"In the breakfast room."

"No one watches us there?"

"I think not. There is no desire to run away; people remain here to be safe."

"Then to-morrow, mademoiselle," said Barrington. "We will not notice each other much further to-night."

Jeanne did as she was told, it seemed natural to obey Richard Barrington, and she explained to the Abbe, who was delighted that so presentable a person had joined the company.

"Mademoiselle, I shall look to become better acquainted with him," he said. "Most probably he and I have common friends, too."

It was not until Jeanne had shut herself in her own room that night, that she realized fully what the coming of Richard Barrington meant to her. It was still Wednesday, but what a difference a few short hours had made! Saturday had lost its meaning for her. There was no sense of fear or apprehension at her heart; she was strangely happy. Not a word of his plans had Richard Barrington whispered to her, no explanation of how he came to be there; he told her that he had got her letter, that was all. Yet she suddenly felt safe. That which was best to be done, Richard Barrington would do, and it would certainly be successful. On this point no doubts disturbed her. Doubts came presently in another way. The reflection in her mirror brought them. She remembered the face which had looked out at her only a few hours ago, and the face that laughed at her now was a revelation. There was color in the cheeks, so bright a color she did not remember to have noticed before, not even in those moments when she had been tempted to compare herself favorably with other women; there was a sparkle in the eyes that never since the flight from Paris to Beauvais had she seen in them. It was a joyous, happy girl who looked back at her from the depths of the mirror, and Jeanne turned away wondering. It was natural she should feel safe now Richard Barrington had come, but how was the great joy in her heart to be accounted for? Would it have been there had it been Lucien who had come to save her? The question seemed to ask itself, without any will of hers, and the little room seemed suddenly alive with the answer. It almost frightened her, yet still she was happy. She sank on her knees beside the bed and her head was lowered before the crucifix. The soul of a pure, brave woman was outpoured in thankfulness; "Mother of God, for this help vouchsafed I thank thee. Keep me this night, this week, always. Bring me peace. Bring me—" The head sank lower, the lips not daring to ask too much.

The morning came with sunlight in it, cold but clear. Jeanne peeped from her window and was satisfied, peeped into the mirror, and wondered no more at the smiling face there. She knew why such joy had come. She could not reason about it, she did not attempt to do so; the knowledge was all sufficient. It was Thursday morning. Saturday was very near. What did it signify? Nothing. To-day it would be like spring in the garden.

Barrington greeted Jeanne with the studied courtesy of a comparative stranger.

"We must be careful," he whispered, "there are certain to be watchful eyes. Show no interest or astonishment in what I tell you as we eat. Remember, you are merely being courteous to a new arrival of whose existence you have known something in the past."

"I understand. I shall listen very carefully."

"I am greatly honored, mademoiselle, by your letter. I need not ask whether you trust me."

"Indeed, no," she answered.

"It might easily have come into my hands too late," Barrington went on. "We are both victims of deception, and where the truth lies I cannot tell even now. I will recount what has happened; you may be able to throw some light upon it."

Barrington told her everything from his first meeting with Raymond Latour when a filthy crowd was yelling round a prisoner, to the moment when her letter had been handed to him by Seth.

"Your letter gave me an idea, mademoiselle. To help you I must become an inmate of this house. Yesterday Seth brought me here, posing as a wealthy eccentric relative anxious to place me in safety. I am a little mad, and there is no knowing what folly I might commit were I allowed to continue at liberty. My stay here is likely to be a long one, and my relatives care little what they pay so long as I am out of their hands. You may guess perhaps that Dr. Legrand asked few questions with such a golden bribe before him. Now, mademoiselle, what do you know of this Raymond Latour?"

"Nothing."

"But—"

"Nothing at all," Jeanne answered. "I have heard him spoken of as being one of the leaders of the Revolution. To my knowledge I have never seen him."

"Has Lucien Bruslart never mentioned him?"

"As we drove here that morning he said that this Latour was one of the most bitter antagonists of aristocrats, and that he would do all in his power to capture me. Lucien said this was the chief reason for bringing me to this place of safety. I must tell you, Monsieur Barrington, that on leaving you that morning, we got into a coach and drove straight here. My coming had already been arranged for. I did not go to Lucien's apartments at all. He did not seem inclined to trust either you or the Marquis de Lafayette."

"He was justified perhaps in not trusting me on so slight an acquaintance. I do not blame him. Still, I am much puzzled by his subsequent actions, and the fact remains that while Lucien Bruslart has done little for you, or so at least it appears, this man Latour most certainly risked his life to get you out of the Abbaye prison."

"Yes; I do not understand it," said Jeanne; and then after a pause she went on, "You read all my letter?"

"A dozen times," Barrington answered.

"Does it not help you to understand something?"

"Mademoiselle, you ask me a difficult question. I answer it directly, and in spite of the fact that it must pain you, only because of the seriousness of your position. I have never trusted Lucien Bruslart. I believe he has played you false from first to last in this affair. I believe he sent for you to come to Paris; how else could your coming here have been arranged for? Honestly, I have tried to drive these thoughts out of my mind as treacherous and unworthy, but your letter seems only to confirm them. How is it your fees to this scoundrel Legrand have not been paid? How is it your own money has been taken? Bruslart is not in prison. Where is he? Could anything short of locks and bars stop your lover from coming to you?"

He spoke in a low, passionate tone, but his face remained calm, and he made no gesture of anger, of impatience. Watching him, the keenest eyes could not have detected that he was moved in any way.

"My letter must have shown you the doubts in my mind," Jeanne answered quietly. "Since you helped me into Paris at so much risk to yourself, I cannot see that your thoughts could be called unworthy or treacherous."

"For all that, they were. Had you not loved Lucien Bruslart it would have been different."

"Why?"

"That question must remain unanswered, mademoiselle."

Jeanne turned to him for a moment, but Barrington did not look at her.

"I think I know," she said quietly, after a pause. "Some other day I shall ask the question again, monsieur—if we live. I wrote my letter to the one friend I knew I had in Paris; that man is now beside me. I have no fear, Monsieur Barrington, just because you are here. You are risking your life for me, not for the first time. If you fail it means my death as well as yours. I would rather it came that way than any other, and I am not afraid. Tell me your plans."

For a few moments Barrington was silent. "We will not fail," he said suddenly. "I want to laugh and cry out for joy but dare not. I have been in a dream, mademoiselle, while you have been speaking; sitting on a small green mound looking across the bluest waters in the world. I shall tell you about that mound and those waters some day. We shall live, mademoiselle, never doubt that we shall live. My plan is not yet complete, but—"

"This is Thursday," said Jeanne. "Saturday is very near."



"I know. We go to-morrow night, but the exact details I cannot tell you yet. There are one or two things I must find out first. I have arranged everything as far as I can, but we cannot hope for much help from others. The first thing is to get out of this trap, the rest we must leave for the present. The Abbe yonder looks as though he envied me your company, mademoiselle. I think you should go to him. I shall not attempt to speak to you much more to-day. To-morrow morning we will meet here again for a final word."

The Abbe was more than ever convinced of his own attractions as Jeanne left the Marquis de Castellux with a little grave courtesy and joined him. He had found her substitute a poor companion and walked much less in the garden than usual.

"You find the Marquis very interesting?" he asked.

"Yes, but very provincial. One soon becomes weary of such company, yet one must be kind, Monsieur l'Abbe," and Jeanne laughed lightly. She appeared much more interested in him than she had been in the Marquis.

Richard Barrington talked to others for a little while, and then went into the office. He found a servant and asked if he could see Legrand. The doctor was out. Barrington was rather annoyed. He wanted to see the room he was to have after Saturday. At present he was stalled like a pig, he declared.

"Monsieur will have nothing to complain of after Saturday," the servant answered.

"Which guest is leaving?"

"Pardon, monsieur, it is not etiquette to speak of it; but if monsieur likes I can show him the room."

"Show it to me, then."

"I am a poor man, monsieur, and cannot afford to work for nothing."

"How much?" Barrington asked.

The servant named a price, and if he received many such fees he would not long be able to call himself a poor man. Barrington paid him, and was taken upstairs and shown Jeanne's room. He did not cross the threshold, hardly glanced in at the door, in fact, but grumbled at its size and its position. He would have liked this room or that. Why not one at the end of this passage? He liked to be in a light passage.

"It is not a pleasant outlook this side, monsieur, stable roofs, a bare wall and no garden."

"Truly, a prospect to drive a man to despair," growled Barrington, looking from the passage window on to the roofs of outbuildings a few feet below, and across at the house which these buildings joined, and which was at the end of a row of houses facing the street. There was only one window in that opposite wall, twelve or fourteen feet above these outbuildings, a dirty window, fast shut.

"I think very little of Monsieur Legrand's asylum," said Barrington, turning away in disgust. "I shall tell him so."

"Certainly, monsieur, if it will ease your mind."

"He is out, you say?"

"Since early this morning."

"He ought to stop here and look after his guests," and then Barrington became apprehensive. "He would be angry if I told him so. Would he?"

"He might."

"Or if you told him I had said so?"

"Probably."

"You must not tell him. See, here is more money, and there will be more still so long as you do not tell him."

The servant promised to be silent, and told the other servants that the Marquis could be plundered at will. Barrington considered the money well spent. He had examined the house without any risk of being caught taking observations, and he had ascertained that Legrand could not have spied upon him had he walked in the garden.

That night the Abbe decided that, although the Marquis had not made any great impression on Mademoiselle St. Clair, he was a decided acquisition to the establishment, witty within his provincial limits, the breed in him unmistakable. At Versailles he would speedily have learned how to become a courtier.

In the salon that evening there was dancing, and Barrington danced, but not with Jeanne.

