"The honor will be mine," Barrington answered.

"Come, Jeanne. Will you show us the way, monsieur?"

Lafayette went to the door, and Jeanne crossed the room to Barrington.

"I have no words to thank you," she said. "For what I did at Beauvais I humbly ask your pardon."

"I am always at your service, mademoiselle. Please believe this and use me in your need."

She was gone, and Barrington was alone, staring at the doorway through which she had passed. A tangle of thoughts was in his brain, one loose end uppermost. He had not moved when Lafayette returned.

"Is that man honest?" asked Barrington. It was the loose end in the tangle which prompted the question.

"Yes, surely. She is the woman he loves."

"Only God knows the villainy of some men."

Lafayette laid his hand on his arm.

"Friend Richard, can it be that he is not the only man who loves her?"

"She is a woman, and in Paris."

"Ah, yes, enough truly to cause any man anxiety," answered Lafayette. "Now I am going to send a trusted servant with you to find you a secure lodging. This house is no safe place for you either. I would we were looking out across Chesapeake Bay together."



CHAPTER XI

"WAY FOR THE CURSED ARISTOCRAT!"

There were quiet streets in Paris down which noisy patriots seldom passed, houses into which the angry roar of revolution only came like a far-off echo. There were men and women who had no part in the upheaval, who had nothing to do either with the rabble or the nobility, who went about their business as they had always done, lamenting the hard times perchance, yet hoping for better. Some may have realized that in their indifference lay their safety, but to others such indifference came naturally; their own immediate affairs were all that concerned them. The rabble took no notice of them, they were too insignificant for the nobility to attempt to influence, and they criticised neither the doings of the Convention, nor the guillotine's work, knowing little of either.

In such a street, with a man named Fargeau, a tailor by trade, Barrington and Seth found a lodging. Fargeau had had the Marquis de Lafayette for a customer, and the money of this American, who could hardly have much interest in what was happening in Paris, would be useful.

"I cannot tell how long I may be in Paris," said Lafayette, at parting. "One must not prophesy about to-morrow. At present the neighborhood of my apartment must be dangerous to you. If chance brings me power again you know I shall think of you before any other."

"My duty seems to lie straight before me," Barrington returned.

"Yes, I understand, and if you are in trouble send for me if you can. You may depend on my doing all that a man can do. Count the cost of all your actions, for the price may be heavy. I have been full of advice this morning, let me advise you. To some in Paris you are a marked man, remember, so keep quiet for a while, and on the first opportunity get back to Virginia."

"You will not ask me to promise to act on your advice," Barrington returned with a smile.

"No," and then Lafayette looked earnestly into his face. "No, I do not expect you to act upon it. For most of us some woman is a curse or a blessing, and the utmost a man can do is to satisfy himself which she is. If she is worthy, I would not call that man friend who was not ready to risk all for her. God grant we both win through to more peaceful days."

Early in the afternoon Barrington went out, leaving Seth in the lodging. Seth suggested that he should be allowed to go with him.

"You must be free to work should I be caught and unable to act for myself," was the answer. "After to-night I shall be able to make more definite plans. Under certain circumstances there will be nothing to prevent us setting out upon our return journey to Virginia. Believe me, Seth, I have not yet fallen in love with Paris."

Seth watched him go, knowing that his resolution was not to be shaken, realizing, too, that there was reason in his argument.

"I couldn't understand any one being in love with Paris," he said to himself; "but there's a woman has Master Richard in her net. Love is a disease, the later caught, the worse it is. I wonder what his mother would have thought of this lady from Beauvais. And she doesn't care a handful of Indian corn for Master Richard as far as I can see; only makes use of him to get to another man. Falling in love with a woman of that kind seems a waste of good energy to me, but it's wonderful how many men have done it."

Richard Barrington had no intention of running into unnecessary danger. This man Mercier had no proof that he had helped Mademoiselle St. Clair to escape from the Lion d'Or. Paris was a big place, and he might never chance upon Jacques Sabatier. He had no intention of making any further use of Lafayette's name for the present, since it was evident that he might involve his friend in difficulty if he did. He was a Virginian gentleman in Paris privately. He was content to remain unknown if they would let him. If they grew inquisitive, his nationality should be in his favor, and the fact that he had come to offer his sword on the side of the people would be his safety. If he had made a few enemies by thwarting private plans, he had surely the power of making a thousand friends. So far his scheme was complete, but he was not thinking of it as he made his way toward the more central part of the city, taking care to appear as little of a stranger as possible. Was Lucien Bruslart to be trusted? This was the question he asked himself over and over again, finding no satisfactory answer. The reason which lay behind such a question could not be ignored. Any helpless woman would have appealed to him, he told himself, but the whole truth refused to be confined in such an argument. Jeanne St. Clair meant something more to him than this, but in this direction he refused to question himself further, except to condemn himself. Was he not viewing Lucien Bruslart through smoked glasses as it were?—an easy fault under the circumstances. Jeanne loved this man. No greater proof was needed than her journey to Paris for his sake. Barrington had done her a service for which he had been amply thanked. To-night Bruslart would inform him that Jeanne was safe, and thank him again for what he had done. There was an end of the business; and since his enthusiasm to help the people had somewhat evaporated—Jeanne's influence again, doubtless—why should he not return home? France held no place for him. It would be better not to see Jeanne again, more honorable, easier for him.

At a corner he stopped. Others had done the same. Coming up the street was a ragged, shouting mob. There were some armed with pikes who had made a vain attempt to keep the march orderly; others, flourishing sticks, danced and sang as they came; others, barely clad, ran to and fro like men half drunk, yelling ribald insults now at those who passed by, now at the world at large. Women with draggled skirts and dirty and disordered hair were in the crowd, shrieking joyous profanity, striking and fighting one another in their mad excitement. There were children, too, almost naked girls and boys, as ready with oath and obscenity as their elders, fair young faces and forms, some of them, debauched out of all that was childlike. Every fetid alley and filthy court near which this procession had passed had vomited its scum to swell the crowd. In the center of it rocked and swayed a coach. Hands were plenty to help the frightened horses, hands to push, hands to grip the spokes and make the wheels turn faster. The driver had no driving to do, so roared a song. The inmate of the coach might be dumb with fear, half dead with it, yet if he shrieked with terror, the cry of no single throat could rise above all this babel of sound.

"Way! Way for the cursed aristocrat!"

Children and women ran past Barrington shouting. One woman touched him with a long-nailed, dirty, scraggy hand.

"An aristocrat, citizen. Another head for La Guillotine," she cried, and then danced a step or two, laughing.

Barrington stood on tiptoe endeavoring to see the miserable passenger of the coach, but in vain. The men with pikes surrounded the vehicle, or the poor wretch's journey might have ended at the first lamp.

"It's a woman," said some one near him.

"Ay! a cursed aristocrat!" shouted a boy who heard. "Get in and ride with her," and the urchin sped onwards, shouting horrible suggestions.

"A woman!" Barrington muttered, and his frame stiffened as a man's will do when he thinks of action.

"Don't be a fool," said a voice in his ear, and a hand was laid upon his arm.

He turned to face a man who looked at him fixedly, continued to look at him until the crowd had passed, and others who had stopped to watch the procession had passed on about their business.

"You would have thrown your life away had I not stopped you," said the stranger.

"Perhaps. I hardly know."

"Yet it is not so rare a sight."

"At least I have not grown used to it," Barrington answered.

"That is difficult," said the man. "I have seen more of it than you, but I have learned to hide my feelings. The first time I was like you. Even now I clinch my teeth and remain inactive with difficulty. This tends to make us conspicuous, citizen. We must be either victims or executioners to be in the fashion. Some of us have friends, perhaps, who may easily chance to be victims."

"True."

"I have," said the man. "It is pleasant to meet one who has a kindred interest."

"I cannot claim so much as that," said Barrington.

"That sudden stiffening of yours told its tale," and the man smiled a little. "Had I not been convinced I hardly dared have said so much."

"Doubtless there was some danger," laughed Barrington, "but at least I am not a spy or an informer. The thought of a woman in such a crowd hurt me, citizen."

"Some time we might be of service to each other," the man returned. "It is good to have a friend one can trust in these days. Unless I am much mistaken, I can be of service to you. My way is the same as yours if you will allow it. There is a shop yonder where the wine is good and where, until that shouting crowd comes home again, we shall attract no notice."

How could this man be of service to him? For a moment he hesitated, scenting danger, but the next he had turned to walk with his new companion. He looked honest and might tell him something of value.

They entered the wine shop which was empty, and were served.

"Have you a toast, monsieur?"

"To the safety of that woman," said Barrington.

"I drink it. To the safety of a woman."

Barrington did not notice the slight difference in the toast; the words were hurriedly spoken and in a low tone.

"Do you know, monsieur, that only this morning an emigre returned to Paris disguised as a market woman?"

"What folly!" Barrington said. "Does she chance to be the friend you are interested in?"

"My friend is an emigre, therefore I am a little sorry for this one," was the answer. "I hear that careful search is being made for her. Such a search can hardly fail to be successful."

"She may have good friends."

"She has, I understand. One, at least, the man who helped her into Paris."

