into hovels in narrow byways of
the city to which men and women had not returned last night, but had
spent the sleeping hours, as befitted such patriots, in revelry and
songs and wine. It stole into a little room with cheap white curtains,
and looked upon a woman who had thrown herself half dressed on the bed
and had fallen asleep, tired out, exhausted. It crept into a room below
and touched the figure of a man seated by the table. A lamp stood near
him, but either he had turned it out, or it had burned out; an open book
was before him, but he had read little, and no knowledge of what he had
read remained. For hours he had sat there in darkness, but no sleep had
come to him. The night had been a long waking dream of things past, and
present, and the future a confusion of thoughts which could not be
reduced to any order. All the threads of a great scheme were in his
hands, yet he was uncertain how to use them to the best advantage. The
moment he had struggled for had come. This day, this dawn, was the
beginning of the future. How was he to make the best of it?
Presently he was conscious of feeling cold, and he made himself some
coffee, moving about his room quietly. He remembered the woman upstairs.
She was sleeping, surely. He had listened during the night and had not
heard her. He had held her in his arms, had carried her up the stairs
and placed her gently in a chair, leaving her in the care of the woman
from the baker's shop at the corner of the alley. She would wake
presently and he would see her. What should he say to her?
The coffee warmed Raymond Latour, but there was unusual excitement in
his movements. As the light increased he sat down and tried to read. It
was a volume of Plutarch's "Lives," a book which had done much to
influence many revolutionaries; but he could not read with any
understanding. To-day there was so much to be done, so many things to
think of. There were his own affairs, and they must take first place,
but in Paris the excitement would be at fever pitch to-day. Louis Capet
was to die, the voting had decided; but when? There was to be more
voting, and Raymond Latour must take his part in it. It was no wonder
that he could not read.
The hours had dragged through the night, yet when a knock came at his
door, it seemed to him that he had had little time to mature his plans,
that it was only a very little while since he had carried the woman up
the stairs. He opened the door quickly.
"The citizeness is awake and dressed. She is anxious to see you."
"What have you told her?"
"Only that the man who brought her last night would come and explain."
"I will go to her."
But Latour did not go immediately. He must have a few moments for
thought, and he paced his room excitedly, pausing more than once to look
at himself in a little mirror which hung upon the wall. His followers
would hardly have recognized in him the calm, calculating man with whom
they were accustomed to deal. It was with a great effort that he
steadied his nerves and went quietly up the stairs.
Jeanne rose from her chair as he entered, but Latour could not know how
her heart beat as the door opened. She looked at him steadily,
inquiringly, waiting for him to speak.
"Mademoiselle has slept, I trust?"
It seemed to Latour that he looked at her for a long time without
speaking, such a whirl of thoughts swept through his brain as he entered
the room and saw the woman standing there. He remembered the other woman
who had occupied this apartment until he had let her go two or three
days since. He had hated her for being there. This room had not been
fashioned with such infinite care for such a woman as Pauline Vaison,
but for this very woman who now stood before him. How strangely natural
it seemed that she should be there! This was the moment which had been
constantly in his dreams waking and sleeping.
"I do not know you," she said. "Why am I here? Indeed, where am I?"
"Mademoiselle, I have come to explain. It is a long explanation, and
you must bear with me a little."
"Tell me first, where is Monsieur Barrington?" said Jeanne.
"In safety. You have my word for it."
"Whose word?"
"You shall have the whole story, mademoiselle, and you shall presently
see Monsieur Barrington."
Jeanne sat down, and Raymond Latour moved to the window and stood there.
"I must begin in the middle of my story," he said, "it is easier for me,
and you will understand better. On the day of your arrival in Paris, I
met Monsieur Barrington. He was watching a coach which contained a
prisoner who was being escorted by a crowd of patriots to the Abbaye
prison. The sight was new to him; I believe that, single-handed, he
would have made an attempt at a rescue, had I not touched his arm. I
knew who he was, and that he had helped you into Paris. A little later
it was said that you had been arrested in the house of Lucien Bruslart,
and Monsieur Barrington came to me. We both concluded that you were the
prisoner in that coach. I believed Barrington to be an honest man, and I
rescued the prisoner from the Abbaye, and brought her here, only to find
that she was one Pauline Vaison, a woman Bruslart was to marry.
Bruslart, however, had made no effort to save her. He had apparently
sacrificed her to help you, and Barrington had helped him."
"It might appear so, monsieur, but such was not the case," said Jeanne.
"My opinion of Monsieur Barrington is at present in the balance," said
Latour; "Lucien Bruslart I know to be a scoundrel. The release of
Pauline Vaison naturally frightened Bruslart, who has gone into hiding
and is not to be found. Barrington is not a coward, and it was easy to
secure him. I saved him from the mob, but I kept him a prisoner. I
challenged him with his treachery to me, and he denied it, yet
immediately I let him go and had him watched, he straightway found you
at the house of Dr. Legrand in the Rue Charonne. Watching him and his
servant it was discovered that you were to be rescued from Legrand's
house, with the result that you are here."
"In the hands of Monsieur Raymond Latour," said Jeanne, quietly.
"Yes, mademoiselle, though I am surprised that you know me. Monsieur
Barrington is also in my hands."
"Most of this story I already know from Monsieur Barrington," she
returned. "If you will believe my word, I can show you that he was not
in Lucien Bruslart's confidence at all, that Lucien Bruslart from the
first deceived him. If you know anything of me, you must realize that it
is not easy to speak of Monsieur Bruslart in this way."
"I know all about you, mademoiselle," Latour answered slowly.
"And hate me. I have heard of Raymond Latour as a hater of aristocrats.
I cannot understand, therefore, why you undertook my rescue from
prison."
"Because you do not know all about me," he said "It is true I am a
republican, a hater of aristocrats. Mademoiselle, you have been good to
the poor in Paris, you are one of the few who have cared anything for
them. Had you not fled, had you not become an emigre, I believe you
could have walked the streets of the city in perfect safety. If for a
moment you will put aside your class prejudice, you must know that the
people have the right with them. They have been ground down, trampled on
for generations, now they have struggled to freedom. If they push that
freedom to excess, can you honestly be astonished? They are but
retaliating for the load of cruelty which has been pressed upon them."
"Monsieur, I am no politician. Many dear friends of mine have been
foully murdered. I look for no better fate for myself."
"I was rather trying to explain my position," said Latour.
"You do not explain your peculiar interest in me."
"You hardly give me time, mademoiselle," he returned with a faint smile.
"Still, you can appreciate that my sympathies are with the people. That
is not the entire truth, however. I had ambition, and the revolution was
my opportunity. A strong man might grasp power, and I would be that
strong man."
"Are there not many others in the Convention with similar ambition?"
"I think not. Whatever power I might obtain was not for my own glory,
but was to be laid at the feet of a woman. Mademoiselle does not
remember, perhaps, a certain day some three or four years since, when
the horses attached to her coach took fright and ran away. They might
have been stopped by the coachman, but they appeared to have got the
better of him. It seemed to a man standing there, a poor student, that
the occupant of that coach was in danger. He rushed forward, and with
some difficulty stopped the horses."
"I remember it perfectly," said Jeanne.
"Mademoiselle, that poor student had in that hour seen a vision from
heaven, a woman so beautiful, so far beyond all other women, that he
worshiped her. He wandered the streets of Paris only to catch a glimpse
of her. He enthroned her on the altar of his soul, and bowed down to
her. It was a hopeless passion, yet its hopelessness had no power to
kill it, rather it grew each day, took stronger possession of his dreams
each night, until, reaching forward, he conceived the possibility of
winning what his soul desired. That poor student was Raymond Latour. You
see, mademoiselle, when you think of me as a red republican, you hardly
do me full justice."
Jeanne did not answer. What possible answer was there to such a
confession as this?
"Deputy Latour became a power," he went on quietly. "Many things became
possible. Mademoiselle had a lover, Lucien Bruslart, a villain, a liar
to her and his country. Raymond Latour, with all his faults, was a
better man than he, more honest, more worthy a woman's regard, no matter
who that woman might be."
He paused for a moment, but still she found no words to answer him.
"This Bruslart for some purpose of his own sent for mademoiselle to come
to Paris. I discovered that he had done so. It was an opportunity to
show you what sort of a man he was whom you loved. I should have balked
his intention and brought you here, had it not been for the bungling of
those who served me, and the courage of this man Barrington who has
played Bruslart's game for him."