"I dare not, mademoiselle," he said in a whispered explanation. "I can trust myself only to a certain point, and to touch you would be to betray my happiness. I dare not run that risk. I am bent on showing that I have no special regard for you, and that there is no reason why you should give any special thought to me."

She did not answer, but the color was in her face, a glow was in her heart.

When the Abbe went out into the garden on the following morning Jeanne left the Marquis at once, and joined him for their usual walk. Certainly she had not given the Marquis more than five minutes of her company. The Abbe would have talked of him, but Jeanne pleaded that he should talk of something interesting.

"Upon my honor, mademoiselle, I believe you will end by disliking poor Monsieur de Castellux."

"Would that be worth while?" Jeanne asked.

She seemed to listen eagerly to all the Abbe said to her, but she was thinking of her short conversation with Barrington. She must show no excitement.

Legrand came into the salon that night. He took no notice of Barrington, who was playing cards, totally absorbed in his game, but he watched Jeanne for a little while, and presently approached her.

"You are very brave, mademoiselle," he said.

"Is it not best?"

"I am very grieved," said Legrand.

"Monsieur, you have heard nothing from—from Lucien Bruslart?"

"Nothing."

"To-morrow! Where will they take me to-morrow?"

"I do not know, mademoiselle. I am never told."

Late hours were not kept at the Maison Legrand, candles were an expensive item. Jeanne was among the first to move this evening.

"Good night, Monsieur l'Abbe."

"Good night, mademoiselle," he said, raising her hand to his lips. "To-morrow is Saturday. I wonder who goes to-morrow? We are happy in having no anxiety."

Barrington was by the door and opened it for her.

"Does mademoiselle permit?" and as he bent over her hand he whispered, "Be ready. Listen. Wait until I come."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE EMPTY HOUSE

The thought of the morrow was pleasant to Dr. Legrand. In his study he bent over a paper of calculations, figures that appealed to the greedy soul that was in him.

"Vive la Revolution," he murmured; "it makes me rich. He is careful, this citizen, and does not trust me to fulfill a bargain. To-morrow I shall have the papers; it will be early, and then—then the money. He cannot escape without my help, he cannot escape me."

He put down his pen and rubbed his hands together. He was excited to-night.

"I am sorry for mademoiselle," he said as he went to bed, but his sorrow did not keep him awake, his conscience was too dead to trouble him. He slept as a just man sleeps, soundly.

Jeanne did not sleep. She sat in the dark, waiting, listening. Doors were shut in distant corridors, the house gradually grew quiet. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, a little excited, but not impatient. How long she had waited, how long she would have to wait, she did not know, but she had perfect faith, and did not become restless. A moment was coming when she must act, and she was prepared. Just that moment mattered and nothing else; all her thoughts were focused upon it.

It came suddenly, a scratching on the door, so light as to be inaudible except to listening ears. Jeanne rose at once, silently opened the door, which purposely she had not latched, and stepped into the passage. A hand touched her on the arm and then slid down her arm until it clasped her fingers. She was pulled forward gently.

"The stairs—carefully," whispered a voice.

Not a sound was in the house, nor in the world it seemed, as they went down the stairs and along the passage to the window which overlooked the roof of the outbuildings. The night was dark, overcast, not a star. This was a window seldom opened. Last night Barrington had examined it, had eased the latch; now there was hardly a sound as he opened it, only the cold night air coming in.

"I go first," said Barrington; and he climbed out and dropped silently on to the roof some five feet below. Jeanne followed, and he lifted her down. Then he climbed up again, and, supporting himself on the sill, closed the window.

"Give me your hand," he whispered; and he led her across the roof, feeling his way carefully to prevent tripping over a partition or gutter. Jeanne did not speak, but followed his whispered instructions; she made no sound when he bent down and taking her foot placed it upon a little parapet which they had to cross, and she stood perfectly still until he lifted her down. A few paces more and Barrington stopped. He guided her hand to a rope.

"Give me your other hand," he whispered.

Thar, too, he guided until it grasped a rope, a second rope. Then he took her foot and put it upon a strand of rope which gave under her weight.

"A ladder," he whispered. "I will hold you as far as I can, then you must go up alone. A hand will be stretched down to help you. My man Seth is at the window above."

Barrington gave a low whistle, hardly more than a sign, which was answered from above.

"Now," he said.

He helped her as far as possible, then held the rope ladder as steady as he could. In a few seconds another low whistle came from above, and Barrington went up the ladder quickly. He climbed in at the open window, drew up the ladder, and closed the window.

"An excellent night for our purpose, Master Richard," Seth whispered. "Here is a sword, it is well to masquerade and be as much like truculent ruffians as possible; and two cockades, one for mademoiselle."

"We are expected, Seth?"

"Yes, any time before morning. They are prepared for us."

"Where are we going?" whispered Jeanne.

"To the lodgings of a servant of Monsieur de Lafayette," Barrington answered. "This is an empty house which we shall leave by a window below. The worst is over. We shall be secure in our retreat until we can leave Paris. Lead the way, Seth."

A set of rooms opened out into another, a door enclosing them from the passage without. Seth led the way through the rooms and opened this door quietly. Then he stopped and drew back a little.

"What is it?" said Barrington under his breath.

"Listen!"

Jeanne's hand was still in Barrington's, and he felt her fingers tighten. To her the house was as still as death, the blackness of it empty; but to her companions whose ears were trained to keenness, there was movement in the air close to them.

"How many," Barrington whispered, not asking information, but rather confirmation of his own estimate.

"Several," Seth answered.

"Tramps, perhaps, lodging here for the night."

"I fear not. They are on the stairs. We shall soon see," answered Seth.

"Lock the door; we must wait," said Barrington.

It was done in a moment, and immediately there were stealthy, shuffling feet in the passage without.

"Curse them," muttered Seth. "I have been followed. For all my care I have brought you into ruin. What can we do?"

"Wait."

"Master Richard, is there no other way of escape from that roof below?"

"None."

Jeanne's hand was still in his, still holding him tightly. He could not feel that she trembled, yet he could not trust himself to speak to her. He had failed to rescue her. There were many in the passage without, he was sure of that. He could fight for her, die for her, but he could not save her. He dared not speak to her lest he should cry out in the anguish of his soul.

The handle of the door was tried, gently. Then there was silence again.

"Give us the woman and you may go free."

The words were not spoken loudly. It seemed like the offer of a secret bargain, a suggestion in it that the woman might not hear, and might never know that her companions had betrayed her to save themselves.

Then Jeanne spoke, in a whisper but quite clearly.

"It is the end. You have done all that a man could do. I thank you—I thank you; and you, too, Seth. A woman never had truer friends."

She stretched out a hand to Seth, who caught it almost roughly and pressed his lips to it.

There was pressure upon the door, and the cracking of the wood.

"There's quick death for the first man who crosses this threshold," Seth muttered as he went to the door.

"Richard! Richard!"

"Jeanne!"

Barrington's head was lowered as he whispered her name. It seemed as though failure had made him ashamed.

"I know your secret, dear, I know it and am glad," she whispered. "I thank God that I am loved by such a man. I would rather be where I am at this moment, by your side, than in the place of any other woman in the world, however free she may be. Richard, kiss me."

"Jeanne! Jeanne!" he cried as he caught her in his arms. "I love you! I love you! God, send a miracle to help us."

"He will let us be together soon and for always, if not here, in heaven," she whispered.

"The door gives, Master Richard," Seth said.

"Back into the corner, Jeanne. Who knows what may happen?"

"We may win through, Master Richard. Be ready, the door will be down in a moment."

The clumsy saber with which Seth had provided him was in his hand, as he stepped forward in readiness. They might have retreated through the other rooms, to the one into which they had climbed, closing every door they could in the face of their enemies, but for what purpose? There was no escape that way, time was no object to them, whereas it was just possible that their assailants would expect them to do this and rush past them. Barrington hastily whispered this possibility to Seth. There was no time for an answer. The door splintered and broke, and the foremost ruffians were shot into the room by the pressure of those behind. There was no rush towards the rooms beyond, nor a shout of triumph even. The first articulate sound was a cry from the man cut down by Seth.

In the fierce struggle of an unequal fight a man thinks little. The forcible present of each moment obliterates the past and future. Just for one instant it occurred to Barrington that Jeanne might possibly escape unnoticed if Seth and he fought savagely enough, and the next moment he was putting this idea into action without any thought beyond it. In the doorway there were men holding dim lanterns, and the light flickered on savage faces, now here, now there. The room seemed full of men, crowded, there was hardly room to fight effectually. Barrington struck on this side and that, yet his blows never seemed to reach their destination. For a little while he and Seth were back to back, but had soon been separated. Now there seemed no order or purpose in the struggle. It was a nightmare of confusion. A face glared into his for a moment then disappeared, its place taken the next instant by another. Strangely familiar faces some of them seemed, memories from dreams long ago. There had been hands on the estate in Virginia, men he had been rather afraid of when he was a little child; they seemed to stare at him now for a moment, lit by a red fire which no longer seemed merely the light from the lanterns. Then came other faces; that of the man he and Seth had found on the Tremont road, that of Sabatier's companion at the inn. Then the faces of the men who had made a rush for the stairs that night at the Lion d'Or fiercely glared at him; then Mercier's, so close that he could feel the hot breath upon his cheek. And then suddenly out of the darkness glowed another face, that of the man who had looked at him when he was caught in the crowd on his way to the Rue Charonne that night, and it seemed to Barrington that once again he sprang forward to make an attempt to save himself by flight. The illusion was complete, for there was a voice of command in his ear. He struck at something that was in his way, something which seemed to catch him by the throat, then he jumped and fell. He was in darkness and silence.