"He had better have helped her to keep out of it," Barrington returned, "and yet, she may have come with some high purpose and he has served her cleverly. Is it dangerous to drink to his good health, monsieur? for I like a man who is a man even though he be my enemy."

"There is no danger, I think," and the man drank. "She has another friend, too, one Lucien Bruslart."

"I have heard of him," said Barrington, quickly, "but surely he is of the people. I think I have heard him praised as an honest patriot."

"He is, yet he was an aristocrat."

"You speak as though you had little faith in him."

"No, no, you judge too hastily. I am of the people, yet, as you may have gathered, not wholly with the people. I take it that such is monsieur's position, too. Personally, I have not much faith in an aristocrat turned patriot, that is all."

"Nor I, monsieur; still, I know nothing of this Monsieur Bruslart, so can venture no opinion."

"You are a stranger in Paris?"

"Yes."

"Pardon, monsieur, I am not inquisitive. I only wish to prove myself friendly. Paris is somewhat dangerous for strangers."

"Even for those who take no interest in one side or the other?" asked Barrington.

"Most assuredly, for such men are likely to be on private business, and private business smacks of secrecy, and those who govern dislike all secrets except their own."

"I am not afraid. It is a habit rather than a virtue."

"I saw your fearlessness. It impressed me," the man answered, earnestly. "I saw also that others had noted you as well. It would perhaps be wise to remember that besides hunting for the woman who has come back to Paris, they are hunting for the man who helped her so successfully. Perhaps some of the men who were at the barriers this morning may remember him."

"What more probable?" said Barrington. "It may be that this man was not such a friend to the woman as we have imagined. He may have had sinister designs in bringing her into Paris."

The man put down his glass rather sharply. The idea evidently produced some effect upon him.

"I cannot believe that," he said.

"I do not like to think so," Barrington returned.

For a few moments they looked squarely into each other's faces. Then the man laid his hand upon the table, palm uppermost.

"Ah! It is certain we are kindred spirits, monsieur. We may have our own secrets, our interests may perhaps have points of antagonism, but we are both fearless. You are a man after my own heart. Will you take my hand?"

Barrington grasped his hand across the little table.

"Should we ever be enemies, let us remember this wine shop and this hand clasp. The recollection may help us both. For you there is danger, coming perhaps from the very quarter where you least expect it. I may be useful to you then. In the Rue Valette there is a baker's shop; if you inquire there for one, Raymond Latour, you shall find a welcome," and before Barrington could make any answer, he passed out into the street.

The man knew him, that was evident, knew that he had helped mademoiselle into Paris. Was he a friend or an enemy? He had warned him of danger, and his parting words had had something of the nature of a compact in them. What could bind this man to him in any way unless the emigre he was interested in was Mademoiselle St. Clair? Surely that was where the truth lay. To this man Latour she stood for something.

Barrington remained in the wine shop for some little time, carefully examining every point of his adventure. Certainly his movements would be watched; certainly this Raymond Latour might be useful to him. When he went into the street presently he looked carelessly to right and left, wondering which of the people in sight was bent on following him.

"Whatever their reward is to be they shall do something to earn it," he murmured, smiling, and turning into a side street he did his best to escape watchful eyes.

At the hour appointed he was at Monsieur Bruslart's door. The servant asked him several questions before he admitted that his master was in. Monsieur Bruslart was cautious. Was it possible that mademoiselle was still in the house? If Barrington forgot her danger for a moment as he thought of the delight it would be to him to see her again, was he very blameworthy?

The servant announced him.

Pale, dishevelled, trembling with excitement, Bruslart met him. A nervous hand gripped his arm.

"Monsieur' Barrington, you—"

"What is it? In Heaven's name what is it?"

"While I was gone, they came. Look at the room, still dirty with them, still reeking of them. They took her. Jeanne is a prisoner, and I—I am almost mad."

Barrington gasped as a man who receives a heavy blow. His hand fell on a chair-back to steady himself. He saw nothing but that filthy crowd, and that coach swaying in the midst of it. Jeanne was the woman within, and he had made no effort to save her.



CHAPTER XII

CITIZEN BRUSLART

The two men stared at each other with unseeing eyes, neither conscious, it would seem, of the other's presence. The circumstances called for prompt action, for swift decision, for keen and subtle energy, yet they were silent, helpless, looking into vacancy, and seeing visions.

Suddenly Lucien sat down and let his head fall upon his arms thrown out across the table, a personification of despair which might take the heart out of any observer. The action served, however, to bring. Barrington back into the present, to conserve his energies, to make him a man of action again. His frame stiffened, much as it had done that afternoon when the crowd with the coach in its midst had passed him. Then came the memory of the restraining hand laid on his arm. It acquired a new significance.

"Tell me the whole story," he said. "There is no time to lose."

"I was a fool. Lafayette was right. I ought never to have brought her here," wailed Bruslart, utter despair in his voice; and then, after a moment's pause, he went on with desperate energy as though he had a difficult confession to make and must tell it in a rush of words, or be afraid to tell it at all. "It took me more than two hours to arrange with my friend. He was out when I got there and I had to wait, then he was a long time discussing the best means of securing mademoiselle's safety, and how she could most easily be taken to his house unseen. Nearer four hours had passed than two when I returned to find Jeanne gone."

"Your friend had fooled you, keeping you out of the way."

"No, no. He did not know where Jeanne was. Some one must have seen her, recognized her when you came in at the barrier this morning perchance, followed her and betrayed her. They did not come asking for her, searching for her, but knowing that she was here. When the door was opened they rushed in, thrusting my servant aside, asking no questions. The reek of them is still in the room. What shall I do?"

Bruslart let his head again fall on his outstretched arms and sobs shook him. Such grief in a man is difficult to witness and remain unmoved, yet no expression of pity came into Barrington's face. He was a man of a different fiber altogether; his emotions were seldom shown, and deep though they really were, he passed for a hard man. Even in anger he was calm, calculating, a set face masking the truth; and in such a crisis as this, after the first staggering blow of it, his whole force was concentrated on action. Misery for what had happened was so much energy wasted, there was something to do and every faculty became focused upon the best means of doing it.

Barrington went to the table and laid his hand firmly on Bruslart's shoulder.

"This is no time for grieving over what cannot be undone; our business is to act. Let me understand the position, for I swear to you that I am ready to do all that a man can do. Since mademoiselle was taken in your house you are in danger, I suppose. They will remember that you are an aristocrat, too, and easily forget that you wear the outward signs of a patriot."

"Mademoiselle seems to have thought of that, and let them believe that she had rushed to my house for safety without my knowledge."

"It was like her," said Barrington. "She will be brave, no matter how sorely she is tried. To-day, monsieur, I saw a coach surrounded by a yelling crowd. It was a new sight to me and I stood to see it pass. It contained an aristocrat, a woman, they said, but I could not see the prisoner. The time corresponds; it may have been Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"Ah! If you had only known!"

"Indeed, monsieur, the fact that the prisoner was a woman, made me foolish enough to think of rushing into that filthy crowd single handed; had I imagined it was mademoiselle I certainly should have done so. And what could I have done, one man against a multitude? I should have been killed, and mademoiselle might have been torn to pieces by the fiends who surrounded her. They were in the mood for such work. Fortunately, a man beside me, seeing the intention in my face, laid a restraining hand upon me."

"Was he a friend?" Bruslart asked.

"Indeed, I think he proved himself one though he was a stranger. His name was Latour, he told me."

Barrington mentioned the name with set purpose. Over the wine the stranger had certainly expressed distrust of Lucien Bruslart, an aristocrat turned patriot. The question of Bruslart's honesty had been in Barrington's mind all day. It would be worth noting what effect the name had upon his companion.

"Latour? Raymond Latour?" said Bruslart, starting to his feet, more alert than he had yet been since Barrington had entered the room.

"The same. What do you know of him?"

"No more than all Paris knows, monsieur, but it is enough. He is a red republican, a leading man among the Jacobins, hand in glove with all who hate aristocrats. We need look no further for Jeanne's betrayer."

"I am not so certain of his hatred against all aristocrats," said Barrington, slowly.

"He has a tongue that would persuade the devil himself to believe in him," said Bruslart.

"And I do not think he knew who was in the coach," Barrington went on. "I have a reason for saying so, and I may find out the truth presently."

"You are a stranger in Paris, you cannot hope to be a match for Raymond Latour."

"At least there is work for me to do in this matter, and I shall not run needlessly into danger. Freedom is precious to us both, monsieur, at the present time, since we must use it to help mademoiselle. You pose as a leader of the people, therefore some authority you must have; tell me, what power have you to open the door of mademoiselle's prison?"

"Alas, none."

"Think, think. Patriotism, wrong headed though it may be, will clothe its enthusiasts with a kind of honor which cannot be bribed, but how many real patriots are there in Paris? Are the ragged and filthy men and women of the streets patriots? I warrant a fistful of gold thrown by the man they cursed would bring him a very hurricane of blessings."

"You do not understand the people, monsieur," answered Bruslart. "They would scramble for your gold and cry for more, but they would still curse you. The mob is king."

