"You may be right," replied Hoche, "but I would not trust them. The reputation which your conduct at Wissembourg will create for you will make them jealous, and they will whisper it about that your popularity renders you dangerous. I know them. They become jealous of any man's reputation. They will have me before the bar of their tribunal as soon as they feel that they can spare me."
And Hoche laughed scornfully as he uttered the prophecy which was so soon to be fulfilled.
"I have no fear but that I shall be able to satisfy them as to loyalty," replied Tournay, smiling at the absurdity of the great and popular Hoche pleading before the tribunal.
"Well, go if you will, but understand, Tournay, that if you refuse to obey this summons, I will protect you. They shall bring no fictitious charges against a trusted officer in my army without entering into a contest with me."
"I thank you again, my general, but I will not permit you to embroil yourself with the committee on my account. You are too indispensable to France. Now I will take the leave of absence you accord me. In ten days you may look for my return."
General Hoche shook his head as Tournay left his presence:—
"I fear it will be longer than that, my friend," he sighed to himself.
Colonel Tournay, accompanied by but one orderly, rode toward Paris. The feelings of pride and pleasure which his general's praise had raised in his heart were subdued by the humiliation at being summoned before the Committee of Public Safety. But there was a fire in his eye, and a hardening of the lines near the mouth which boded that he would not submit tamely to insult nor an unjust sentence.
Citizen St. Hilaire had just come in from making a few purchases at the baker's shop in the Rue des Mathurins. Shortly after dusk that evening he had recalled to mind that he was without the gill of cream for his next morning's coffee, and also that the small white loaf which formed a part of his breakfast was at that moment reposing crisp and warm on the counter of the baker's shop a few doors distant.
As Citizen St. Hilaire was very particular about his coffee and always liked to have a certain choice loaf that Jules, the baker in the Rue des Mathurins, made to perfection late every afternoon, he had braved the wind and rain of a stormy January evening, and gone out to procure his next morning's repast.
Returning to his small apartment at the top of the house, he threw off his wet cloak and was on the point of extracting from his pocket a little can of cream, when a knock sounded at the door of the chamber which served him for sitting-room, dining-room, and library. Putting the can upon the table, he took up a lamp and went to the door.
A young woman stood upon the threshold. She had evidently come in a carriage, for the costly clothes she wore were quite unspotted by the rain.
"This is Citizen St. Hilaire," she said in a tone of conviction as she stepped into the room.
St. Hilaire bowed and stepped back to place the lamp upon a small table near at hand, and stood waiting the further pleasure of his visitor.
As he stood within the circle of light, the young woman looked from him to his modest surroundings with marked curiosity, her eyes dwelling upon each object in the room in turn. It did not take long to note every piece of furniture; the table, arm-chair, a few books, the violin case in the corner, with a picture or two and a pair of rapiers upon the wall. When she had completed her survey of the room her gaze returned to him once more.
He was plainly dressed in a suit of dark brown color. His linen was exquisitely neat, and his figure was so elegant that although his coat was far from new, and of no exceptional quality, it became him as well as if it were of the most costly material.
"Will you be seated?" said St. Hilaire, drawing forward the arm-chair from its corner.
The young woman took the seat he offered her.
"And so you are Citizen St. Hilaire," she repeated as if the name interested. "I—I am Citizeness La Liberté. I remember you well," she continued; "I saw you a number of times, years ago, at the home of the Marquis de——But why mention his name? There are no more marquises in France, and he was a worthless creature," and she tossed back her head with a gesture of careless freedom.
"No," he repeated, "there are no more marquises," and with a laugh he seated himself opposite her. The sharp end of the crisp loaf in his pocket made him aware of its presence. He took it out and put it in its place upon the table beside the cream.
"The Republic has caused many strange changes, but I should never have dreamed of finding you here like this, Citizen St. Hilaire," and again she eyed him wonderingly.
"The Republic has done a great deal for you?" said St. Hilaire, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Everything," replied La Liberté with emphasis, while her eyes and the jewels on her bosom flashed upon him dazzlingly. Her look indicated that she thought the Revolution had not dealt so generously by him.
"It has done much for me too," said St. Hilaire.
"What good has it done you?" inquired La Liberté incredulously.
"It has taught me wisdom," he replied.
"Oh," she answered contemptuously, "it has brought me pleasure. Therefore I love it. But you, Citizen St. Hilaire,—will you answer me a question?"
St. Hilaire bowed in acquiescence.
"Are you satisfied with this Republic? I know it is dangerous to speak slightingly of it in these days, but between us, with only the walls to hear, do you like it?"
"I am never satisfied with anything," replied St. Hilaire with just a touch of weariness in his voice.
"I should think that you would hate it. I should were I you," and La Liberté shook her brown curls with a laugh.
"Notwithstanding," said St. Hilaire, "I would not go back to the old régime."
"I do not understand you at all," exclaimed La Liberté in despair, with a puzzled look on her brow.
"Why try?" he asked dryly. "I have given it up myself. Tell me in what way I can serve you?"
"I have come here to do you a service," she answered. The room was warm, and as she spoke she threw her ermine-lined cloak over the back of the chair.
A slight trace of surprise showed itself upon Citizen St. Hilaire's face as he looked at her inquiringly.
She had evidently found the chair too large to sit in comfortably, for she perched herself upon its arm with one foot on the floor while she swung the other easily.
"That is extraordinary!'" he exclaimed. "It is a long time since any one has gone out of his way to do me a service. May I ask why you have done so?"
"Oh, I can hardly tell you why," she replied, tapping her boot heel against the side of the chair. It was a very dainty foot and clad in the finest chaussure to be found in Paris. "You were once kind to a friend of mine," she went on to say, slowly—"and I rather liked you—and so I have come to show you this." She put a slip of paper into his hand.
It was headed, "List for the fifteenth Pluviose." Then followed a score of names. St. Hilaire saw his own among them near the end.
The young woman watched him earnestly while he read it. The careless look had quite disappeared from her face, and given place to one of seriousness.
"It is a list of names," said St. Hilaire, turning the paper over and looking at the reverse side to see if it contained anything else. "And my name is honored by being among them. Where did it come from? What does it mean?"
"I picked it up," replied La Liberté. "I saw it lying on a table. I did not know the other names upon it and should never have touched it had I not seen your name. And I resolved that you should see it also, and be warned in time. But you have little time to spare. To-morrow is the fifteenth."
"Warned?" repeated St. Hilaire, "of what?"
"Every man whose name is upon that list will be arrested to-morrow. It may be in the morning, it may be during the day, it may be late at night. But it will surely be to-morrow. Oh! I have seen so many of those lists, and of late they are longer and more frequent."
"Whose handwriting is this?" inquired St. Hilaire, looking at critically.
