"Come, Seth, tell me everything," and Barrington let his hand fall affectionately on the man's shoulder. "Could conscience persuade you to barter half your years, it would be but a device of the devil to lead us into greater difficulty."

"I was recognized to-day. That swaggerer Sabatier touched me in the street, and with a word of caution bid me walk beside him as though we were boon companions. He was a messenger from Raymond Latour."

"Yes, what did he say?"

"He told me that mademoiselle had escaped, news I had heard already, and he bid me tell you from Latour to go to-night, as soon as it began to grow dusk, to the Rue Charonne, to a tavern there called the Chat Rouge. You are to ask for the tavern keeper and say to him 'La vie est ici.' He will understand and bring you to Latour and mademoiselle. Plans are laid for your escape."

"Is that all, Seth?"

"And enough, surely. It comes from Sabatier, and we know something of him. It is a trap baited too openly. You will not go, Master Richard."

"Not go! Why, this is the very kind of message I have waited for, but I did not expect it until to-morrow."

"And I go with you."

Barrington was thoughtful for a moment.

"No. We will exercise every caution. Should escape from Paris seem possible at once, I can send for you or tell you when and where to join me; if I walk into a trap, you will still be at liberty to work for my freedom."

Seth knew from past experience that all argument was useless, and listened attentively to his master's instructions.

"If you do not see me, or hear from me within three days, you must act as you think best, Seth. Whatever my danger I shall have absolute confidence in you. Mademoiselle once in safety, you shall have your desire; we will ride toward the sea and a homeward-bound ship."

Twilight was gathering over Paris when Richard Barrington left the house of Monsieur Fargeau and went in the direction of the Rue Charonne. The wine shops were full to overflowing; small crowds were at street corners, filthy men and women ripe for any outrage. The names of unpopular deputies were freely and loudly cursed; the most unlikely revolutionists were openly accused of having sympathy with aristocrats. Some ragged miscreant, whose only popularity rested on some recent brutality, was declared capable of governing better than most of the present deputies, and the mob was more out of hand than it had been for weeks. At the call of some loud-mouthed patriot, or on the instigation of some screaming virago, a small body of dancing, swearing patriots would move away bent on mischief which would probably end in bloodshed. A street, more or less tranquil the moment before, would suddenly become a miniature battlefield, an opinion dividing patriots into factions which began to fight savagely. Anything might happen to-night, another prison might be stormed as the Bastille was, another tenth of August insurrection, another horror equalling the September massacres, anything was possible. Only a leader a little bolder than the rest was wanting, and all attempt at law and order would be trampled to nothing in a moment by a myriad of feet.

Barrington proceeded carefully with watchful eyes, yet boldly enough not to draw attention to himself. If a street was in possession of the mob he avoided it, nor did he pass in the light which came from noisy wine shops, but he did not make the mistake of avoiding those who approached him. His route to the Rue Charonne was therefore a circuitous one, but he came presently to a street which led directly into it, which seemed quieter than many he had passed through, and he took it.

He had traversed three-parts of its length in safety when from two side streets crowds came simultaneously. To hurry might raise suspicion, to turn back most certainly would; so Barrington kept on, not increasing his pace, but with his eyes and ears keenly alive. His steady pace exactly brought him into the midst of those who were at the heads of these two crowds, and he was ready to receive and return any salutation or coarse pleasantry which might be offered to him, when he found himself carried in a rush to one side of the street. Between these two crowds there was some quarrel, possibly no more than an hour old, and men and women flew at one another in a fury. Being at the edge of the fight Barrington had no great difficulty in extricating himself, and no need to defend himself beyond an arm flung out to avoid the blow from a stick. So fully were they engaged in their fight that they were unlikely to take much notice of him, and he was congratulating himself on his escape when one out of the many faces about him suddenly seemed to stand out distinct from all the rest. Barrington did not know the face, had never seen the man before that he was aware of, but it fascinated him. He was obliged to stare back into the eyes fixed upon him, and knew instinctively that he was in peril.

"An aristocrat!"

The exclamation burst out like the report of a pistol.

"The American!"

The noise of the fight sank in a kind of sob as the roar of a breaking wave sinks with an angry swish back into silence; and as there is a pause before the next wave is flung upward to break and roar, so was there a pause now. Then came the yell of fury, faction quarrel forgotten. They were all of one mind in a moment.

"An aristocrat! The American! The American!"

In the moment of pause Barrington had thrust aside a man who seemed to bar his way, and had started to run. He was a score of yards to the good; with fortune on his side he would turn into the Rue Charonne well ahead of all but two of his pursuers; an open doorway, an alley, some hiding-place might present itself. Escape was not probable, but there was a chance, that bare chance which keeps the courage steady.



As he rushed into the Rue Charonne, the yelling chorus behind him, a new difficulty faced him. Just before him was the Chat Rouge, the one place in all Paris that must not attract the attention of the mob to-night. An archway was beside him and he turned into it.

"The American! The American!"

The bloodhounds were in the street. Would they miss this archway? It was unlikely.

"Quick!" said a voice in his ear as he was dragged back against the wall. "There is straw below. Jump!"

The crowd was rushing past the archway, but some stopped to examine it as Barrington jumped down, falling on his hands and knees onto a bed of straw.

"The American!"

"This way. He must have gone this way!"

The babel of voices was loud for a moment, then something silenced it, and there was the swift sound of a bolt shot home carefully.



CHAPTER XVII

SETH IS CAUTIOUS

It was doubtful whether any man, woman or child, not even excepting Richard Barrington himself, had any clear idea of Seth's character, or the exact standpoint from which he viewed life and his fellows. On the Virginian estate he had always led an isolated kind of existence, happier apparently in his own company than any other. His devotion to his mistress and her boy was known, and passed for one of his peculiarities, had occasionally indeed been cast in his teeth as a selfish device for winning favor. Barrington, as a boy, had made use of him, as a man he had brought him to France knowing that he was to be trusted, yet hardly realizing that Seth's trustworthiness was rooted in love, such a love as men do not often receive. Since they had landed in France, and danger had been as their very shadows, Richard had caught glimpses of this love, but had understood it rather in terms of comradeship than in any deeper sense, and had perhaps misinterpreted Seth's keen desire to return forthwith to Virginia. Seth, in short, was seldom able to express himself adequately, emotion scarcely ever sounded in his voice, and the expression of his face was a fixed and unchangeable one, somewhat dour and ill-tempered in aspect and reflecting nothing of the man within.

That his master had gone into imminent danger by keeping the appointment at the Chat Rouge, Seth was convinced, yet for three days he did nothing, nor did he plan anything in his mind. He had been told to wait three days, and he waited, no look of anxiety in his eyes, no suppressed agitation or desire for action apparent in his manner. He went out and came in as though these days had no particular interest for him, and ate and drank as a normal man with no care in his mind. Precisely at the end of those three days, however, he began the labor which he had fully expected to be obliged to do—the discovery of Richard Barrington's whereabouts. Seth knew that the Marquis de Lafayette had left Paris, or at least that his master had been told so, but, being disposed to take nothing for granted, it was to Lafayette's apartments that he went first.

The servant who was still there did not remember him, and was not inclined to give any information.

"I don't expect to see the Marquis though I asked for him," Seth answered. "I am Monsieur Barrington's man, and it was you no doubt who delivered your master's message to him. Monsieur Barrington has gone."

"I am glad. I know the Marquis was anxious that he should leave Paris."

"By gone I mean that I don't know where he is," said Seth, "but I don't think he has left Paris."

"Do you mean that he is arrested? I might get a message through to my master who is with the army in the north."

"I don't know that he is arrested. No, I think it would be better not to send a message until I am certain. It is possible, although not probable, that you may hear of my master; if you do will you let me know?"

"I will. You are still at the house of Monsieur Fargeau?"

"Yes, and shall remain there."

Seth next went to find Lucien Bruslart. He had no intention of being open with him. He had concocted an ambiguous message from his master, so framed as to astonish Bruslart, whether he knew where Richard Barrington was or not, and Seth hoped to read something of the truth in his face.

Citizen Bruslart's apartment was closed, and the concierge knew nothing about him. His servants had also gone.

"Ah! like rats from a sinking ship, eh, citizen?"

"Maybe. I'm no politician."

"Nor I," said Seth, "until there's my own skin to keep whole, and then I'll be politician enough to fight for it. It's not only the aristocrats who are dangerous, citizen."