"There is the individual, monsieur," said Barrington. "Try a golden key on his cupidity. I do not mean on a man who is swaggering with new authority, but some jailer in the prison."

"It might be done," said Bruslart.

"It can. It must. You may use me as you will," Barrington returned. "I am ready to take any risk."

"Mademoiselle would certainly approve your loyalty."

"I feel that I am responsible for bringing her to Paris," Barrington answered. "I would risk my life to carry her safely back to Beauvais."

Bruslart looked at him keenly for a moment, then held out his hand.

"Monsieur, I am ungenerous, if not in words in my thoughts. It is not to be supposed that I should be the only man to be attracted by Mademoiselle St. Clair, yet I am a little jealous. You have had an opportunity of helping her that has not been given to me. You have been able to prove yourself in her eyes; I have not. Has not my folly been her ruin?"

"You have the opportunity now," said Barrington, whose hand was still clasped in Lucien's.

"You do not understand my meaning."

"Only that we pledge ourselves to release mademoiselle."

"And the real strength underlying this resolve? Is it not that we both love her?"

Barrington drew back a little, and felt the color tingle in his face. Since the moment he had first seen her this woman had hardly been absent from his thoughts, yet from the first he had known that she was pledged to another man, and therefore she was sacred. Deep down in his nature, set there perchance by some long-forgotten ancestor, cavalier in spirit, yet with puritan tendencies in thought, there was a stronger sense of right and wrong than is given to most men perhaps. As well might he allow himself to love another's wife, as to think of love for another man's promised wife. The standard of morality had been easy to keep, since, until now, love for neither wife nor maid had tempted him; but during the last two or three days the fierce testing fires had burned within him. It had been easy to think evil of the man who stood before him, easy to hope that there might be evil in him, so that Jeanne St. Clair being free because of this evil, he might have the right to win her if he could. Lucien Bruslart's quiet statement came like an accusation; it showed him in a moment that in one sense at any rate he had fallen before the temptation, for if he had not allowed himself to think of love, he had yielded to the mean wish that her lover might prove unworthy. It helped him also to rise superior to the temptation.

"I may have had ungenerous thoughts, too," he said, "but they have gone."

"And only love remains," Bruslart returned, the slight rise in his tone making the words a question rather than a statement.

"Your love, monsieur, my admiration and respect. These I certainly have for the lady who is to be your wife. Your love will hardly grudge me them."

"I believe I might have found a dangerous rival, were you not a man of honor," said Bruslart. "We understand each other better than we did this morning. Heavens! what a wealth of hours seem to have passed since then. We fight together for mademoiselle's safety. I will go at once to the Abbaye, that is the prison you think they were going to. And you, monsieur, what will you do?"

"I shall set my servant to watch Latour, and there are one or two others in this city whose movements will interest me."

"You must be careful of Latour."

"He will be wise to be careful of me too. There is some aristocrat Raymond Latour would do all in his power to help. That is a secret we may use against him if necessary."

"Did he tell you that?"

"We became friends over a bottle of wine."

"Ah, men boast and tell lies over their wine," Bruslart answered, "and for his own ends Latour can lie very convincingly. Will you come to me here to-morrow night? I may have accomplished something by then."

They left the house together, but parted in the street, Barrington returning to the house of Monsieur Fargeau to plan with Seth the close watching of Latour's movements, Bruslart going in the direction of the prison of the Abbaye.

Bruslart's pace was rapid for a short distance, then he went more slowly and thoughtfully; but there was no relapse into the despair in which Barrington had found him that evening. Contact with a strong man, and the compact made with him, had apparently restored his nerves, and no one knew better than he did how necessary it was to have every faculty in working order at the present moment. He had told Barrington that he was in no danger from the fact of mademoiselle having been arrested in his apartments, and if this were not quite true, he felt certain that he could evade the danger by presenting a bold front to it. The desire to convince himself that this was possible became stronger as he proceeded slowly, and opportunity to put his conviction to the test might easily be found.

"There would be no one at the prison to-night on whom I could make any useful impression," he said to himself. "I shall gain more by swaggering to the crowd."

He quickened his pace, but not in the direction of the prison. He turned into a side street, at the corner of which was a broken lamp bracket used for hanging a man not a week ago. He glanced up at it as he passed, recognizing perhaps that he was as a skater on thin ice, his safety entirely dependent upon his agility, as he made his way to the flare of light which came from a wine shop.

The place was full and noisy, but there was a sudden silence as he entered. He was well-known here, and every pair of eyes was fixed upon him keenly. That he bore the scrutiny without flinching proved him to be no coward. The attitude of the crowd in the wine shop was not reassuring. His task was to be more difficult than he imagined, and he rose to the occasion. With a careless nod intended to comprehend every one in the room, and as though he perceived nothing extraordinary in the manner of his reception, he crossed the room to a man who had suspended his game of cards to stare at him.

"Good evening, Citizen Sabatier; you can tell me something. Was that aristocrat taken to the Abbaye this afternoon or where?"

"To the Abbaye."

"I was going to the prison to ask, then thought I might save myself a journey by coming here on my way. Wine, landlord—the best, and in these days the best is bad. You were not at the taking of this aristocrat, Sabatier?" and as he asked the question Bruslart seated himself.

"No. I had other business."

"It is a pity. Had you been there the affair would have been conducted with more order."

"I was there, Citizen Bruslart," said a man, thrusting forward his head truculently. "What is there to complain of?"

Bruslart looked at him, then leaned toward Sabatier and said in an audible aside—

"A new friend? I do not seem to remember him."

"Citizen Boissin, a worthy man," said Sabatier, shortly. He knew that the men in the wine shop were likely to follow his lead, and he was at a loss to know how to treat Lucien Bruslart to-night.

"Ay, Boissin, that's my name, and he asks you what you have to complain of?"

"Much, very much, citizen. It is not enough that a cursed aristocrat uses my lodgings as a shelter while I am away from home, but a crowd of unauthorized persons invade it and break a cabinet for which I have a great affection. Maybe, since you were there, Citizen Boissin, you can tell me who broke my cabinet."

"Curse your cabinet!"

"Curse you for coming to my lodgings without an invitation," said Bruslart, quietly.

There was a shuffling of feet, a promise of quick and dangerous excitement, but Sabatier did not move, and Bruslart's eyes, as he quietly sipped his wine, looked over the rim of the glass at Boissin, who seemed confused and unable to bluster. There was a long pause which was broken by a man seated at another table.

"The breakage need not trouble you, Citizen Bruslart, your trouble will come when you have to explain how the aristocrat came to be in your lodgings."

"Whether she entered by the door, or climbed in at the window, I cannot say, since I was not at home," said Bruslart, with a smile. "My servant must answer that question. What I want to know is, who is this aristocrat?"

In a moment every eye was turned upon him. Jacques Sabatier smiled.

"I was going to the prison to ask that question," Bruslart went on. "She is a woman, that I have heard of, but no more. I am interested enough to wonder whether she was an acquaintance of mine in the past."

"An acquaintance!" and there was a chorus of laughter.

"It was Mademoiselle St. Clair," said Boissin.

Lucien Bruslart did not start at the mention of the name, not an eye fixed upon him could detect the slightest trembling in his hand as he raised the glass to his lips and slowly drank the wine which was in it. He knew perfectly well what a false move, or an ill-considered word, might mean to him. There was not a man in that company who did not hate the name of aristocrat, yet after their fashion, many of them had ties which they held sacred. The same man who could spend hours rejoicing in the bloodthirsty work of the guillotine would return home to kiss his wife, and play innocently with his children. Bruslart knew that to pity the aristocrat might be hardly more dangerous than to abuse the woman.

"Mademoiselle St. Clair. In the past she was more than an acquaintance," he said.

"She is your lover," said half a dozen voices together.

"She was," corrected Bruslart, quietly, "and therefore a little sentiment enters into the affair. I could almost wish it had been some other woman. That is natural, I think."

"Ay; and it explains why she took shelter in your lodgings," said Boissin.

"True, it does; and, so far as I remember, it is the only personal matter I have against her. I do not recall any other injury she has done me. I am afraid, citizens, she has some case against me, for I grew tired of her long ago."

"She does not believe that, nor do I, for that matter," said Boissin.

"What you believe is a matter of indifference to me, citizen," returned Bruslart, "and as for the woman—well, she is in the Abbaye. Not every man gets rid of his tiresome lovers as easily as I am likely to do. More wine, landlord. We'll drink long life to liberty and death to all aristocrats. And, Citizen Boissin, we must understand each other and become better friends. I accused you of entering my lodgings without invitation, now I invite you. Come when you will, you shall be welcome. And, in the meanwhile, if there is any good patriot here who is a carpenter, and can spare time for a job, there is money to be earned. He shall mend my cabinet."