"I dare not tell," said La Liberté in a low tone.
"As long as you have revealed so much, why not go a step further and make the information of greater value?" he insisted quietly.
"One of the committee, I dare not mention his name even here," and she looked around the room furtively. "One of the most powerful," she went on, in a very low tone, as if frightened at her own temerity. "Cannot you guess?"
"Yes, I think I can," rejoined St. Hilaire musingly.
"Now that you have had this warning I hope you will be able to elude them. Give me the paper again, Citizen St. Hilaire, that I may replace it before it is missed. He is at the club now, but I must hurry back. Never mind the light; I can find my way well enough. My eyes are used to the dark."
St. Hilaire took up the lamp, and in spite of her remonstrances accompanied her down the four flights of stairs. At the door stood a handsome equipage.
"That is mine," she said, as St. Hilaire escorted her to the carriage; there was the same slight touch of pride in her tone that had crept out once before. "This once belonged to the Duchess de Montmorenci," she said. "It is rather heavy and old-fashioned, but will do very well until I can get a new one."
"I see that you have had the coat of arms erased," St. Hilaire remarked. "I suppose your new carriage will have a red nightcap on the panel."
"Now you are laughing at me," she said, tossing back her brown curls with a pout. "Good-night, marquis," she added in a low voice in his ear as he was closing the door of the carriage.
"Citizen St. Hilaire," he corrected gravely, as she drove away. "You forget there are no more marquises in France."
After La Liberté's departure the Citizen St. Hilaire retraced his steps up the stairs, humming quietly to himself. On reaching the top landing he entered his room and sitting down by the window he looked out over the lights of Paris. For two hours he sat thus buried deep in thought and scarcely moving. When he finally arose from his chair the city clock had long struck the hour of midnight.
First drawing the bolt to the door as if to prevent intrusion even at that late hour, he opened an old armoire in the corner of the room and took from it an object carefully wrapped in a velvet cover. He took from the covering a sword, with golden hilt studded with jewels. The scabbard, too, was of pure gold, set profusely with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Unsheathing the weapon he held it to the light. He held it carefully, almost reverently, as one holds some sacred relic. His eye was animated and had he uttered his thoughts he would have spoken thus:—
"This is the sword that a marshal of France wielded upon the field of battle. He was my ancestor, and from father to son it has come down to me, the last of my race. It is as bright to-day as when it flashed from its sheath at Rocroy. I have kept it untarnished. It is the sole remaining relic of the greatness of our name."
Replacing the sword carefully in its scabbard, he buckled it around his waist. Then taking a cloak from the armoire he enveloped himself in it, so as to completely hide the jeweled scabbard. This done, he went into his bedroom and drew from under his couch a small chest from which he took a purse containing some money. All these preparations he made quietly and with great deliberation. Returning to the sitting-room he unbolted and opened the door. All was quiet. A cat, that frequented the upper part of the building, and made friends with those who fed it, walked silently in through the open door and arching her back rubbed purringly against his leg. He went to the cupboard, and getting out a saucer filled it with the cream that was to have flavored his next morning's cup of coffee, and placed it on the floor. The animal ran to it greedily, and for a few moments St. Hilaire stood watching the little red tongue curl rapidly out and in of the creature's mouth as she lapped up the unexpected feast. Then giving a glance about the room, but touching nothing else in it, he extinguished the light and went out into the corridor, leaving the door ajar.
When he passed out into the street he noticed that the rain had ceased. The wind blew freshly from the west and the night was cool. Drawing his cloak closer about him and allowing one hand to rest upon his sword-hilt, he walked rapidly away, humming softly to himself. In the room he had just left, the cat licked up the last few drops of cream in the saucer; signified her contentment by stretching herself, while she dug her forepaws into the carpet several times in succession; then jumped into his vacant arm-chair and curled up for a nap.
The Citizen St. Hilaire had always foreseen the possibility of just such an emergency as now confronted him. He was quite prepared to meet it.
On the other side of the river in the small and quiet Rue d'Arcis dwelt an old man. The house in which he lived, number seven, was also very old. It was large and rambling. St. Hilaire knew it well. As a child he had played in it. It had once belonged to him, and he had deeded it to an old servant of his father at a time when he regarded old houses as encumbrances upon his estates, and when aged servants had found no place in his retinue. If for no other reason, his family pride had caused him to make generous provision for a faithful retainer, and now that his own worldly fortunes were reduced, he knew where to find a home until he could carry out his plans for leaving the country. For some time past he had been forming such plans, but with his customary indifference to danger he had delayed their execution from day to day.
Crossing the Seine by the bridge St. Michel and following the Quai, St. Hilaire remembered an unfrequented way to the house in the Rue d'Arcis. From the Quai on the left was a blind alley that ended at a row of houses. Through one of these houses had been cut an arched passage to the street beyond. The passageway came out on the other side almost directly opposite number seven, and offered a tempting short-cut.
St. Hilaire walked quietly up the alley and had almost reached the farther end, when a door on the opposite side opened and a woman came out. The lateness of the hour and the signs of timidity which the woman showed, caused St. Hilaire to stop in the entrance to the passageway and look back to observe her actions.
She peered first down the street cautiously, as if to see that there were no passers on the Quai, then up at the windows of the houses opposite to assure herself that she was unobserved from that quarter. Satisfied as to both of these points, she closed the door noiselessly, and hurriedly passed down the street. She was, however, not destined to reach the Quai unnoticed by any other eyes than St. Hilaire's, for she had not gone fifty paces when a party of four men, talking in loud voices, crossed the street on the Quai. At sight of them the woman stopped short and hesitated. The four also stopped and looked at her. One of them called out to her. Evidently frightened she turned, and crossing the street hurried back. To St. Hilaire's surprise, she passed by the house from which she had recently come, and made straight for the passageway where he stood. The four men gave chase, one of them overtaking her before she had reached the entrance. He placed his hand upon her arm, while she cried and struggled to free herself. The hood fell over her shoulders, and in the light from a lantern, hung upon a projecting crane from one of the houses, St. Hilaire recognized Madame d'Arlincourt.
The exertion to free herself from the man's grasp had caused her hair to fall down upon her shoulders. Her blue eyes had a wild look like those of a person whose mind is strained almost to madness. She fought fiercely for her freedom.
A dove striking its pinions against a lion's paw could have been able to effect its release as quickly as the poor little countess from the huge hand that held her.
St. Hilaire was as gallant a gentleman as ever drew a sword, or raised a lady's fingers to his lips. On the instant, he forgot his own danger and the cause of his flight, and stepped forward into the circle of light.
"How now, citizen? What have you to do with this young citizeness?" he cried out in distinct tones.
