Why should he die? Perhaps there would be no need. It was a subtle suggestion in his ears, no fancy whispering to him, but a real voice. A man in authority had entered his prison to talk to him. True, Citizen Bruslart had been condemned, and justly, for he had not acted as a true patriot should, but mercy was always possible. His prison doors might yet open again if he would tell the whole truth. There were many questions asked; many answers given; true answers some of them, but all fashioned to save Lucien Bruslart from the guillotine, no matter who else they might send to it. Yes, that was all he knew; was it enough to save him? Patience. He must wait a little. It seemed enough. So there was hope in the mean little soul of Lucien Bruslart, even though the prison doors were still closed upon him.

With the gathering night came a cyclone. Against Pauline Vaison there could be no accusation, no matter what the prisoner Bruslart had said, she was the darling of the mob; but for the others, the deputy, the aristocrat, and the American, there could be no mercy. Somewhere in Paris the American was hiding, he would be found presently. Latour had slunk away that day, many had seen him go; it was a pity he had not been stopped then, the hunt for him must begin at once. As for the woman, this emigre, they knew where she was. Pauline Vaison had suggested the place, so had the prisoner Bruslart. Forward, citizens! Here are the officers who will arrest her; patriots may well go with them and rejoice. There will be no mistake this time.

Dancing, singing, filling the roadway and making the night hideous, the mob passed along the Rue Valette, fought and struggled through the narrow passage by the little baker's shop, and burst into the courtyard beyond. The officers went up the stairs, straight on to the second floor, and as many of the crowd as could squeeze up the stairway, followed them. The door was locked.

"Open, in the name of the Nation!"

Neither the loud knocking, nor the command, brought any answer.

"Burst it open!" came a roar of voices.

It was a poor, common door, and splintered inwards almost at the first blow. A rush of feet crossed the threshold, officers, and dirty men and women, marking the floor, kicking aside rug and strip of carpet. A dainty apartment, white paint, white curtains over the windows and the bed, prints hanging on the walls, a faint fragrance in the air. She was here not long since. See the woman's things upon the table! There were her clothes upon the bed, a coarse dress; but these other garments! Look at them, citizens! Here's lace and fine linen! One hag, twisting her bony fingers into a garment, rent it in pieces, while a second, wrapping another garment round her dirty rags, began to dance to an accompaniment of ribald laughter. The aristocrat was here, and not long ago, but she had gone! The curtains were torn from the windows and from the bed, soiled in a moment and trampled on; the prints were wrenched from the walls; the bottles on the toilet table were hurled to the floor and broken; the furniture was shattered. The nest which had been so carefully prepared was quickly a heap of ruins.

With curses and blasphemy the crowd hurled itself down the stairs to the floor below. Here lived Deputy Latour, who had slunk into hiding. There may be papers in his room; if not, they can break it up as they have done the room above. Burst open this door too.

The officers knocked loudly. "Open, in the name of the Nation!"

It was a loud summons, no answer expected, yet at once the lock shot back and Raymond Latour stood in the doorway.

"What do you want with me, citizens?"

He had been waiting for the summons, was ready for it. His hands had tightened a little as he heard the wreckage of the room above. He knew that the woman was no longer there, he knew that with his capture they would forget all about her for a little while. The hours to-night would be precious to her. Two men loved her, and Richard Barrington was not the only man who was willing to die for her. So he faced the crowd upon the stairs which, after one yell of triumph, had fallen silent. This man had always been feared. No one knew his power for certain. He was feared now as he stood, calm and erect, in the doorway.

"What do you want, citizens, with Raymond Latour?"

Still a moment more of silence; then a fiendish yell, earsplitting, filling the whole house hideously, repeated by the crowd in the courtyard, finding an echo far down the Rue Valette.

"Latour is taken! We've got that devil Latour!"

They brought him out of the house, bareheaded and with no heavy coat to shield him from the bitter night, just as they had found him. The officers, with naked sabres, were close to him as they crossed the courtyard, and went through the passage to the street. They were afraid that the crowd might attack the prisoner. A woman, old and wrinkled, looking out from the baker's shop, shrank back behind the little counter that she might not be noticed. The mob danced and sang, but no one attempted to touch Latour. They were still afraid of him, he walked so erect, with so set a face, with so stern a purpose. He was the one silent figure in this pandemonium.

"The man who would have saved Louis Capet!" cried one, pointing at him.

Latour heeded not.

"The lover of an aristocrat!" cried another.

No one noticed it, but a smile was on Latour's face. This was his real offense, that he loved. The face of the woman seemed to shine down upon him out of the darkness of the night. All the past was in his brain; his love, his ambition, his schemes which had ended in this hour of ruin and failure. Yet still the smile was upon his lips, and there was a strange light in his eyes. Was it failure after all? This end was for her sake, the supreme sacrifice. What more can a man do than lay down his life for love?