"Why, that's true."

"And if there's a wine shop handy we might drink confusion to all the enemies of liberty," Seth returned.

The porter was nothing loth, and was soon talking glibly enough.

"I'm not to be deceived," he said, eying Seth curiously. "You are a man with power, and Citizen Bruslart is wanted."

"Ah, you may be no politician, but I see you are no fool," answered Seth, with a swagger unnatural to him. "Men are brought out of the provinces to work in Paris sometimes. Maybe that is why you do not know me. There has been some good work done in the provinces and the authorities begin to understand the value of the men who have done it. Now Citizen Bruslart—"

"I know only this," said the porter, confidentially. "He went out very hurriedly one morning, and has not returned. His man followed and has not returned either. I do not think Citizen Bruslart intends to come back."

"But they have not sent to arrest him," said Seth.

"Not until you came, citizen," answered the porter, with a wink to show how exceedingly knowing he was.

"You're a smart man. I might presently find use for you."

"I have done a little already, citizen. Two aristocrats have looked through the little window with my help."

"Good, very good. May you receive the reward you deserve," Seth answered, rising as he finished his wine. "I shall hardly earn my pay if I stay longer. You're of the kind I should like to reward, an excellent double-faced man, Judas-like, betraying with a kiss. These are the men who succeed to-day. I love them as I love hell and the guillotine."

Even the porter was a little afraid of such a patriot, and was rather glad to see the back of him as he swaggered away.

Bruslart's disappearance was comprehensible. The escape of mademoiselle would naturally draw suspicion upon him. Was Richard Barrington with him?

This was the first question Seth asked himself. It gave quick birth to another. What part had Raymond Latour in the scheme?

The set purpose in Seth's mind was apparent by the fact that he took the most direct route to the Rue Valette. Twice at intervals of an hour he knocked at Latour's door and received no answer, nor heard any sound within. The third time the door was opened, and Latour faced him.

"Your business, citizen."

"I have something important to tell Citizen Latour," Seth answered.

"I do not know you."

"Does Citizen Latour know all his admirers?"

"No, nor all his enemies," was the answer.

"Were I an enemy I do not think you would be afraid. As it happens I want to be a friend."

"Come in, then, and remember a deputy's time is not his own. You may be from the provinces, citizen, and therefore I do not know you," said Latour, as he closed and locked his door, and Seth noticed that he was armed and prepared to use his pistol at a moment's notice.

"From Louisiana originally, from Virginia recently with my master, Richard Barrington."

Latour remained standing by the door a moment, then moved to a chair by the table, and sat down.

"I am interested. What do you want with me?" he said.

"I want to know where my master is."

Latour regarded him fixedly. If Seth expected to read this man's thoughts in his face he was doomed to disappointment.

"Surely you come to a strange person to make such an inquiry," said Latour, slowly.

"It will save time, monsieur, if I tell you at once that I am in my master's confidence."

"Ah! Then you should be able to give me most interesting information."

"I think not, monsieur, nothing more than you know already. I am aware that you and he planned to rescue Mademoiselle St. Clair, and that she has escaped from the Abbaye Prison. I know that she is being looked for in every corner of Paris, and that my master is suspected. It was to me that Jacques Sabatier gave your message bidding my master go to the Chat Rouge tavern in the Rue Charonne."

"You must be a faithful servant for your master."

"I am more, a man who loves him."

"Even so I doubt whether such confidence is wise," said Latour.

"Wise or not, it happens to serve a useful purpose on this occasion," Seth returned. "If he did not return, my master told me to take what steps I thought fit, after waiting three days. You will know, monsieur, that I have waited three days."

"So your first idea is to apply to me. It was natural."

"You think so, without taking any precaution?"

"Precaution! I do not follow you."

"It is easy," said Seth, a sudden inspiration coming to him, perhaps because he was convinced that this man was bent on baffling inquiry. "To come here was to put myself in your power. Monsieur Barrington has trusted you, but I should be a fool to trust you without reason; indeed, I have reason to distrust you since my master is missing. You could easily have given word that he would be at the Chat Rouge at a certain hour, and the doors of a Paris prison would close on him."

"Yes, that could have been done," said Latour, "and, faithful servant though you be, I fail to see what counter stroke you could have made."

"No? It seems obvious to me. Play the life of Deputy Latour against the life of Richard Barrington. There would speedily be a yelling crowd on the stairs if I denounced you as the man who had rescued Mademoiselle St. Clair."

Seth looked for some change of expression in his companion's face, but it did not come. Fear never caught at this man's heart.

"I think there would," said Latour, "if you could make the crowd believe it."

"You can make the mob believe anything at the present moment."

"You may be right. I do not study the mob much. There is one point, however, which you overlook," said Latour, quietly. "I might take steps to prevent your telling the mob."

"That is exactly the danger against which I have taken precaution," Seth answered. "You are not the first person to whom I have applied."

Latour was fully alive to the danger which such a precaution implied. A casual word had power in it to ruin him, yet he gave no sign of being disturbed, and Seth appreciated to some extent the kind of man he had to deal with.

"You see, monsieur, there are those who would not wait three days if I did not return from my visit to you," he said.

Latour nodded as though the position were quite an ordinary one, as though he had been aware of it from the first.

"I hope your caution, which I quite understand, but which was unnecessary, is not likely to injure your master."

"I have been very careful," said Seth.

"I am glad to hear it. At present Monsieur Barrington is safe."

"Then you can take me to him."

"For the moment that is exactly what I cannot do," Latour answered. "In one sense Monsieur Barrington's danger and mine are the same, but in another way his is greater than mine, at present. The mob does not suspect me; it does suspect your master. I can add to your knowledge a little. As he went to the Chat Rouge that night he was recognized and had to run for his life. Through Jacques Sabatier, whom you know, I was instrumental in saving him, but for some little time he will have to lie very closely. Were you or I to be seen near his hiding-place it would only be to betray him."

"I only have your word for this," said Seth.

"And it is not enough?" said Latour, with a smile. "I consider myself a judge of character, and I am not surprised. There is a way out of the difficulty. Will you be satisfied if your master sends you a letter telling you to await his further instructions patiently?"

"Yes. I have means of knowing that such a letter could not be forged."

"You shall have the letter to-morrow morning. Where shall I send it?"

"I will come here for it," Seth answered.

"An excellent idea. You will be able to tell me at once whether you are satisfied," said Latour, rising and going to the door, which he threw open with a bow. "The lion's den is not so dangerous a place as you imagined."

"Monsieur, I shall think well of you until to-morrow," said Seth.

"And afterward, I hope," Latour returned.

The smile faded from Latour's face as he went back into his room, and an expression of perplexity took its place. This was a new and unexpected danger. Probably he was honest, but it was hardly likely that Barrington had told the whole truth to his servant. After a little while spent in thought and calculation, Latour went upstairs to the rooms above his own. He knocked at the door, then turned the key and entered.

Pauline Vaison showed no pleasure at the visit, but there was unmistakable relief. It was quite evident that she half expected a worse enemy.

"Have you come to release me, citizen?" she asked, doing her utmost to appear indifferent.

"You are only a prisoner for your own safety."

"You have already said so, but I cannot understand of what importance I am to the State."

"Mademoiselle, I was a little rough with you when you were first brought here," said Latour. "I believed you were a party to a plot, to defeat which you were smuggled out of the Abbaye Prison. You told me a story which, frankly, I did not believe, but from further knowledge I am inclined to alter my opinion. Your story was this, correct me if I am wrong in any detail: You went one morning to visit Citizen Bruslart, he was out and you waited for him, you have done the same before. The house was suddenly invaded and you were arrested as an aristocrat, one Mademoiselle Jeanne St. Clair. You protested, but you were not believed. Is that so?"

"I was laughed at and insulted," said Pauline.

"Citizen Bruslart is a friend of yours?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever heard that he was to marry Jeanne St. Clair?"

"Whatever he once intended, I have the best reason for knowing that he has changed his mind. Lucien Bruslart is to marry me."

Latour showed no surprise. "Have you ever seen this Jeanne St. Clair?" he asked.

"Never."

"You were not voluntarily there that day in her place, so that she might escape?"

"No. I am a patriot and hate all aristocrats. I am woman enough to hate this one particularly since Lucien once cared for her."