In his surprise at St. Hilaire's sudden appearance, the man loosened his grasp upon Madame d'Arlincourt's shoulder. With a cry she flew instantly to St. Hilaire's side for protection.
"Defend me, sir, oh, save me from them!" she cried, catching hold of his arm.
"I will not let them harm a hair of your head," he whispered in reply; "calm yourself, my dear madame."
The quiet way in which he spoke seemed to bring back some part of her self-control. She ceased crying and stood by his side like a statue, although he could feel by the pressure on his arm that she still trembled.
"Well, citizen, what would you with this citizeness?" repeated St. Hilaire in a loud voice, as the other men came up behind their comrade.
"Her actions are suspicious; she may be an aristocrat. We want to bring her to the Section for examination," answered one of them.
"Let her come to the Section," echoed another.
The fellow who had first laid hands upon the countess now recovered speech. "If she's an aristocrat here's at her; I've killed many an aristocrat in my day." As he spoke he drew himself together and raising his musket leveled it at the woman's head.
The countess tightened her grasp on St. Hilaire's arm with both her hands, rendering him powerless for the moment.
St. Hilaire pushed her gently behind him, and looking straight into his opponent's face, said firmly:—
"She shall certainly go to the Section, citizen, but first put down your weapon and let me speak. I am Citizen St. Hilaire—were we in the Faubourg St. Michel almost anybody would be able to tell you who I am."
"I know you, citizen!" exclaimed one of the men in the rear, "and you should know me also. My name is Gonflou!" and the fellow grinned good-naturedly over the shoulder of his companion, as if he recognized an old friend.
"Ah yes, good citizen Gonflou!" repeated St. Hilaire. "Restrain the ardor of this patriot who handles his musket so carelessly, while I question the little citizeness."
"Lower that musket, Haillon, or I'll beat your head with this," said Gonflou, rattling his heavy sabre threateningly.
Haillon muttered an oath and lowered the muzzle of his weapon.
"We can't be all night at this," he growled. "Better let me take a shot at the woman; she's an aristocrat, that's flat."
St. Hilaire bent over the countess.
"Release my arm!" She obeyed like a child. Stepping back with her a couple of paces, he continued:—
"Who is in the house you have just come out of? Answer me truthfully and fearlessly."
She looked up into his face, and he saw that she now recognized him as she answered in a whisper, "My husband. He is ill. I could only venture out after midnight to summon a physician who is known to us."
"Well," exclaimed Haillon, impatiently grinding the butt of his gun on the pavement, "how long does it take to find out about an aristocrat?"
"She was going to summon a doctor to attend a sick father," said St. Hilaire without looking at Haillon.
"Bah," growled the latter.
"Right behind us," continued St. Hilaire, in a very low voice, and looking into the countess' face earnestly to enforce his words, "is a passageway that leads to the Rue d'Arcis."
Madame d'Arlincourt nodded. She understood.
"When I next begin to talk to these men, you must go through that passage to the house opposite. It is number seven. You will not be able to see the number, but it is directly opposite; you cannot mistake it. Knock seven times in quick succession. Some one will inquire from within, 'Who knocks?' You must reply 'From Raphael.' Do you understand?"
"Yes," said the countess.
"You are taking up too much of our time, citizen," interrupted Haillon, "let me take a hand at questioning."
"Be silent, Haillon;" said St. Hilaire in a tone of quick authority.
"The door will be opened without further question. Once inside you must tell them that you were sent by Raphael, and that they are to keep you until it is safe for you to return to your own domicile. Now remember!—as soon as I enter into conversation with these men."
"I can remember," replied the countess, "but what are you going to do after that? Will they not harm you?"
St. Hilaire laughed lightly. "Oh, I will take care of that. I expect to follow you in a few minutes." Then he turned and advanced a few steps in order to cover her retreat more fully.
"The citizeness has convinced me that she is nothing but a poor sewing-girl in great distress at the illness of her father. I have told her that she might continue on her errand for a doctor unmolested. You are over-zealous, good Haillon, to see an aristocrat in every shadow."
"She has disappeared," cried Gonflou.
Haillon raised his musket with finger on the trigger. St. Hilaire's hand struck upward just as the detonation echoed through the quiet street. Then the smoke, clearing away, revealed Haillon upon the pavement, while the sword in St. Hilaire's hand was red with blood.
"He has killed a citizen," bellowed Gonflou. "Comrades, cut him down. Avenge the death of a patriot."
Three sabres were uplifted against the citizen St. Hilaire. He drew back a pace or two and with a smile upon his lips warded off the blows aimed at his head and breast. Then he poised himself and set his face firmly. The sword which had first won renown on the field of Rocroy now flashed in the light of the flickering lamp of the passage d'Arcis, and another of his assailants fell to the ground.
The wrist that wielded it was just as supple and the white fingers that held the jeweled hilt just as strong as when, in the days gone by, the Marquis de St. Hilaire was known as the best swordsman in his regiment.
His two remaining adversaries hesitated in their attack for a moment. Then Gonflou, bleeding from two deep wounds and bellowing like an angry bull, sprang at him again with his heavy sabre lifted in both hands.
One of the two fallen men had half raised himself and dragged over to where Haillon lay. He drew a pistol from the dead man's belt and, leaning forward, fired under Gonflou's arm. The blow from Gonflou's sabre was parried, then Jean Raphael de St. Hilaire fell forward on his face and lay without moving upon the pavement, while the sword of Rocroy fell ringing to the ground.
One of the attacking party was still unhurt. He raised his weapon over the prostrate body at his feet. Gonflou pushed him aside roughly. "That's enough, citizen. We'll take him to the Section without cutting him up." The man who had fired the shot had since busied himself with tying up his own wounded arm. He now bent over St. Hilaire. "He still breathes," he said. "Had we not better finish him?"
"No, my little Jacques Gardin," was Gonflou's answer, who, the moment the fight was over, became as good-natured as before; "let us take him to the Section."
"But he has killed Haillon," persisted young Jacques, who had reloaded the pistol and was handling it lovingly.
"Pah," replied Gonflou, with a laugh, "Haillon should have been careful when playing with edged tools. Come, citizens, take hold and we'll carry them both to the Section. You may take your choice, Citizen Ferrand, the corpse or the dying man. I'll carry either of them, and little Jacques shall run ahead. Forward, march, comrades."
"Colonel Robert Tournay, you are summoned before the Committee of Public Safety!" Silence followed this call. The clerk repeated his summons. Again silence.
"I move," said one of the members, "that the examination proceed. The citizen colonel was summoned and has not appeared. If he is not here to defend himself, that is his affair, not ours."
"Citizen Bernard Gardin," said the president, "repeat to the committee the result of your interview with the Citizen Tournay."