CHAPTER XIII

THE BUSINESS OF RAYMOND LATOUR

The arrest of an aristocrat, or of some poor wretch who had no claim to the title, but served just as well for a victim, was a common enough occurrence. In the first panic there had been a rush for safety across the frontier, but there were many who remained, either not foreseeing how grave the danger would become, or bravely determining to face the trouble. Some, like Monsieur de Lafayette, true patriots at heart, had attempted to direct the trouble, and being caught in its cyclonic fury were at grips with death and disaster; some, like Lucien Bruslart, having themselves or their friends to serve, openly threw in their lot with the people, playing the while a double game which kept them walking on the extreme edge of a precipice; and there were others who, finding their bravery and honesty of no avail, realizing that it was now too late to escape out of the country, hid themselves in humble lodgings, or were concealed in the homes of faithful servants. There were patriots who were ready to howl death to all aristocrats, and yet gave shelter to some particular aristocrat who had treated them well in the past. Kindnesses little heeded at the time saved many a man in his hour of need.

To Richard Barrington that slowly moving coach, surrounded by a filthy, yelling mob, was a new and appalling thing; to Raymond Latour it was a very ordinary matter, a necessary evil that France might be thoroughly purged from its iniquity. When he laid his hand upon Barrington's arm, he had no idea who the prisoner in the coach was. Had he known, he might still have put out a restraining hand, realizing that to throw two lives away uselessly was folly, but in the wine shop afterward he would have treated his companion differently.

That morning he had waited patiently for the coming of Mademoiselle St. Clair. He had made a last inspection of the rooms he had hired, satisfying himself that there was nothing left undone which it was in his power to do for her. Then he had gone to his own room and tried to read during the interval of waiting. His patience was strained to the limit when, at noon, Mercier and Dubois arrived alone. He had expected them long before. The delay had almost prepared him to hear that his plans had been frustrated, yet the two men who had entered, afraid of his anger, were surprised at the calmness with which he listened to their story.

It was not all the truth. Mercier said nothing of the amount of wine he had drunk, nothing of his boasting. He described the men at the Lion d'Or as truculent, easily ready to take offense, difficult to persuade.

"They began by rejoicing that a market woman was on her way to Paris to give evidence against an aristocrat," Mercier said, "and then the devil prompted some man to speculate whether she might not be an aristocrat in disguise. They were for making certain, and if she were an aristocrat they would have hanged her in the inn yard. I had to threaten to shoot the first man who attempted to mount the stairs."

"And even then they only waited to get the better of us," said Dubois.

"They left the inn sulkily at last," Mercier went on, "but all night we kept guard upon the stairs, wasting precious hours as it happened."

"Go on," said Latour, quietly.

"Soon after dawn we were startled by a groan from the end of a passage, and we went to find a man lying there half dead. He had been badly handled, near where he lay was a door opening onto stairs which went down to the kitchens and the back entrance to the house. We went to mademoiselle's room and found that she had gone. How it had been accomplished neither Dubois nor I could tell, but we were both convinced that some of the men had stolen back after leaving the inn and had taken mademoiselle away, telling her some plausible tale to keep her silent. We roused the sleeping inn and searched it from cellar to garret. From the man lying in the passage we could get no coherent words, though we wasted good brandy on him. We went to the village, and were not satisfied until we had roused every man who had been at the Lion d'Or that night. More hours wasted. Then we went back to the inn and found the man revived somewhat. He declared that as he came to the top of the stairs a man and a woman met him. Before he could utter a cry the man seized him by the throat; he was choked and remembered nothing more. It was natural that our suspicions should turn to this fellow Barrington whom we had so easily outwitted at Beauvais. On this theory we asked ourselves which way he would be likely to take mademoiselle. It did not seem possible that they could enter Paris. We were at a loss what to do, and indeed wasted more time in searching the country in the neighborhood of the Lion d'Or for traces of the fugitives."

"You have certainly wasted much time," said Latour. "Tell me, what is this man Barrington like." He had already had a description from Jacques Sabatier, but a word-picture from another source might make the man clearer to him. Mercier's description was even better than Sabatier's.

"Did you tell this story of the Lion d'Or at the barrier?"

"No," Mercier answered. It was evidently the answer Latour wished to receive, and in a sense it was true. Mercier had not proclaimed at the barrier that he had been outwitted, and no one knew what business had taken him from Paris; but he had said that he believed an emigre in the disguise of a market woman had entered the city that morning. "What emigre?" he was asked. "Mademoiselle St. Clair," he had answered. The guard said nothing, no more inclined to confess to carelessness than Mercier was, and Mercier and Dubois had ridden on convinced that mademoiselle was not in Paris. At the barrier his remarks might have been taken for badinage, a sneer at the vigilance which was kept, had not the entrance of the quarreling market woman been remembered.

"If she is in Paris, we shall find her," said Latour.

"It is more likely she had ridden back to Beauvais," said Dubois. "If she is wise that is the way she has taken."

"Women in love are not always wise," said Latour.

"I am afraid, citizen, this unfortunate business has interfered with your plans. I am sorry. We had managed the whole affair so excellently." Mercier was so relieved to find Latour so calm that he was inclined to swagger.

"Most excellently," was the answer. "I am as far from having mademoiselle in my power as I was when you started."

"Citizen—"

"Is there need to say more?" Latour asked sharply. "I shall have other work for you presently; see that it is accomplished better. Did you meet Jacques Sabatier on the road this morning?"

"No, citizen. We have not seen him since he met us at the tavern yesterday and rode to Paris for your instructions. This morning we left the road several times to make sure the fugitives were not hidden in some shed or hollow. If he travelled to the Lion d'Or that is how we must have missed him."

"Come to me to-night at nine," he said, dismissing them. His anger was great, but it did not suit him to say more.

This was all Latour knew when he chanced upon Richard Barrington in the afternoon. He was thinking of mademoiselle when the noise of the approaching crowd reached him, and then he noticed the tall, strongly knit figure of the man just before him. A second glance convinced him that this was the American; therefore mademoiselle was in Paris. This was the man who had brought all his scheming to naught; his enemy, a daring and dangerous foe. He noted the expression on Barrington's face as the crowd went by, saw the intention in his eyes. In another moment his enemy might be destroyed, gashed with pikes, trampled under foot, yet Latour put out his hand and stopped him. Why? Latour could not see even his enemy throw his life away so uselessly. He hardly gave a thought to the wretched prisoner in the coach, but his interest was keen in the man who went with him to the wine shop. It was no mere phrase when he said he was a man after his own heart, he meant it. Their paths in life might be antagonistic, their ideals diametrically opposed, yet in both men there was purpose and determination, a struggle towards great achievement, a definite end to strive after. Circumstances might make them the deadliest of foes, but there was a strong and natural desire for friendship as they clasped hands.

"I could love that man," Latour mused as he went towards the Rue Valette afterwards. "Yet I must spy upon him and deceive him if I can. Mademoiselle is in Paris and he knows where she is hidden. He is Bruslart's friend, and Bruslart I hate."

He climbed the stairs to his room to find Sabatier waiting for him on the landing.

"I have heard," said Latour, unlocking his door and entering the room with his visitor, "I have heard the whole story. The fools have been outwitted. I have just left this man Barrington."

"Citizen, I do not think you have heard the whole story."

Latour turned quickly. Something in the man's tone startled him.

"Mademoiselle was taken to the Abbaye prison this afternoon," said Sabatier.

A cry, a little cry almost like the whine of a small animal suddenly hurt, escaped from Latour's lips. His strength seemed to go out of him, and he sank into a chair by the table, his face pale, his hands trembling.

"Tell me," he said, his voice a whisper.

"I cannot say how suspicion first arose, but some one at the barrier must have started it. Whether it was a guess, or whether some one recalled her face some time after she had been allowed to pass, I do not know, nor does it matter much. It got wind that Mademoiselle St. Clair had entered Paris, and where in Paris would she be most likely to go?—to Citizen Bruslart's. A crowd was quickly on its way there. Bruslart was away from home, but they would go in, and there they found her. Not an hour ago they were shouting round her as they took her to the Abbaye."

"There is wine in that cupboard, Sabatier—thanks. This news has taken the nerve out of me. Bruslart must have known she was in his house. Barrington would leave her there."

"I am not so sure of that," said Sabatier. "I do not know how much this Barrington suspects, but I do not think he is a man to make so obvious a mistake. I give him credit for more cunning, and with reason, I think."

"And Bruslart must have known the danger," said Latour.

"He may not, if he supposed mademoiselle had managed to get into Paris unseen. I cannot understand Citizen Bruslart."

"Dieu! Did he betray her himself, Sabatier?"

"I do not know. If I could see any object in his doing so I might suspect him."

"The Abbaye," Latour muttered, getting up and pacing the room. "The Abbaye. We must get her out, Sabatier. She would never be acquitted. Had she remained in Paris, the good she has done to the poor might have been remembered in her favor, but an emigre, her great name and all that it stands for—. No, she is as surely doomed as any prisoner who has entered the Abbaye. I have business at the prison to-night, Sabatier. I may learn something of her."

"Wait, citizen. To-morrow will do. You will not be careful enough to-night."

Latour paused by the table, a little astonished perhaps at the concern in his companion's voice. Sabatier was to be trusted as a man who served well for payment, but his hands had been red often, and it was strange to hear anything like sentiment from his lips.

"One would think you had some real affection for me," said Latour.

Sabatier swaggered to hide such weakness. "I am a man, citizen, who fears nothing. I can recognize another man who fears God or man as little as I do."