"When one's life is at stake, it is easy to lie if a lie will be useful, but I believe you, citizeness," said Latour. "I wish to be your friend, that kind of friend who is honest even if honesty gives pain. First, then, it is absolutely necessary that you remain here in hiding for a little while. The mob which carried you to prison knows you have escaped. You are being hunted for. So beautiful a woman cannot pass unnoticed. You would be recognized, and since you are still believed to be Mademoiselle St. Clair, I doubt not the nearest lantern would be your destination."

Pauline turned pale. "But, citizen—"

"Believe me, you are perfectly safe here," said Latour. "In a few days the people will know that they made a mistake, and you will be a heroine."

"I will stay here," she said. "You are sure the woman who brings my food and looks after these rooms will not betray me?"

"I am certain of that. She believes you are very dear to me, and she is mine body and soul. Now I come to the second point. It is known that this aristocrat is, or was, in Paris. It is certain that Lucien Bruslart knew this; it is almost certain that he has found her a safe hiding-place. That makes you angry, but there is something more. He knew that Jeanne St. Clair was supposed to have been arrested in his apartment, knew that a mistake had been made, but he has taken no steps to put that mistake right. Is it not possible, even probable, that he knows you were arrested in her place, and that it has suited his plans to remain silent?"

Pauline sprang from her chair, her eyes blazing, her little hands clinched, her whole frame vibrating with the lust for revenge.

"If I thought—"

"Citizeness, I am your friend," said Latour. "We will find out. At present, Lucien Bruslart is not to be found. For three days, ever since your escape, mark you, he has not been near his apartment."

"You shall help me," said Pauline, savagely. "I will not yet believe him false, but if he is, he shall pay for it. I should laugh to see his neck under the knife."

"You let me into a secret, citizeness, the greatness of your love."

"Great love like mine means hatred if it is scorned," she said; and then she added quickly, "But he may have got safely away from Paris."

There was in her attitude that sudden savagery which a cat shows at the prospect of being robbed of its prey.

"He has not left Paris," said Latour.

"Even if he had, I should find him," she said.

Latour left her and returned to his own rooms.

"This woman will find him, once she is let loose," he muttered. "I can almost pity Citizen Bruslart, thrice damned villain that he is. And Barrington? I must see Barrington."



CHAPTER XVIII

DR. LEGRAND'S ASYLUM

The Rue Charonne was a long street extending toward the outer limits of the city, and while at one end, near the Chat Rouge Tavern, it was a busy thoroughfare with crowded Streets on either side of it, at the other end it was quiet, and almost deserted in the evenings. The houses were less closely packed, and there were walls which trees overhung, telling of pleasant and shady gardens.

Behind such a wall the passer-by had a glimpse of the upper windows and steep roof of a house of considerable size. On one side of it stretched a garden, on the other some outbuildings joined it to another house which had nothing to do with it, but was one of a block of rather old houses which faced the street.

This house, in its pleasant garden, was, as every one knew, a private asylum and sanatorium conducted by Dr. Legrand. He had come there half a dozen years ago, and for some time there had been only a few inmates, not dangerously insane, but unfit to be at large, and two or three others who had retired into this retreat to end their days in peace. In the last few months, however, the number of residents had vastly increased. Certainly every room in the house must be occupied, the larger rooms probably divided into two or three, the neighbors argued, and most of the inmates did not appear to be insane. It was not a time to busy one's self about other people's affairs, it was much safer neither to gossip nor to listen to gossip; so to many persons the riddle of Monsieur Legrand's sudden prosperity remained unsolved.

Yet many people understood the riddle, and were not slow to profit by it. This house, although one of the best known, was not the only one of its kind to be found in Paris. Legrand was a man of business as well as a doctor, a better man of business than he was a doctor, and perceived, almost by a stroke of genius, how he might profit by the Revolution. To many a revolutionary leader gold was better than the head of an aristocrat, although by that curious twist of conscience which men can so easily contrive for themselves, direct bribery was not to be thought of. Dr. Legrand seemed to thoroughly understand this twisted and diseased conscience, and had a remedy to offer. What persuasion he used, what proportion of his exorbitant fees found its way into other pockets, cannot be said, it was a secret he locked up in his own soul, but it soon became known that aristocrats, fortunate enough to be prisoners in this house in the Rue Charonne, were safe so long as the fees were paid.

The agents of the Public Prosecutor never came there for food for the guillotine. If the fees were not paid, it invariably meant that some ill turn of fortune, which Legrand was quite unable to explain, necessitated the speedy removal of the delinquent to the Abbaye, to Sainte Pelagie, or one of the other prisons where their days were almost certain to be few.

A round-faced man, with generosity beaming in his eyes, was Dr. Legrand. His prisoners, or guests as he preferred to call them, were free to roam the house or the grounds at their will; if the table he kept was not liberal, a certain etiquette was indulged in which did something to cover the parsimony, and the insane inmates who remained in the house were pushed out of the way into odd corners as much as possible.

Into the doctor's study one morning there had come a man and a woman.

"I have come as arranged," said the man. "This is the lady."

Legrand bowed low, and appeared to overflow with benevolence.

"I am happy to welcome such a guest," he said. "There are certain formalities, and then you are as safe, mademoiselle, as you could be at Beauvais."

So it was that Mademoiselle St. Clair came to be a guest at the house in the Rue Charonne, brought there for safety by Lucien Bruslart. She had been there a week when, not far away, Richard Barrington had been obliged to run for his life, and with the help of a man, whose identity the dark entry concealed, had jumped into safety. Of this she knew nothing; she was as ignorant of what was passing in the city as though hundreds of miles separated her from it. Lucien had found her a safe retreat, and the time was not so heavy on her hands as she had expected. Although she chanced upon no intimate friends in Dr. Legrand's house, she met several acquaintances, men and women she had known something of before the flight to Beauvais. They had much to talk of in the day, and in the evenings they sang and danced. If care was heavy upon some of them, smiling faces were made to mask the fact. Saturday was a day of apprehension, a day of which the ending was greeted with a sigh of relief. It was the day for paying fees. Some the inmates paid their own, their purses refilled by friends who were free; the fees of many were paid direct to the doctor by their friends. This was the arrangement in Mademoiselle St. Clair's case. Lucien had told her that it would be the most satisfactory way, and she had given him power to draw on her money for the purpose. He had a special agreement with Legrand, he said, for Jeanne was there on a different footing from the other guests. He hinted too that Legrand was under such obligations to him that any favor he asked was practically a command. It was not until the second Saturday had passed that Jeanne understood all that the payment of these fees meant. At the table that night there were two empty places, a man's and a woman's. She asked her neighbor, an elderly Abbe, who had lived well all his life until he came to the Rue Charonne and was forever grumbling at the extortion practiced, what had become of them.

"Removed to another prison, mademoiselle. I did not hear which."

"But why?"

"They could not afford to remain here. They are not the first I have seen made bankrupt by Legrand."

"Ah! this hateful revolution!"

"It will end, mademoiselle. Already the dogs begin to tear one another, and when that happens, the quarry escapes."

"It will end, yes; but when? How long?"

"Before our purses run dry, I trust, mademoiselle," answered the Abbe, with a smile.

Jeanne had no fear for her own safety, but great compassion for others. She began to hate the smiling face of Dr. Legrand. She heard something of the enormous sums he charged, and wondered what Lucien was paying for her, and how long he would have to pay it. He had said that at least a month must elapse before it would be safe to make an attempt to leave Paris. Unfortunately, he had to think of his own safety as well as hers. Poor Lucien! She had braved Paris to help him, and her presence in the city had only added to his difficulty and danger. What was he doing day by day to end it all? Was Monsieur Barrington helping him? Lucien would be foolish not to accept the help of such a man, so brave, so full of resource, so——

These thoughts concerning Richard Barrington made Jeanne start a little. She was suddenly conscious that she was comparing the two men, and that one seemed to take hold of her, hurry her along, as it were, and absorb her attention, until she could only bring her thoughts back to the other with an effort. Barrington stood out clear and distinct, definite in word and action, knowing what he intended to do and doing it without thinking of failure; Lucien was a shadow in comparison, indistinct, waiting rather than acting. Barrington would have made an attempt to get her out of Paris before this, and Jeanne was convinced that she would have gone without fear. If the enterprise had failed, it would have been a splendid failure. Lucien had not made the attempt. She did not blame him, his nature was to exercise greater caution, and when he did move, perhaps the chances of success would be greater; yet she knew that with Lucien she would feel greater responsibility, feel that she was obliged to protect him almost as much as he protected her. Lucien would ask her advice and be guided by it; Barrington would tell her what to do and be angry if she did not obey at once.