Gardin rose. "The said citizen, Colonel Tournay, refused to recognize the mandate of the Committee of Public Safety. The commissioners sent to apprehend his person were treated with marked disrespect and expelled from the camp with insult." Gardin spoke the words with bitter emphasis.
Without even looking at him, Danton interrupted the witness. "The citizen colonel pleaded that an impending battle made it necessary for him to remain in the field, did he not?"
"He did make some such excuse," sneered Gardin.
"Instead of refusing to obey the summons, the citizen colonel stated that, the battle once decided, he would hasten to Paris, did he not?" continued Danton, lifting his voice and turning his eyes full upon Gardin.
"He did say he would come at some future time," admitted Gardin, "but he refused to obey the summons which called upon him to return with the commissioners."
"And thereby insulted the committee," said Couthon.
"If the committee recalls our officers from the field upon the eve of battle they must expect our armies to be defeated," Danton remarked dryly. "Colonel Tournay refused to obey the letter of the summons and remained at his post of duty. The French armies have just won a glorious victory at Wissembourg in which the accused distinguished himself by great bravery and devotion to the Republic. I move that when he does appear he receive the thanks of this committee in the name of France."
"Do you advocate rewarding him for his disobedience and his indifference to our authority?" inquired President Robespierre.
"I believe that victories are more important to France at this juncture, citizen president, than any slight disregard of the letter of the committee's authority."
Robespierre shut his thin lips together and turned to St. Just.
"Let us proceed with the inquiry," he said after a moment's consultation. "Clerk, call the other witnesses."
"Are you not going to give Colonel Tournay twelve hours longer in which to appear in person?" persisted Danton.
"Of what use would that be?" asked Couthon. "He will not come within twelve months."
"Let the inquiry proceed," commanded the president impatiently.
As if to show his indifference to the proceedings, Danton rose from his seat, yawned, and then strolled to the window. As he did so, a sudden shout rose from a crowd gathered below. Danton bent forward and looked out into the street to ascertain the cause.
The door swung open and Colonel Tournay entered the room. He was followed by many of the crowd. The news of the great victory of the French armies on the frontier had just reached Paris and stirred it with enthusiasm. The people in the streets had caught sight of his uniform and surmising that he had just come from the scene of war pressed about him closely, crying for details of the battle. Some had recognized him personally and called out his name. The great crowd had taken it up, and cheered wildly for one of the heroes of Wissembourg and Landau.
There was a flush of excitement on his cheek and a sparkle in his eye as he stepped forward.
"I understand that I am called before this committee to answer certain charges," he said in a clear ringing voice. "What is the accusation? I am here to answer it."
The crowd outside the door took up the shout.
"Yes, of what is the citizen colonel accused? Who accuses the hero of Landau?"
Robespierre changed color and hesitated. Danton eyed the president with a sneer upon his lips, which he made no attempt to conceal. The breach between the two men had widened to such an extent that it had become a matter of common gossip.
"You are accused of winning a battle," said Danton with a laugh,—"a rare event in these days."
Robespierre turned and whispered to St. Just. The latter answered Tournay.
"There are three charges against you," he said. "First, you are accused of having been concerned in the rescue of a certain Citizeness de Rochefort from prison boat number four on the River Loire. Secondly, of escorting the said Citizeness de Rochefort across France under a false name. Thirdly, of having insulted the authority of four commissioners sent by the Committee of Public Safety to arrest you. These accusations have been preferred against you before this committee, which feels called upon to investigate them carefully. If they decide that there is sufficient evidence to warrant it, they will bring the case before the Revolutionary Tribunal. Now that you have heard the charges, I ask you: Do you wish to employ counsel?"
"With the permission of the committee I leave my case in the hands of a member of the convention, Citizen Danton," said Tournay.
"Call the first witness," said St. Just.
"Citizen Lebœuf to the stand," cried the clerk.
The bulky form of Lebœuf lumbered forward. His face was red and his eyes heavy. His testimony was given hesitatingly, as if he were endeavoring to conceal some of the facts. He deposed that the accused, Tournay, had assisted in rescuing the Citizeness de Rochefort from the prison boat number four on the River Loire on the fifth Nivose. Cross-examined by Danton, he admitted reluctantly that he could not swear to the identity of the accused, but felt certain it was he. It was a man of just his height and general appearance; he had good reason to know that the citizen colonel was much interested in the fate of the Citizeness de Rochefort.
Danton dismissed him with a contemptuous wave of the hand, and Lebœuf retired, outwardly discomfited and purple of face, yet with a certain inward sense of relief that the examination was over.
"The citizen colonel admits that he escorted a woman to the frontier," Danton went on, "but it was under a passport issued by the Committee of Public Safety. It has not been proven that this woman was the escaped prisoner, Citizeness de Rochefort. He also admits having refused to accompany the commissioners to Paris, and having expelled them from his camp. For this act of discourtesy to the committee he offers an apology, and pleads in extenuation that it was on the eve of a battle in which his presence was necessary to our armies."
Robespierre turned to St. Just and Couthon. They held an animated discussion, during which both the latter were seen to remonstrate. Finally at a signal from the president, the entire committee withdrew for consultation.
Tournay glanced about the room. He knew that he had the interest and sympathy of most who were present, and from the manner in which the inquiry had been conducted, he felt little anxiety as to the result.
He had not long to wait before the members of the committee entered the room and took their places.
The president touched the bell. St. Just rose, and speaking with apparent reluctance said:—
"The committee do not find sufficient evidence to warrant the trial of Colonel Robert Tournay upon the charge of treason to the Republic."
A cheer rang through the room, which was re-echoed in the corridor and out into the street beyond.
The president touched his bell sharply. St. Just continued:—
"The committee relieves Colonel Tournay from his command for the present. He will await here in Paris the orders of the committee in regard to returning to the army. The inquiry is now ended, and the meeting adjourns."
Tournay walked out of the court accompanied by Danton and through the street to his friend's lodgings, followed by an admiring crowd cheering the hero of Landau.
Two incidents took place in quick succession during the short walk to Danton's house.
These incidents had no relation to each other, yet they both gave Tournay the uncomfortable sensation that besets a man when he is contending with unknown or secret forces.
In passing by the Jacobin Club he saw a man enter at the door. He could not see the face, but the figure and movements were so much like those of de Lacheville that had he not felt sure that it would be equivalent to the marquis's death-sentence for him to be found in Paris, he would have been certain it was his enemy. The idea was so unlikely, however, that he dismissed it from his mind.
As they passed down the Rue des Cordelières and reached the door of Danton's house, a man, issuing from the crowd, brushed closely against Tournay's shoulder. In doing so the colonel felt a letter slipped into his hand. "From a friend," sounded in his ear. "Examine it when alone." Tournay mechanically put the paper in his pocket, and followed Danton into the house, upon the giant uttering the laconic invitation:—
"Come in."