Jeanne had started from her corner. Everything happened quickly. She heard the door break inwards, saw a rush of men, and lanterns in the opening. For a few moments she could distinguish Richard Barrington and Seth. Then Seth fell, dragging others with him. For a little longer Barrington struggled, and then from behind something was thrown over his head and he was pulled backwards. Jeanne started from her corner with a cry, and immediately arms were about her, holding her back.

"No harm will come to him, we are friends," said a voice in her ear. "A sound may betray you and us."

She tried to speak, but could not. Her words were turned into a mumble. A cloth was over her mouth and face, fastened tightly, strong arms lifted her and carried her forwards. She could not see, she could not struggle. The noise of the fighting grew rapidly less. She was being swiftly carried away from it, now along a passage, now down two or three flights of stairs. She was in the open air, the cold wind of the night was about her. There were voices, a quick word or two, then other arms were about her, placing her in a chair it seemed—no, a coach. Wheels turned quickly on the uneven cobbles of the street, a horse galloped, and then settled into a fast trot. Whether the journey was long or short, Jeanne hardly knew, her brain was in a whirl, refusing to work consecutively. The coach stopped, again strong arms lifted her, again a passage, the night air still about her, then stairs up which she was borne. A door opened and she was gently placed in a chair. The door closed again. For a moment there was silence.

"You're quite safe, cherie," said a woman's voice, and fingers were undoing the cloth which was bound round Jeanne's head. "You're quite safe. No one in Paris would think of looking for you here."

The cloth fell off, and Jeanne, half dazed, only partly understanding what had happened, looked about her. Her companion, an old woman with a tri-color cockade fastened to her dress, watched her.

The room, one of two opening into each other, was small, mean, yet fresh and dainty. Cheap curtains hung before the windows and about the alcove where the bed was; the curtains and the paintwork were white, two or three cheap prints were upon the walls, a strip of carpet and a rug lay on the polished boards.

"Where am I?" Jeanne asked.

"In safety," answered the old woman.

So Mademoiselle St. Clair came at last to the rooms which Raymond Latour had so carefully prepared.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE AMBITION OF RAYMOND LATOUR

The dawn came slowly creeping over Paris, cold and with a whip of gusty rain in it. It stole in to touch the faces of many sleepers, innocent sleepers, in hiding and in prison, who for a little while had forgotten their fear and peril; brutal sleepers who for a little space lay harmless, heavy with satisfied lust and wine. It stole into empty rooms, rooms that should be occupied; into Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne where two beds had not been slept in; into hovels in narrow byways of the city to which men and women had not returned last night, but had spent the sleeping hours, as befitted such patriots, in revelry and songs and wine. It stole into a little room with cheap white curtains, and looked upon a woman who had thrown herself half dressed on the bed and had fallen asleep, tired out, exhausted. It crept into a room below and touched the figure of a man seated by the table. A lamp stood near him, but either he had turned it out, or it had burned out; an open book was before him, but he had read little, and no knowledge of what he had read remained. For hours he had sat there in darkness, but no sleep had come to him. The night had been a long waking dream of things past, and present, and the future a confusion of thoughts which could not be reduced to any order. All the threads of a great scheme were in his hands, yet he was uncertain how to use them to the best advantage. The moment he had struggled for had come. This day, this dawn, was the beginning of the future. How was he to make the best of it?

Presently he was conscious of feeling cold, and he made himself some coffee, moving about his room quietly. He remembered the woman upstairs. She was sleeping, surely. He had listened during the night and had not heard her. He had held her in his arms, had carried her up the stairs and placed her gently in a chair, leaving her in the care of the woman from the baker's shop at the corner of the alley. She would wake presently and he would see her. What should he say to her?

The coffee warmed Raymond Latour, but there was unusual excitement in his movements. As the light increased he sat down and tried to read. It was a volume of Plutarch's "Lives," a book which had done much to influence many revolutionaries; but he could not read with any understanding. To-day there was so much to be done, so many things to think of. There were his own affairs, and they must take first place, but in Paris the excitement would be at fever pitch to-day. Louis Capet was to die, the voting had decided; but when? There was to be more voting, and Raymond Latour must take his part in it. It was no wonder that he could not read.

The hours had dragged through the night, yet when a knock came at his door, it seemed to him that he had had little time to mature his plans, that it was only a very little while since he had carried the woman up the stairs. He opened the door quickly.

"The citizeness is awake and dressed. She is anxious to see you."

"What have you told her?"

"Only that the man who brought her last night would come and explain."

"I will go to her."

But Latour did not go immediately. He must have a few moments for thought, and he paced his room excitedly, pausing more than once to look at himself in a little mirror which hung upon the wall. His followers would hardly have recognized in him the calm, calculating man with whom they were accustomed to deal. It was with a great effort that he steadied his nerves and went quietly up the stairs.

Jeanne rose from her chair as he entered, but Latour could not know how her heart beat as the door opened. She looked at him steadily, inquiringly, waiting for him to speak.

"Mademoiselle has slept, I trust?"

It seemed to Latour that he looked at her for a long time without speaking, such a whirl of thoughts swept through his brain as he entered the room and saw the woman standing there. He remembered the other woman who had occupied this apartment until he had let her go two or three days since. He had hated her for being there. This room had not been fashioned with such infinite care for such a woman as Pauline Vaison, but for this very woman who now stood before him. How strangely natural it seemed that she should be there! This was the moment which had been constantly in his dreams waking and sleeping.

"I do not know you," she said. "Why am I here? Indeed, where am I?"

"Mademoiselle, I have come to explain. It is a long explanation, and you must bear with me a little."

"Tell me first, where is Monsieur Barrington?" said Jeanne.

"In safety. You have my word for it."

"Whose word?"

"You shall have the whole story, mademoiselle, and you shall presently see Monsieur Barrington."

Jeanne sat down, and Raymond Latour moved to the window and stood there.

"I must begin in the middle of my story," he said, "it is easier for me, and you will understand better. On the day of your arrival in Paris, I met Monsieur Barrington. He was watching a coach which contained a prisoner who was being escorted by a crowd of patriots to the Abbaye prison. The sight was new to him; I believe that, single-handed, he would have made an attempt at a rescue, had I not touched his arm. I knew who he was, and that he had helped you into Paris. A little later it was said that you had been arrested in the house of Lucien Bruslart, and Monsieur Barrington came to me. We both concluded that you were the prisoner in that coach. I believed Barrington to be an honest man, and I rescued the prisoner from the Abbaye, and brought her here, only to find that she was one Pauline Vaison, a woman Bruslart was to marry. Bruslart, however, had made no effort to save her. He had apparently sacrificed her to help you, and Barrington had helped him."

"It might appear so, monsieur, but such was not the case," said Jeanne.

"My opinion of Monsieur Barrington is at present in the balance," said Latour; "Lucien Bruslart I know to be a scoundrel. The release of Pauline Vaison naturally frightened Bruslart, who has gone into hiding and is not to be found. Barrington is not a coward, and it was easy to secure him. I saved him from the mob, but I kept him a prisoner. I challenged him with his treachery to me, and he denied it, yet immediately I let him go and had him watched, he straightway found you at the house of Dr. Legrand in the Rue Charonne. Watching him and his servant it was discovered that you were to be rescued from Legrand's house, with the result that you are here."

"In the hands of Monsieur Raymond Latour," said Jeanne, quietly.

"Yes, mademoiselle, though I am surprised that you know me. Monsieur Barrington is also in my hands."

"Most of this story I already know from Monsieur Barrington," she returned. "If you will believe my word, I can show you that he was not in Lucien Bruslart's confidence at all, that Lucien Bruslart from the first deceived him. If you know anything of me, you must realize that it is not easy to speak of Monsieur Bruslart in this way."

"I know all about you, mademoiselle," Latour answered slowly.

"And hate me. I have heard of Raymond Latour as a hater of aristocrats. I cannot understand, therefore, why you undertook my rescue from prison."

"Because you do not know all about me," he said "It is true I am a republican, a hater of aristocrats. Mademoiselle, you have been good to the poor in Paris, you are one of the few who have cared anything for them. Had you not fled, had you not become an emigre, I believe you could have walked the streets of the city in perfect safety. If for a moment you will put aside your class prejudice, you must know that the people have the right with them. They have been ground down, trampled on for generations, now they have struggled to freedom. If they push that freedom to excess, can you honestly be astonished? They are but retaliating for the load of cruelty which has been pressed upon them."

"Monsieur, I am no politician. Many dear friends of mine have been foully murdered. I look for no better fate for myself."

"I was rather trying to explain my position," said Latour.

"You do not explain your peculiar interest in me."

"You hardly give me time, mademoiselle," he returned with a faint smile. "Still, you can appreciate that my sympathies are with the people. That is not the entire truth, however. I had ambition, and the revolution was my opportunity. A strong man might grasp power, and I would be that strong man."

"Are there not many others in the Convention with similar ambition?"

"I think not. Whatever power I might obtain was not for my own glory, but was to be laid at the feet of a woman. Mademoiselle does not remember, perhaps, a certain day some three or four years since, when the horses attached to her coach took fright and ran away. They might have been stopped by the coachman, but they appeared to have got the better of him. It seemed to a man standing there, a poor student, that the occupant of that coach was in danger. He rushed forward, and with some difficulty stopped the horses."

"I remember it perfectly," said Jeanne.

"Mademoiselle, that poor student had in that hour seen a vision from heaven, a woman so beautiful, so far beyond all other women, that he worshiped her. He wandered the streets of Paris only to catch a glimpse of her. He enthroned her on the altar of his soul, and bowed down to her. It was a hopeless passion, yet its hopelessness had no power to kill it, rather it grew each day, took stronger possession of his dreams each night, until, reaching forward, he conceived the possibility of winning what his soul desired. That poor student was Raymond Latour. You see, mademoiselle, when you think of me as a red republican, you hardly do me full justice."