"The wine has cured me," said Latour. "I shall do my business, nothing more. I am not a fool. There will be no need of carefulness. Sabatier, to-morrow you must find out what Citizen Bruslart does. His movements may be interesting."

"And this man Barrington?"

"Leave him to me," answered Latour.

No man knew better when to wait and when to act than Raymond Latour, and few men had a keener perception of possibilities, of chances which were worth taking, of risks it was unwise to run. He appreciated his own power and influence to the very turn of a hair in the balance, and although to his companions he might exaggerate or underrate that influence to suit the occasion, he never made the fatal mistake of deceiving himself in the matter. Under ordinary circumstances, had his interest been aroused in a prisoner, he would have gone openly to those in authority and put the case before them, with every confidence not only of being listened to, but of getting his request granted. He had a strong following and was too powerful to offend. But for such a prisoner as Mademoiselle St. Clair, he knew that he dare not plead. The strongest man in Paris would be howled down by the mob if he attempted to procure her acquittal. She was closely connected with the best hated families of France, she stood not for herself but for what she represented, and the mob had assisted at no capture that pleased it more. This knowledge had for a moment robbed Latour of his nerve and courage. Strong man and self-contained as he was, he had not been able to control himself and hide his fear from Jacques Sabatier; yet now, as he passed quickly through the streets in the direction of the Abbaye prison, his step was firm, his face resolute, his course of action determined upon.

For an hour he talked with two friends of his who were in charge of this prison of the Abbaye, laughed and rejoiced with them at the arrest of such an important emigre that day; and then, at their prophecy that she would not be long in their keeping, that the tribunal would see to it that she went speedily upon her last journey to the Place de la Revolution, Latour ventured a protest—the first move in his scheme. It was so definite a protest that his companions were astonished.

"What! Does a woman appeal to you? Are you losing your hatred for aristocrats?"

"The woman appeals to me in a curious way," Latour answered. "After all, what is she? A little fish out of a great shoal. I would net in the shoal. It is not difficult with this little fish for bait. Do you not see how it is? This little fish is precious to the shoal, and lost, the shoal, or part of it, at any rate, will turn to find her. So long as it is known that she lives, there will be other emigres stealing into Paris to look for Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"You are right. Delay will be wise," was the answer.

"Urge it, then," said Latour, with gleaming, sinister eyes. "Urge it. You are the keepers of prisoners and should know best when to spare and when to kill. It is not my business, and I have a name for gentleness in some matters, a reputation which it suits me to preserve, but I am bloodthirsty enough to give you good advice."

Latour knew how swift revolutionary justice was sometimes. It might be only a matter of hours between mademoiselle and the guillotine. He had counseled delay, confident that these men would counsel it in their turn, and take to themselves the credit for so excellent an idea.

He had other business as he passed along the corridor of the prison, a jest with the red-capped turnkey concerning the pretty birds he tended so lovingly.

"Some of them sing even, citizen," answered the man, with a great, coarse laugh. "Shall I show you some of my pets? You may not have another opportunity."

"I do not understand birds."

"Will you not look at the new one caught only to-day?"

"Ah, the aristocrat! I had forgotten her. Where is she caged?"

"Yonder, a small cage, and with three others not of her breed. She does not sing, citizen, she scolds. I tell you she has some strange oaths and curses at her tongue tip, and mingles them curiously with prayers for deliverance."

Latour laughed. He must show no anger at this man's humor, and he had nothing to suggest which might secure mademoiselle greater comfort.

He glanced along the corridor in the direction the man had pointed. A few yards of passage and a locked door were all that separated him from the woman he would help. The temptation to look upon her for a moment was great, the thought that by a glance he might convey a message of assurance to her seemed to offer an excuse, but he resisted the temptation.

"I shall see enough of your birds when you send them on their last flight," he said, carelessly. "I hoped to see Mathon—where is he?"

"Drinking in the nearest wine shop, citizen, I'll wager, since he is off duty."

"It is a bad habit for turnkeys to drink," said Latour, severely, and the red-capped bully felt a sudden qualm of nervousness in his frame as he remembered how powerful this man was.

"Mathon is a good fellow. I spoke in jest, not to do him harm. When he has the keys in his keeping he does not drink, citizen."

"I am glad to hear that," answered Latour, as he passed on.

He found the turnkey Mathon in a neighboring wine shop, and called him out. The order was peremptory, and the man came quickly. Mathon had a history. He had been lackey to a nobleman, and while shouting with patriots in the beginning of the trouble, had helped his old master and his master's friends. Since then he had mended his ways and become a true patriot, with no desire to help a living soul but himself, with no sentiment and no fear in him except for one man—Raymond Latour. Latour knew the truth about him, was the only man who did, and held the proof, therefore Mathon was bound to serve him. He came quickly out of the wine shop and followed Latour into a side street.

"You know the room where this aristocrat was placed to-day?"

"Yes, citizen."

"She is not likely to be moved from there?"

"No, citizen, not until—not until she is condemned."

"When will you be in charge of the keys of her prison?"

"Not for a week, citizen."

"A week!"

"My turn for that part of the prison comes in a week, and she may not be there then. If you would speak with her, I might manage it before then."

"I do not want speech with her," Latour returned.

Mathon looked at him sharply.

"More than speech," said Latour. "In a week I will see you again. You shall run small risk, I will see to that."

Mathon nodded, he could not refuse his help, though his throat grew dry, and the collar of his shirt seemed to tighten as he thought of what the consequences might be. He hastened back to the wine shop and Latour returned to the Rue Valette slowly, thinking of a week hence.

He hardly noticed those who passed him on the way, and was certainly quite unconscious of the figure which followed him like a shadow.



CHAPTER XIV

AN APPEAL TO FRIENDSHIP

Raymond Latour was a busy man, he seldom missed attending the meetings of the Convention, and was assiduous in his work upon the various committees of public instruction, domains, liquidation and finance. It was therefore past noon on the following day when Sabatier found him and related what had occurred at the wine shop on the previous evening.

"Citizen Bruslart is no coward," concluded Sabatier, as though he considered even grudging praise from a man like himself conferred distinction upon the recipient. "When he entered, every patriot there was ready to fly at his throat, yet before the evening was ended he was a hero."

"He must still be watched," said Latour. "I have always told you that he was clever."

"He would be safer arrested, citizen. Indeed, is it not almost certain that he will be since this aristocrat was found in his apartment?"

"He has wasted no time," Latour answered. "Quite early this morning he saw certain members of the Convention and explained matters. It was the same story as he told in the wine shop, and he was believed."

"Do you believe him?" Sabatier asked.

The smile upon Latour's face suggested that he had no great faith in any one, that it was a sign of weakness to trust any man fully, and folly to express an opinion on such a subject.

"For all his professions of innocence a word would suffice to have him arrested," said Sabatier.

"It is the very last word I want spoken," Latour answered. "As you know, I have a personal interest in this affair. Citizen Bruslart is one of the cards in the game I play. Such a card in the hand is not to be carelessly thrown away, for there will surely come a time when it will be played with effect. Until then, Sabatier, make it your business to believe in Citizen Bruslart's patriotism, discourage as much as you can any questioning of it among those with whom you come in contact. Twice already to-day I have been loud in his praises. For the present he is safe, and we can watch him easily."

Perhaps Latour trusted Sabatier more fully than he did any of the others who served him, and there were many. He was farseeing enough to understand that popularity only was not sufficient security, that with the conflicting and changing interests which ruled Paris and the country, the friends of to-day might easily become the enemies of to-morrow. It was necessary to obtain some stronger hold upon the fickle populace, a security which was rooted in fear and ignorance of the extent of his power and knowledge. He had been careful, therefore, that the interests of those who served him should not be identical, that their individual importance should lie in different directions, in various quarters of the city and among different sections of the revolutionists whose aims and views were in many ways opposed to one another. The result was that Latour's power was appreciated on all sides, yet only imperfectly understood, and in the Convention he passed for something of an enigma, yet a man who was far safer as a friend than as an enemy. These confederates of his had one thing in common, however; all of them were beholden to Raymond Latour. He held some secret concerning each one of them; their lives, or at least their well-being, were in his hands; no one of them had his full confidence, and they could not afford either to deceive or betray him. His position was as secure as any man's in Paris. That he had enemies he knew, but they dare not strike; that he was watched he did not doubt, but the fact did not trouble him. Yet, at this juncture of his schemes, the espionage of one person who dogged his footsteps might have made him apprehensive had he known of it.

Seth, a hunter and trapper by nature, the son and grandson of men who for their own safety had to be trained in the subtle methods of the Indian, who himself had had no small experience in this respect, and easily followed a trail which was no trail to ordinary eyes, found little difficulty in watching Latour's movements. Barrington had taken Seth to the Rue Valette last night, and from the shadow on the opposite side of the street had pointed out Latour to him. Seth had followed Latour to the Abbaye prison, had seen him call Mathon from the neighboring wine shop, and before he slept Barrington had received the information. That Latour should go so promptly to this particular prison was at least surprising. He might have business there which had nothing to do with Jeanne St. Clair, he might still be in ignorance of the identity of the occupant of that coach, but Barrington could not believe this to be the case. He was much rather inclined to think with Lucien Bruslart that Latour had had a part in her betrayal.