"You have not said a word about the prompt dismissal of the charges against me," said Tournay, as they entered the dingy room which served Danton for office as well as salon.
The giant threw off his coat and filled his pipe. Taking a seat he began to smoke rapidly.
"There is more behind it," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"Did you not notice that no attempt was made to convict you?"
"I did, but I attributed it to lack of evidence on their part."
"Lack of evidence!" repeated Danton. "They are capable of manufacturing that when needed."
"I confess I thought it possible that the popularity of the army with the people had something to do with it."
Danton smiled pityingly.
"I tell you that there is something behind it all. I cannot account for Robespierre's sudden change. It was he who directed your acquittal. There is something behind all this. He works in the dark, and secretly. Tournay, I mistrust that man as much as I hate him," and he began to smoke violently.
"Why do you not crush him, Jacques?" asked Tournay coolly.
"Ay, that's the question I often ask myself," said Danton, lifting up his mighty arm and looking at it, smiling grimly the while as if he were thinking of Robespierre's sallow face and puny body.
"If you don't crush him, he will sting you to death," added Tournay impressively, as he rose to go.
Danton doubled up his arm once more till the muscles swelled into great knots upon it. "Ha, ha," he laughed, "I don't fear that, Tournay; he's too much of a coward to lay hands upon me."
"Do you never fear for your own safety when you see so many falling beneath the hand of this man who rules France?" asked Tournay.
Danton started at the words "rules France."
"Yes, he does rule France. He rules the tribunal. He rules me, curse him! But as for fearing him, Jacques Danton fears nothing in this world or the next."
"Good-night," said Tournay shortly. "But remember, Jacques, you, of all men, can crush the tyrant if you will."
"Good-night," said Danton, placing his huge hand on Tournay's shoulder. "Be assured that Robespierre is holding something back. There is something behind the mask. Be prepared."
Tournay laughed. "I cannot, perhaps, say unreservedly that I fear nothing in this world or the next, Jacques, but be assured, I do not fear him." And he walked away with head erect and military swing, toward the Rue des Mathurins. Danton resumed his pipe, muttering to himself like some volcano rumbling inwardly,—
"Jacques, you can crush him if you will!"
As Tournay entered the doorway of 15 Rue des Mathurins an excited little man brushed quickly past him, muttered an apology, and ran hurriedly up the street. Under his arm he carried a handsome coat.
"I'll wager that's some thief who has been plying his trade upstairs," thought Tournay. "It was clumsy on my part to let him get by me. But I'm too tired to run after him. He can wear his stolen finery for all me." And he climbed up the stairs to the fourth landing.
"Welcome, my general!" cried Gaillard, rising up and throwing to one side the theatrical costume into which he was neatly fitting a patch.
"Not general yet, my little Gaillard," was the reply, as the two friends embraced warmly.
"How? Not a general yet?" exclaimed the actor. "Why, all the city is ringing with news of the victory of Wissembourg and the hero of Landau!"
"That may be, my friend, but I have not received my promotion, and, what is more, I am not expecting it. I shall be quite satisfied to have the convention send me to the front again, where there is work to be done."
"Bah! Is the convention mad that it overlooks our bravest and best officer?" exclaimed Gaillard in a tone of disgust.
"Wait until you have heard what I have to tell you, and then say whether I shall not be fortunate if permitted to return to my command, even if it be but one regiment."
"Danton is right," said Gaillard, when the colonel had finished his account of the day's proceedings. "Undoubtedly there is something behind all this; what it is, the future will show."
"In the mean time let us have something to eat," said Tournay; "I am as hungry as a wolf. Is there any food in the house?"
"An unusual supply," was Gaillard's answer. "We will dine in your honor, colonel, and though the convention has not seen fit to adorn your brow with laurels, I will make some amends by pledging your health in a glass of wine as good as any that can be found in Paris to-day."
"I shall be pleased to eat a dinner in any one's honor, for I have eaten nothing since daylight, and it is now four o'clock."
"Sit down for one moment then, while I take a few last stitches in my work here. I had expected to wear a new costume in the piece to-night, 'Le Mariage de Figaro,' but the tailor brought a garment that fitted abominably, and to the insult of a grotesque fit he added the injury of an exorbitant bill, so I refused the coat and dismissed him with an admonition."
"I must have encountered your tailor as I came up," said Tournay. "He was very pressed for time, and seemed to have taken your admonition much to heart."
"Not exactly to heart," replied Gaillard, his mouth widening with a grin, "for I emphasized my remarks rather forcibly with my shoe. I kicked him down one flight of stairs, and he ran down the others."
"I am afraid your dramatic nature causes you to be rather precipitate at times, Gaillard," remarked Colonel Tournay, smiling.
"On this occasion all the precipitation was on the part of the tailor," replied Gaillard. "Well, this old costume is mended; it will have to serve me for a few nights. Now for dinner. Take your place at the table. I shall sit at the head, and you, as the guest, shall occupy the place at my right hand. You will excuse me for one moment, will you not, while I serve the repast?" and before Tournay could answer Gaillard had left the room.
Tournay seated himself at the table, and took from his pocket the letter which had been placed in his hands on the street. It was addressed in a large hand to "Citizen Colonel Robert Tournay." The writing was that of a person who evidently wielded the pen but occasionally, and he could not be sure whether it came from a man or woman. He broke the seal and read:—
Citizen Colonel,—Your attitude toward some of the members of the Convention has made you a number of enemies. Do not take the dismissal of the charges brought against you before the committee as an evidence that these enemies are defeated; they have merely resolved to change their tactics during your present popularity. Had you been defeated at Wissembourg and Landau, you would not now be at liberty. You may be sure these men have your ultimate downfall in view. Distrust them all.
Citizen Colonel,—Your attitude toward some of the members of the Convention has made you a number of enemies. Do not take the dismissal of the charges brought against you before the committee as an evidence that these enemies are defeated; they have merely resolved to change their tactics during your present popularity. Had you been defeated at Wissembourg and Landau, you would not now be at liberty. You may be sure these men have your ultimate downfall in view. Distrust them all.
Tournay ran his eyes hastily over a list of a dozen names, among which were Couthon, St. Just, and Collot-d'Herbois.
"Here it is, hot and succulent from the kitchen of Citizeness Ribot," called out Gaillard, appearing from an inner room with a steaming dish, which he placed before him. "What have you got there?" he asked, blowing on his fingers to cool them.
Tournay handed him the paper. "All of them either friends or tools of Robespierre," was Gaillard's comment. "How did this come into your hands?"
Tournay told him. His friend stepped to the fireplace.
"What are you going to do?" inquired Tournay.