Jeanne did not answer. What possible answer was there to such a confession as this?

"Deputy Latour became a power," he went on quietly. "Many things became possible. Mademoiselle had a lover, Lucien Bruslart, a villain, a liar to her and his country. Raymond Latour, with all his faults, was a better man than he, more honest, more worthy a woman's regard, no matter who that woman might be."

He paused for a moment, but still she found no words to answer him.

"This Bruslart for some purpose of his own sent for mademoiselle to come to Paris. I discovered that he had done so. It was an opportunity to show you what sort of a man he was whom you loved. I should have balked his intention and brought you here, had it not been for the bungling of those who served me, and the courage of this man Barrington who has played Bruslart's game for him."

"Unwittingly," said Jeanne. "I grant that Lucien Bruslart is not a worthy man; you must not class the other with him." In a few words Jeanne told him how she had written the letter, how Richard Barrington came to know where she was hidden.

"Is it not a further proof against Bruslart? And to me there is still no actual proof of Barrington's honor," Latour went on quickly, as though he were afraid something would happen to prevent his speaking. "Listen, mademoiselle, this room was prepared for you long before you came, a safe retreat. Would any one think of seeking an aristocrat close to a hater of aristocrats? I have thought of everything, planned everything. The power I have I lay at your feet, now, at this moment. At your word I will become anything you wish. Without you, without the hope of you, nothing is of value to me. With you, there is nothing in the world impossible. France is not the only land. Paris is not the world. There are fairer places on God's earth where men and women may live at peace. I have papers which shall make it easy for us to pass the barriers, which shall bring us safely to the sea. I worship you, words can tell you nothing of that worship, you shall learn it day by day, hour by hour, you shall guide me as you will. You—"

"Monsieur, monsieur! what are you saying? How can I answer such madness?"

"By coming with me, gift for gift, love for love. Somewhere I will so labor that my wife shall know the depth of my reverence, the greatness of my love."

"I have no answer, monsieur, for such folly."

"Not yet, but you will have. A man does not play for such stakes as I have played for, win them, and then throw them away."

"If I understand your folly rightly, you have not won. I could pity—were there not a tone of threatening in your voice. To love you is, and always will be, impossible."

"Has mademoiselle considered all that such a decision means?"

"I know nothing worse that you can do than denounce me to the Convention," said Jeanne, standing up, and looking straight into his eyes. "I expect nothing less and have no fear. You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have sent another innocent person to the guillotine."

"There is another mademoiselle might wish to save. I have said Monsieur Barrington is in my hands."

"I have never seen fear in Richard Barrington. I do not think he would be afraid of the guillotine."

"You love him," said Latour, sharply.

"Yes;" and then she went on passionately, "Have you revolutionaries not yet learned that death is but a passing evil, and that there are men and women who do not fear death? I love Richard Barrington; his death or mine cannot alter that, and do you suppose I would purchase life by a promise to you or any other man in the world?"

"Yet he shall plead my cause for me. For himself he may not be a coward, but for the woman he loves he will be. He would rather see you in my arms than send you to the guillotine."

"Monsieur, the decision rests wholly with me. Richard Barrington has already risked his life for me; if necessary, he will give it for me, and he would rather see me dead than give any promise to a man I despise. You cannot understand such men."

"Mademoiselle, I too, risked my life in bringing out of the Abbaye prison the woman I believed was you."

"For that I thank you," she said quickly. "It is strange to me that the same man can stoop to threaten me now."

"You will understand if you think of all I have told you," said Latour, moving to the door. "You are safe for a little while. Your lover shall plead for me. He is a man, and will know what a man's love is."

Jeanne turned to the window. There was nothing more to be said.

Latour went slowly down to his room. All his excitement had vanished. He was calm and calculating again, a man in a dangerous mood; yet Jeanne's words were still in his ears. "I love Richard Barrington; his death or mine cannot alter that." What had he expected from this interview? He hardly knew. He had declared that his game was won, but it was not the game he had schemed to play. It was to have been his love against Lucien Bruslart's. To plead that would have been easy, and surely the woman must have listened, yes, and recognized the true from the false. This cursed American had altered the game; still, he was a man, a man of his word. He had promised to plead for him. He should do it.

Raymond Latour passed out presently into the Rue Valette and went in the direction of the Tuileries. There was public business he must do. Paris was clamorous and dangerous. The mob cried out to Deputy Latour as he passed, telling him how to vote, but he took no notice, never even turning his head. He was not thinking of a king, but of the woman he loved.



CHAPTER XXV

A DEBT IS PAID

Dr. Legrand slept late on this Saturday morning; his dreams had been pleasant, and he hastily descended to his study, his face beaming, his body tingling with excitement. The regret which he had expressed last night, and really felt in his own limited fashion, was gone; how could he feel regret when in a short hour or two he was destined to handle so much money?

As he went to his study a servant stopped him.

"Monsieur, monsieur, we have only just discovered, but Mademoiselle St. Clair—"

"Yes, yes; what about her?"

"Gone, monsieur."

"Gone!"

The doctor staggered back against the wall, his face working in a sudden convulsion. It was as though the servant had struck him a heavy blow between the eyes.

"Yes, monsieur. Her bed has not been slept in. The Marquis de Castellux is not to be found either. We have inquired among the guests. No one has seen them since they left the salon last night."

No articulate word came from Legrand, only a growl like that of an angry animal. He rushed to mademoiselle's room, then to the one Monsieur de Castellux had occupied temporarily. In a few moments the house was being searched from cellar to garret, every room was entered, whether the guests expostulated or not, but there was no sign of the fugitives, nor anything to show how they had gone. No one noticed that the window at the end of the passage had been unfastened.

A little later Dr. Legrand hurried along the Rue Charonne, caring nothing that people looked after him. He was a doctor of lunatics, they said, possibly he had gone mad himself. They laughed and took no further notice of him. He traversed several streets in the Faubourg St. Antoine, evidently familiar ground to him, and presently entered a tumbledown tenement. Going hastily to the top floor, he knocked with his knuckles at a closed door, two low, single knocks, and a double one. It was evidently a signal, for the door was opened at once and Lucien Bruslart stood before him.

"So soon!" he exclaimed.

Legrand entered, pushing Bruslart back into the room, and shut the door.

"She's gone! Escaped! Last night!"

Bruslart showed no sign of surprise. He sat on the edge of the table and waited for more information. Legrand had no more to give. In his hurried journey from the Rue Charonne he had thought of many things, and now made no mention of the fact that another of his guests had also disappeared.

"How did she manage to escape out of your clutches?" asked Bruslart, after a pause.

"I don't know, and does it matter? She is gone, that is enough."

"Bad for you, Legrand. She will explain how she came to be in your house, and your friends will be asking why you took any one they did not send to you. An awkward question, Legrand."

"I shall easily answer that. The difficulty is for you, my friend. How will you explain your dealings with an aristocrat for whom all Paris is hunting?"

"More easily perhaps than you imagine."

"You cannot, you cannot. I am the only man who can help you."

"Your help does not seem very effectual, does it?" said Bruslart. "You were to have come this morning with certain papers assuring me that a certain troublesome person was in the hands of the authorities, and in return you were to receive a certain fee. Well, you have no papers, therefore you get no fee."

"But what will you do?"

"Wait here. I have been safe so far."

"It is impossible," said Legrand. "I shall be asked questions, I shall have to answer them. I know Citizen Bruslart as a good patriot. He brings me a lady to take charge of. What could I do but obey? I shall be asked where Citizen Bruslart is now."

"I see you contemplate betraying me, is that it?"

"No, no, but I must answer questions."

"How do you propose to help betraying me then?" Bruslart asked.

"Now you are sensible. We must work together, is it not so? Paris is dangerous for you. You are a rich man and the place for you is across the frontier. A friend of mine, a good citizen, has for days been ready to travel at a moment's notice, and will take a servant with him. He has papers that cannot be questioned for himself and for you, his servant. He goes by way of Metz and then to Valenciennes. You will slip across the frontier into Belgium. You have heard of the inn, on that road, La Houlette. Once there you may throw away your cockade and become again a nobleman. It is your metier, my friend, you were never intended for a patriot. And now that you have money what better could you wish for?"

"It is an attractive programme, and I am a little tired of this cockloft," answered Bruslart. "How is it to be managed?"

"In an hour I will be back with all that is necessary to alter your dress and appearance. In two hours you may commence your journey."

"Very well, my good Legrand, I shall expect you in an hour."

"Yes, but the money," said the doctor. "I run a risk, and my friend must also be paid."

"Anything that is reasonable."

"Oh, it is reasonable."

"What is the figure?" Bruslart asked.

"I think I can arrange everything if you give me the fee I was to have had for the papers you expected me to bring this morning."

"Nonsense, Legrand. That fee is nearly half of my fortune."

"Mademoiselle's fortune," corrected Legrand.

The two men looked at each other, and understood each other well. Bruslart knew that the doctor was quite prepared to betray him if he did not come to his terms. Legrand knew that Bruslart was in dire straits, and that once in the hands of the Convention his doom was sealed. In one sense the doctor was the more honest of the two. He could do what he said with every prospect of success, and was prepared to fulfill his bargain to the letter. Bruslart was already planning how he could overreach his companion.

"It is a monstrous price to pay."

"It saves you from the guillotine," answered Legrand.

"Very well, I'll pay it," said Bruslart, after a moment's thought.

"Quickly, then. I will go at once. Give me the money."