One thing was certain, he must make use of the friendship Latour had offered him. There was danger in it no doubt, but Mademoiselle St. Clair's life was at stake, so the danger counted for nothing. Moreover, Barrington had papers in his possession to prove what his object was in coming to France, and he had already thrown out the suggestion to Latour that his reason in smuggling mademoiselle into Paris might have been a sinister one; and since Latour must have enemies, there would at least be some who would believe Barrington's statement that this deputy was ready to plot on behalf of an aristocrat, that over his wine he had confessed it. The struggle with Raymond Latour might be a more equal one than it appeared on a first consideration.

Next morning he told Seth his plans. "First I shall see Monsieur Bruslart early this afternoon as arranged. Unless he should have had some extraordinary success last night, which is hardly to be expected, I shall then go and see Latour."

"It may be only to walk into a den of lions," said Seth.

"Probably, but I am not altogether without means of taming them—and you know, Seth, where I have gone. If I am missing, it will be your task to find where I am, and if necessary, you must go to the Marquis de Lafayette and tell him."

"You will have also told Monsieur Bruslart."

"I am not sure," Barrington answered. "It will depend on circumstances."

"I should be inclined to let circumstances prevent it," said Seth. "I have not much faith in the help of a man who is so sure of his own cleverness that he takes the woman he loves to the very place where a child might know she would be in the greatest danger."

"I cannot understand that, I must confess, Seth."

"Well, Master Richard, I've always found it a good rule to have as little as possible to do with people you don't understand."

It was wise advice, perhaps, but the fact that Barrington had accused himself of entertaining a selfish hope that Lucien Bruslart was not a worthy man inclined him to believe in him, to trust him. He had, indeed, greater reason to do so now that grave suspicion was attached to Latour.

There was nothing of the despair of last night in Bruslart's manner to-day when Barrington saw him. It had not been replaced by confidence, but a dogged purpose was in his face, and a calm calculation in his words.

"I have done something but not much," he said. "After leaving you last evening, I fell in with a lot of patriots and I was quickly aware that I was in greater danger than I had imagined. I had to think of myself, for once my word is discredited, all my power to help mademoiselle is gone."

"Have you succeeded in re-establishing your credit?"

"I think so. I understand the mob and played to it. I had to lie of course, lies are the chief currency in Paris to-day. I knew nothing of mademoiselle's coming, I said; I did not even know the name of the aristocrat who had been arrested in my apartment, and naturally, as a true patriot I rejoiced at her arrest. I was considered a very fine fellow before the evening was out."

"But mademoiselle was not helped much," said Barrington.

"Not at all. I could not move on her behalf until this morning. First I have ascertained that her imprisonment in the Abbaye is so far fortunate, since it means that there is no desire to bring her to trial hurriedly. This gives us time. Then I have interviewed one or two members of the Convention. I need not tell you, Monsieur Barrington, that most of these men who are striving for individual power are afraid of one another. Each one wants staunch supporters and is ready to pay any price for them. It is worth while obtaining my support, so these men listened earnestly to me. They are inclined to help me."

"How?" asked Barrington.

"It is too early to decide, but I am hoping that we shall be able to show that mademoiselle was in Paris for a legitimate purpose, to help the distress in the city, for example; something, at any rate, to make the mob shout for her release. That way her prison doors would be quickly opened. The respite might be short lived, but it would be long enough. Then would come your part of the work, to see her safely back to Beauvais."

"And what further steps can you take towards this end?"

"Careful ones," Bruslart answered. "First gain the interest of other members of the Convention; secondly, let the reason for mademoiselle's return gradually be known among the poor in the Faubourg St. Antoine, and elsewhere. I can drop a spark or two in different directions, and the mob is tow. The fire will spread."

"But if it does not?" asked Barrington.

"You are depressing, monsieur."

"I want to act."

"It must be with caution," said Bruslart, "and with deceit. We can make no appeal to justice, because justice does not exist in Paris."

"I have nothing to say against your plans," Barrington returned. "I am only wondering whether we cannot work in another direction as well, so that if one way fail we may have the other to fall back on."

"You are still thinking of the power of gold."

"It seldom fails with such men as seem to be the rulers in Paris," said Barrington.

"Perhaps not, but it would fail now. Power is more to these men than gold. The one can be used and gloried in, evidence of the other would only make the mob suspicious. Is there any other way you can suggest?"

Barrington was thoughtful for a moment, making up his mind whether he should tell Lucien Bruslart of Latour's movements.

"No," he said slowly, "I have no other suggestion to make."

"I have every hope of success," said Bruslart, "but I am going to appear discourteous, Monsieur Barrington. It is necessary that I shall be considered a patriot of patriots, nothing must jeopardize such a character at the present time. Now it is more than probable that there are men in Paris who saw you at the barriers with mademoiselle, it would be dangerous to my character if you were seen visiting me."

"I understand."

"And you forgive the seeming discourtesy?"

"There is nothing to forgive. The idea crossed my mind on the way here, and I was cautious."

"Close to the Place du Carrousal," said Bruslart, "in a side street, there is a wine shop, an iron sign representing three barrels hangs over the door; if you could pass there every afternoon at four, I could find you when I was ready for your help."

Barrington promised to make a habit of passing this place at four in the afternoon and took his leave. He had hoped that Bruslart would have accomplished more, but it was something that he had done so much. It was absurd to feel any disappointment, in so short a time what more could he have done? Yet Barrington walked rapidly and in the direction of the Rue Valette. Bruslart had said nothing to alter his determination to see Raymond Latour.

He saw nothing of Seth in the street, and hardly expected to find Latour at home, but no sooner had he knocked than the door was opened and Latour welcomed him. He locked the door again when Barrington had entered.

"I am fond of study," he said, pointing to some open books on the table.

"And I disturb you?"

"No. I think I have almost been expecting you."

Barrington did not answer. It was necessary that he should get the measure of this man, understand the working of his mind, see the thoughts which were concealed behind his words. Barrington was as alert as though rapiers were in their hands, and only the death of one of them could satisfy the quarrel.

"Is it necessary for me to tell you that I guessed who you were yesterday?" said Latour.

"No, I knew that."

"It was not until I returned here that I knew who was in that coach. That is why I have been expecting you."

Barrington sat down, and with his elbows on the table supported his chin in his hands. In this position he looked fixedly at his companion, and neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then Latour sat down on the opposite side of the table.

"I see how it is, Monsieur Barrington, you do not believe me. I am not surprised. I am sufficiently well known in Paris for you to have discovered, if you have taken the slightest trouble to inquire, that I am a red republican, anathema to those who desire milder methods, a bloodhound where aristocrats are concerned. Still, I did not know who was in that coach any more than you did."

"If you had known?" asked Barrington.

"I should still have put out my hand to preserve your life."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"You would not have rushed with me into that crowd, thinking of nothing but the woman in the coach."

"What should make you think so?"

"You forget perhaps that you told me there was a woman, an aristocrat, for whom you would do much," said Barrington.

"I do not forget, but the will to do much does not mean the will to die for her."

"No? I think it did," Barrington returned. "I judged by the man's face, not his words."

Latour smiled, as he closed the books upon the table and put them together.

"You may be right," he said; "the temptation has not yet come to me. The other idea that is in your mind is wrong. Mademoiselle St. Clair is not the woman I am interested in."

"Then we start on level ground," said Barrington, "the ground which was of your own suggesting—friendship. I do not believe my face is a telltale one, but would you feel confident that I would do you a service if I could?"

"Yes."

"Then, Monsieur Latour, what are you going to do to help me to save Mademoiselle St. Clair?"

"The question is not unexpected," said Latour, after a pause. "I might easily answer it with the bare statement that I could do nothing. It would be true enough, for, in one sense, I am powerless; my conscience would be clear because I should be acting up to my principles. But let us consider the question for a moment. You are acting for Citizen Lucien Bruslart."

"He does not know that I am here."

"I quite appreciate that you are not a man to trust any one implicitly on so short an acquaintance, but you know perfectly well that to rescue Mademoiselle St. Clair is to save her for Lucien Bruslart."

"And if it be so?"

"The enterprise does not much appeal to me," said Latour. "Let me be more explicit than I was yesterday. I know Bruslart, not the man only but the very soul of the man. It is black, monsieur, black as hell. Mademoiselle had far better look through the little window than trust such a man. The guillotine does its work quickly, but the misery of a woman who trusts Lucien Bruslart must be the affair of a lifetime."

"If she is saved, is it so certain that it will be for Citizen Bruslart?" Barrington asked.



CHAPTER XV

THE PRISONER OF THE ABBAYE

The week of waiting passed slowly for Raymond Latour. He knew the risk he was running, but never for an instant was he tempted to turn from his purpose. His whole being was centered upon the enterprise; the saving of this woman was an essential thing, and every other consideration of country or self must give way to it. He was quite willing to sacrifice himself if necessary, but at the same time he intended to guard against such a necessity as much as possible. He worked with cunning and calculation, going over every point in his scheme and eliminating as far as possible every element of chance. The unlikely things which might happen were considered, and provided for. Only two persons had any part in the scheme, Jacques Sabatier and Mathon, the jailer; each had his own particular work in it, had received definite and minute instructions, yet neither of them knew the whole plot. Latour did not take them entirely into his confidence; he did not ask their advice, he only told them how to act.