CHAPTER XXIX

THE END OF THE JOURNEY

Richard Barrington looked at the man in the doorway and laughed. He was a mere stripling.

"You will want greater odds than that to drive desperate men," he said fiercely. "We return to Paris at once and must have your papers."

"Richard!"

Barrington stood perfectly still for a moment as the stripling stepped into the room, then he sprang forward with a little cry.

"Jeanne!"

"Ah! I hate that you should see me like this," she said, "but Citizen Sabatier declared it was necessary."

Her face was smeared, much as his own was, a ragged wig concealed her hair, she was dressed, booted, sashed as a patriot, a pistol at her waist, a cockade in her hat, young-looking, yet little about her but her voice to proclaim her a woman.

"The odds are on our side, monsieur," said Sabatier, and then he touched Seth on the shoulder. "Come into the next room, there is wine there. We may finish the bottle. Love is wine enough for them. We must start in half an hour, Monsieur Barrington."

"Tell me, Jeanne, how did you come?" said Barrington, as the door closed leaving them alone. "I thought they had cheated me. Until I entered this room I hoped that my journey would lead me to you. I hardly know why but I trusted Latour. Then I was mad to think of my folly in believing, and now you are here. Truly, a miracle has happened."

"Oh, I have been so afraid, such a coward," she said, drawing his arm round her. "Raymond Latour came to me, straight from seeing you, I think, bringing this man Sabatier. He told me that I should see you again, and that I was to do exactly as Sabatier said. He had changed, Richard. He was very gentle. He asked me not to think unkindly of him. He kissed my hand when he left me, and, Richard, he left a tear on it."

"I think he loved you, Jeanne."

"He said so; not then, but when he first came to me. It was horrible to hear love spoken of by any man but you. He threatened me, Richard. I thought he meant what he said."

"He did when he said it," Barrington answered. "He came to me, demanding that I should urge you to marry him."

"And you refused?"

"Yes, and yet—ah, Jeanne, I hardly know what I should have urged. The thought of the guillotine for you made me afraid."

"It would have been easier than marrying any other man," she whispered. "Something, perhaps something you said, Richard, changed Latour. He evidently arranged my escape. Sabatier came early yesterday with these clothes. He told me to dress myself in them. Think of it, Richard! I walked through the streets with him like this, into a house in some alley, where we waited until it was dusk. Then we rode to the barrier. I was some horrible wretch thirsting for blood, young as I was; I do not know what Sabatier said, but even the men at the barrier shuddered at me and turned away."

Barrington laughed and held her closer.

"Then we rode here. We came by the Sceaux road, Sabatier said. This lonely place made me afraid. It was so unlikely you would find me here. Then I wondered whether you were dead. You have always seemed to come to me when I was in need, and this time—oh, it seemed so long, so hopeless! Now I want to cry and laugh both at once."

"You have no fear of the journey before us?" Barrington whispered.

"Fear! With you!"

"I mean just because it is with me. Do you know what we are going to do? We travel to the sea, to a ship, then to my home in Virginia. Are you sure you do not fear the journey which means having me always with you?"

"Richard," she whispered, "you have never yet asked me to take that journey. Won't you ask me now?"

"Jeanne, my darling, my wife to be, will you come?"

"If God wills, dearest—oh, so willingly, if God wills."

She remembered how far the sea was, how terribly near to Paris they yet were. Disaster might be lying in wait for them along the road.

"He will keep us to the end, dear," Barrington whispered.

Presently she drew back from him. "How hateful I must look!" she exclaimed. "Do I seem fit to be the wife of any man, let alone your wife?"

"Shall I tell you what is in my mind?" he said.

"Yes, tell me, even if it hurts me."

"I am longing to see you again as I first saw you at Beauvais. I did not know who you were, remember, but I loved you then."

"Even then?"

"Yes," he answered, "and ever since and forever-more."

A few minutes later Sabatier entered the room.

"It is time," he said. "We must start at once. Citizen Mercier goes no farther. You are now three men under my command. Your names are as before Roche and Pinot. Mademoiselle is called Morel, a desperate young patriot, Monsieur Barrington. Do not forget that; only forget that she is a woman."

They rode far that day, and after a few hours' rest, journeyed through part of the night. The spirits of the fugitives rose as Paris was left farther behind them, yet they were destined to be many days on the journey, and to encounter dangers. Although they traveled as officers of the Convention, Sabatier was careful to avoid the towns, and even villages, as much as possible. If the suspicion of only one patriot were aroused, their journey might end in disaster. Jeanne St. Clair rode as a man, looked a man, but she looked very young for such work as they were supposed to be engaged in, and there was a soft light in her eyes sometimes which might set a keen observer wondering. Then, too, there might be pursuit upon the road behind them. Some swift messenger, keeping the direct road, which they could not always do, might pass them, and carry a warning before them. There were many dangers, many possibilities.