"It is my love which makes the difference," she told herself. "A woman must exercise protection over the man she loves. In the love of all good women there is the mother instinct. That is the reason why I feel like this toward Lucien." And then she thought of how she had passed the barrier with Barrington and his servant Seth. It seemed a mad scheme, yet it had succeeded. And Lucien had asked her whether this man was to be trusted!

So the days passed, much dreaming in them for want of other employment. It was sometimes too cold and wet to walk much in the garden, and the sense of confinement within high walls was depressing. Not always could cards or music dispel the anxiety which these guests had to endure, and Jeanne, with all her bravery, had hard work to keep her tears back at times. She had been at the house in the Rue Charonne a month when Marie, a maid of all work in the establishment, came to her one morning, a frightened look in her face and evidences of tears in her eyes. Marie was generally assumed to be of rather weak intellect, chiefly perhaps because she made no complaint against the drudgery of her life, and because, unlike the other servants, she did not copy the rapacity of the master and extort fees at every opportunity. She was especially attached to Mademoiselle St. Clair, who had in times past befriended her aged mother, and she had endeavored to repay the debt by special devotion to her, and, when they chanced to be alone, by a loquacity which was intended to be encouraging. Her present doleful appearance was therefore the more surprising.

"What is the matter, Marie?" Jeanne asked.

"The doctor wants to see you in his study."

"I wasn't thinking of your message, but of your appearance. You have been crying."

"Yes, that's the reason," Marie answered. "The master wants to see you, and it's Saturday morning."

Jeanne had forgotten the day, and the information, coupled with the message, startled her for a moment.

"There is no need to be afraid, Marie," she said quietly.

"I know you're brave, you couldn't be anything else," returned the girl, "but I know what Saturday morning in that study means. Mademoiselle, I'll do anything I can. No one takes any notice of me. I can slip out of the house almost any time I like."

"Thank you, Marie. I will not forget."

In spite of the servant girl's pessimistic view, Jeanne had little apprehension as she went to the doctor's study, and Legrand's method of receiving her was reassuring. He rose, bowed low and placed a chair for her. He spoke of the pleasant crispness in the air, of the little dance which had taken place in the salon on the previous night.

"Even the Abbe was persuaded to a few steps," he laughed. "It was very amusing."

"I am waiting to hear the business which necessitates my presence here," said Jeanne.

"Ah, mademoiselle, it is a painful matter; it pains me. There is no remittance from Monsieur Bruslart this week. It has always come on Friday night, but this is Saturday morning and it is still not here."

Jeanne did not answer for a moment.

"Of course there is some mistake," she said.

"I thought so," said Legrand. "It did not trouble me much last night, but this morning—mademoiselle, I was so surprised that I called on Monsieur Bruslart this morning. He has left Paris."

"Gone!"

"Leaving no word behind him, mademoiselle."

"It is more likely that he has been arrested," said Jeanne.

"I have inquired. He has not been arrested, but he would have been had he remained."

"Are you suggesting that he has run away without a thought for me?"

"Mademoiselle, the most prominent members of my profession have little knowledge of men's thoughts. Of the working of Monsieur Bruslart's mind I know nothing; I only know that he has left Paris without sending money."

"And the consequence to me?" asked Jeanne.

"That is what pains me," Legrand answered. "This house is secure only on certain conditions, a peculiar arrangement in which I have personally little influence. Some of my guests are ungracious enough to disbelieve this. When the fees remain unpaid I have no choice in the matter. My guest is removed elsewhere."

Jeanne showed not a trace of nervousness or alarm. The whirl of thoughts and doubts in her brain caused the lines in her face to harden a little, but there was no quiver in her eyes, no tremble in her voice.

"Is the money paid in advance?" she asked.

"Always, mademoiselle; that is one of the conditions."

"Then it is for the coming week that the money is due?"

"That is so."

"I do not know, Dr. Legrand, whether you are fully aware of Monsieur Bruslart's position and my own?"

"I think so, mademoiselle. You were, I believe, to be man and wife."

His suggestion that such a thing was now impossible was not lost upon Jeanne and was a little startling. Did he believe that Lucien Bruslart was a scoundrel?

"Do you know that the fees paid to you by Lucien Bruslart are paid out of my money?"

"Officially I only know that they are paid by a certain person, and I ask no questions. Having some knowledge of Monsieur Bruslart's position, I have imagined that the necessary money was supplied by you."

"I have only to authorize the banker who has funds of mine in hand to pay the amount."

"Mademoiselle, I naturally thought of that. All that was necessary was a form for your signature, so I called upon the banker. I regret to tell you that he has no longer any funds of yours in hand. The whole amount has been withdrawn."

"By whom?"

Legrand shrugged his shoulders.

"I do not know. If you wish me to make a guess, I should say by Lucien Bruslart. You will know whether he had any document in his possession giving him such power."

Jeanne knew that he had. She had trusted him fully. Even now she did not jump to the hasty conclusion that he had betrayed that trust. There might be a dozen good reasons why he had withdrawn the money; to save it from being misappropriated by the State consequent on the banker's possible arrest, or to spend carefully in arranging her escape. It was probably an accident that the messenger had not arrived with the money this week, and in preparation for escape it was quite likely that Lucien might let it be understood that he had left Paris. He would not be likely to confide in Monsieur Legrand. He would certainly not desert her.

"Will you tell me the amount due for next week?" she asked.

The doctor took a paper from a drawer and handed it to her. She uttered a sudden exclamation as she saw the amount.

"It is out of all reason," she said.

"Mademoiselle, the security offered by this house may be said to be out of all reason too."

"If this is paid, I remain a guest for another week?"

"Until next Saturday."

Jeanne took her purse and counted out the money. She had little left when it was done.

"Count it, Dr. Legrand, and give me the receipt."

His eyes beamed as he counted and found the sum correct.

"I am happy again," he said. "So much may happen in a week. I assure you, mademoiselle, your ability to pay lifts years from my shoulders."

"Yes, monsieur, I have bought a long respite," Jeanne said, rising as she took the receipt. "I doubt not much will happen in a week."

As she went out and closed the door, Legrand placed the money in a drawer which he locked.

"It was a warning," he muttered, "and she has robbed me of seeming generous by promising to give her a week free of cost. She must have touched me in some way, or I should never have thought of giving her such a warning. It was a fortunate idea. Had I left it until next Saturday she would have been able to pay for another week, and I should have been obliged to hunt for a pretext for refusing her money. She must be removed elsewhere next Saturday. My little consideration, my wish to prepare her, has turned out well; besides, I have received double fees for this coming week. I cannot complain."

Alone in her own room, Jeanne nearly broke down. The strain of the interview and all that it implied left her with little strength to fight the despair that settled upon her. Yet she held back the tears that threatened, and fought back the disposition to fling herself upon the mean little bed and give way to her grief. A week! Only a week! She had bought it at an enormous price and every hour in it was of immense value. If Lucien Bruslart were a traitor, she had still one friend in Paris. She was as sure of this as of the emblematic meaning of the small crucifix which she had hung above her bed. She must act. There was no time to give way to despair.

On scraps of paper she wrote a long letter, telling the whole history of the house in the Rue Charonne, how she came to be there, and the peril she was in. She sealed it, and then waited until she could get Marie alone.

"Marie, you promised to help me."

"I meant it. What can I do, mademoiselle?"

Jeanne gave the girl minute instructions for finding the house in which the Marquis de Lafayette had his apartment, and Marie showed little sign of weak-mindedness as she listened.

"I know the house, mademoiselle."

"Go there, say you come from me and ask to see him. Give him this letter and ask him to see that it is safely delivered."

"And if he is away, mademoiselle?"

"Then ask his servant to tell you where the man to whom this letter is addressed lives."

"And if he does not know?"

"Ah, Marie, I cannot tell what you are to do then. Take the letter, hide it away. Heaven grant it reaches its destination."

Marie stood with the letter in her hand.

"Who's it to? I cannot read, mademoiselle, but if I know the name, I may find him even if the servant doesn't know."

"It is addressed to Monsieur Richard Barrington," said Jeanne.

The girl put the letter into her pocket, and patted her dress to emphasize the security of the hiding-place.

"I'll go to-morrow. I have a holiday all day; that gives me plenty of time to find the man who loves mademoiselle. Richard Barrington; I shall not forget the name."