"Unwittingly," said Jeanne. "I grant that Lucien Bruslart is not a
worthy man; you must not class the other with him." In a few words
Jeanne told him how she had written the letter, how Richard Barrington
came to know where she was hidden.
"Is it not a further proof against Bruslart? And to me there is still no
actual proof of Barrington's honor," Latour went on quickly, as though
he were afraid something would happen to prevent his speaking. "Listen,
mademoiselle, this room was prepared for you long before you came, a
safe retreat. Would any one think of seeking an aristocrat close to a
hater of aristocrats? I have thought of everything, planned everything.
The power I have I lay at your feet, now, at this moment. At your word I
will become anything you wish. Without you, without the hope of you,
nothing is of value to me. With you, there is nothing in the world
impossible. France is not the only land. Paris is not the world. There
are fairer places on God's earth where men and women may live at peace.
I have papers which shall make it easy for us to pass the barriers,
which shall bring us safely to the sea. I worship you, words can tell
you nothing of that worship, you shall learn it day by day, hour by
hour, you shall guide me as you will. You--"
"Monsieur, monsieur! what are you saying? How can I answer such
madness?"
"By coming with me, gift for gift, love for love. Somewhere I will so
labor that my wife shall know the depth of my reverence, the greatness
of my love."
"I have no answer, monsieur, for such folly."
"Not yet, but you will have. A man does not play for such stakes as I
have played for, win them, and then throw them away."
"If I understand your folly rightly, you have not won. I could
pity--were there not a tone of threatening in your voice. To love you
is, and always will be, impossible."
"Has mademoiselle considered all that such a decision means?"
"I know nothing worse that you can do than denounce me to the
Convention," said Jeanne, standing up, and looking straight into his
eyes. "I expect nothing less and have no fear. You will have the
satisfaction of knowing that you have sent another innocent person to
the guillotine."
"There is another mademoiselle might wish to save. I have said Monsieur
Barrington is in my hands."
"I have never seen fear in Richard Barrington. I do not think he would
be afraid of the guillotine."
"You love him," said Latour, sharply.
"Yes;" and then she went on passionately, "Have you revolutionaries not
yet learned that death is but a passing evil, and that there are men and
women who do not fear death? I love Richard Barrington; his death or
mine cannot alter that, and do you suppose I would purchase life by a
promise to you or any other man in the world?"
"Yet he shall plead my cause for me. For himself he may not be a coward,
but for the woman he loves he will be. He would rather see you in my
arms than send you to the guillotine."
"Monsieur, the decision rests wholly with me. Richard Barrington has
already risked his life for me; if necessary, he will give it for me,
and he would rather see me dead than give any promise to a man I
despise. You cannot understand such men."
"Mademoiselle, I too, risked my life in bringing out of the Abbaye
prison the woman I believed was you."
"For that I thank you," she said quickly. "It is strange to me that the
same man can stoop to threaten me now."
"You will understand if you think of all I have told you," said Latour,
moving to the door. "You are safe for a little while. Your lover shall
plead for me. He is a man, and will know what a man's love is."
Jeanne turned to the window. There was nothing more to be said.
Latour went slowly down to his room. All his excitement had vanished. He
was calm and calculating again, a man in a dangerous mood; yet Jeanne's
words were still in his ears. "I love Richard Barrington; his death or
mine cannot alter that." What had he expected from this interview? He
hardly knew. He had declared that his game was won, but it was not the
game he had schemed to play. It was to have been his love against Lucien
Bruslart's. To plead that would have been easy, and surely the woman
must have listened, yes, and recognized the true from the false. This
cursed American had altered the game; still, he was a man, a man of his
word. He had promised to plead for him. He should do it.
Raymond Latour passed out presently into the Rue Valette and went in the
direction of the Tuileries. There was public business he must do. Paris
was clamorous and dangerous. The mob cried out to Deputy Latour as he
passed, telling him how to vote, but he took no notice, never even
turning his head. He was not thinking of a king, but of the woman he
loved.
CHAPTER XXV
A DEBT IS PAID
Dr. Legrand slept late on this Saturday morning; his dreams had been
pleasant, and he hastily descended to his study, his face beaming, his
body tingling with excitement. The regret which he had expressed last
night, and really felt in his own limited fashion, was gone; how could
he feel regret when in a short hour or two he was destined to handle so
much money?
As he went to his study a servant stopped him.
"Monsieur, monsieur, we have only just discovered, but Mademoiselle St.
Clair--"
"Yes, yes; what about her?"
"Gone, monsieur."
"Gone!"
The doctor staggered back against the wall, his face working in a sudden
convulsion. It was as though the servant had struck him a heavy blow
between the eyes.
"Yes, monsieur. Her bed has not been slept in. The Marquis de Castellux
is not to be found either. We have inquired among the guests. No one has
seen them since they left the salon last night."
No articulate word came from Legrand, only a growl like that of an angry
animal. He rushed to mademoiselle's room, then to the one Monsieur de
Castellux had occupied temporarily. In a few moments the house was being
searched from cellar to garret, every room was entered, whether the
guests expostulated or not, but there was no sign of the fugitives, nor
anything to show how they had gone. No one noticed that the window at
the end of the passage had been unfastened.
A little later Dr. Legrand hurried along the Rue Charonne, caring
nothing that people looked after him. He was a doctor of lunatics, they
said, possibly he had gone mad himself. They laughed and took no further
notice of him. He traversed several streets in the Faubourg St. Antoine,
evidently familiar ground to him, and presently entered a tumbledown
tenement. Going hastily to the top floor, he knocked with his knuckles
at a closed door, two low, single knocks, and a double one. It was
evidently a signal, for the door was opened at once and Lucien Bruslart
stood before him.
"So soon!" he exclaimed.
Legrand entered, pushing Bruslart back into the room, and shut the door.
"She's gone! Escaped! Last night!"
Bruslart showed no sign of surprise. He sat on the edge of the table and
waited for more information. Legrand had no more to give. In his hurried
journey from the Rue Charonne he had thought of many things, and now
made no mention of the fact that another of his guests had also
disappeared.
"How did she manage to escape out of your clutches?" asked Bruslart,
after a pause.
"I don't know, and does it matter? She is gone, that is enough."
"Bad for you, Legrand. She will explain how she came to be in your
house, and your friends will be asking why you took any one they did not
send to you. An awkward question, Legrand."
"I shall easily answer that. The difficulty is for you, my friend. How
will you explain your dealings with an aristocrat for whom all Paris is
hunting?"
"More easily perhaps than you imagine."
"You cannot, you cannot. I am the only man who can help you."
"Your help does not seem very effectual, does it?" said Bruslart. "You
were to have come this morning with certain papers assuring me that a
certain troublesome person was in the hands of the authorities, and in
return you were to receive a certain fee. Well, you have no papers,
therefore you get no fee."
"But what will you do?"
"Wait here. I have been safe so far."
"It is impossible," said Legrand. "I shall be asked questions, I shall
have to answer them. I know Citizen Bruslart as a good patriot. He
brings me a lady to take charge of. What could I do but obey? I shall be
asked where Citizen Bruslart is now."
"I see you contemplate betraying me, is that it?"
"No, no, but I must answer questions."
"How do you propose to help betraying me then?" Bruslart asked.
"Now you are sensible. We must work together, is it not so? Paris is
dangerous for you. You are a rich man and the place for you is across
the frontier. A friend of mine, a good citizen, has for days been ready
to travel at a moment's notice, and will take a servant with him. He has
papers that cannot be questioned for himself and for you, his servant.
He goes by way of Metz and then to Valenciennes. You will slip across
the frontier into Belgium. You have heard of the inn, on that road, La
Houlette. Once there you may throw away your cockade and become again a
nobleman. It is your metier, my friend, you were never intended for a
patriot. And now that you have money what better could you wish for?"
"It is an attractive programme, and I am a little tired of this
cockloft," answered Bruslart. "How is it to be managed?"
"In an hour I will be back with all that is necessary to alter your
dress and appearance. In two hours you may commence your journey."
"Very well, my good Legrand, I shall expect you in an hour."
"Yes, but the money," said the doctor. "I run a risk, and my friend must
also be paid."
"Anything that is reasonable."
"Oh, it is reasonable."