The week was as any other week to Jacques Sabatier. Uplifted somewhat by Latour's confidence in him, his swaggering gait was perhaps a little more pronounced, but he was untouched by apprehension, not so much because he was a fearless man—like all swaggerers adverse circumstances would probably find him at heart a coward—but because he had implicit faith in Raymond Latour. The man he served was not only powerful and courageous; he was lucky, which counted for much. What he had set his heart upon that he obtained. It was a creed in which Sabatier had absolute faith, and the passing week was merely an interval which must elapse before success.

Mathon the jailer had not this sublime faith, and his fearfulness was perhaps natural. As a jailer he was in close touch with facts and knew by experience how unstable in these days was any man's power. A week had often served to change a master whose anger was dangerous into a prisoner whose name might at any moment be upon the list of those destined forthwith to feed the guillotine. He had not been brought so constantly in touch with Latour that he could appreciate him as a lucky man, and he contemplated his part in the enterprise with misgiving.

The plot was to be carried out on the second night upon which Mathon was on duty. This was the first precaution. Were he a party to mademoiselle's escape it would be argued that he would have seized the first opportunity; that he had not done so would go some way to prove his innocence. On this evening, too, Mathon was particularly loud in his hatred of all prisoners, of one emigre prisoner in particular, and his manners were brutal. There would be many witnesses able to prove this. In one small room at the end of a corridor he was particularly brutal. He made the mere unlocking of the door a nerve-racking sound, and stamped in swearing under his breath. Three women drew back into a corner, trembling. They were women of a coarse bourgeois type, their chief crime misfortune. They knew only imperfectly of what they were accused, why they were there, but they had few friends to spare a thought for them and expected each day to be their last. Sometimes they were afraid and tearful, at other times careless, loose, and blasphemous, despair making them unnatural, and in this mood it pleased them to curse their fellow prisoner, also a woman, and an aristocrat.

Mathon laughed as they shrank from him.

"Disappointed again," he said. "You are not called to-night. You will have another pleasant dream about it. Perhaps to-morrow your turn will come. It's time. This fine apartment is wanted for better people."

Then he turned and walked towards the fourth prisoner. If she were afraid she succeeded in hiding the fact. She was standing by the window and she did not move.

"As for you, your time is short," said the jailer, and then coming quite close to her he dropped his voice. "Listen, and don't show astonishment. You will be released probably. When the time comes, ask no questions, don't speak, do as you are told." Then he swore loudly again and, jingling his keys, went out and locked the door.

He swore partly to keep his own courage at the proper pitch, for the dismal corridors of the Abbaye were depressing to-night. Approaching footsteps startled Mathon, and the sudden salutation of a comrade turned him pale. The night was oppressive, yet he found it cold enough to make him shiver.

Presently there came heavy footsteps, and two of those dreaded officers of the Convention, men whose hours were occupied in spreading terror and in feeding the guillotine, stood before him.

"Jailer Mathon?"

"Yes."

"You have in your charge an emigre, Jeanne St. Clair. She is to be removed forthwith to the Conciergerie. There is the order."

Mathon took up a lantern and by the dim light read the paper handed to him. It was all in order, the full name of the emigre duly inserted, the genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the document. The jailer looked from the paper into the face of the man who had handed it to him.

"Do they set over prisoners fools who cannot read?" asked the man.

"No; the paper is in order," Mathon answered.

"Obey it then. Fetch out the emigre."

Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.

"It is down this passage," and his keys jingled. His fingers trembled a little as the men followed him. A few yards from the door the men halted.

"Bring her quickly. We have other work to do to-night more important than this."

Mathon unlocked the door and entered the room.

"Jeanne St. Clair, your turn has come."

The woman moved slowly.

"Quickly," said Mathon. "Your head's still in its place. Wrap the hood of your cloak well round it. There's no need to feel cold before the time. Don't speak," he added in a whisper.

They went out together, Mathon locking the door again.

"This is the prisoner."

The officers without a word placed themselves on either side of her, and they went quickly along the corridor leaving the jailer alone, one hand holding his keys, the other pressed to his pocket to make sure that the order he had obeyed still rested there.

A berlin stood in the little square before the prison, the driver half asleep. He had no imagination, this driver, and this square was to him as any other in Paris. Yet on another night, not long since, how different it had been! Then a mob filled it, filled it to overflowing, a mob mad with lust of blood and murder, armed with sabers, pikes and hatchets, any weapon that came to hand. Within the prison sat a sudden jury, a mockery of Justice; without stood Fate. A brief questioning, the veriest caricature of a trial, and prisoners were escorted to the doors, but no farther. The rest of the journey they must go alone. A lane opened before them, all must traverse it, old and young, man or woman. It was a short journey, and amid frenzied shrieks they fell under the sabers and the pikes. There was no mercy, only red death and horror. Rain had fallen in Paris since then, yet surely there must still be blood in the gutters of this square. The driver could not tell where he had been that night, not here certainly, but wherever it was he was minding his own business. He had enough to do to live from day to day, and had no use for a long memory. He had carried people, men and women, from one prison to another before this, and took no special interest in this job. The revolution mattered little to him if he could get sufficient for his wants. He had a room high up in the Faubourg St. Antoine, with a wife and child in it, and cared little what heads fell daily in the Place de la Revolution. He woke from his reverie at the sound of footsteps. A woman was helped into the coach quickly, a man following her and closing the door sharply behind him. A second man climbed to the box beside the driver.

"To the Conciergerie," he said.

The woman in the coach did not speak, but leaned back in the corner. The man was also silent until they had driven away from the square.

"Listen to me, mademoiselle," he said presently. "We are driving in the direction of the Conciergerie, but the way will be altered in a few minutes. My comrade will arrange that. Keep your cloak well round you and do not speak. You and I will have to walk presently to a safe retreat already prepared. You must do exactly as you are told or we may fail. Your escape may be discovered at any moment."

The woman did not answer. She had no idea who her companion was, had perhaps a doubt in her mind concerning him, but she determined to obey; indeed, what else could she do?

The man beside the driver was silent, and sat in a somewhat bent attitude as though he were desirous of attracting no attention, yet his eyes were keen as the coach went forward at a jogging pace, and if any passer-by seemed to show any interest in the conveyance he was quick to note the fact.

"Take the next turning to the left," he said suddenly.

"That is not the way," returned the driver.

"It's my way. We might fall in with a crowd."

"But—"

"To the left," said the man. "I will direct you."

The coach turned into the street indicated, and afterward round this corner and that at the bidding of the man on the box until the driver was utterly confused.

"I'm lost, citizen," he said; "and what's more I believe you are, too."

"You'll see directly. Sharp round to the right here."

The driver turned.

"Why, it's as I said, you've lost yourself. This is a blind alley."

Indeed it was, a narrow lane between high walls, a place where refuse collected and was allowed to remain undisturbed, a place upon which looked no prying window and which echoed to no footfall.

The driver had turned to jeer at his companion when he found himself seized in a grip there was no fighting against. He tried to call out, but succeeded in giving only a whispered respiration, and then a heavy blow robbed him of his senses.

The coach door opened. The man inside got out quickly and helped the woman to descend.

"Keep silent, mademoiselle; it is all arranged," he whispered, and in a few moments he had divested himself of his coat and hat, of everything which marked him as an officer of the Convention, and even of the shaggy hair which hung about his eyes and neck, and threw all this disguise into the coach. He was another man altogether. "Come; we must walk. The worst danger is past."

The man who had sat on the box was bending over the coachman. He said nothing, did not even look up as the two went swiftly down the alley. When they had gone he, too, divested himself of everything that proved him an officer of the Convention and of the wig which had concealed his identity. These he put into the coach. Then he lifted the unconscious driver from the ground and put him into the coach also, closing the door upon him. The horse had not attempted to move. He was a tired, worn-out beast, glad to rest when and where he could. He was unlikely to move until his master roused to make him, and the dawn might be no longer young when that happened, unless some stray pedestrian should chance down that deserted way.

For an hour that evening Raymond Latour plied his friends and fellow patriots with wine. So glorious an hour seemed of long duration. In case of accident there would be a score of good witnesses to swear that their friend the deputy had been drinking with them all the evening. Under the influence of wine and loud patriotism the flight of time is of no account.

It was close on midnight when Latour entered the alley by the baker's shop in the Rue Valette, walking slowly. Seated at the top of the stairs he found Sabatier.

"Yes, and asleep probably," said Sabatier, answering the question in his eyes.

"It was well done," said Latour. "Come to me early to-morrow. This man Barrington may be suspected and must be warned."

"And Bruslart?"

"Yes, to-morrow we must think of him, too. Good night, citizen."

Sabatier went down the stairs, and Latour entered his room.

Midnight! Was she yet asleep? Sabatier had told her nothing except that she was safe, and that the man who had planned her rescue would come to her and explain everything. She would think it was Lucien Bruslart. Who would be so likely to run such risk for her sake? Only one other man might occur to her, the man who had already done so much to help her—Richard Barrington. Would she be likely to sleep easily to-night? No. Surely she was wide awake, waiting and watching.