"I make it a point never to keep anything with writing on it. It may be a tradition of my profession, for on the stage trouble always lurks in written documents. We must burn this."
"Do not be so hasty, Gaillard; you may burn it after I have committed those names to memory."
"Then I will put it here on the chimney-piece for the present. Don't carry it about you. It is a dangerous paper in times like these."
"Very well, I will be guided by your counsels. And just at this moment you advise dining, do you not?" and Tournay turned to the dish on the table. "It has a very agreeable odor. What is it?"
"The menu, to-day, consists of three courses; bread, salt, and,"—here the actor removed the cover of the dish with a flourish—"rabbit ragout."
"Will you assure me that the rabbit did not mew at the prospect of being turned into a ragout?" inquired Tournay, holding out his plate while Gaillard heaped it with the stew.
"You will have to ask the cook, my little war-god. When I delivered to her the material in its natural state it consisted of two little gray tailless animals with long ears; but to exonerate her, I call your attention to the house-cat at this moment poking her nose in at the door. And let me say further, that whether it be cat or rabbit you seem to be able to dispose of a goodly quantity of it."
"My dear Gaillard, I am a soldier and can eat anything," was Tournay's rejoinder.
"But cast not your eyes longingly upon the poor animal who has come in attracted by the smell of dinner; she is my especial pet. Let me divert your attention from her by pouring you a glass of wine."
"Gaillard, your dinner is most excellent; your pet shall be safe."
Gaillard filled two glasses with wine.
"Your very good health, Colonel Tournay, of the Army of the Moselle."
"Yours, my dear friend Gaillard."
The two friends rose and touched glasses over the little table.
"That wine is wonderful," said Tournay as he put down the glass. "What do you mean by drinking such nectar? Do you live so near the top of the house in order that you may spend your savings on your wine cellar?"
"That bottle is one of six presented to me by our neighbor, Citizen St. Hilaire. He has been living modestly in the attic overhead, but he evidently had a knowledge of good wine."
"Ah, Citizen St. Hilaire," repeated Tournay. "He is a man who should well know good wine; but you said he has been living overhead. Is he not there now?"
"Three days ago he disappeared. He left a note for the Citizeness Ribot with the money due for rent, and stated that he should not return. His action was explained next morning when a gendarme from the section made his appearance and inquired for Citizen St. Hilaire. Since then his chamber is watched night and day. I doubt if he returns."
"He is quite capable of keeping out of danger or getting into it, as the fancy suits him, if he is the man I once knew," remarked Tournay.
Gaillard filled the glasses again. "Let us not talk about him in too loud a tone," he said, "but quietly pledge him in his own Burgundy."
Tournay took the proffered glass. The gentle gurgle down two throats told that St. Hilaire's health was drunk fervently if silently.
"With your permission I will propose a toast," said Tournay, as Gaillard emptied the last of the bottle into their glasses. The actor nodded.
"To the French Republic," exclaimed Tournay. "May victory still perch upon her banners."
"To the Republic," echoed Gaillard.
Again the glasses clinked over the small wooden table.
"As long as we have victory," continued Tournay, "what care we whether we be colonels, generals, or soldiers of the line? Our victories are the nation's. All are sharers in its glory."
"Long live the Republic!" they cried in concert, and set down their empty wineglasses.
"Now I must fly to the theatre," exclaimed Gaillard; "you have made me late with your republics"—
"And I must to bed," said Tournay. "This morning's dawn found me in the saddle in order to reach the convention at an early hour."
"You have made a mistake, citizen sergeant," exclaimed Gaillard suddenly, as an officer of gendarmerie appeared at the open door. "The floor above is where you want to go."
"I want to see the Citizen Colonel Tournay," was the reply.
"I am he," said Tournay.
The sergeant awkwardly gave the military salute. "Here is a letter for you, citizen colonel."
Tournay took the paper, and the sergeant turned toward the door.
"Is there any answer required?" asked Tournay, as he broke the seal.
"None through me. Good-night, citizen colonel." And the heavy jack-boots were heard descending the stairs.
Gaillard began hurriedly to make a bundle of his theatrical costume, while Tournay broke the seal and glanced over the contents of the letter.
"Read this," he said, passing the paper to Gaillard, who stood by his side, bundle under arm.
Gaillard read:—
ToCitizen Colonel Robert Tournay, Rue des Mathurins 15.Will the patriotic citizen colonel call upon the humble and none the less patriotic citizen, Maximilian Robespierre, this evening at seven, to discuss affairs pertaining to the good of the nation? If the Citizen Tournay can come, no answer need be sent.(Signed)Maximilian Robespierre.17th Pluviose, Year II. of the French Republic, one and indivisible.
ToCitizen Colonel Robert Tournay, Rue des Mathurins 15.
Will the patriotic citizen colonel call upon the humble and none the less patriotic citizen, Maximilian Robespierre, this evening at seven, to discuss affairs pertaining to the good of the nation? If the Citizen Tournay can come, no answer need be sent.
(Signed)Maximilian Robespierre.
17th Pluviose, Year II. of the French Republic, one and indivisible.
"He evidently takes it for granted that I will come, for his messenger waited for no answer," added Tournay.
"It's the sequel of this afternoon's inquiry," said Gaillard, as he returned it, "and too exquisitely polite for a plain citizen. What are you going to do?"
"I am going to see him, of course," replied Tournay. "It is the only way to find out what he wants."
Gaillard nodded. "That's true; I almost feel like going with you and remaining outside the door," and Gaillard placed his package on the table.
"That is unnecessary, my friend; I never felt more secure in my life. Go to your performance of Figaro and on your return you will find me here in this easy-chair, smoking one of your pipes."
Gaillard took up his bundle again. "Very well, but mind, if I do not find you seated in that arm-chair smoking a pipe I shall know you are in trouble."
Tournay laughed. "You will find me there, never fear. And now let us go out together."
"I am abominably late!" exclaimed Gaillard, as they parted at the corner. "The director will have the pleasure of collecting a fine from my weekly salary. Good-night—embrace me, my little war god! Au revoir," and the actor hurried down the street, whistling cheerfully.
An atmosphere of secrecy seemed to pervade Robespierre's house, and Tournay, following the servant along the dimly lighted corridor, passed his hand over his eyes, as one brushes away the fine cobwebs that come across the face in going through the woods.
The rustle of a gown fell upon his ear as he entered the salon, and at the further end of the apartment he saw a woman who had evidently risen at his entrance, and now stood irresolute, with one hand on the latch of a door leading into an adjoining room, as if she had intended making her exit unobserved by him.
She stood in such a manner that the shadow of the half-open door fell across her face, but he could see that she was a young woman of small stature and well proportioned figure. At the sound of his voice she allowed her hand to fall from the latch, then lifting her head erect, walked toward him.