"What is the figure?" Bruslart asked.
"I think I can arrange everything if you give me the fee I was to have
had for the papers you expected me to bring this morning."
"Nonsense, Legrand. That fee is nearly half of my fortune."
"Mademoiselle's fortune," corrected Legrand.
The two men looked at each other, and understood each other well.
Bruslart knew that the doctor was quite prepared to betray him if he did
not come to his terms. Legrand knew that Bruslart was in dire straits,
and that once in the hands of the Convention his doom was sealed. In one
sense the doctor was the more honest of the two. He could do what he
said with every prospect of success, and was prepared to fulfill his
bargain to the letter. Bruslart was already planning how he could
overreach his companion.
"It is a monstrous price to pay."
"It saves you from the guillotine," answered Legrand.
"Very well, I'll pay it," said Bruslart, after a moment's thought.
"Quickly, then. I will go at once. Give me the money."
"A bargain is a bargain, my good doctor, and I do not part with my money
until you have completed your work. I shall expect you in an hour."
Legrand hesitated.
"I cannot get away," said Bruslart, "but there is a possibility that you
might not return."
"You are over careful," was the answer.
"I have my head to consider," Bruslart laughed. "No man pays the doctor
before he has taken his physic."
The doctor laughed too, it was the only way to deal with such a man, and
departed. Bruslart could not escape him. The money was already as good
as in his hands. Bruslart once out of Paris, Legrand could answer any
question the officers of the Convention might put to him. He had done as
Citizen Bruslart had commanded him, what else could he have done?
Monsieur Fouquier-Tinville and others could not say much, they were too
interested in his establishment. Besides, although mademoiselle had
escaped from his house, it was most unlikely that she could leave Paris.
She would be found.
Bruslart locked his door when the doctor had gone. Before the doctor he
had shown no anger, no agitation, but alone, he was like an animal
caught in a trap. For this money he had schemed, lied, and betrayed an
innocent woman; he had just enough conscience to hate the remembrance of
all he had done, and now half the reward of his treachery was to be
filched from him. For a moment he was tempted to go before Legrand
returned, but he was afraid. Legrand had the whip hand of him. Could he
cheat him? The opportunity might come at the last moment. How could it
be done?
He was deep in a dozen plans which came in a chaotic confusion into his
mind, when there was a knock at the door, two low, single knocks
followed a double one, Legrand's signal. An hour had not passed. Legrand
had returned quickly. What had happened? He opened the door, then
started back.
"Pauline!"
For a moment she stood on the threshold apparently with some feeling for
the dramatic effect in her attitude, then she entered and closed the
door.
"Yes, Pauline," she said.
Bruslart had been taken unawares; he had unfortunately allowed the woman
to see his surprise, and cursed his folly as he regained his equanimity
with an effort.
"You are welcome, Pauline, as welcome as--"
"As the devil," she answered. "No, I want to do the talking. You sit
down and listen."
"Nothing will please me better," Bruslart returned, smiling. "I have
been forced to go into hiding, and have lost touch with events."
"And I have been in prison."
"In prison! You!"
"Strange, isn't it? I dare say the story will interest you, but there
are other things to talk of first. What has forced you into hiding?"
"Circumstances and Raymond Latour," he answered.
"And why should you keep your hiding-place a secret from me?"
"I will explain. It is rather a long story, and--"
"And I do not want to hear it," she said. "I know. It is not a pretty
story. To save one woman you sacrifice another, and in the end are false
to both."
"What nonsense have you been told, Pauline?"
"I have been told very little, perhaps only know part of the tale even
now, but it is sufficient. I only found out your hiding-place on
Wednesday night. On Thursday and Friday, Citizen Legrand was with you.
By your contriving Mademoiselle St. Clair was in hiding. A large part of
her money was in your hands, and she was in your way, so Legrand was
instructed to send word to the Convention that one Richard Barrington,
an American, had contrived by false representation to place her in
Legrand's house for safety, and the doctor, suddenly discovering the
falsehood, was to prove himself a good patriot and give her up. So
Lucien Bruslart, by paying the doctor, was to get rid of a troublesome
woman and retire to Belgium."
"I do not know who can have told you such a story."
"There are many spies in Paris," she answered with a short laugh. "But
that is not all the tale. Yesterday you were very confidential with
Citizen Legrand. You told him of another woman who was in love with you,
and was troublesome, or would be if she knew where to find you. You had
promised to marry her, a promise to the pretty fool which you did not
intend to keep. It amused you to think how furious Pauline Vaison would
be when she found out you had gone."
"So that devil Legrand has been talking, has he?"
"Poor Lucien! Do you imagine you are the only scoundrel in Paris?"
"Scoundrel! Why, you pretty fool--it is your own expression, so let me
use it--do you imagine I should tell the truth to Legrand? His own
cupidity ruins him. Half the tale is true, the other half--why, Pauline,
is it not the very scheme I told you of? I had hoped to rise to power in
Paris; that I cannot do, but I have the money, and Pauline Vaison will
join me across the Belgian frontier."
"You only have half the money, Lucien, Legrand is to have the other
half. It is his little fee."
"Now you have come we may cheat him," said Bruslart, quickly.
"Yes, a very excellent plan, but it won't work, my friend. I had none of
this story from Legrand. Your money holds him faithful. He will be back
in an hour, and in two hours you may perhaps be out of Paris."
Bruslart looked at her, realizing the full extent of his danger for the
first time.
"That is an awkward riddle for you to read, isn't it?" she said. "It is
an unpleasant position, as unpleasant as mine when they arrested me in
the place of Mademoiselle St. Clair, and my lover took no steps to set
the mistake right; as unpleasant as when my escape from the Abbaye
forced you to hide from me. That is why you ran away, Lucien. You were
afraid of me. Now I have found you, and mademoiselle has really escaped
out of your clutches. It is a very awkward position, Lucien. I do not
see how you are going to wriggle out of it."
"The way is plain, let us arrange everything before Legrand returns,"
said Bruslart.
"There is nothing to arrange. This little cockloft does not fill the
whole of this upper story. There is another attic on the other side of
that partition, with a cupboard in it. Standing in the cupboard, with
the ear against the woodwork, one can hear all that is said here, and if
you look in that partition you will find a crack, through which nearly
the whole of this place can be seen. You may take my word for it, I have
lived on the other side since Wednesday night. Your own servant betrayed
your hiding-place to me, for a ridiculously small sum. Your worth is not
great even in his eyes."
"Be sensible, Pauline. I will--"
"Pay me for secrecy? Will you give me the other half of mademoiselle's
money?"
"I said, be sensible. Come with me, join me on the road to the frontier.
It is what I have intended all along."
"It's a lie!"
The woman was suddenly alive with passion--dangerous, and Bruslart knew
it.
"You are not polite," he said.
"I am better than that; I am honest."
"Be sensible as well. The time is short. Sit down and let us arrange
quickly."
"I have told you, there is nothing to arrange," she answered.
"Once for all, will you come? Yes or no," he said angrily.
"No."
"What are you going to do?"
"Pay, Lucien, pay. Legrand will return, but he will not find you."
"You she-devil!"
The words were hissed out as he sprang toward her. It was his life or
hers. There was no other alternative. Murder was in his hands, in his
soul. She realized this and even as he touched her, she cried out--
"Help! Help, citizens!"
In a moment the door was thrown open and Lucien Bruslart was in the
hands of the officers of the Convention, crouching in their grasp, white
and afraid, too terrified even to curse his betrayer.
"The payment, Lucien! I warned you. I keep my promise. For you it is the
Place de la Revolution--the guillotine."
The words were shouted at him savagely, and then she leaned back against
the wall in a paroxysm of horrible laughter.
CHAPTER XXVI
ENEMIES OR FRIENDS
To the individual, his affairs, petty though they be, are often of more
moment than those greater doings which have a whole world for stage and
are destined to throw an echo far down the corridors of Time. Most of us
live in a narrow little world, a very mean little world often, and are
never able to mount up a step or two to see how exceedingly mean and
narrow it is. Yet, for all this, the workings of the greater world do
affect us, though we may be unconscious of the fact; our little affairs
are influenced in greater or less degree, as the rippled circles from a
stone's cast spread to the shores of the pond.
Balked greed and craven fear tore at Legrand's very soul when he
returned to the cockloft in the Faubourg St. Antoine and found it empty.