One dawn—they had ridden through the greater part of the night—a climb which the horses took at walking pace brought them to the top of a down. The world seemed stretched out before them in the light of the new day.

"That way lies Bordeaux," said Sabatier, reining in his horse, and pointing to the left. "Below us is the mouth of the Gironde, yonder the open sea."

"Our journey is nearly at an end, then," said Jeanne.

"I trust so. A day or two's delay, perhaps; I cannot tell."

Toward evening they were lodged at an inn close to the shore, a deserted spot where they were unlikely to be disturbed.

"After dark, Monsieur Barrington, I propose to leave you, and take your man with me," said Sabatier. "I must get into communication with the vessel that should be lying farther up the river. Your man will be able to help me to explain, and guarantee my statement. You are not likely to be disturbed here, but should any one come, say boldly that you are watching for two refugees who are expected here hoping to be taken off by a boat. Order them to leave you to fulfill your duties. Here are papers which prove you to be Citizen Roche. Watch for the boat, and be ready."

"Shall we not see you again?"

"No."

"Then, thank you, Citizen Sabatier, for what you have done," said Barrington. "We owe you much and have nothing but words to pay the debt."

"Monsieur, I told you once I had a liking for you; it was true."

"Is there no more danger?" said Jeanne.

"None, I think, mademoiselle. It is most improbable that your escape has been discovered. Citizen Latour is powerful in Paris and in the Convention. You have been under his care from the first. I am but the lieutenant of a great man of whom the world will hear much in the days to come. As he rises to greater heights, so may I."

"Will you carry back a message to him?" said Barrington. "Say that with full hearts we thank him for all he has done for us."

"And tell him," said Jeanne, "tell him from me that there is one woman in the world who will always pray for him."

Prayer and Jacques Sabatier had little in common; prayer was a thing to laugh at, so much at least had the Revolution done for France and old superstitions; but he did not laugh now. "He shall have the message," he said, holding Jeanne's hand for a moment, and then suddenly bending down and touching it with his lips. "He shall certainly have both your messages," he went on loudly; and, with a swaggering gait, as though he were ashamed of his momentary weakness, he passed out of the room reluctantly followed by Seth, who was apprehensive at having to leave his master again.

The night fell and passed. Dawn came and the stronger light of morning, a morning of sunshine and blue sky. The sunlight touched the white sails of a vessel, and a boat, with its oars flashing, came quickly toward the shore where a man and a maid waited hand in hand.

Jacques Sabatier rode back toward Paris. From high ground he looked and saw a white sail far out to sea, then he rode on. But the message he carried was never to be delivered.

Citizen Latour, feared in Paris, powerful in the Convention, greater than Robespierre so some had declared, was a traitor. Justice demanded quick punishment, and the mob, more powerful than Justice, clamored for it. There was proof enough against him; a score of witnesses if necessary. Why hear them all? There was no need for a long trial, and what advocate would have courage sufficient to speak for this prisoner?

Raymond Latour faced his enemies alone, his face still set, full of purpose. No man uttered a word in his favor, no single expression of pity met him. Justice might be tempered with mercy if the prisoner would say where this emigre and this American were to be found. The prisoner did not know. A storm of howls and hisses met the answer, barely silenced by the ringing of the president's bell. Had the prisoner anything to say in his defense? A great silence, unbroken even by the prisoner himself. He had been eloquent for Lucien Bruslart, for himself he had nothing to say. Again a storm of hisses; heads thrust forward, hands flung out that would tear him in pieces could they reach him. Uproar and confusion, a yelled demand for condemnation. Nothing else was possible.

Still with set face, with firm purpose, Raymond Latour waited in the Conciergerie. No friend would come to see him, he knew that. Some of those he had made use of and trusted were not in Paris, some had already proved his enemies, and none dared show sympathy even if they would. He was alone, quite alone, without a single friend.

This day his name was not in the list, nor the next. He wondered a little at the delay, but waited patiently, knowing that there was no uncertainty about the end.

"Raymond Latour."

It was the first on the list to-day. Without a word he walked into the dark passage, noticing none of the others who waited there, some pale and afraid, some as though they were starting upon a journey of pleasure.

"One, two, three tumbrils! The guillotine was hungry this morning. Raymond Latour was in the last tumbril.

"I was promised life—I told all I knew—there is a mistake. Ask! Let me wait until to-morrow—for God's sake let me wait until to-morrow!"