Raymond Latour went quietly up the next flight of stairs to the room above his own which he had furnished and made ready with such infinite trouble. She was not so safe in these rooms as she would have been had he succeeded in bringing her there in the first instance, straight from the Lion d'Or as he had intended. Bruslart could not have suspected him then as he must certainly do now; but Bruslart could only work in secret, he dare not speak openly, and Barrington was powerless. To-night Latour would say little. He would look upon her for a moment, be assured that she had everything for her comfort, proclaim himself only as one of those who had had a part in her rescue, and receive some thanks. This would be enough for to-night.

The key was in the lock on the outside of the door. Latour knocked before turning it.

"Mademoiselle."

"Come in."

The answer was faint. She was in the inner room. Even when told to enter, Latour hesitated. This was a crisis in his life, fully understood and appreciated. Here was the accomplishment of something he had labored for; it was natural to hesitate. Then he turned the key and went in.

The room was in darkness, but the light of a candle came from the inner room, and the next moment the door opened wide and a woman stood there, a beautiful woman, dark in hair and eyes, with figure as lissom as a young animal, poised just now half expectantly, half in fear.

A sharp exclamation came from Latour's lips as he leaned forward to look at her.

"Monsieur, I—" and then a flush of anger came into her face. "Am I still to be insulted?"

"In the devil's name, woman, who are you?"

Latour had crossed the space between them in a hasty stride or two, and his fingers were tightly round the woman's wrist.

"What right—"

"Who are you? Answer."

For a moment longer she was defiant, even made a feeble struggle to free herself, but the man's eyes were upon her and she was compelled to look into them. Anger blazed in them, anger was in every line of his set face. She had seen this man before, knew he was Raymond Latour, knew his power, and she was afraid.

"I am Pauline Vaison," she said in a low tone.



CHAPTER XVI

THE TAVERN AT THE CHAT ROUGE

Terribly leaden-footed had this week of waiting been to Richard Barrington. He had not seen Lucien Bruslart, although each afternoon he had passed the wine shop with the sign of the three barrels. He had nothing to occupy him, and for most of the day he remained within doors. He shrank from witnessing the squalor and savagery which might at any moment be met in the streets; he could not bear the sight or the sound of those slowly rolling tumbrils carrying their wretched victims to the guillotine, and he would not go in the direction of the Place de la Revolution even when there was no yelling crowd there, when the scaffold was untenanted and the great knife still. Another consideration kept him indoors. His constant presence in the streets might serve to make his face and figure familiar, and this would be a disadvantage if he were presently to help Mademoiselle St. Clair to escape from Paris.

In the house of Monsieur Fargeau life ran a smooth and even course, if not entirely ignorant of the revolution, at least having no personal concern with it. The shouting mob did not penetrate into this quiet corner of the city. Monsieur Fargeau knew nothing of politics, and was ignorant of the very names of many of those members of the Convention who were filling distant parts of Europe with horror and loathing. Some people had lost their lives, he was aware of that; possibly they had only met with their deserts, he did not know. The times were hard, but he was prepared for a rainy day, and could afford to wait until business improved again. To do the Marquis de Lafayette a service he had let rooms to two Americans, who paid him well, who said pleasant things to his wife and children when they met them on the stairs, and beyond this he thought or cared little about them. He knew nothing of their reason for being in Paris, and had no idea that he was harboring dangerous characters. Both Barrington and Seth had been careful to leave and return to their lodgings cautiously, and by a roundabout route, and were convinced that if they were watched they had succeeded in baffling the spies in discovering their hiding place. Barrington was therefore rather startled one afternoon when, as he returned from his daily walk past the wine shop, a man suddenly came from a doorway and spoke his name in a low tone.

"It is Monsieur Barrington?"

"Yes."

"You may remember me, monsieur. I am a servant to Monsieur de Lafayette."

"Yes, I thought I recognized your face. You have a message for me?"

"My master has left Paris, monsieur. There was a rumor that he was in the city, and he was in danger of arrest. He has rejoined the army in the North, but it may not be possible for him to stay there. If not, he will ride across the Belgian frontier."

"It is bad news?" said Barrington.

"Yes, monsieur, and I was to say to you that you would do well to leave Paris at the first opportunity. There is no place for an honest man to-day in France. My master told me to say that."

This news added to Barrington's feeling of impotence, and was depressing. Had his days been full of active danger it would not have had such an effect upon him. Naturally disposed to see the silver lining of every cloud, he was unable to detect it now. Instead, his mind was full of questions. Was Bruslart honest? Was he leaving no stone unturned to release Mademoiselle St. Clair? Had Raymond Latour lied to him? Was this week of waiting merely a pretext in order that he might have time to render the prisoner's acquittal absolutely impossible?"

"I'd trust this man Latour before I would Bruslart," Seth said, when Barrington appealed to him, but in such a tone that he did not appear really to trust either of them.

"And at the end of this week what are we to do if mademoiselle is still a prisoner?"

"Master Richard, we're just men, ordinary men, and we cannot do the impossible. We shall have done all that it is in our power to do, and a ride toward the sea and a ship bound for Virginia would be the best thing for us."

"You would leave a defenseless woman in the hands of her enemies?" Barrington asked.

"It seems to me she must remain there whether we stay or go. I'm looking at the matter as it is, and I see no opening for a romantic side to it," Seth answered. "You cannot do battle with a whole city, that would mean death and nothing accomplished; you cannot go to these ruffians and demand her release, that would mean death, yours and hers, in the shortest time possible. No, unless this man Latour keeps his word, I see naught for us but a return to Virginia as quickly as may be."

"You would never spend another night of sound sleep, Seth."

"I should, Master Richard. I should just forget this time as though it had never been, wipe the marks of it off the slate. He's a wise man who does that with some of the episodes of his life."

"I am a fool with a long memory," said Barrington.

"Ay, but you will grow older, Master Richard; and life is less romantic as we grow older."

So from Seth there was not much consolation to be had, only sound common sense, which was not altogether palatable just now as Barrington counted the days. Latour had been very indefinite. He had said a week, and on waking one morning Barrington's first thought was that the week ended to-morrow. It was a proof of his trust in Latour, half unconscious though such trust might be, that he had not expected to hear anything until the week had passed. He judged Latour by himself.

Seth went out in the morning as usual, looking as true and uncompromising a patriot as any he was likely to encounter in the street. He rather prided himself on the way he played his part, and wore the tri-color cockade with an air of conviction. Grim of feature, he looked like a man of blood, a disciple of rioting, and he had more than once noticed that certain people who wished to pass unobserved shrank from him, which pleased him greatly. Early in the afternoon he returned hurriedly. It was so unlike him to come up the stairs hastily, two at a time, that Barrington opened the door to meet him.

"Shut it, Master Richard," he said, as he entered the room.

"What has happened?"

"The unexpected. Mademoiselle escaped from the Abbaye Prison last night."

"You are sure! You have seen Latour?"

"Sure! The news is all over Paris. The mob is furious. There are cries for a general massacre of prisoners, as happened a little while since, so that no others may escape. There is talk of a house-to-house search, and there are more ruffians in the streets to-day than I have seen at all."

"Is there any mention of Latour, any suspicion of him?"

"I heard none, but they talk of—"

"Bruslart!" ejaculated Barrington.

"No, of a scurvy devil of a royalist who helped mademoiselle into Paris."

"Of me? By name?"

"I did not hear your name spoken, but it is you they mean. They are looking in every direction for mademoiselle, but they are keeping their eyes open for you, too. There'll be some who will remember seeing you at the barrier the other day. Yours is a figure not easily to be forgotten. Keep within doors, Master Richard, until it is safe for us to sneak away."

"You know that is impossible."

"Mademoiselle has escaped," said Seth. "It is now your turn to seek safety."

"With her escape my part commences," said Barrington, with a laugh that had happiness in it. "It is for me to take her back to Beauvais or elsewhere to safety."

"It is madness to think of it," said Seth. "To be in your company would increase her danger. Think of her, Master Richard, think of her. Your lust for romantic adventure makes you selfish. For days to come you are a marked man. In the streets, at any moment, you may be recognized. Even in this quiet corner of the city you are hardly safe. They'll trap you if they can and only a miracle can prevent them."

"I have given a promise, Seth."

"Break it, if not for your own sake, for the woman's. You risk bringing her to ruin. I came back here to-day more cautiously than I have ever done. One moment of carelessness and you are lost. If this man Latour must be seen, let me go to him. No one is likely to recognize me. No one turns to look after me as I pass. I am insignificant, of no account. Let me go."

"Seth, you have not told me everything," he said, suddenly. "There is something you are keeping back. What is it?"

Seth was by the window looking down into the quiet street as though he expected to see danger enter it at any moment.

"What is it?" Barrington repeated.

"I'd give half my remaining years if my conscience would bid me lie to you," Seth answered, fiercely. "I've prayed, yes, I prayed as I hurried through the streets that your mother's spirit might be allowed to whisper to me and bid me deceive you."