"A bargain is a bargain, my good doctor, and I do not part with my money until you have completed your work. I shall expect you in an hour."

Legrand hesitated.

"I cannot get away," said Bruslart, "but there is a possibility that you might not return."

"You are over careful," was the answer.

"I have my head to consider," Bruslart laughed. "No man pays the doctor before he has taken his physic."

The doctor laughed too, it was the only way to deal with such a man, and departed. Bruslart could not escape him. The money was already as good as in his hands. Bruslart once out of Paris, Legrand could answer any question the officers of the Convention might put to him. He had done as Citizen Bruslart had commanded him, what else could he have done? Monsieur Fouquier-Tinville and others could not say much, they were too interested in his establishment. Besides, although mademoiselle had escaped from his house, it was most unlikely that she could leave Paris. She would be found.

Bruslart locked his door when the doctor had gone. Before the doctor he had shown no anger, no agitation, but alone, he was like an animal caught in a trap. For this money he had schemed, lied, and betrayed an innocent woman; he had just enough conscience to hate the remembrance of all he had done, and now half the reward of his treachery was to be filched from him. For a moment he was tempted to go before Legrand returned, but he was afraid. Legrand had the whip hand of him. Could he cheat him? The opportunity might come at the last moment. How could it be done?

He was deep in a dozen plans which came in a chaotic confusion into his mind, when there was a knock at the door, two low, single knocks followed a double one, Legrand's signal. An hour had not passed. Legrand had returned quickly. What had happened? He opened the door, then started back.

"Pauline!"

For a moment she stood on the threshold apparently with some feeling for the dramatic effect in her attitude, then she entered and closed the door.

"Yes, Pauline," she said.

Bruslart had been taken unawares; he had unfortunately allowed the woman to see his surprise, and cursed his folly as he regained his equanimity with an effort.

"You are welcome, Pauline, as welcome as—"

"As the devil," she answered. "No, I want to do the talking. You sit down and listen."

"Nothing will please me better," Bruslart returned, smiling. "I have been forced to go into hiding, and have lost touch with events."

"And I have been in prison."

"In prison! You!"

"Strange, isn't it? I dare say the story will interest you, but there are other things to talk of first. What has forced you into hiding?"

"Circumstances and Raymond Latour," he answered.

"And why should you keep your hiding-place a secret from me?"

"I will explain. It is rather a long story, and—"

"And I do not want to hear it," she said. "I know. It is not a pretty story. To save one woman you sacrifice another, and in the end are false to both."

"What nonsense have you been told, Pauline?"

"I have been told very little, perhaps only know part of the tale even now, but it is sufficient. I only found out your hiding-place on Wednesday night. On Thursday and Friday, Citizen Legrand was with you. By your contriving Mademoiselle St. Clair was in hiding. A large part of her money was in your hands, and she was in your way, so Legrand was instructed to send word to the Convention that one Richard Barrington, an American, had contrived by false representation to place her in Legrand's house for safety, and the doctor, suddenly discovering the falsehood, was to prove himself a good patriot and give her up. So Lucien Bruslart, by paying the doctor, was to get rid of a troublesome woman and retire to Belgium."

"I do not know who can have told you such a story."

"There are many spies in Paris," she answered with a short laugh. "But that is not all the tale. Yesterday you were very confidential with Citizen Legrand. You told him of another woman who was in love with you, and was troublesome, or would be if she knew where to find you. You had promised to marry her, a promise to the pretty fool which you did not intend to keep. It amused you to think how furious Pauline Vaison would be when she found out you had gone."

"So that devil Legrand has been talking, has he?"

"Poor Lucien! Do you imagine you are the only scoundrel in Paris?"

"Scoundrel! Why, you pretty fool—it is your own expression, so let me use it—do you imagine I should tell the truth to Legrand? His own cupidity ruins him. Half the tale is true, the other half—why, Pauline, is it not the very scheme I told you of? I had hoped to rise to power in Paris; that I cannot do, but I have the money, and Pauline Vaison will join me across the Belgian frontier."

"You only have half the money, Lucien, Legrand is to have the other half. It is his little fee."

"Now you have come we may cheat him," said Bruslart, quickly.

"Yes, a very excellent plan, but it won't work, my friend. I had none of this story from Legrand. Your money holds him faithful. He will be back in an hour, and in two hours you may perhaps be out of Paris."

Bruslart looked at her, realizing the full extent of his danger for the first time.

"That is an awkward riddle for you to read, isn't it?" she said. "It is an unpleasant position, as unpleasant as mine when they arrested me in the place of Mademoiselle St. Clair, and my lover took no steps to set the mistake right; as unpleasant as when my escape from the Abbaye forced you to hide from me. That is why you ran away, Lucien. You were afraid of me. Now I have found you, and mademoiselle has really escaped out of your clutches. It is a very awkward position, Lucien. I do not see how you are going to wriggle out of it."

"The way is plain, let us arrange everything before Legrand returns," said Bruslart.

"There is nothing to arrange. This little cockloft does not fill the whole of this upper story. There is another attic on the other side of that partition, with a cupboard in it. Standing in the cupboard, with the ear against the woodwork, one can hear all that is said here, and if you look in that partition you will find a crack, through which nearly the whole of this place can be seen. You may take my word for it, I have lived on the other side since Wednesday night. Your own servant betrayed your hiding-place to me, for a ridiculously small sum. Your worth is not great even in his eyes."

"Be sensible, Pauline. I will—"

"Pay me for secrecy? Will you give me the other half of mademoiselle's money?"

"I said, be sensible. Come with me, join me on the road to the frontier. It is what I have intended all along."

"It's a lie!"

The woman was suddenly alive with passion—dangerous, and Bruslart knew it.

"You are not polite," he said.

"I am better than that; I am honest."

"Be sensible as well. The time is short. Sit down and let us arrange quickly."

"I have told you, there is nothing to arrange," she answered.

"Once for all, will you come? Yes or no," he said angrily.

"No."

"What are you going to do?"

"Pay, Lucien, pay. Legrand will return, but he will not find you."

"You she-devil!"

The words were hissed out as he sprang toward her. It was his life or hers. There was no other alternative. Murder was in his hands, in his soul. She realized this and even as he touched her, she cried out—

"Help! Help, citizens!"

In a moment the door was thrown open and Lucien Bruslart was in the hands of the officers of the Convention, crouching in their grasp, white and afraid, too terrified even to curse his betrayer.

"The payment, Lucien! I warned you. I keep my promise. For you it is the Place de la Revolution—the guillotine."

The words were shouted at him savagely, and then she leaned back against the wall in a paroxysm of horrible laughter.



CHAPTER XXVI

ENEMIES OR FRIENDS

To the individual, his affairs, petty though they be, are often of more moment than those greater doings which have a whole world for stage and are destined to throw an echo far down the corridors of Time. Most of us live in a narrow little world, a very mean little world often, and are never able to mount up a step or two to see how exceedingly mean and narrow it is. Yet, for all this, the workings of the greater world do affect us, though we may be unconscious of the fact; our little affairs are influenced in greater or less degree, as the rippled circles from a stone's cast spread to the shores of the pond.

Balked greed and craven fear tore at Legrand's very soul when he returned to the cockloft in the Faubourg St. Antoine and found it empty. After all he was not to handle the money. He felt like an honest man who has been cheated, so far was he able to deceive himself. Bruslart had outwitted him, would perhaps succeed in leaving Paris, and a terrible lust to get equal with him seized upon the doctor. The chance words of two men talking in the street told him the truth, and then fear took the place of greed. There was no knowing what Bruslart might say. The temper of the Convention was uncertain. He might be arrested too, or perchance plundered of his gains. For a few moments he was doubtful whether it would be safe to go home, and then, driven by that desperate desire to know the worst which so often makes a coward seem courageous, he hastened in the direction of the Rue Charonne, and was in his study when the officers of the Convention arrived to remove Jeanne St. Clair. Legrand had communicated with the authorities, but somewhat vaguely. He declared that it was evident that he had been deceived, that the ci-devant aristocrat ought never to have been placed under his care, but he had not definitely stated an opinion that the American, Richard Barrington, was responsible. It was difficult for Legrand to make a straightforward statement at any time, and that he had not done so on this occasion might prove useful now that Lucien Bruslart was arrested. He was therefore prepared to wriggle out of his awkward position. Mademoiselle had managed to get out of his house, how he could not tell, but she could not have left Paris. An immediate and diligent search must result in her capture.

Strange to say the awkward questions were not asked, nor was an immediate search instituted. For the moment, at any rate, Jeanne St. Clair was of small account, another name was in everybody's mouth, another personality was forced into tragic prominence, and the hundreds of deputies on whose word so much depended had no time or inclination to think of any one else.