Latour looked at the frightened wretch who was literally thrown into the tumbril after him, but the expression on his face did not change; he did not speak.

The man continued to cry out until the tumbrils started, then with a wail of despair he fell on his knees, shaking in every limb, chattering to himself, whether oaths or prayers who shall say?

The tumbrils moved forward slowly.

The wretch upon his knees seemed to realize suddenly that he was not alone. He looked up into the face of the man beside him. Then rose slowly and touched him.

"Latour."

There was no answer, no turning of the head even.

"Latour. So this is how we meet at last."

There were crowds in the streets, yelling crowds. He spoke clearly so that the man might hear him, but there was no answer.

"Raymond Latour—Latour—this is how we meet, both damned and betrayed for the sake of a woman."

No words answered him, but Latour turned and looked full into the eyes of Lucien Bruslart.

The tumbrils went forward slowly, a yelling mob on every side.

"Lucien! Lucien! Look at me!"

It was a woman's cry, shrill, sounding above the uproar.

Shaking with fear, yet perhaps with a glimmer of hope still in his heart, Bruslart looked. There was a woman held high above the crowd, supported and steadied by strong men's arms.

"I said you should see me laugh. Look, Lucien! I laugh at you."

"It is a mistake. Save me, Pauline, save me!"

"I laugh, Lucien," and a shriek of laughter, mad, riotous, fiendish, cut like a sharp knife through all that yelling confusion.

With a cry of rage, despair, and terror, Bruslart sank trembling in a heap to the floor of the tumbril. Latour did not move. He had not turned to look at Pauline Vaison. The thought of another woman was in his soul. Was she safe?

There was a pause, the crowd was so dense at this corner; then the tumbril moved on again. The corner was turned. Straight before him looked Raymond Latour, over the multitude of heads, over the waving arms and red caps, straight before him across the Place de la Revolution to the guillotine, to the blue sky, sunlit, against which it rose—and beyond.



EPILOGUE

HOME

A green hummock and the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay. Sunlight over the grass, sunlight over the sea, touching white sails there. A woman sat on the hummock, a man lay at her feet.

"Jeanne, you are sitting there almost exactly as I have often sat for hours when I was a youngster, with my chin in my hands, and my elbows on my knees."

"Am I, dear?"

"Little wife, what are you thinking of?"

"Just my happiness and you. When you used to sit here you never thought of me."

"No, dear."

"And yonder, all the time, I was waiting for you."

"There came a time, Jeanne, when I believed this spot could never be dear to me again, when I thought it could never again be home."

"And now, Richard?"

"Now, my darling, I am as a man who is almost too richly blessed. In this world I have found paradise."

"Of course that isn't really true," she answered, "but I like to hear you say it."

"Jeanne dear, there is only one regret. I wish my mother could be here to see you."

"She knows, Richard, never doubt that," Jeanne answered. "When I think of you, I often think of her too. I am here, in her place. Her boy has become my husband. I am very thankful to her for my good, brave husband."

He rose to his knees, put his arm round her, and kissed her.

"You have no regret, Jeanne?"

"None."

"No disappointment in me, in Broadmead, in this land of Virginia?"

"None. But sometimes, Richard, when I see a sail, like that one yonder, fading into the horizon, going, it may be, toward France, I wonder what has become of some of those we knew."

"I often wonder, too," said Richard. "Perhaps we shall never know, Jeanne."

News traveled slowly, and there was little detail in it. The Reign of Terror had come and gone, its high priests swallowed in the fury which they had created. Danton had died like a man, Robespierre like a cur; and then the end—cannon clearing the mob from the streets of Paris. A new era had dawned for France, but the future was yet on the knees of the gods. Had Raymond Latour escaped the final catastrophe? Were Sabatier, and Mercier, and Dubois still in Paris, more honestly employed than formerly perchance? Or had they all sunk in the final storm, gone down into night with their sins red upon them? No news of them reached Broadmead, only a rumor that the Marquis de Lafayette had fallen into the hands of Austria, and certain news that the Terror was at an end.

"Probably we shall never hear of them," said Richard.

"Always I think of Latour in my prayers," Jeanne said.

"Yes, you promised that. I wonder whether he ever had your message?"

"I cannot decide," said Jeanne, thoughtfully. "At first I felt that he had not, and then, quite suddenly, Richard, it seemed to me that he knew and was glad. I cannot help thinking that Raymond Latour did something for us, some great thing of which we have no idea, which we shall never know—here."

"He helped to give you to me, Jeanne. I know that, and in my heart thank him every day of my life. Listen! Wheels! That must be Seth back from Richmond. He may have news."

Hand in hand they went toward the house, and there Seth met them. He was full of the news he had heard in Richmond, but there was nothing new from France.



THE END