"La Liberté!" ejaculated Tournay. He had not seen her since the day he had left her dancing on the cannon-truck, winecup in hand; but she still kept her girlish look, and except in her dress she had not greatly changed.
She still showed a partiality for bright colors, by her gown of deep crimson. But the material was of velvet instead of the simple woolen stuff she used to wear. Her hair, which had once curled about her forehead and been tossed about by the wind, was now coiled upon her head, from which a few locks, as if rebellious at confinement, had fallen on her neck and shoulders. She wore nothing on her head but a tricolored knot of ribbon, the color of the Republic.
"How does it happen that we meet here?" asked Tournay after a moment, during which he had gazed at her in surprise.
"Never mind about me for the present," she said, looking up in his face, half defiantly, half admiringly; for as he stood before her, framed in the open door, he was a striking picture, with his handsome, bronzed face and brilliant uniform.
"Let us speak of your affairs," she continued. "I am told the committee has ordered you to await its permission before returning to the army."
"How did you know that?" he demanded in surprise.
"Oh, I know many things that are going on in this strange world," and she gave the old toss of her head. "Now do not talk, but listen. You must return to the army. A soldier like you is at a disadvantage among these intriguers. They will suspect you for the simple reason that they suspect every one. You, who are accustomed to fight openly, will fall a victim to their wiles."
"My enemies may find that I can strike back," said Tournay quietly.
La Liberté shrugged her shoulders.
"Did you receive a letter this afternoon?" she asked quickly.
"Did you write that letter?"
"I never write letters," she answered significantly; "but if you received one and read it, you know the names of some of your enemies. What can you do with such an array against you? I repeat, you are no match for them. You must go back to your command."
"That is what I desire above all else," answered Tournay.
"You can go to-morrow, if you wish," said the demoiselle.
"How?"
"By listening to what the president of the committee has to say to you, and agreeing to it. Yield to his demands, whatever they may be, and you will be permitted to set out to-morrow."
"I shall be glad to meet the committee more than halfway. I will agree to everything they wish, if I can do so consistently."
"Consistently!" she repeated. "I see you will be obstinate." Then she stopped and looked full in his face. "I might know that you would after all only act according to your convictions, and that any advice would be thrown away on you. Well, I must say I like you better that way, and were I a man I should do the same."
She placed one hand upon her hip where hung a small poniard suspended by a silver chain about her waist, and went on earnestly: "But listen to this word of advice. You, who have been so long absent from Paris, do not realize Robespierre's power. It is sometimes the part of a brave man to yield. Give way to him as much as yourconsistencywill permit. Now adieu." She turned away; then facing him suddenly with an impulsive gesture she came toward him.
"Compatriot!" she said with an unwonted tremble in her voice, "will you take my hand?" He took the hand extended to him.
"I do not forget, Marianne, that you and I both came from La Thierry. If ever you are in need of a friend, you can rely upon me."
For one moment the brown head was bent over his hand, and La Liberté showed an emotion which none of those who thought they knew her would have believed possible. Then throwing back her head she disappeared through the door beyond, as Robespierre entered from the corridor.
Much absorbed in his meditations, Robespierre did not appear to notice that any one had just quitted the room. He walked very slowly as if to impress Tournay with his greatness, and did not speak for some moments. He no longer affected the great simplicity of dress which had characterized him at the beginning of the Revolution, and the coat of blue velvet, waistcoat of white silk, and buff breeches which he wore were quite in keeping with his fine linen shirt and the laces of his ruffles.
It was Tournay who first broke the silence.
"Citizen president, you see I have been prompt to comply with your request; I am here in answer to your summons."
Robespierre raised his head, and started from his soliloquy.
"Ah yes, you are the citizen colonel who appeared to-day before the committee to answer certain charges."
"I am," replied Tournay.
"Citizen colonel," said Robespierre, "I will be perfectly frank with you. The Committee of Public Safety, whose dearest wish, whose only thought, is the welfare of the Republic," here the president's small eyes blinked in rapid succession, "is not quite satisfied with the condition of affairs in the army."
"I am sorry to hear that, citizen president, and in behalf of the army, I would call the committee's attention to the recent battles in which the soldiers of France have certainly borne themselves with great bravery. I speak now as one of their officers who is justly proud of them."
"It is not the conduct of the soldiers of which the committee finds cause of complaint," replied Robespierre, "but of their generals."
"It is not for me to criticise my superior officers," said Tournay. "I leave that to the nation."
"The committee has good reason to criticise the attitude of certain of its generals, who seem to have forgotten that they are merely citizens. They have been chosen to serve the Republic only for a time in a more exalted position than their fellow citizens, yet they have become swollen with pride, and take to themselves the credit of the victories won by their armies. Their dispatches to the convention are couched in arrogant and sometimes insolent language."
Tournay bowed. "Again I must refrain from expressing my opinion on such a matter," he said.
"Ever since the treason of General Dumouriez," Robespierre went on, "the committee has had its suspicions as to the conduct of several of its generals. Hoche is one."
Tournay started.
"What you are pleased to impart to me, citizen president, sounds strange. Permit me to state that I feel sure the committee's suspicions are unfounded."
Robespierre looked at him closely. "Does General Hoche take you into his entire confidence?" he inquired quickly; his weak eyes blinking more rapidly than ever.
"No, I am merely a colonel in his army. Though I have good reason to believe he places confidence in me, he naturally does not inform me of his plans before they are matured."
"Citizen colonel, the committee also places great confidence in you, and for that reason it wishes you to return at once to the army."
"I obey its orders with the greatest pleasure in the world," said Tournay.
"The committee also desires," Robespierre continued, "that you send to its secretary each week a minute report of everything that passes under your notice, particularly as regards the actions of Citizen General Hoche. Do not regard anything as too trifling to be included in your report; the committee will pass upon its importance."
Tournay had listened in silence. His teeth ground together in the rage he struggled to suppress. He felt that if he made a movement it would be to strike the president to the floor.
"I must decline the commission with which the committee honors me. I am not fitted for it," he replied.
"The committee has chosen you as eminently fitted for the work. The confidence that General Hoche places in you makes you the best agent the committee could employ."
"Then tell your committee, citizen president, that it must find some less fitting agent to do its dirty work. My business is to fight the enemies of France, not to spy upon its patriots."
Robespierre's sallow face became a shade more yellow. "Have a care how you speak of the committee. In the service of the Republic all employment is sacred and honorable."
"I prefer my own interpretation of the words," answered Tournay, with a look of scorn.
"And yet you yourself have somewhat strange ideas of what is honorable," remarked Robespierre sneeringly.
"I do not understand what you mean," replied Tournay.