Wednesday and Thursday, which were marked days for Jeanne St. Clair, were stupendous days for Paris, for France, for the world. The fate of Louis Capet, once king, was sealed in them. He must die. By the vote of the deputies this was decided. His crime? Who shall say. Chiefly perhaps that he was born to be a king, and lived, a weak king, in a strenuous time. And yet the business was not at an end. Some would have an appeal made to the people, a proposition easily overruled; some would have delay, and that was not so easily settled. There must be more voting. So on this Saturday and Sunday the deputies were busy, and Paris vibrated with excitement. Raymond Latour now voted for delay, as before he had voted against the death sentence, firm to his conviction that the head of a king was not necessary to the safety of France. Patriots hissed at him and at many others. Robespierre noted the set of his face and thought of the future; others noted that set face and thought of the future, too. Was Raymond Latour as strong a man as some declared? Was he safest as a friend or as an enemy? Once more the votes were counted. Louis Capet must die, that fact remained unaltered, but there was added something more to the sentence, he must die within twenty-four hours. It was a merciful addition perchance, though not so intended; the shorter the time, the less the suffering. Patriotic Paris flung its red cap into the air, rejoicing greatly. Less than twenty-four hours to wait for the greatest amusement that had yet been vouchsafed to the mob. There was no time to sleep, no reason in sleep. Armed men would keep the streets to-morrow, but there would be vantage places to be struggled for and kept through long hours of waiting—yet not so long after all. Monday morning came quickly—ten o'clock—one carriage and its guard. The last ride of a king! The bitter mockery of fate sounded to-day for the Deep Purple of an empire—and France laughed. Revenge, too, perchance smiled, for the passage of that lone coach left its trail of dead and wounded. Slowly he mounted into view of his people, and a heart here and there may have pitied him. He would speak. Surely in this last hour he may say a word; the words of a man at such a moment, be he king or peasant, may perchance have a strange meaning and appeal in them; and also they may be dangerous. Yes, he will speak. He is innocent, that much was heard, and then another spoke, a word of command, and there was the loud rolling of the drums. Nothing could be heard above the beating of those drums. It was difficult even to see through the forest of bayonets which surrounded the scaffold. It looked like a moment's struggle between executioners and hand-tied victim, an unequal contest. Still the drums—then the sound of the heavy falling knife. Then silence, and Samson, chief priest of the guillotine, holding the head high, at arm's length, that all may see it and know that tyranny is at an end, that France is free. Patriotism, armed and otherwise, went mad with delight. This was a gala day! Sing, dance, drink in it! Such a day was never known in Paris before!



It was no wonder that Jeanne was forgotten, that Dr. Legrand was not called upon to answer awkward questions. It was not remarkable that the alleys and byways of Paris were deserted for the wider streets and places where patriots could rejoice together, and that many who were in hiding should be free for a day or two from the alarms which almost hourly beset them.

Richard Barrington had remained untroubled for many hours. As he fought in the empty house, struggling against a crowd which seemed to press in upon him from every side, and out of which looked familiar faces, his brain had played him a trick he thought he was fleeing from his enemies, jumping into darkness for safety. There had followed a period of total unconsciousness, set in the midst of a continuous dream as it were, for he seemed to realize at once without any break that he had fallen upon a bed of straw and could safely lie there to rest his tired limbs. There was no recollection of Legrand's asylum, or of the night escape over the roofs, but presently there came a conviction that he ought to be with Jeanne. It seemed to him that he tried to get out of the straw but was unable to do so. It had so twined about his body and limbs that he was bound by it as if with ropes. He must rest a little longer until he had more strength to break his bonds. Then again, faces looked at him, faces he ought to know, yet could not remember. There were low voices about him. He was thirsty, and in his struggles to free himself from the straw, chance guided his hand to a cup. Cool liquid was in it, water or wine, he could not tell which, but he drank eagerly and lay still again for a long time. Presently his strength was certainly returning, for without any great effort he drew his hands free from the binding straw and raised himself. A faint light was about him, showing stone walls, a narrow room, in a corner of which he was lying. On the floor beside him was a cup, a wine bottle, and a piece of bread. He picked up the bread and almost mechanically bit a piece out of it. He found that he was hungry. There was wine in the bottle and he drank. The straw no longer bound him, and he rose slowly to his feet and stared about him. Then, like waters suddenly breaking down a dam and flowing again into their old channel, memory reasserted itself and his brain grew clear. He recollected the empty house, the sudden movement on the stars, the fight, Jeanne standing behind him in the corner. What had happened? Where was she? Where was Seth? He knew where he was. The chair and table, the bowl and water can, the straw bed, the stone walls and the high grating—he was again in that buried cell of the old monastery.

"My head is heavy," he said aloud. "I must have been hurt and been delirious. For how long, I wonder?"

He began to move slowly about the cell. It was daylight, whether morning or afternoon he could not tell. He was not meant to die yet, or the wine and the bread would not be there, yet why was he in this place instead of an ordinary prison? His limbs were stiff, his head ached, it was difficult to think clearly. He could not detach reality from dreams. What had happened in that empty house? Where was Jeanne? He threw himself upon the straw bed again, intending to lie there and try to solve the problem, but he fell asleep.

He was roused suddenly. A man was bending over him, had probably touched him. It was Raymond Latour. For a moment or two Barrington was uncertain whether this was a dream or reality.

"So you're awake at last," said Latour.

Barrington rose slowly to his feet, and then sat down in the chair by the table.

"What day is it?"

"Monday—Monday afternoon."

Barrington appeared to make a calculation.

"Monday!" he said. "Then I have been here—"

"Since early on Saturday morning," said Latour. "You were knocked about a bit in that empty house, and you've been in a more or less unconscious condition ever since. Have you your wits now? I have something important to say to you."

"Then you know about that empty house?"

"Yes."

"You arranged the—"

"Your capture—yes."

Barrington rose to his feet quickly, but stumbled a little as he did so.

"Now you must settle with me," he said.

"You're not strong enough yet," said Latour, easily catching the arm which aimed a feeble blow at him. "Mademoiselle St. Clair is safe. She is not in prison. Your man is safe. You, too, are safe for the present. You had better listen to all I have to say."

Barrington sat down again, frowning at his impotence. He had not realized how weak he was.

"I let you out of this place believing you a liar, and had you watched," said Latour. "I still believed you a liar when I found that you knew mademoiselle was in Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne. Your man was watched too, and his preparations in that empty house understood. You know the result. I have it from mademoiselle's own lips that you are not a liar, that you are not in league with Lucien Bruslart, and I believe her."

"Where is she?"

"Safe in my keeping."

Barrington did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, "She is the aristocrat in whom you are interested?"

"Yes."

"Then it is you who have lied?"

"I deceived you, yes. Be a man, Barrington; look at this thing with the eyes of a man. What reason was there that I should trust you with such a secret? I had set myself a goal to win, why should I jeopardize my chances? Bruslart was the man she loved, not you."

"They say all is fair in love," said Barrington. "Go on, Latour, go on. I suppose you have come to bargain with me. My arm may be weak, but my head grows clearer every minute."

"I want you to fulfill your promise. You owe me something. You said you would do your utmost to help me with the woman I loved. I know now that I could have no more powerful advocate."

"I cannot admit the debt," was the answer. "What do I owe you?"

"Your life once, perhaps twice, and again now. It is mine to save or destroy. A word from me and you change this place for a prison and the guillotine."

"I set no value on my life," Barrington answered.

"Jeanne St. Clair's life is in my hands, too," said Latour, slowly. "You would do something to save her?"

"Anything in the world. Save her, Latour, and though you send me to the gallows I will bless you."

Latour bit his lip a little. He wanted to hate this man who had come between him and his desires. He was convinced that he had done so, convinced that but for this American, Jeanne St. Clair would have listened to him. His worth against Bruslart's infamy must have appealed to her, had this man not come into her world.

"I know the truth," he said slowly, "I have had it from mademoiselle herself. I spoke of my love, as a man must speak when the whole passion of his life is let loose. She could never love me, she said. Why? Because she loves you. I have threatened her to no purpose. I threatened to sacrifice you unless she consented. It was of no avail. She swore that you did not fear death, that you would willingly die for her."

"She spoke only the truth," said Barrington.

"Yet you can save her," Latour returned. "You are the only man who can. You shall go to her and plead with her for me. For her sake I will desert France, go anywhere, do anything she wills. She must be mine or, for God's sake, do not make me even whisper the alternative."

"Be honest. Let me know the alternative."

"She shall die. There you have it. You may make your choice."

"And I thought you loved her," said Barrington, slowly.

"I cannot bandy phrases with you," Latour answered passionately. "You are a man as I am, there is something in us that is alike, I think. Debate such questions with yourself and you will find an answer."

"I have said that I am willing to die for her," answered Barrington.

"Go a step further than that," returned Latour. "Help another man to possess her."

"You are not prepared to make that sacrifice," said Barrington. "She must be yours or she must die. I thought Raymond Latour was too good a man for such villainy."

"Phrases! phrases! I want none of them. I want your help, the help you promised. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, although it was not mademoiselle I rescued; I expect you to fulfill yours."

"In this thing she must choose, Latour. My love is such that to make her happy I would willingly sacrifice myself were it to die for her, or harder still, live out my life away from her, forgotten by her. If it is only the thought of me which holds her back from what may bring her peace and satisfaction, I will pass out of her life and she shall never know the great sorrow at my heart. I will not hold her to any promise she has made to me. She shall be free to choose, and I will not let a hard thought of her enter my soul."

While Barrington was speaking, Latour had paced the cell slowly. Now he stopped on the other side of the little table.

"You will do no more?"

"There is nothing more I can do."

"You have thought of the consequences. You have considered my influence, the power I have to save or to kill you?"

"No, I haven't thought much of that. It doesn't seem to matter."

"You laugh at me."

"That is unworthy of you," Barrington answered. "We are two men in a tight place, and such men do not laugh at each other. Once you said that, should we prove to be enemies, it might help us to remember that we had clasped hands over our wine. Well, is not this the hour to remember it?"

"One has to forget many things," said Latour.

"True; and we come to a point when we understand how trivial are many of these things we thought most important," said Barrington. "We are at the mercy of the world's storms, and we shall surely travel ways we never set out to travel. I came to France, Latour, burning to fight for an oppressed people, burning to do something in this land like the Marquis de Lafayette had done in America. His career there fired my youthful ambition. I have done nothing. I come to this hour, facing you across this little table—two men, enemies, yet for all that liking each other a little, kindred somehow, and strangely bound together in that we both love the same woman."