"Not my lover, Marie."

"Ah, mademoiselle, why pretend with me? Yours is not the first secret I have kept."



CHAPTER XIX

CITIZEN SABATIER TURNS TRAITOR

The Rue Charonne in the neighborhood of the Chat Rouge was a busy street. Its importance as a business quarter had been on the increase for some years, yet in the adjoining back streets extreme poverty existed and there were warrens of iniquity into which the law had feared to penetrate too deeply. It was an old part of the city, too, built on land once belonging to a monastery whose memory was still kept alive by the names of mean streets and alleys into which byways respectable citizens did not go. There were stories current of men who had ventured and had never come forth again. With some of the inhabitants, it was asserted, the attainment of an almost worthless trinket, or a single coin, or even a garment, was considered cheap as the price of murder; and so intricate were the streets, so honeycombed with secret hiding-places known only to the initiated, that attempts to enforce justice had almost invariably ended in failure. Naturally this squalid neighborhood materially swelled the yelling crowds who, in the name of patriotism, openly defied all law and order, and made outrage and murder a national duty as they drank, and danced, and sang the "Ca-ira," flaunting their rags, sometimes even their nakedness.

Into the midst of such a crowd Richard Barrington had walked as he went to the Chat Rouge; as bloodthirsty a mob as he could possibly have encountered in all Paris, and the Rue Charonne had been turned into Pandemonium when it was realized that the quarry had escaped. Houses were forcibly entered, men and women insulted and ill-used, the Chat Rouge was invaded and searched, the landlord barely escaping with his life. The opportunity to drink without cost presently kept the mob busy, however, and as the liquor took effect the work of searching was abandoned for the night, but the next morning the crowd came together again, and for days it was unsafe to go abroad in the Rue Charonne.

Of this quarter was Citizen Jacques Sabatier, never so criminal as many of his fellows, perhaps, yet a dangerous man. He might pass along these streets in safety, and since he had become a man of some importance, had influence with this mob. Through him Raymond Latour could count upon the support of those who dwelt in the purlieus of the Rue Charonne, but both he and his henchman knew perfectly well that there were times when any attempt to exert such influence would be useless. Sabatier, waiting by the Chat Rouge, had heard the sudden cry, "An aristocrat! The American!" yet he dared not have interfered openly to save Barrington. Had the fugitive not turned suddenly into the archway where Sabatier waited, it is certain that Sabatier would not have gone out to rescue him. The chance to help him at little risk had offered itself, and he had taken it.

As Richard Barrington rose to his feet in the straw, he was in pitch darkness, but not alone. There was a quick movement beside him, and then a voice whispering in his ear:

"A narrow escape. Give me your hand; I will lead you into a place of greater safety."

Barrington had no idea who his deliverer was, but he thanked him and took his hand. He was led along evil-smelling passages into which no ray of light penetrated, but which were evidently familiar to his guide. There were turnings, now to right, now to left, an opening and shutting of doors, and finally entrance into a wider space where the air was comparatively fresh.

"One moment and I will get a light."

The dim light from the lantern revealed a small chamber, square and built of stone, the work of a past age. A barred grating high up in the wall let in air, and possibly light in the daytime. A common chair and table standing in the center, a bowl with a water can beside it in one corner, and a heap of straw in another comprised the furniture. These things Barrington noticed at once, and then recognized that the man who set the lantern on the table was Jacques Sabatier.

"A prison," said Barrington.

"A place of refuge, citizen," was the answer. "Were you not here, you would be decorating a lantern by this time."

"We meet in Paris under strange circumstances," said Barrington.

"Still we do meet. Did I not say at Tremont that every true patriot must sooner or later meet Jacques Sabatier in Paris, though for that matter I expected it to be in a wine shop and not here, underground."

"Where are we?"

"In a cell of the old monastery which once stood hard by the Rue Charonne, which has served as a cellar at some time, but now for a long while has been forgotten. Citizen Latour would have been here with mademoiselle to meet you, but the mob in the neighborhood will keep them away to-night. You must wait here, monsieur, it may be for some days."

"Mademoiselle is safe?"

"Quite safe in the care of Deputy Latour. I had the honor of helping him to bring her out of the Abbaye prison."

"And what are Citizen Latour's plans for getting her out of Paris?"

"He is making them, but they change from day to day as the circumstances change. At the first opportunity he will come to you."

"I must wait with what patience I can," said Barrington.

"And remain as quiet as you can," said Sabatier. "The crowd will be hunting for you for some time, and a noise might attract them."

"I shall not court death; I have a good deal to live for," said Barrington.

"Then, monsieur, I will leave you. Citizen Latour will be distressed until he knows you are safe."

Richard Barrington's patience was destined to be sufficiently tried. It was a poor, miserable caricature of daylight which found its way through the barred grating, and for three days Sabatier visited him every morning with the same news that the crowds parading the Rue Charonne made it impossible for Latour to come.

"Is it necessary to lock me in?" Barrington asked.

"It is not to prevent your going out, monsieur, but to insure that your enemies do not come in."

"I feel like a prisoner."

"Better that than falling into the hands of the mob."

On the fourth day Sabatier brought a message from Latour. Barrington's servant Seth had been to him inquiring about his master. Naturally, perhaps, he was not inclined to believe Latour's word that he was safe, and unless he had some definite proof might ruin everything by making inquiries in other directions.

"Will you write a letter to your servant, monsieur, telling him to wait until he has further instructions from you?"

"Might he not come to me here?"

"For the present that would be too dangerous," Sabatier answered. "I come and go, monsieur, because I was bred in this quarter of the city. The mob claims me as a part of it, and truly I am, except in this business. I began by simply obeying Citizen Latour, for my own benefit, I make no secret of it; now I am also interested in Monsieur Barrington."

The letter to Seth was written and given to Sabatier to deliver. Two more weary days of waiting passed, and then late one afternoon Raymond Latour came.

Barrington welcomed him, both hands held out to him.

"It was bravely done," he exclaimed. "You must have run great risk in getting her from the Abbaye prison."

"Yes, great risk. I have come to talk to you about it."

Latour ignored the outstretched hands. He stood in front of Barrington with folded arms. There was something amiss.

"What has happened?" Barrington asked.

"The usual thing when an honest man trusts a liar; the honest man has been deceived."

"You speak of—"

"Of one Richard Barrington, a liar I was fool enough to trust. Oh, this is no time for fighting," Latour went on quickly, as sudden anger stiffened Barrington's figure, and gave a dangerous fire to his eyes. "You will be wise to hear me out. This was a place of safety, it is a prison, and a word from me will send you to the guillotine as surely as we are standing face to face at this moment."

"First prove me a liar; afterward threaten me if you will," Barrington returned.

Latour regarded him in silence for a few moments and then said slowly:

"Tell me, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"

"Jeanne! She has gone?" cried Barrington. "Sabatier said she was with you, that she—"

"It is well done, monsieur; I am no longer a fool or I might be convinced, might still be deceived."

"For Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean," and Barrington spoke hoarsely.

"If it pleases you to keep up the deception, let me put facts plainly," said Latour. "You admit the risk I ran in securing an escape from the Abbaye Prison; you know that the risk was run to no purpose. It was well planned, it was successful, but the woman rescued was not Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"You made a mistake?"

"There was no mistake. The woman was Pauline Vaison, a woman Lucien Bruslart has promised to marry. The mob found her in his apartment, took her for the aristocrat, and carried her to prison in the place of mademoiselle. You are Bruslart's friend and accomplice. I ask you again, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"

It never occurred to Richard Barrington that Latour might be deceiving him, and for the moment he had no thought how he could best convince Latour that he was innocent of any deception. He was utterly overwhelmed by the news. Deep down in his heart he had never really trusted Lucien Bruslart, and all this time Jeanne had been in his hands. Bruslart then had lied from the first, had imposed upon him his feigned grief, and all the time he had been perfecting some foul plot. What had become of Jeanne? The horrible possibilities unnerved him, took the heart out of him. He was as a man who when brought face to face with peril is afraid, who shrinks back and would fly if he could. Latour knew nothing of the thoughts rushing through Barrington's brain, he only saw a man with the courage suddenly gone out of him; he put his own construction upon his manner and laughed.

"It is always unpleasant when the time comes to pay for such deceit," he said.

"I swear to you"

"Spare yourself. I have asked you a question. I want it answered."

"I don't know where she is. I wish to Heaven I did."