After all he was not to handle the money. He felt like an honest man who
has been cheated, so far was he able to deceive himself. Bruslart had
outwitted him, would perhaps succeed in leaving Paris, and a terrible
lust to get equal with him seized upon the doctor. The chance words of
two men talking in the street told him the truth, and then fear took the
place of greed. There was no knowing what Bruslart might say. The
temper of the Convention was uncertain. He might be arrested too, or
perchance plundered of his gains. For a few moments he was doubtful
whether it would be safe to go home, and then, driven by that desperate
desire to know the worst which so often makes a coward seem courageous,
he hastened in the direction of the Rue Charonne, and was in his study
when the officers of the Convention arrived to remove Jeanne St. Clair.
Legrand had communicated with the authorities, but somewhat vaguely. He
declared that it was evident that he had been deceived, that the
ci-devant aristocrat ought never to have been placed under his care, but
he had not definitely stated an opinion that the American, Richard
Barrington, was responsible. It was difficult for Legrand to make a
straightforward statement at any time, and that he had not done so on
this occasion might prove useful now that Lucien Bruslart was arrested.
He was therefore prepared to wriggle out of his awkward position.
Mademoiselle had managed to get out of his house, how he could not tell,
but she could not have left Paris. An immediate and diligent search must
result in her capture.
Strange to say the awkward questions were not asked, nor was an
immediate search instituted. For the moment, at any rate, Jeanne St.
Clair was of small account, another name was in everybody's mouth,
another personality was forced into tragic prominence, and the hundreds
of deputies on whose word so much depended had no time or inclination to
think of any one else.
Wednesday and Thursday, which were marked days for Jeanne St. Clair,
were stupendous days for Paris, for France, for the world. The fate of
Louis Capet, once king, was sealed in them. He must die. By the vote of
the deputies this was decided. His crime? Who shall say. Chiefly perhaps
that he was born to be a king, and lived, a weak king, in a strenuous
time. And yet the business was not at an end. Some would have an appeal
made to the people, a proposition easily overruled; some would have
delay, and that was not so easily settled. There must be more voting. So
on this Saturday and Sunday the deputies were busy, and Paris vibrated
with excitement. Raymond Latour now voted for delay, as before he had
voted against the death sentence, firm to his conviction that the head
of a king was not necessary to the safety of France. Patriots hissed at
him and at many others. Robespierre noted the set of his face and
thought of the future; others noted that set face and thought of the
future, too. Was Raymond Latour as strong a man as some declared? Was he
safest as a friend or as an enemy? Once more the votes were counted.
Louis Capet must die, that fact remained unaltered, but there was added
something more to the sentence, he must die within twenty-four hours. It
was a merciful addition perchance, though not so intended; the shorter
the time, the less the suffering. Patriotic Paris flung its red cap into
the air, rejoicing greatly. Less than twenty-four hours to wait for the
greatest amusement that had yet been vouchsafed to the mob. There was no
time to sleep, no reason in sleep. Armed men would keep the streets
to-morrow, but there would be vantage places to be struggled for and
kept through long hours of waiting--yet not so long after all. Monday
morning came quickly--ten o'clock--one carriage and its guard. The last
ride of a king! The bitter mockery of fate sounded to-day for the Deep
Purple of an empire--and France laughed. Revenge, too, perchance
smiled, for the passage of that lone coach left its trail of dead and
wounded. Slowly he mounted into view of his people, and a heart here and
there may have pitied him. He would speak. Surely in this last hour he
may say a word; the words of a man at such a moment, be he king or
peasant, may perchance have a strange meaning and appeal in them; and
also they may be dangerous. Yes, he will speak. He is innocent, that
much was heard, and then another spoke, a word of command, and there was
the loud rolling of the drums. Nothing could be heard above the beating
of those drums. It was difficult even to see through the forest of
bayonets which surrounded the scaffold. It looked like a moment's
struggle between executioners and hand-tied victim, an unequal contest.
Still the drums--then the sound of the heavy falling knife. Then
silence, and Samson, chief priest of the guillotine, holding the head
high, at arm's length, that all may see it and know that tyranny is at
an end, that France is free. Patriotism, armed and otherwise, went mad
with delight. This was a gala day! Sing, dance, drink in it! Such a day
was never known in Paris before!
[Illustration: Paris flung its red cap in the air and France laughed.]
It was no wonder that Jeanne was forgotten, that Dr. Legrand was not
called upon to answer awkward questions. It was not remarkable that the
alleys and byways of Paris were deserted for the wider streets and
places where patriots could rejoice together, and that many who were in
hiding should be free for a day or two from the alarms which almost
hourly beset them.
Richard Barrington had remained untroubled for many hours. As he fought
in the empty house, struggling against a crowd which seemed to press in
upon him from every side, and out of which looked familiar faces, his
brain had played him a trick he thought he was fleeing from his enemies,
jumping into darkness for safety. There had followed a period of total
unconsciousness, set in the midst of a continuous dream as it were, for
he seemed to realize at once without any break that he had fallen upon a
bed of straw and could safely lie there to rest his tired limbs. There
was no recollection of Legrand's asylum, or of the night escape over the
roofs, but presently there came a conviction that he ought to be with
Jeanne. It seemed to him that he tried to get out of the straw but was
unable to do so. It had so twined about his body and limbs that he was
bound by it as if with ropes. He must rest a little longer until he had
more strength to break his bonds. Then again, faces looked at him, faces
he ought to know, yet could not remember. There were low voices about
him. He was thirsty, and in his struggles to free himself from the
straw, chance guided his hand to a cup. Cool liquid was in it, water or
wine, he could not tell which, but he drank eagerly and lay still again
for a long time. Presently his strength was certainly returning, for
without any great effort he drew his hands free from the binding straw
and raised himself. A faint light was about him, showing stone walls, a
narrow room, in a corner of which he was lying. On the floor beside him
was a cup, a wine bottle, and a piece of bread. He picked up the bread
and almost mechanically bit a piece out of it. He found that he was
hungry. There was wine in the bottle and he drank. The straw no longer
bound him, and he rose slowly to his feet and stared about him. Then,
like waters suddenly breaking down a dam and flowing again into their
old channel, memory reasserted itself and his brain grew clear. He
recollected the empty house, the sudden movement on the stars, the
fight, Jeanne standing behind him in the corner. What had happened?
Where was she? Where was Seth? He knew where he was. The chair and
table, the bowl and water can, the straw bed, the stone walls and the
high grating--he was again in that buried cell of the old monastery.
"My head is heavy," he said aloud. "I must have been hurt and been
delirious. For how long, I wonder?"
He began to move slowly about the cell. It was daylight, whether morning
or afternoon he could not tell. He was not meant to die yet, or the wine
and the bread would not be there, yet why was he in this place instead
of an ordinary prison? His limbs were stiff, his head ached, it was
difficult to think clearly. He could not detach reality from dreams.
What had happened in that empty house? Where was Jeanne? He threw
himself upon the straw bed again, intending to lie there and try to
solve the problem, but he fell asleep.
He was roused suddenly. A man was bending over him, had probably touched
him. It was Raymond Latour. For a moment or two Barrington was uncertain
whether this was a dream or reality.
"So you're awake at last," said Latour.
Barrington rose slowly to his feet, and then sat down in the chair by
the table.
"What day is it?"
"Monday--Monday afternoon."
Barrington appeared to make a calculation.
"Monday!" he said. "Then I have been here--"
"Since early on Saturday morning," said Latour. "You were knocked about
a bit in that empty house, and you've been in a more or less unconscious
condition ever since. Have you your wits now? I have something important
to say to you."
"Then you know about that empty house?"
"Yes."
"You arranged the--"
"Your capture--yes."
Barrington rose to his feet quickly, but stumbled a little as he did so.
"Now you must settle with me," he said.
"You're not strong enough yet," said Latour, easily catching the arm
which aimed a feeble blow at him. "Mademoiselle St. Clair is safe. She
is not in prison. Your man is safe. You, too, are safe for the present.
You had better listen to all I have to say."
Barrington sat down again, frowning at his impotence. He had not
realized how weak he was.
"I let you out of this place believing you a liar, and had you watched,"
said Latour. "I still believed you a liar when I found that you knew
mademoiselle was in Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne. Your man was
watched too, and his preparations in that empty house understood. You
know the result. I have it from mademoiselle's own lips that you are not
a liar, that you are not in league with Lucien Bruslart, and I believe
her."