Latour was silent for a few moments, the past, the present, and the future, mingled in his brain in strange confusion.

"Would you see her again?" he asked suddenly.

Barrington did not answer at once. "Let her decide," he said slowly. "There would be heaven in such a meeting, but there would be hell, too."

"There are tears in your eyes," said Latour.

"Are there?" asked Barrington, simply. "Well, why not?"

Latour turned away quickly. "I will think whether you can see her again," he said. "It may be difficult. You are weak, I will tell them to bring you food. You have seen Citizen Mercier, he is looking after you here. If you are to see mademoiselle, he will tell you. You must do as he suggests. She shall decide; I promise that."

He went toward the door, then came back again.

"If you see her will you speak of me?" he asked.

"We can hardly help doing so."

"She would believe you if you told her something of my love, of what I have done."

"I will set life and death before her, Latour, and leave her free to choose."

Latour moved again to the door and again came back.

"Men who love as we do must be enemies, still the enmity may be free from malice. Other conditions might well have made us friends. Will you grasp hands once more, Barrington?"

Across the little table their hands met, and were clasped firmly for a moment as the two men looked into each other's eyes. Then Latour went out quickly, locking the door behind him.

An hour later he went slowly up the stairs to his rooms. Jacques Sabatier was waiting for him.

"Bad news, citizen," said Sabatier.

Latour opened his door, and they entered.

"It should be bad news indeed if one may judge by your face," he said.

"Citizen Bruslart was arrested on Saturday. He is in the Conciergerie. He demands that you see him to-night. He knows that mademoiselle has escaped from the Rue Charonne, and he makes a shrewd guess where she is hidden. You must see him, citizen; he is dangerous."



CHAPTER XXVII

A RIDE IN THE NIGHT

Once again the dawn found Raymond Latour seated by the table. No book lay open before him, he had not attempted to read. Last night he had gone to the rooms above, taking Sabatier with him. Sabatier forgot to swagger as he stood before Jeanne St. Clair, trying to look as steadily at her as she did at him. Then Sabatier had gone with a promise on his lips which he roundly swore to keep, and for a little while longer Latour remained with Jeanne. His face was calm when he left her, but Barrington might have retaliated and said there were tears in his eyes. Perchance it was the cold wind on the stairs, for the night was bitter, Latour wrapped himself in a thick coat when he went out, and turned his steps in the direction of the Conciergerie. It was near midnight when he returned home, but there was no sleep for him. So the dawn found him seated by the table. Again he felt cold and made himself coffee, but he was not excited. His plans were made. He was ready for the day and the work there was to do in it.

Yesterday the head of a king, a triumph surely to last for many days. Patriots might rest a little now. But Robespierre thought otherwise as he talked with Duplay, the cabinet maker, over the evening meal in the Rue St. Honore; great-voiced Danton knew that this was a beginning, not an ending; and many other deputies were sure that having gone so far they must go further. There were other heads to offer to the guillotine, many others. The tumbrils must carry the daily food, and the stock of such food must not be allowed to run short. Many were condemned already; there were others waiting to be condemned; it would be well to get on with the work expeditiously. Trials took time, though, truly, they need not be long. There was one man waiting for whom nothing could be said. The aristocrat, Lucien Bruslart, who had posed as an honest citizen, yet had hidden an emigre in the city. Denounced by Citizeness Pauline Vaison, who was declared with one consent to be a true patriot, what hope could there be for him?

Yet this man found a strange advocate, no less a person than Raymond Latour. The prosecution was short and convincing; the president's bell sounded with a sense of finality in it; the women in the gallery were ready to jeer at the next prisoner; in this case of Bruslart there was no excitement at all. Then Raymond Latour rose, and the loud murmur of astonishment quickly fell into silence. They had often heard and applauded Deputy Latour; what was he doing here? There was going to be excitement after all.

Raymond Latour was an orator, rough and passionate at times, yet seldom failing to get into sympathy with his audience. He looked at the white-faced, cringing prisoner, and he hated him, yet on his behalf he spoke more eloquently than he had ever done before perhaps. A less powerful advocate would not have been listened to. Latour's words were hung upon and applauded at intervals. He could not deny the charges brought against the prisoner; he was an aristocrat, he had helped an emigre, but he was not the only aristocrat who had become a true and worthy patriot. He had done many things which deserved acknowledgment. His apartment had always been open to his fellows, he had helped many with his money and his influence. Birth had made him an aristocrat, but he had not fled from Paris; he had stayed to champion the people. That surely was in his favor, seeing how powerful an incentive he had for crossing the frontier—love. Of all the charges brought against him, there was only one which counted—that he had helped an emigre. Citizens might hiss, but ought they not first to understand who this emigre was? She was, to begin with, an emigre against her will. She had been forced to leave Paris by her friends, by the Marquise de Rovere. That was known to many who listened to him. Mademoiselle St. Clair was known personally to many. She had fed the hungry; she had cared for the poor. Had she remained in Paris, not a hand would have been raised against her, and if it had been, a thousand would have been raised in her defense. True, she had become an emigre; true, she had entered Paris by stealth, and that might require some explanation were he defending her, but he was only speaking for the man who had hidden her. They must remember all the circumstances. It was said that mademoiselle had heard that her lover was in danger, and had returned to help him. Every woman would appreciate her action, every woman who had loved; the prisoner finding her in danger had hidden her, could not every lover understand his doing so? Here was no conspiracy against the people but a romance, a tale of lovers, which some poet might well make a song of for all true lovers to sing. Certainly Lucien Bruslart was not deserving of death.

There was applause when Latour finished, but many hisses. A woman's voice cried out that it appeared as though Citizen Latour loved the emigre himself, and laughter and a nodding of heads greeted the sally. A man shouted that Deputy Latour had ceased to be a true patriot, or he would never have spoken for such a prisoner. There was uproar, silenced by the president's bell—a pause, then sentence:—Lucien Bruslart was condemned. No eloquence in the world could have saved him.

Raymond Latour found himself hustled as he left the building. It was remembered that he had voted against the death of the king, that he had been for delay. To-day had proved that he had sympathy for aristocrats and emigres. Yet he was Deputy Latour, powerful in the Convention, powerful in many quarters of the city, a man who was only partially understood and therefore dangerous. Robespierre, it was whispered, feared him, and Danton had been heard to say that he was better as a friend than an enemy. Even the firebrand Hebert had dared to say little against him in his paper "Pere Duchesne." Latour was keenly alive to the angry storm which threatened, but this was not the moment to face it. A few hours might turn storm to sunshine, or perchance increase the storm to a veritable cyclone against which no man could stand. He passed into the street and out of the crowd, his face firm set, unreadable. He showed no sign of fear, he seemed curiously indifferent to man's opinion of him. It was noted by some that he did not go in the direction of the Rue Valette, and when he had passed out of sight they told one another that there was a set purpose on the deputy's face. What purpose? He hurried presently, choosing narrow and deserted streets, as a man who carries a secret and does not wish to be seen.

Barrington had roused from a night of dreamless sleep, refreshed, ready for the new day which was already creeping into his cell. Would Jeanne decide to see him once more? Yes, he was convinced she would. He was glad to feel the new strength in him, for there must be no tears in his eyes at that meeting, only brave words on his lips and strong encouragement in his face. Surely that meeting would be to-day. Latour would not delay. Yet, what did he mean when he said it might be difficult?

He asked no questions when Mercier brought his breakfast. It was strange, after all that had happened, that he should trust Latour, yet he did. He could not help doing so when they had grasped hands first in the wine shop—how long ago that seemed!—he had done so yesterday when they had gripped hands across this little table. He was a strange mixture of good and evil, this Raymond Latour. What did he intend to do? Would he sacrifice Jeanne rather than lose her?

"I cannot guess," Barrington murmured to himself. "He probably thinks that Jeanne will marry him rather than see me sent to the guillotine. It is a hard test. How must I counsel her?"

The light which came through the high grating gradually grew less. The night was coming quickly. He was not to see Jeanne to-day, perhaps never again. The bravery of the early hours passed from him and a chill of despair was at his heart as he sat at the table, his face buried in his hands.

The room was dark when the door opened and Mercier entered.

"Monsieur, will you follow me?"

Barrington sprang to his feet at once.

"Monsieur will have been told by Citizen Latour that he is to do as I direct."

"I am so tired of these walls that a journey to the Place de la Revolution would be almost welcome."

Mercier carried a lantern, and, after locking the door of the cell, he led Barrington by the same way that he and Seth had taken. They passed through the trapdoor into the cellar, and from there into the passage of the house.

"This way," said Mercier, opening a door which gave on to a dark alleyway covered in but apparently joining one house to another. Barrington did not stop to ask himself questions, to consider whether it was wise to trust this man. At the end of this alley Mercier opened another door, and they entered a room barely furnished, and dimly lighted. Two men rose quickly from seats beside a stove, and one came forward with a glad cry.

"Master Richard! Master Richard! I thought they'd been lying to me. I thought you were dead. Thank God for the sight of your face again."

Their hands clasped and were held tightly, as men who are comrades yet do not speak of it much.

"I've been lying in some cellar underneath here with the wits out of me," said Seth. "Now we're to take a journey, though I cannot worm out of these gentlemen where to. It doesn't matter much so long as we are together."

"A journey?" said Barrington, turning to Mercier.

"That is so, monsieur."

"It's strange that we four should be together again," said Seth. "They were the Count and his friend when we drank a bottle of wine at Beauvais."

"Now Citizens Mercier and Dubois," said Mercier, putting down the lantern. "And a bottle of wine will not harm us. It will keep the cold night out. There's a bottle in the cupboard, Dubois."

Dubois got it out and drew the cork with evident relish.