Robespierre stepped to the wall and pulled the bell-rope. "Perhaps when it is made clear to you, your mind may change."
The colonel made no reply, but the next moment uttered an exclamation of surprise as the Marquis de Lacheville entered the room. Robespierre turned toward Tournay with the shadow of a smile hovering on his thin lips.
"You know this citizen?" he asked in his harsh voice.
Tournay looked at the marquis curiously, wondering why he had jeopardized his own safety by returning to Paris. The look of hatred which the nobleman shot at him served as an explanation.
"I know him as a former nobleman, an emigré, who is proscribed by the Republic; I wonder that he puts his life in danger by returning to the land he fled from."
The marquis made an uneasy gesture, and was about to speak when Robespierre said:—
"He has taken the oath of allegiance to the Republic."
Tournay laughed outright at this. "And do you trust his oath?" he asked.
"And for the service he now renders the nation, his emigration and the fact of his having been an aristocrat are to be condoned." As he spoke, a grim smile hovered about Robespierre's lips. It faded away instantly, leaving his face as mirthless and forbidding as before.
"Shall we ask the Citizen Lacheville to tell us when he last saw you?" he went on sternly.
"It is unnecessary. We met last at Falzenberg," said Tournay, eyeing him with disdain.
"Where you were on terms of intimacy with Prussian officers," said de Lacheville. "I will not dwell upon the fact of your having assisted an aristocrat to escape from prison; but I will testify to your having come in disguise to the enemies of France and entered into a secret understanding with them. I was serving those same enemies at the time, I will admit," and the marquis shrugged his shoulders, "but as the Citizen Robespierre has said, I have repented of it, and have come here to make atonement by faithful devotion to the nation. One of the greatest of my pleasures is to help unmask a hypocrite."
Tournay addressed Robespierre.
"Do you believe this man's story?"
"You have already admitted having gone over the frontier," was the suave rejoinder.
"I did go, yes."
"Will you deny having been closeted alone with General von Waldenmeer?"
"No, but"—
"Do you suppose any tribunal in the land would hold you guiltless upon such testimony and such admissions?"
"Permit me to ask you two questions," said Tournay.
Robespierre acquiesced.
"Admitting that this—citizen'saccusation is true, why did I return to Wissembourg and do my best to defeat the enemy with whom I am accused by him of being on friendly terms?"
"There are hundreds of similar precedents—Dumouriez's, for example."
"Admitting, then, that I have already been false to one trust, how is it that you are prepared to trust me now to play the spy for your committee?" continued Tournay, with contempt ringing in his voice.
Again the peculiar smile flitted across Robespierre's pale features.
"All men are to be trusted as far as their self-interest leads them," he answered. "None are to be trusted implicitly. You will be watched closely and will doubtless prove faithful. It will be to your decided advantage to attend to the committee's business efficiently. Your little interview with the Prussian general, from which nothing has resulted, may be forgotten for the time."
Tournay's anger during the interview had several times risen to white heat. Not even his sense of danger enabled him longer to repress it.
"I have already told you that I would have nothing to do with the commission of your committee!" he cried hotly. "And as for this man's accusations, let him make them in court and I will answer him. Let him repeat them in the streets and I will thrust the lies back into his throat and choke him with them." As he spoke he advanced toward de Lacheville who paled and retreated a step or two. "If any man accuses me of disloyalty to the Republic," continued Tournay, turning and addressing Robespierre, "unless he takes revenge behind the bar of a tribunal he shall answer to me personally. I will defend my honor with my own hand."
Robespierre turned pale and took a step or two in the direction of the bell-rope.
"You may have an opportunity to answer the charges before the tribunal," he said coldly.
"Why did you not bring them in to-day's inquiry?" demanded Tournay.
"I do not announce my reasons nor divulge my plans," was the reply. "It is enough to know that I had need of you. Neither am I in the habit of having my will opposed. You would do best to yield before it is too late."
"Robespierre," cried Tournay, the blood mounting to his forehead, "you have played the tyrant too long! You are not 'in the habit of having your will opposed?' I have not learned to bend and truckle to your will, doing your bidding like a dog; and, by Heaven! I will not now. Bring your charges against me before your tribunal, packed as it is with your creatures, and I will answer them, but my answer shall be addressed to the Nation. My appeal will be to the People. I will denounce you for what you are, a tyrant. And a coward—too"—he continued, as Robespierre, with ashen lips, rang the bell violently. "You shall be known for what you are, and when you are once known the people will cease to fear you."
He strode toward the committee's president, who, with trembling knees, stood tugging at the bell-rope. De Lacheville had long since fled from the room; and Robespierre, pulling his courage together with an effort, lifted his hand and pointed a trembling finger at Tournay.
"Stop where you are!" he shrieked. "Come a step nearer me at your peril!"
"I am not going to do you any injury," was Tournay's reply in a tone of contempt; "I despise you too much to do you personal violence; I leave you to your fears, citizen president."
There was a sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor, and Tournay moved toward the door to be confronted by a file of soldiers.
"Henriot, you drunken snail," cried Robespierre, "why did you not answer my summons? Arrest this man."
Tournay turned a look upon Robespierre which made the latter quail notwithstanding the guard that surrounded him.
"You had this all arranged," said the colonel quietly.
"I was prepared," replied Robespierre grimly.
Tournay turned away with contempt. "Dictator, your time will be short," he murmured.
"Come, citizen colonel," said the Commandant Henriot, "I must trouble you for your sword."
"Where are you going to take me?" asked Tournay as he delivered up his weapon.
Henriot glanced at his chief as if for instructions.
"To the Luxembourg," was the order. Then, without looking at Tournay, Robespierre left the room.
"May I send word to a friend at my lodgings?" Tournay asked of Henriot.
"No," was the short rejoinder, "you must come with me on the instant."
In the corridor stood de Lacheville. He smiled triumphantly as he saw Tournay pass out between the file of soldiers.
"De Lacheville," said Tournay scornfully, "you have played the part of a fool as well as a coward. A few days and you also will be in prison."
His guards hurried him on, and he could not hear de Lacheville's answer.
At the doorway that led into the street stood La Liberté.
"Out of the way, citizeness!" growled Henriot.
"Out of the way yourself, Citizen Henriot," was the woman's reply, and she pushed through the soldiers until she stood at Tournay's elbow.
"Come, citizeness, none of that; you cannot speak to the prisoner," growled Henriot a second time.
"I was afraid of this," she whispered in Tournay's ear.
"Will you take a message for me?" he asked in a quick whisper.
"Yes."
"Go to Gaillard, 15 Rue des Mathurins, wait until he comes. Tell him I am arrested. That is all."
With a nod of intelligence, La Liberté left his side and disappeared in the darkness.