"Where is she?"
"Safe in my keeping."
Barrington did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, "She is the
aristocrat in whom you are interested?"
"Yes."
"Then it is you who have lied?"
"I deceived you, yes. Be a man, Barrington; look at this thing with the
eyes of a man. What reason was there that I should trust you with such a
secret? I had set myself a goal to win, why should I jeopardize my
chances? Bruslart was the man she loved, not you."
"They say all is fair in love," said Barrington. "Go on, Latour, go on.
I suppose you have come to bargain with me. My arm may be weak, but my
head grows clearer every minute."
"I want you to fulfill your promise. You owe me something. You said you
would do your utmost to help me with the woman I loved. I know now that
I could have no more powerful advocate."
"I cannot admit the debt," was the answer. "What do I owe you?"
"Your life once, perhaps twice, and again now. It is mine to save or
destroy. A word from me and you change this place for a prison and the
guillotine."
"I set no value on my life," Barrington answered.
"Jeanne St. Clair's life is in my hands, too," said Latour, slowly. "You
would do something to save her?"
"Anything in the world. Save her, Latour, and though you send me to the
gallows I will bless you."
Latour bit his lip a little. He wanted to hate this man who had come
between him and his desires. He was convinced that he had done so,
convinced that but for this American, Jeanne St. Clair would have
listened to him. His worth against Bruslart's infamy must have appealed
to her, had this man not come into her world.
"I know the truth," he said slowly, "I have had it from mademoiselle
herself. I spoke of my love, as a man must speak when the whole passion
of his life is let loose. She could never love me, she said. Why?
Because she loves you. I have threatened her to no purpose. I threatened
to sacrifice you unless she consented. It was of no avail. She swore
that you did not fear death, that you would willingly die for her."
"She spoke only the truth," said Barrington.
"Yet you can save her," Latour returned. "You are the only man who can.
You shall go to her and plead with her for me. For her sake I will
desert France, go anywhere, do anything she wills. She must be mine or,
for God's sake, do not make me even whisper the alternative."
"Be honest. Let me know the alternative."
"She shall die. There you have it. You may make your choice."
"And I thought you loved her," said Barrington, slowly.
"I cannot bandy phrases with you," Latour answered passionately. "You
are a man as I am, there is something in us that is alike, I think.
Debate such questions with yourself and you will find an answer."
"I have said that I am willing to die for her," answered Barrington.
"Go a step further than that," returned Latour. "Help another man to
possess her."
"You are not prepared to make that sacrifice," said Barrington. "She
must be yours or she must die. I thought Raymond Latour was too good a
man for such villainy."
"Phrases! phrases! I want none of them. I want your help, the help you
promised. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, although it was not
mademoiselle I rescued; I expect you to fulfill yours."
"In this thing she must choose, Latour. My love is such that to make her
happy I would willingly sacrifice myself were it to die for her, or
harder still, live out my life away from her, forgotten by her. If it is
only the thought of me which holds her back from what may bring her
peace and satisfaction, I will pass out of her life and she shall never
know the great sorrow at my heart. I will not hold her to any promise
she has made to me. She shall be free to choose, and I will not let a
hard thought of her enter my soul."
While Barrington was speaking, Latour had paced the cell slowly. Now he
stopped on the other side of the little table.
"You will do no more?"
"There is nothing more I can do."
"You have thought of the consequences. You have considered my influence,
the power I have to save or to kill you?"
"No, I haven't thought much of that. It doesn't seem to matter."
"You laugh at me."
"That is unworthy of you," Barrington answered. "We are two men in a
tight place, and such men do not laugh at each other. Once you said
that, should we prove to be enemies, it might help us to remember that
we had clasped hands over our wine. Well, is not this the hour to
remember it?"
"One has to forget many things," said Latour.
"True; and we come to a point when we understand how trivial are many of
these things we thought most important," said Barrington. "We are at the
mercy of the world's storms, and we shall surely travel ways we never
set out to travel. I came to France, Latour, burning to fight for an
oppressed people, burning to do something in this land like the Marquis
de Lafayette had done in America. His career there fired my youthful
ambition. I have done nothing. I come to this hour, facing you across
this little table--two men, enemies, yet for all that liking each other
a little, kindred somehow, and strangely bound together in that we both
love the same woman."
Latour was silent for a few moments, the past, the present, and the
future, mingled in his brain in strange confusion.
"Would you see her again?" he asked suddenly.
Barrington did not answer at once. "Let her decide," he said slowly.
"There would be heaven in such a meeting, but there would be hell, too."
"There are tears in your eyes," said Latour.
"Are there?" asked Barrington, simply. "Well, why not?"
Latour turned away quickly. "I will think whether you can see her
again," he said. "It may be difficult. You are weak, I will tell them to
bring you food. You have seen Citizen Mercier, he is looking after you
here. If you are to see mademoiselle, he will tell you. You must do as
he suggests. She shall decide; I promise that."
He went toward the door, then came back again.
"If you see her will you speak of me?" he asked.
"We can hardly help doing so."
"She would believe you if you told her something of my love, of what I
have done."
"I will set life and death before her, Latour, and leave her free to
choose."
Latour moved again to the door and again came back.
"Men who love as we do must be enemies, still the enmity may be free
from malice. Other conditions might well have made us friends. Will you
grasp hands once more, Barrington?"
Across the little table their hands met, and were clasped firmly for a
moment as the two men looked into each other's eyes. Then Latour went
out quickly, locking the door behind him.
An hour later he went slowly up the stairs to his rooms. Jacques
Sabatier was waiting for him.
"Bad news, citizen," said Sabatier.
Latour opened his door, and they entered.
"It should be bad news indeed if one may judge by your face," he said.
"Citizen Bruslart was arrested on Saturday. He is in the Conciergerie.
He demands that you see him to-night. He knows that mademoiselle has
escaped from the Rue Charonne, and he makes a shrewd guess where she is
hidden. You must see him, citizen; he is dangerous."
CHAPTER XXVII
A RIDE IN THE NIGHT
Once again the dawn found Raymond Latour seated by the table. No book
lay open before him, he had not attempted to read. Last night he had
gone to the rooms above, taking Sabatier with him. Sabatier forgot to
swagger as he stood before Jeanne St. Clair, trying to look as steadily
at her as she did at him. Then Sabatier had gone with a promise on his
lips which he roundly swore to keep, and for a little while longer
Latour remained with Jeanne. His face was calm when he left her, but
Barrington might have retaliated and said there were tears in his eyes.
Perchance it was the cold wind on the stairs, for the night was bitter,
Latour wrapped himself in a thick coat when he went out, and turned his
steps in the direction of the Conciergerie. It was near midnight when he
returned home, but there was no sleep for him. So the dawn found him
seated by the table. Again he felt cold and made himself coffee, but he
was not excited. His plans were made. He was ready for the day and the
work there was to do in it.
Yesterday the head of a king, a triumph surely to last for many days.
Patriots might rest a little now. But Robespierre thought otherwise as
he talked with Duplay, the cabinet maker, over the evening meal in the
Rue St. Honore; great-voiced Danton knew that this was a beginning, not
an ending; and many other deputies were sure that having gone so far
they must go further. There were other heads to offer to the guillotine,
many others. The tumbrils must carry the daily food, and the stock of
such food must not be allowed to run short. Many were condemned already;
there were others waiting to be condemned; it would be well to get on
with the work expeditiously. Trials took time, though, truly, they need
not be long. There was one man waiting for whom nothing could be said.
The aristocrat, Lucien Bruslart, who had posed as an honest citizen, yet
had hidden an emigre in the city. Denounced by Citizeness Pauline
Vaison, who was declared with one consent to be a true patriot, what
hope could there be for him?
Yet this man found a strange advocate, no less a person than Raymond
Latour. The prosecution was short and convincing; the president's bell
sounded with a sense of finality in it; the women in the gallery were
ready to jeer at the next prisoner; in this case of Bruslart there was
no excitement at all. Then Raymond Latour rose, and the loud murmur of
astonishment quickly fell into silence. They had often heard and
applauded Deputy Latour; what was he doing here? There was going to be
excitement after all.