"It suits my purpose to give you time to think better of your answer," said Latour. "You shall even buy your miserable life by telling the truth. When you tell me where Mademoiselle St. Clair is, you shall leave this prison, not before. I will even do something to get you safely out of Paris and to the seacoast."

"I tell you I do not know. Find Bruslart, ask him."

"I have you safe, that is enough; and I would advise you to come to my terms quickly. There is no escape except through me. Your letter has silenced your servant, and his patience is likely to outlast mine. Tell the truth quickly, Monsieur Barrington; it will be safer."

Latour turned to the door, but Barrington sprang toward him and caught him by the arm.

"Are you mad? Think of her; she is in Bruslart's hands."

Latour wrenched himself free, and as he turned sharply there was a pistol in his hand.

"Stand where you are! I would shoot you like a dog rather than let you escape."

"The devil take you for a fool!" exclaimed Barrington. "I thought I had a man to deal with!" and he turned his back upon Latour, who went out of the room, locking the door after him.

Barrington's anger was quickly absorbed in the realization of the utter hopelessness of his position. Latour had trapped him. When he sent him the appointment to come to the Chat Rouge, he must have known what he had told him to-day; he had deliberately said nothing until after Seth's anxiety had been quieted; and his jailer, Jacques Sabatier, was a party to the deceit. Latour had it firmly fixed in his mind that he was in league with Bruslart, and it seemed that nothing short of a miracle would drive this idea out of his mind. Barrington could conceive no way in which he could convince him, and the thought that all this while Jeanne was in peril almost drove him mad. Could he escape? For the first time since he had entered it he examined his stone cellar carefully. It was a very grave for security.

When Sabatier visited him next morning, his manner gave Barrington an idea. Sabatier entered more carefully than he was wont to do, his hand upon a pistol thrust into his tri-color sash. It was evident he feared attack. His greeting was friendly, however; he showed a keen interest in the prisoner, and gave him odds and ends of news which were of little importance.

"Any message for Citizen Latour?" he asked as he was leaving.

"Tell him he is a fool."

Why should Barrington not attack and overpower his jailer? It might be useless, perhaps others were watching in the passage without, ready to rush in at the slightest sound; still, it would be something attempted. He had succeeded in silencing the man at the Lion d'Or that night, why should he not succeed again?

The next morning Sabatier came before his time, Barrington was not ready to take him unawares. Again he asked the same question, and Barrington gave him a similar answer.

"Tell Latour he is a fool."

"I will. He may end by believing it. I may have news for you to-morrow."

There was meaning in the words, a suggestion that the news might be good news. Barrington decided to give his jailer a chance of telling it.

Sabatier came at the usual hour.

"Do you bring news?" Barrington asked.

"Citizen Latour remains a fool. I mean it. I do not believe you know where mademoiselle is."

"Then you will help me?"

"Monsieur, I try every day to persuade Deputy Latour that he is mistaken."

"We must try another way, Sabatier."

"I will, if monsieur will agree to what I say. I have to think of myself, and Citizen Latour is a dangerous man to thwart. For a day or two longer I will try and persuade him; if I fail I will do my best to help you to escape, but you must be patient or you put my neck under the knife. Do you agree?"

"Agree! I must. I have no choice."

"Your servant Seth might help me; where shall I find him?"

"My good friend, how can I tell? Paris is a large place," was the prompt answer. Barrington was not going to speak of Monsieur Fargeau. His house might presently prove the only safe retreat for him in the city.

"It is a pity, but I shall manage alone," Sabatier answered. "Am I to give the usual answer to Citizen Latour?"

"Yes. Can any answer be better than the truth?"

Had a miracle happened? Was this man honestly meaning to help him, or had he seen that the prisoner intended to attack him and chosen this way of protecting himself? Barrington could not tell. He could only wait and see.



CHAPTER XX

THE LETTER

Jacque Sabatier is busy in these days, also his master Raymond Latour. Their private affairs must proceed as quickly as possible, but there are public affairs which must be done at once, which cannot wait, which a frenzied people loudly demand with cursings and dancings and mad songs.

War thunders along the frontiers, and passes beyond them. Such a gathering of nations in arms that right and justice may be done, is a new thing. Paris has realized its danger, has known it for weeks past; Jacques Danton, mighty in the Club of the Cordeliers, has urged it with great words, with a great voice which has made the rafters ring; more, he has shown how the danger must be met. Safety lies in daring, not once but again and always. "De l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace et la France est sauvee." It is a battlecry which has stirred hearts, and sent ill-conditioned men to face trained regiments, which are surprised when such a ragged rabble does not turn and run. Courage is under those rags and something of true patriotism. But there are other patriots in Paris, and of a different sort. The frontiers are a long way off, but here to hand is work for them, work which is easy and pleases them. The Place de la Revolution is their battlefield where they can yell their war crys and their war songs; their weapon is the guillotine, and the guillotine is always victorious. The enemy, cursed aristocrats, and others not aristocrats but equally cursed because they differ from the people and the people's demigods, are foredoomed to defeat and death. Only one thing is lacking, sufficient enemies that the guillotine may not stand idle. Each day must bring its excitement. The denizens of the slums and alleys of Paris must have their amusement day by day. The inhabitants of the narrow streets off the Rue Charonne have forgotten the American they hunted so fiercely, although Richard Barrington waiting in his underground prison does not know it. They are yelling, half afraid of their own audacity, for another victim. They gather daily, in another part of the city, by the Riding Hall close to the Tuileries. There is excitement in plenty here. In the Rue Charonne one might walk in safety.

From the Temple prison an aristocrat, more, a king, has been brought to answer the charges made against him. They are charges only recently framed and strangely got together. Save that he is a king, which he cannot help, what charges can be brought against him? None. There are many who would make them on the flimsiest foundation, but even such a foundation does not exist. Danton himself cannot send a king to the Place de la Revolution for nothing. That would be to dare too greatly. They have found nothing at the Tuileries or at Versailles to condemn him. Roland has had diligent search made, fearful perchance of some letters of his own being found; even the cesspools of the palace have been dragged. There is no result worth the trouble. No drawer has any secret to give up save one which has no accusation in it, a child's letter, simple, loving wishes for a happy New Year, signed by the little Dauphin, addressed to "My dear Papa." Little enough can Roland make out of this, for he has no ability to understand even the pathos of it. Then one day there comes from Versailles, one, Francois Gamain by name, a locksmith of that place, a coward fearful for his own safety. The king has been fond of lock-making, something of the craft Gamain has taught him, and the king has shared a secret with him. There is a hiding-place in a corridor behind the king's bedroom, which Gamain has helped to make, which he now shows to Roland. There are papers there, many of them, enough in them to prepare evidence against the king and many others, if necessary; and lest this should fail Gamain has a story that when the work was done the king attempted to poison him so that the secret might be safe. So the king must be tried. And louder than ever thunders the war along the frontier while this trial goes forward. There can be no quarter, no terms of peace. The sword is sharply naked, there is no scabbard in which to sheath it. What gauge shall France hurl at the feet of her enemies? Once again Danton, mighty in the Club of the Cordeliers, suggests the answer: Why not the head of a king?

Raymond Latour was busy. Little time could he give to Sabatier when he came each morning to make report of the prisoner in his cell underground; he was not inclined to listen to Sabatier's persuasion, or to be impressed by his henchman's ideas.

"He knows where she is. He shall tell the truth."

It was Latour's daily statement, although Sabatier thought it was less definitely said as the days passed. He was not sure whether Latour's faith in his conviction was wavering, or whether it was only that he had other things to think of.

Those who served Latour were kept busy. It was a time when loss of popularity might be dangerous, and their master had thrown his into the balance. His voice had been heard in the Riding Hall where friends were daily being divided and factions made. He had spoken on behalf of Louis Capet. The head of a king was not necessary to save France. He had naught to do with mercy, not even with expedience; Justice spoke louder than either, and Justice would not be served by the death of Louis Capet. There were some who roared at him, some who shouted for him; it was difficult to tell which side was the more numerous. Robespierre looked at Latour but said nothing. Danton tried argument. Barrere, the President, tried to understand the popular feeling, and failed. Raymond Latour had many friends, but he turned some old friends into enemies by his speech. He was farseeing enough to know that his desire for Justice was dangerous, would be doubly so unless his hold upon the different sections of the populace was maintained. So Sabatier, Mercier, Dubois and the rest had much to do in the districts and among those sections of the populace where they had influence.