"Remember the last, Master Richard," Seth whispered.

Mercier could not have heard what he said, but he evidently remembered the last occasion.

"There is nothing in this to make one sleep heavily. Here's the proof," and he filled a glass and drained it. "I've tasted better wine, but at any rate it's harmless. Now for the other things, Dubois."

Dubois brought from the cupboard coats, hats, tri-color cockades and sashes, sabres and wigs, which he placed upon the table.

"You will remember what Citizen Latour said, monsieur," said Mercier, turning to Barrington. "You were to do as I directed. One false step and your lives are forfeit, and mine, and Citizen Latour's too."

"We go to—"

"On a journey, monsieur, a dangerous one, but with a good end to it, I hope. Let me help you to dress in this coat and wig."

"I care not how I go, so that the journey leads me to—to my desire," said Barrington.

"That's the road we all try to travel," Dubois returned, as he helped Seth fit his wig and tied the sash round him.

"It's a long road and few reach the end of it," Seth remarked, "but with a sword to hand I find my courage rising."

"Let me touch your face with a little black from the stove," said Mercier. "You are a little too pale, Monsieur Barrington."

"It is no wonder. It seems an age since I felt the wind on my cheeks."

"That is better," said Mercier, as with some skill he tinted Barrington's face and then treated Seth in the same fashion. "Now listen. You, Monsieur Barrington, are Citizen Roche, your man here is Citizen Pinot. You are both officers of the Convention under the leadership of Citizen Mercier, a trusted servant of the Convention. Remember these names, Roche, Pinot;—think of no others. I have papers with me in which you are so named. Leave the speaking to me. You are glum fellows lusting only for the work you have been given to do."

"But where do we go?" asked Barrington.

"You must trust me, monsieur. I have my instructions from Citizen Latour. It may be that I do not know the whole of his purpose. May I trust you to follow my instructions to the letter? for truly, if you presently ask questions and show curiosity, my head is as good as in Madame Guillotine's basket."

"You may trust me," Barrington answered.

"Then we may go at once. Good night, Citizen Dubois."

"Good night."

Through a doorway they passed into a yard shut in by the backs of houses, from which, high up, dim lights glimmered. Mercier led the way, bidding them keep close to him, and presently turned into a shed—a stable. Three horses were there ready saddled.

"Mount, Pinot, mount, Roche. We ride toward the barrier and journey to Versailles. We have urgent business that way."

Barrington asked no question as he mounted. Mercier led the way out of this yard, into a narrow, cobbled street, then into a wider street. There were not many people abroad in this direction, and no one took particular notice of them. They crossed the Seine, and it was evident that Mercier chose his way carefully, avoiding certain streets for good reasons, probably. They rode in silence. Even when they approached the barrier Mercier gave no word of warning.

They were challenged and stopped, all three reining in their horses on the instant.

"Business of the Convention at Versailles," said Mercier.

"More heads, citizen?"

"I judge so."

"You are Citizen Mercier?" said the guard, holding up his lantern to look at him.

"Yes. This is Citizen Roche; this, Citizen Pinot."

The man raised his lantern and looked into each face in turn.

"Devilish poor traveling companions," whispered Mercier, leaning from his saddle toward the guard; "lustful fellows who get no fun out of their lusts, as merry as death, and as silent."

The guard laughed and raised his lamp to look into Barrington's face again.

"Provincials, eh?"

"Ay, from some corner of France where they breed mutes I fancy," said Mercier.

"They're useful maybe, and if Madame Guillotine eats them presently, what matter? She must have foul food as well as fine. Any fresh news worth the telling?"

"None," Mercier answered.

"Then you may save your breath for your journey. Pass on, citizens."

They rode forward, slowly for a little way, then faster, but they were soon off the road to Versailles. The night was dark, a keen wind blowing in their faces, and there were gusts of rain at intervals. Still Barrington asked no questions. If this man Mercier were deceiving them, he was at their mercy. They were out of Paris, leaving it farther behind them every moment. They had been in Latour's power, he could have devised no trap for them at the end of this journey. It would be without reason. But where was Jeanne? Could she be somewhere along the road in front of them, or were they leaving her behind? The thought was horrible, and, curiously, it had not occurred to Barrington until now. Not only was he inclined to trust Latour, but he could see no possible reason for his helping him to leave Paris unless he intended him to meet Jeanne. Latour had said such a meeting might be difficult to arrange. As they rode onward through the night there came a sudden suspicion, a reason for this journey, which Barrington cursed himself for not thinking of before. It fitted Latour's character, the good and evil that was in it. Was Latour getting rid of him by helping him to escape, and so leaving Jeanne entirely in his power with every opportunity to play upon her feelings as best suited his purpose?

"Do we return to Paris presently?" Barrington asked suddenly.

"I do not know, monsieur," Mercier answered. "By dawn my part in this business ends, and we part company."

"I am inclined to return to Paris at once," said Barrington.

"I would ask you to remember all that Citizen Latour said to you," was the answer. "He bid me repeat this to you as constantly as you were inclined to doubt."

"Do you know what Latour said to me?"

"No."

"Am I to see Latour at the end of this journey?"

"That I do not know. I am following out my instructions, but I am convinced that Citizen Latour is acting for your good."

They rode on in silence again, the beating hoofs of the horses the only sound in the night.

The dawn had not come when Mercier drew rein where two roads forked.

"We will go quietly, monsieur, in case there is danger. There is a house here we must visit, a wayside inn."

Barrington let his horse walk but made no answer, and it was evident, by Seth's movement in his saddle, that he was prepared for attack.

A mean house, not a light showing from any window, stood by the roadside. Mercier dismounted and bid his companions do the same. Having tied the horses to a rail he knocked at the closed door, and Seth touched his master to warn him and draw his attention to the fact that the knock was peculiar and had a signal in it. The door was opened by a man, his figure outlined against the dim light coming from a room beyond.

"Welcome. I expected you an hour ago," he said.

The voice was familiar, and they followed him down a narrow passage into the lighted room at the back. It was not Latour but Jacques Sabatier.

"Welcome, Monsieur Barrington; we meet in strange places."

"And what is the purpose this time?"

"Your safety," answered Sabatier. "When we first met I never supposed I should have been employed so often in your affairs, ay, and have risked my head on your behalf, too."

"You seem to forget that you have tricked me."

"Has it not turned out for the best?" said Sabatier.

"I will answer that question when I know for what purpose I have been brought to this place to-night."

"Truly, it's a poor hostelry to welcome any man to, especially officers of the Convention," laughed Sabatier.

"I go no farther until I know where I go and the purpose."

"We go toward Bordeaux and the sea; the purpose, to put you on board some vessel which shall carry you in safety to America."

Barrington moved swiftly to the door and set his back against it.

"So Latour has tricked me once more. He will be rid of me so that a defenseless woman may be altogether in his power. I return to Paris at once. The odds are equal, and you have papers which I must have. They may be useful to me."

There was the sharp clatter of steel as Barrington and Seth drew their sabres. Then a door, which neither of them had noticed, on the other side of the room, opened, and a man stood on the threshold.

"The odds are with us, Monsieur Barrington," said Sabatier. "I think you will be compelled to travel toward Bordeaux."



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SUPREME SACRIFICE

There had been no fresh news to tell at the barrier on the Versailles Road, nor at other barriers, until late that night, yet Paris was excited all day. The storm was destined to develop quickly into a cyclone. Where was Latour? What secret plotting against the people had he been engaged in that he should come forward to defend such a man as Lucien Bruslart? One put the question to Robespierre himself; the answer was a look and a whisper which meant much. There was the suggestion that the deputy was a traitor. There seemed no other answer to the question, and inquiry must be made. Who was the woman who had cried out that Deputy Latour might himself be in love with the emigre? She was a good patriot surely, and she was not difficult to find, for she thrust herself into prominence. Yes, she was the woman who had denounced Lucien Bruslart. Why? It was a long story, and she did not intend that the deputy's eloquence should save Bruslart. He had been her lover, but what was love when the country was in danger? She had been a prisoner in the Abbaye, taken there in mistake for an aristocrat. She had been rescued. This man Raymond Latour had rescued her. Might it not be that he loved the aristocrat? The mob made her a heroine and plied her with questions which she answered. Scores remembered how she had been arrested, remembered her journey through the streets. She was believed to be an aristocrat then, Jeanne St. Clair; now she was known for Pauline Vaison, as good a patriot as there was in Paris, and as handsome a woman, too. She was a queen to-day. Certainly there must be more inquiry, and at once.

The jailer Mathon was found in a wine shop, being off duty, and he was somewhat muddled with wine fumes though it was still early in the afternoon. At first he could not remember anything, but fear presently cleared his wits. Yes, a woman had escaped from the Abbaye, but he had been held blameless. His papers were in order. The authorities had been satisfied. Had he recognized the officers who had taken the prisoner away? That was the point. Was one of them Deputy Latour? No; and yet, now it was suggested to him, there had been something strangely familiar about one of the men. It might have been Deputy Latour. This was good evidence, and Mathon, the jailer, was suffered to go back to his wine.

But there was further inquiry still, more subtle questioning. Lucien Bruslart was condemned to die; to-morrow, a week hence, no one knew yet when it would be, but certain it was that one day soon his name would be in the list; then the last ride and the end. He was in despair one moment, mad for revenge the next. Latour had come at his bidding to defend him, not for his sake but for his own, and he had failed. He could ruin Latour probably, why should he not do so? For one instant the good that is in every man, deep buried though it be, struggled to the surface and he shrank back from the thought, yet again revenge filled his soul, and there came the lust to drag others down with him, Latour, Jeanne, Pauline, and this cursed American. He hated them all. Why should they live if he was to die?