Raymond Latour was an orator, rough and passionate at times, yet seldom
failing to get into sympathy with his audience. He looked at the
white-faced, cringing prisoner, and he hated him, yet on his behalf he
spoke more eloquently than he had ever done before perhaps. A less
powerful advocate would not have been listened to. Latour's words were
hung upon and applauded at intervals. He could not deny the charges
brought against the prisoner; he was an aristocrat, he had helped an
emigre, but he was not the only aristocrat who had become a true and
worthy patriot. He had done many things which deserved acknowledgment.
His apartment had always been open to his fellows, he had helped many
with his money and his influence. Birth had made him an aristocrat, but
he had not fled from Paris; he had stayed to champion the people. That
surely was in his favor, seeing how powerful an incentive he had for
crossing the frontier--love. Of all the charges brought against him,
there was only one which counted--that he had helped an emigre. Citizens
might hiss, but ought they not first to understand who this emigre was?
She was, to begin with, an emigre against her will. She had been forced
to leave Paris by her friends, by the Marquise de Rovere. That was known
to many who listened to him. Mademoiselle St. Clair was known personally
to many. She had fed the hungry; she had cared for the poor. Had she
remained in Paris, not a hand would have been raised against her, and if
it had been, a thousand would have been raised in her defense. True, she
had become an emigre; true, she had entered Paris by stealth, and that
might require some explanation were he defending her, but he was only
speaking for the man who had hidden her. They must remember all the
circumstances. It was said that mademoiselle had heard that her lover
was in danger, and had returned to help him. Every woman would
appreciate her action, every woman who had loved; the prisoner finding
her in danger had hidden her, could not every lover understand his doing
so? Here was no conspiracy against the people but a romance, a tale of
lovers, which some poet might well make a song of for all true lovers
to sing. Certainly Lucien Bruslart was not deserving of death.
There was applause when Latour finished, but many hisses. A woman's
voice cried out that it appeared as though Citizen Latour loved the
emigre himself, and laughter and a nodding of heads greeted the sally. A
man shouted that Deputy Latour had ceased to be a true patriot, or he
would never have spoken for such a prisoner. There was uproar, silenced
by the president's bell--a pause, then sentence:--Lucien Bruslart was
condemned. No eloquence in the world could have saved him.
Raymond Latour found himself hustled as he left the building. It was
remembered that he had voted against the death of the king, that he had
been for delay. To-day had proved that he had sympathy for aristocrats
and emigres. Yet he was Deputy Latour, powerful in the Convention,
powerful in many quarters of the city, a man who was only partially
understood and therefore dangerous. Robespierre, it was whispered,
feared him, and Danton had been heard to say that he was better as a
friend than an enemy. Even the firebrand Hebert had dared to say little
against him in his paper "Pere Duchesne." Latour was keenly alive to the
angry storm which threatened, but this was not the moment to face it. A
few hours might turn storm to sunshine, or perchance increase the storm
to a veritable cyclone against which no man could stand. He passed into
the street and out of the crowd, his face firm set, unreadable. He
showed no sign of fear, he seemed curiously indifferent to man's opinion
of him. It was noted by some that he did not go in the direction of the
Rue Valette, and when he had passed out of sight they told one another
that there was a set purpose on the deputy's face. What purpose? He
hurried presently, choosing narrow and deserted streets, as a man who
carries a secret and does not wish to be seen.
Barrington had roused from a night of dreamless sleep, refreshed, ready
for the new day which was already creeping into his cell. Would Jeanne
decide to see him once more? Yes, he was convinced she would. He was
glad to feel the new strength in him, for there must be no tears in his
eyes at that meeting, only brave words on his lips and strong
encouragement in his face. Surely that meeting would be to-day. Latour
would not delay. Yet, what did he mean when he said it might be
difficult?
He asked no questions when Mercier brought his breakfast. It was
strange, after all that had happened, that he should trust Latour, yet
he did. He could not help doing so when they had grasped hands first in
the wine shop--how long ago that seemed!--he had done so yesterday when
they had gripped hands across this little table. He was a strange
mixture of good and evil, this Raymond Latour. What did he intend to do?
Would he sacrifice Jeanne rather than lose her?
"I cannot guess," Barrington murmured to himself. "He probably thinks
that Jeanne will marry him rather than see me sent to the guillotine. It
is a hard test. How must I counsel her?"
The light which came through the high grating gradually grew less. The
night was coming quickly. He was not to see Jeanne to-day, perhaps never
again. The bravery of the early hours passed from him and a chill of
despair was at his heart as he sat at the table, his face buried in his
hands.
The room was dark when the door opened and Mercier entered.
"Monsieur, will you follow me?"
Barrington sprang to his feet at once.
"Monsieur will have been told by Citizen Latour that he is to do as I
direct."
"I am so tired of these walls that a journey to the Place de la
Revolution would be almost welcome."
Mercier carried a lantern, and, after locking the door of the cell, he
led Barrington by the same way that he and Seth had taken. They passed
through the trapdoor into the cellar, and from there into the passage of
the house.
"This way," said Mercier, opening a door which gave on to a dark
alleyway covered in but apparently joining one house to another.
Barrington did not stop to ask himself questions, to consider whether it
was wise to trust this man. At the end of this alley Mercier opened
another door, and they entered a room barely furnished, and dimly
lighted. Two men rose quickly from seats beside a stove, and one came
forward with a glad cry.
"Master Richard! Master Richard! I thought they'd been lying to me. I
thought you were dead. Thank God for the sight of your face again."
Their hands clasped and were held tightly, as men who are comrades yet
do not speak of it much.
"I've been lying in some cellar underneath here with the wits out of
me," said Seth. "Now we're to take a journey, though I cannot worm out
of these gentlemen where to. It doesn't matter much so long as we are
together."
"A journey?" said Barrington, turning to Mercier.
"That is so, monsieur."
"It's strange that we four should be together again," said Seth. "They
were the Count and his friend when we drank a bottle of wine at
Beauvais."
"Now Citizens Mercier and Dubois," said Mercier, putting down the
lantern. "And a bottle of wine will not harm us. It will keep the cold
night out. There's a bottle in the cupboard, Dubois."
Dubois got it out and drew the cork with evident relish.
"Remember the last, Master Richard," Seth whispered.
Mercier could not have heard what he said, but he evidently remembered
the last occasion.
"There is nothing in this to make one sleep heavily. Here's the proof,"
and he filled a glass and drained it. "I've tasted better wine, but at
any rate it's harmless. Now for the other things, Dubois."
Dubois brought from the cupboard coats, hats, tri-color cockades and
sashes, sabres and wigs, which he placed upon the table.
"You will remember what Citizen Latour said, monsieur," said Mercier,
turning to Barrington. "You were to do as I directed. One false step and
your lives are forfeit, and mine, and Citizen Latour's too."
"We go to--"
"On a journey, monsieur, a dangerous one, but with a good end to it, I
hope. Let me help you to dress in this coat and wig."
"I care not how I go, so that the journey leads me to--to my desire,"
said Barrington.
"That's the road we all try to travel," Dubois returned, as he helped
Seth fit his wig and tied the sash round him.
"It's a long road and few reach the end of it," Seth remarked, "but
with a sword to hand I find my courage rising."
"Let me touch your face with a little black from the stove," said
Mercier. "You are a little too pale, Monsieur Barrington."
"It is no wonder. It seems an age since I felt the wind on my cheeks."
"That is better," said Mercier, as with some skill he tinted
Barrington's face and then treated Seth in the same fashion. "Now
listen. You, Monsieur Barrington, are Citizen Roche, your man here is
Citizen Pinot. You are both officers of the Convention under the
leadership of Citizen Mercier, a trusted servant of the Convention.
Remember these names, Roche, Pinot;--think of no others. I have papers
with me in which you are so named. Leave the speaking to me. You are
glum fellows lusting only for the work you have been given to do."
"But where do we go?" asked Barrington.
"You must trust me, monsieur. I have my instructions from Citizen
Latour. It may be that I do not know the whole of his purpose. May I
trust you to follow my instructions to the letter? for truly, if you
presently ask questions and show curiosity, my head is as good as in
Madame Guillotine's basket."
"You may trust me," Barrington answered.
"Then we may go at once. Good night, Citizen Dubois."
"Good night."