Still every morning, Sabatier kept Latour in mind of his private affairs, and argued with him. He did not wait to receive advice, he gave it, and in such a way that Latour listened. He was still convinced of Barrington's deceit, but time was passing and mademoiselle was not found.

"Even if he knows, the American is not a man to betray confidence. Under like circumstances you would not speak yourself, citizen."

"True. I should go to the guillotine as he must."

"Not yet," said Sabatier. "Give him time and opportunity."

"Curse him," said Latour. "I want to hear no more about him, I only want to know that mademoiselle is found."

In his daily visits to Barrington, Sabatier said little of what was passing in Paris, but much to persuade him to patience; and as he went along the streets he kept his eyes open hoping to see Seth. He did not see him, yet another man gave him the clew and unwittingly directed him to the house of Citizen Fargeau.

Seth went little abroad in these days. It was not fear which kept him within doors, but the hope of receiving at any moment further word of his master. Everything might depend on prompt action when the moment came. Few men could remain so patiently inactive as Seth, once he was convinced that inaction was the best course to pursue. This Latour had not lied to him. The promised letter from Richard Barrington had been given to him, he knew that it was genuine, and was content to obey that letter. For the time being he was as little interested in politics as Fargeau was, and the news of the king's trial which came into this quiet retreat had an unreal sound about it, like a faint echo of something happening a great way off. Richard Barrington filled Seth's mind, he had little room for any other thoughts.

One evening there came a knock at his door and the servant of Monsieur de Lafayette entered.

"News, at last," Seth said, and in a tone which showed that in spite of his patience, the waiting had been weary work.

"A letter," the man answered.

Seth looked at it. It was addressed to Richard Barrington, just the name written, that was all.

"How did you get it?" asked Seth.

"A girl brought it only to-day. She asked for my master, and when I told her he was not in Paris, she asked where she could find Monsieur Barrington. I did not tell her, but I said I could deliver the letter."

Seth nodded as he turned the letter over and over, a puzzled expression in his face.

"She seemed doubtful about leaving it with me, but in the end did so, saying it was a matter of life and death."

"It's good of you to have brought it," said Seth. "She did not say who it was from?"

"No."

"Look at the writing again and tell me if by any chance it comes from the Marquis."

"That's a woman's writing," said the man.

"But not a writing you know?"

"Quite strange to me."

When he was alone, Seth locked his door and again examined the writing. His master only knew one woman in Paris, and surely she could not be writing to him. She must know where he was. If she didn't, then in some fashion Latour had deceived him. He put the letter on the table and began to walk slowly about the room.

"It is right that I should open it," he said suddenly. "It may be a matter of life and death to Master Richard. He will forgive me."

He took up the letter, and after a little hesitation tore it open.

"It is from her," he said, glancing at the name on the last of the scraps of paper of which the letter was composed. "I was right to open it."

He sat down by the table and read it slowly, certain portions of it he read a second time, and at intervals made a sound with his mouth like an oath cut short, or a gasp of surprise half suppressed. So Latour had lied, and Bruslart had lied, and mademoiselle was—

"A life and death matter! It's true. It is. Oh, Master Richard, where are you? It's your letter. She calls to you. What can I do?"

The words were muttered in hot haste as though the answer must come quickly. It did.

"Your letter, yet mine since you are not here. So your work becomes mine, Master Richard. I must rescue mademoiselle. How? Let me think. Let me think. God, help me to think."

There was a slow, heavy footstep upon the stairs, and in a moment Seth had hidden the letter. Then a knock at the door. Seth opened it, and stood face to face with Jacques Sabatier, who had his finger upon his lip.

"Let me in, citizen. I have turned traitor and have a story to tell."



CHAPTER XXI

THE MARQUIS DE CASTELLUX

Much the same thing had Sabatier said to Richard Barrington only that morning.

"Deputy Latour will not believe in you," he explained. "He is a fool as I have told him each day, giving him your message, and I am tired of serving fools. A day or two, monsieur, and you shall be free. Sabatier promises that. I am turning traitor."

Barrington thanked him, he could do no less, yet he felt little trust in a man who could confess so glibly to treachery. He would believe the promise when his prison door stood open, when he was free to walk out unhindered, not before.

That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one which preceded it. Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on Barrington. This underground dungeon, it was little better, was gradually taking the heart out of him. At first he had been able to forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him. Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.

To-night he was restless. The silence about him was like the silence of the grave, this place was almost as hopeless as the grave. He wondered how thick these stone walls might be, whether there were other dungeons beyond where other prisoners wore out their hearts. He stood beneath the barred grating for a little while, listening. Even the world without seemed dead. No sound ever came through that narrow opening. What saint, or repentant sinner had dragged out his days here when this was a cell in a monastery? Had he never regretted his vows and longed for the world of sunshine and rain, of blue sky and breezy plain, of star-lit nights and rough weather? Surely he must have done? The world of sinners was a fairer place than this stone dwelling though a saint lodged in it. Truly it was a secure hiding place, or a prison where one might easily be forgotten. The thought was a horrible one, and Barrington went to the door. It was locked. It was a stout door, too, of wood and iron. If Latour and Sabatier were arrested, as might easily happen, that door would remain locked. Probably no other person knew that he was there. He was in the mood when such thoughts cannot be driven out of the brain. There was half a bottle of thin wine remaining from his last meal, and he drank it greedily. His throat was suddenly dry and his hand was unsteady as he raised the glass to his lips. He was conscious of the fact, shook himself, stamped his foot sharply on the stone floor, and spoke to himself aloud.

"This is cowardice, Richard, and for cowardice there is no excuse."

Something like that his mother had once said to him. He had not remembered it until he had spoken the words, and then the recollection brought many scenes to his mind, dreams of youth, back, how far back? how long ago? memories of old times, a green hummock and the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay. The world had changed since then. Father, mother gone, voices silent forever, loved voices never to be forgotten; and yet, in those days there had been no Jeanne.

"Jeanne!" he said aloud. "Jeanne!"

Then he was silent, and his nerves grew tense. The silence was suddenly broken, not rudely but stealthily as a thief breaks it, or as one who knows that crime is best accomplished in the night; a key was being fumbled into the lock. Sabatier would open quickly, knowing the key and the lock, besides, Sabatier had never come at this hour. It was a stranger. Friend or foe? Barrington moved towards the door. Whoever came would find him awake, ready to sell life dearly, perchance to win freedom. The key was pushed home and turned. The door opened cautiously.

"Seth!"

"Hush, Master Richard. I know not what danger is near us, but come quickly and quietly. Bring that lantern. We must chance the light until I find the way."

Barrington caught up the lantern from the table and followed him.

"He said to the right," whispered Seth.

"Who said so?" asked Barrington.

"Sabatier."

"Is he honest?"

"I don't know, Master Richard, but he brought me through many vaults and showed me the door, then left me quickly. He did not lie when he said you were behind it; and see, a way to the right and steps. He did not lie about them either."

They went up the stairs cautiously, Seth leading, and at the top was a trapdoor, unfastened, easily lifted.

"Again he told the truth," Seth whispered.

They were in a cellar full of rubbish, evil smelling, too, and at the end was a door; a turned handle opened it, and a few steps brought them up into a passage.

"Set down the lantern, Master Richard, and blow it out. We shall not need it. Come quietly."

The passage led to an open door, and they stepped into the street, little more than a narrow alley, dark and silent.

"Sabatier said to the right. All is well so far. Shall we follow his instructions to the end?"

"Yes," Barrington answered.

They came without hindrance into a wider street. It was the street in which Barrington had been attacked by the mob; half of that crowd must have come down this very alley. They went quickly, their direction towards Monsieur Fargeau's house. They entered the street in which it stood, and then Seth stopped.

"We don't go in yet, Master Richard, I have something to show you first. There is a little wine shop here, unknown to patriots, I think. It is safe, safer than Monsieur Fargeau's perchance."

The shop was empty. A woman greeted them and brought them wine.

"Read that letter, Master Richard. I will tell you how I got it, and why I opened it, afterwards."

So Jeanne's letter came into the hands of the man she had turned to in her peril and distress.

Even as he read it, bending over the scraps of paper in the poorly lighted wine shop, she was eagerly questioning Marie. The letter was of such immense importance to her, so much hung upon it, that now it had gone Jeanne began to wonder whether the best means of getting it into the right hands had been taken, whether a surer method might not have been thought of.