Through a doorway they passed into a yard shut in by the backs of
houses, from which, high up, dim lights glimmered. Mercier led the way,
bidding them keep close to him, and presently turned into a shed--a
stable. Three horses were there ready saddled.
"Mount, Pinot, mount, Roche. We ride toward the barrier and journey to
Versailles. We have urgent business that way."
Barrington asked no question as he mounted. Mercier led the way out of
this yard, into a narrow, cobbled street, then into a wider street.
There were not many people abroad in this direction, and no one took
particular notice of them. They crossed the Seine, and it was evident
that Mercier chose his way carefully, avoiding certain streets for good
reasons, probably. They rode in silence. Even when they approached the
barrier Mercier gave no word of warning.
They were challenged and stopped, all three reining in their horses on
the instant.
"Business of the Convention at Versailles," said Mercier.
"More heads, citizen?"
"I judge so."
"You are Citizen Mercier?" said the guard, holding up his lantern to
look at him.
"Yes. This is Citizen Roche; this, Citizen Pinot."
The man raised his lantern and looked into each face in turn.
"Devilish poor traveling companions," whispered Mercier, leaning from
his saddle toward the guard; "lustful fellows who get no fun out of
their lusts, as merry as death, and as silent."
The guard laughed and raised his lamp to look into Barrington's face
again.
"Provincials, eh?"
"Ay, from some corner of France where they breed mutes I fancy," said
Mercier.
"They're useful maybe, and if Madame Guillotine eats them presently,
what matter? She must have foul food as well as fine. Any fresh news
worth the telling?"
"None," Mercier answered.
"Then you may save your breath for your journey. Pass on, citizens."
They rode forward, slowly for a little way, then faster, but they were
soon off the road to Versailles. The night was dark, a keen wind blowing
in their faces, and there were gusts of rain at intervals. Still
Barrington asked no questions. If this man Mercier were deceiving them,
he was at their mercy. They were out of Paris, leaving it farther behind
them every moment. They had been in Latour's power, he could have
devised no trap for them at the end of this journey. It would be without
reason. But where was Jeanne? Could she be somewhere along the road in
front of them, or were they leaving her behind? The thought was
horrible, and, curiously, it had not occurred to Barrington until now.
Not only was he inclined to trust Latour, but he could see no possible
reason for his helping him to leave Paris unless he intended him to meet
Jeanne. Latour had said such a meeting might be difficult to arrange. As
they rode onward through the night there came a sudden suspicion, a
reason for this journey, which Barrington cursed himself for not
thinking of before. It fitted Latour's character, the good and evil that
was in it. Was Latour getting rid of him by helping him to escape, and
so leaving Jeanne entirely in his power with every opportunity to play
upon her feelings as best suited his purpose?
"Do we return to Paris presently?" Barrington asked suddenly.
"I do not know, monsieur," Mercier answered. "By dawn my part in this
business ends, and we part company."
"I am inclined to return to Paris at once," said Barrington.
"I would ask you to remember all that Citizen Latour said to you," was
the answer. "He bid me repeat this to you as constantly as you were
inclined to doubt."
"Do you know what Latour said to me?"
"No."
"Am I to see Latour at the end of this journey?"
"That I do not know. I am following out my instructions, but I am
convinced that Citizen Latour is acting for your good."
They rode on in silence again, the beating hoofs of the horses the only
sound in the night.
The dawn had not come when Mercier drew rein where two roads forked.
"We will go quietly, monsieur, in case there is danger. There is a house
here we must visit, a wayside inn."
Barrington let his horse walk but made no answer, and it was evident, by
Seth's movement in his saddle, that he was prepared for attack.
A mean house, not a light showing from any window, stood by the
roadside. Mercier dismounted and bid his companions do the same. Having
tied the horses to a rail he knocked at the closed door, and Seth
touched his master to warn him and draw his attention to the fact that
the knock was peculiar and had a signal in it. The door was opened by a
man, his figure outlined against the dim light coming from a room
beyond.
"Welcome. I expected you an hour ago," he said.
The voice was familiar, and they followed him down a narrow passage
into the lighted room at the back. It was not Latour but Jacques
Sabatier.
"Welcome, Monsieur Barrington; we meet in strange places."
"And what is the purpose this time?"
"Your safety," answered Sabatier. "When we first met I never supposed I
should have been employed so often in your affairs, ay, and have risked
my head on your behalf, too."
"You seem to forget that you have tricked me."
"Has it not turned out for the best?" said Sabatier.
"I will answer that question when I know for what purpose I have been
brought to this place to-night."
"Truly, it's a poor hostelry to welcome any man to, especially officers
of the Convention," laughed Sabatier.
"I go no farther until I know where I go and the purpose."
"We go toward Bordeaux and the sea; the purpose, to put you on board
some vessel which shall carry you in safety to America."
Barrington moved swiftly to the door and set his back against it.
"So Latour has tricked me once more. He will be rid of me so that a
defenseless woman may be altogether in his power. I return to Paris at
once. The odds are equal, and you have papers which I must have. They
may be useful to me."
There was the sharp clatter of steel as Barrington and Seth drew their
sabres. Then a door, which neither of them had noticed, on the other
side of the room, opened, and a man stood on the threshold.
"The odds are with us, Monsieur Barrington," said Sabatier. "I think you
will be compelled to travel toward Bordeaux."
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
There had been no fresh news to tell at the barrier on the Versailles
Road, nor at other barriers, until late that night, yet Paris was
excited all day. The storm was destined to develop quickly into a
cyclone. Where was Latour? What secret plotting against the people had
he been engaged in that he should come forward to defend such a man as
Lucien Bruslart? One put the question to Robespierre himself; the answer
was a look and a whisper which meant much. There was the suggestion that
the deputy was a traitor. There seemed no other answer to the question,
and inquiry must be made. Who was the woman who had cried out that
Deputy Latour might himself be in love with the emigre? She was a good
patriot surely, and she was not difficult to find, for she thrust
herself into prominence. Yes, she was the woman who had denounced Lucien
Bruslart. Why? It was a long story, and she did not intend that the
deputy's eloquence should save Bruslart. He had been her lover, but what
was love when the country was in danger? She had been a prisoner in the
Abbaye, taken there in mistake for an aristocrat. She had been rescued.
This man Raymond Latour had rescued her. Might it not be that he loved
the aristocrat? The mob made her a heroine and plied her with questions
which she answered. Scores remembered how she had been arrested,
remembered her journey through the streets. She was believed to be an
aristocrat then, Jeanne St. Clair; now she was known for Pauline Vaison,
as good a patriot as there was in Paris, and as handsome a woman, too.
She was a queen to-day. Certainly there must be more inquiry, and at
once.
The jailer Mathon was found in a wine shop, being off duty, and he was
somewhat muddled with wine fumes though it was still early in the
afternoon. At first he could not remember anything, but fear presently
cleared his wits. Yes, a woman had escaped from the Abbaye, but he had
been held blameless. His papers were in order. The authorities had been
satisfied. Had he recognized the officers who had taken the prisoner
away? That was the point. Was one of them Deputy Latour? No; and yet,
now it was suggested to him, there had been something strangely familiar
about one of the men. It might have been Deputy Latour. This was good
evidence, and Mathon, the jailer, was suffered to go back to his wine.
But there was further inquiry still, more subtle questioning. Lucien
Bruslart was condemned to die; to-morrow, a week hence, no one knew yet
when it would be, but certain it was that one day soon his name would be
in the list; then the last ride and the end. He was in despair one
moment, mad for revenge the next. Latour had come at his bidding to
defend him, not for his sake but for his own, and he had failed. He
could ruin Latour probably, why should he not do so? For one instant the
good that is in every man, deep buried though it be, struggled to the
surface and he shrank back from the thought, yet again revenge filled
his soul, and there came the lust to drag others down with him, Latour,
Jeanne, Pauline, and this cursed American. He hated them all. Why should
they live if he was to die?
Why should he die? Perhaps there would be no need. It was a subtle
suggestion in his ears, no fancy whispering to him, but a real voice. A
man in authority had entered his prison to talk to him. True, Citizen
Bruslart had been condemned, and justly, for he had not acted as a true
patriot should, but mercy was always possible. His prison doors might
yet open again if he would tell the whole truth. There were many
questions asked; many answers given; true answers some of them, but all
fashioned to save Lucien Bruslart from the guillotine, no matter who
else they might send to it. Yes, that was all he knew; was it enough to
save him? Patience. He must wait a little. It seemed enough. So there
was hope in the mean little soul of Lucien Bruslart, even though the
prison doors were still closed upon him.