"Monsieur Barrington had not left Paris?"

"No, mademoiselle, for the man said he would deliver the letter."

"Will he, Marie, will he? Do you think he was honest?"

"Yes, oh yes, he was honest, or I should not have parted with the letter."

"But he could have told you where Monsieur Barrington was and let you deliver it," said Jeanne.

"He would not do that, and he had a reason, a good one," Marie answered. "It was necessary that Monsieur Barrington's whereabouts should be kept secret. He could not tell any one where he was, he had promised. For all he knew I might be an enemy and the letter a trick. He would deliver it if I left it with him."

"You could do nothing else, Marie."

"What troubles me, mademoiselle, is how the gentleman is to help you to get away from this house," said the girl. "The master does not let people go unless he is told to by—by powerful men, men he must obey. I think he is as afraid of them as I am of him."

"Ah, Marie, if the letter only reaches Monsieur Barrington most of the danger is gone," said Jeanne. "He will find a way, I know he will. Somehow, he will help me. He is a brave man, Marie, I know, I know. He has saved me twice already. I should have no fear at all were I certain that he had the letter."

The girl was silent for a moment, and then said quietly—

"It must be wonderful to have a lover like that."

Perhaps Jeanne was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the girl's words, perhaps she considered it impossible to make Marie understand that it is not only a lover who will do great things for a woman; at any rate, she made no answer. It mattered little what the girl thought.

It was difficult for Jeanne to live her days quietly, to look and behave as though the coming Saturday had no especial meaning for her. Legrand, when she met him, was more than usually courteous, and Jeanne was careful to treat him as she had always done. He might be watching her, and it would be well to attract as little attention as possible. She could not tell what might happen if only her letter had found its way into Richard Barrington's hands. How could he help her? What could he do?

It was January, and cold, but the weather was fine and sunny. At noon it was pleasant to walk in the garden, and many of the guests did so. The Abbe took his daily walk there even when it rained. He might have been the host by his manner, and was certainly the ruling spirit. Even Legrand seemed a little afraid of him and treated him with marked respect. The Abbe was a worldling, a lover of purple and fine linen and of the people who lived in them; he was therefore especially attentive to Jeanne St. Clair, knowing that she belonged to one of the noblest families in the land. With him Jeanne took her daily walk in the garden, and had little need to say much, for the Abbe loved to hear himself talk; she could think her own thoughts, could even be depressed without the Abbe noticing the fact. His companionship enabled her to escape from the other guests for a while without any apparent effort on her part to withdraw herself from the daily routine. She took her place in the evening amusements, occupied a seat at one of the card tables, danced and smiled, met wit with wit, and was envied by some who were not so sure of the coming Saturday as mademoiselle must surely be.

In her walks Jeanne's eyes wandered along the top of the high garden walls. Richard Barrington might come that way, or at least give her a sign that way; and when she could be alone without raising comment she watched from her window which overlooked the garden.

So the Monday and the Tuesday passed, and Wednesday dawned. How fast the week was passing! Her letter to Richard Barrington had been very urgent. She had told him all about this house, the purpose for which it was used, how the garden stood in regard to it. She had explained the general routine, had given the names of the guests. If he was to help her the fullest information would be of use. There might be some point in her description of which he could take advantage. This was Wednesday, and he had made no sign. Surely he had never got the letter.

Had not the Abbe been so fond of hearing the sound of his own voice, had he not been so used to his brilliant listener, he must surely have noted that Jeanne was not herself to-day as they walked in the garden.

"There is a new arrival I hear, mademoiselle."

"Indeed. I thought every room was occupied."

"Ah, mademoiselle, I fear there must be some one who is not able to pay next Saturday. I have often noticed that new arrivals have come a day or two before the time, putting up with anything until the room was left vacant for them on Saturday."

"I wonder who is going," said Jeanne.

"It is a pity we cannot pick and choose," the Abbe returned. "There are one or two in the company we could well dispense with."

Jeanne's eyes flashed at his callousness, but he did not notice.

"There are some here that Legrand ought not to have taken," the Abbe went on.

"But they pay."

"Ah, mademoiselle, you have hit it. They pay, and this fellow Legrand is satisfied. He has no sense of the fitness of things, yet this house has the name of being exclusive."

"I am sorry for those who go, whoever they may be," said Jeanne.

"It is natural. I am not unsympathetic; but since some one must go it seems a pity we cannot choose."

"Is it a man or woman who has come?"

"A man; his name the Marquis de Castellux. If my memory serves me, it is a Breton name, a good family, but one which has not figured largely at Court."

"He should be an acquisition," said Jeanne.

"I hope so, mademoiselle. We may find him provincial, yet not without wit or merit. I will make his acquaintance, and with your permission will present him to you. You can give me your opinion when we talk together to-morrow."

How near Saturday was! This new arrival emphasized the fact. She was the one who was going, and it was this room, her room, that he would occupy presently. Even the selfish, callous Abbe would regret that she was the one to go. She could picture the surprise in his face when he saw her empty place. She would not tell him.

Jeanne stayed in her room this afternoon. It could not matter whether her absence was heeded or not. Nothing mattered now. Richard Barrington had not got her letter. The one friend she had in Paris did not know how sorely she needed him. Somehow, somewhere, he might hear what had happened, what would he say? No actual answer came to this mental question, but a train of thought was started in her brain bringing strange fancies. Perhaps Richard Barrington loved her. In an indefinite way she had considered this possibility before, but it was a passing fancy, not to be dwelt upon. Homage from such a man was pleasant, but she loved Lucien. She must be careful in this man's company, and if he overstepped ordinary courtesy in the least, she must show him plainly that she loved Lucien. Surely she had shown him this already. But to-day the thought was not to be so lightly dismissed, and a warm glow at her heart told her how pleasant the idea was. Lucien appeared to have faded out of her life. She could not believe him false, but his image had grown altogether dim, while this other man was real, vital. Even now she could feel the pressure of his hand as it had held hers as they ran together from the Lion d'Or that night. She could see the encouragement in his eyes when they had quarreled loudly as they entered the barrier next morning. She remembered the look in his face when she had last seen him in Monsieur de Lafayette's apartment, when he had said he was always at her service. He would surely remember that last meeting, too, should he ever know that she had sent him a letter which had never reached him.

"Yes, he loves me, it must be so," she said, and she rose and looked from her window into the empty garden which was growing dark now at the close of the short day. "I am glad. It gives me courage. I will be worthy of the love of such a man, though he will never know that he influenced me, will never know that I was glad he loved me. This Doctor Legrand, this miserable bargainer in lives, shall not see a trace of fear or regret in me. Wednesday passes. Three more days. I will make a brave show in them, and pass out to whatever fate awaits me with steady step and head erect, worthy of my father's name, worthy of—worthy of him."

There was a smile on her lips as she entered the salon that night, no brilliant apartment, it is true, and somewhat dimly lighted for a scene of festivity. Some one said they were to dance that night, and card tables were set ready for players. There were many brave hearts there, shadowed hearts—misery concealed by a smile.

"Yes, I will dance presently," said Jeanne to a man who greeted her. "Cards! Yes, I will play. How, else should we fill such long evenings?"

Others caught her spirit. An animation came into the conversation, there was real laughter.

"Mademoiselle," said a voice behind her, the voice of the Abbe, sonorous and important. "Mademoiselle, permit me the honor to present to you the Marquis de Castellux."

Jeanne turned, the smile still upon her lips. The Marquis bowed so low his face was hidden for a moment, but he took her hand and, as he raised it to his lips, pressed it sharply.

"I am honored, mademoiselle."

Then his head was raised. The smile was still upon her lips, kept there by a great effort. The sudden pressure of her fingers had warned her, and she gave no sign of her astonishment.

She was looking into the face of Richard Barrington.



CHAPTER XXII

THE COMING OF SATURDAY

"Monsieur L'Abbe."

"Mademoiselle."

"I find Monsieur de Castellux very pleasant, a little provincial as you supposed, but with wit. We have common friends, too, who have suffered. We shall have much to talk about."

Barely an hour had passed since the introduction, and very little conversation had passed between Jeanne and Barrington, but that little had been to the point.

"We have much to say to one another, mademoiselle," Barrington said; "we must let these people believe that we have common interests to account for our friendship. The Abbe is inclined to be inquisitive, you must explain to him. I will casually let others know that our families are connected. Where is it easiest to be alone here?"