With the gathering night came a cyclone. Against Pauline Vaison there
could be no accusation, no matter what the prisoner Bruslart had said,
she was the darling of the mob; but for the others, the deputy, the
aristocrat, and the American, there could be no mercy. Somewhere in
Paris the American was hiding, he would be found presently. Latour had
slunk away that day, many had seen him go; it was a pity he had not been
stopped then, the hunt for him must begin at once. As for the woman,
this emigre, they knew where she was. Pauline Vaison had suggested the
place, so had the prisoner Bruslart. Forward, citizens! Here are the
officers who will arrest her; patriots may well go with them and
rejoice. There will be no mistake this time.
Dancing, singing, filling the roadway and making the night hideous, the
mob passed along the Rue Valette, fought and struggled through the
narrow passage by the little baker's shop, and burst into the courtyard
beyond. The officers went up the stairs, straight on to the second
floor, and as many of the crowd as could squeeze up the stairway,
followed them. The door was locked.
"Open, in the name of the Nation!"
Neither the loud knocking, nor the command, brought any answer.
"Burst it open!" came a roar of voices.
It was a poor, common door, and splintered inwards almost at the first
blow. A rush of feet crossed the threshold, officers, and dirty men and
women, marking the floor, kicking aside rug and strip of carpet. A
dainty apartment, white paint, white curtains over the windows and the
bed, prints hanging on the walls, a faint fragrance in the air. She was
here not long since. See the woman's things upon the table! There were
her clothes upon the bed, a coarse dress; but these other garments! Look
at them, citizens! Here's lace and fine linen! One hag, twisting her
bony fingers into a garment, rent it in pieces, while a second, wrapping
another garment round her dirty rags, began to dance to an accompaniment
of ribald laughter. The aristocrat was here, and not long ago, but she
had gone! The curtains were torn from the windows and from the bed,
soiled in a moment and trampled on; the prints were wrenched from the
walls; the bottles on the toilet table were hurled to the floor and
broken; the furniture was shattered. The nest which had been so
carefully prepared was quickly a heap of ruins.
With curses and blasphemy the crowd hurled itself down the stairs to
the floor below. Here lived Deputy Latour, who had slunk into hiding.
There may be papers in his room; if not, they can break it up as they
have done the room above. Burst open this door too.
The officers knocked loudly. "Open, in the name of the Nation!"
It was a loud summons, no answer expected, yet at once the lock shot
back and Raymond Latour stood in the doorway.
"What do you want with me, citizens?"
He had been waiting for the summons, was ready for it. His hands had
tightened a little as he heard the wreckage of the room above. He knew
that the woman was no longer there, he knew that with his capture they
would forget all about her for a little while. The hours to-night would
be precious to her. Two men loved her, and Richard Barrington was not
the only man who was willing to die for her. So he faced the crowd upon
the stairs which, after one yell of triumph, had fallen silent. This man
had always been feared. No one knew his power for certain. He was feared
now as he stood, calm and erect, in the doorway.
"What do you want, citizens, with Raymond Latour?"
Still a moment more of silence; then a fiendish yell, earsplitting,
filling the whole house hideously, repeated by the crowd in the
courtyard, finding an echo far down the Rue Valette.
"Latour is taken! We've got that devil Latour!"
They brought him out of the house, bareheaded and with no heavy coat to
shield him from the bitter night, just as they had found him. The
officers, with naked sabres, were close to him as they crossed the
courtyard, and went through the passage to the street. They were afraid
that the crowd might attack the prisoner. A woman, old and wrinkled,
looking out from the baker's shop, shrank back behind the little counter
that she might not be noticed. The mob danced and sang, but no one
attempted to touch Latour. They were still afraid of him, he walked so
erect, with so set a face, with so stern a purpose. He was the one
silent figure in this pandemonium.
"The man who would have saved Louis Capet!" cried one, pointing at him.
Latour heeded not.
"The lover of an aristocrat!" cried another.
No one noticed it, but a smile was on Latour's face. This was his real
offense, that he loved. The face of the woman seemed to shine down upon
him out of the darkness of the night. All the past was in his brain; his
love, his ambition, his schemes which had ended in this hour of ruin and
failure. Yet still the smile was upon his lips, and there was a strange
light in his eyes. Was it failure after all? This end was for her sake,
the supreme sacrifice. What more can a man do than lay down his life for
love?
CHAPTER XXIX
THE END OF THE JOURNEY
Richard Barrington looked at the man in the doorway and laughed. He was
a mere stripling.
"You will want greater odds than that to drive desperate men," he said
fiercely. "We return to Paris at once and must have your papers."
"Richard!"
Barrington stood perfectly still for a moment as the stripling stepped
into the room, then he sprang forward with a little cry.
"Jeanne!"
"Ah! I hate that you should see me like this," she said, "but Citizen
Sabatier declared it was necessary."
Her face was smeared, much as his own was, a ragged wig concealed her
hair, she was dressed, booted, sashed as a patriot, a pistol at her
waist, a cockade in her hat, young-looking, yet little about her but her
voice to proclaim her a woman.
"The odds are on our side, monsieur," said Sabatier, and then he touched
Seth on the shoulder. "Come into the next room, there is wine there. We
may finish the bottle. Love is wine enough for them. We must start in
half an hour, Monsieur Barrington."
"Tell me, Jeanne, how did you come?" said Barrington, as the door
closed leaving them alone. "I thought they had cheated me. Until I
entered this room I hoped that my journey would lead me to you. I hardly
know why but I trusted Latour. Then I was mad to think of my folly in
believing, and now you are here. Truly, a miracle has happened."
"Oh, I have been so afraid, such a coward," she said, drawing his arm
round her. "Raymond Latour came to me, straight from seeing you, I
think, bringing this man Sabatier. He told me that I should see you
again, and that I was to do exactly as Sabatier said. He had changed,
Richard. He was very gentle. He asked me not to think unkindly of him.
He kissed my hand when he left me, and, Richard, he left a tear on it."
"I think he loved you, Jeanne."
"He said so; not then, but when he first came to me. It was horrible to
hear love spoken of by any man but you. He threatened me, Richard. I
thought he meant what he said."
"He did when he said it," Barrington answered. "He came to me, demanding
that I should urge you to marry him."
"And you refused?"
"Yes, and yet--ah, Jeanne, I hardly know what I should have urged. The
thought of the guillotine for you made me afraid."
"It would have been easier than marrying any other man," she whispered.
"Something, perhaps something you said, Richard, changed Latour. He
evidently arranged my escape. Sabatier came early yesterday with these
clothes. He told me to dress myself in them. Think of it, Richard! I
walked through the streets with him like this, into a house in some
alley, where we waited until it was dusk. Then we rode to the barrier.
I was some horrible wretch thirsting for blood, young as I was; I do not
know what Sabatier said, but even the men at the barrier shuddered at me
and turned away."
Barrington laughed and held her closer.
"Then we rode here. We came by the Sceaux road, Sabatier said. This
lonely place made me afraid. It was so unlikely you would find me here.
Then I wondered whether you were dead. You have always seemed to come to
me when I was in need, and this time--oh, it seemed so long, so
hopeless! Now I want to cry and laugh both at once."
"You have no fear of the journey before us?" Barrington whispered.
"Fear! With you!"
"I mean just because it is with me. Do you know what we are going to do?
We travel to the sea, to a ship, then to my home in Virginia. Are you
sure you do not fear the journey which means having me always with you?"
"Richard," she whispered, "you have never yet asked me to take that
journey. Won't you ask me now?"
"Jeanne, my darling, my wife to be, will you come?"
"If God wills, dearest--oh, so willingly, if God wills."
She remembered how far the sea was, how terribly near to Paris they yet
were. Disaster might be lying in wait for them along the road.
"He will keep us to the end, dear," Barrington whispered.
Presently she drew back from him. "How hateful I must look!" she
exclaimed. "Do I seem fit to be the wife of any man, let alone your
wife?"
"Shall I tell you what is in my mind?" he said.
"Yes, tell me, even if it hurts me."
"I am longing to see you again as I first saw you at Beauvais. I did not
know who you were, remember, but I loved you then."
Back to Full Books
|