"Crash! the plaster fell to the courtyard pavement, where it was shivered into a thousand fragments.
"The blow on my kneecap made me shiver with pain, and I rested on the brace just outside the window of the little soubrette, clinging tightly with both hands to the spout.
"'Thank heaven that it was the stucco that fell, not I,' I whispered devoutly, just as a window opened on the floor above, and our old neighbor Avarie appeared. He is always on the lookout for robbers, and keeps at his bedside a big blunderbuss, with a muzzle like a speaking-trumpet.
"'Thieves,' I heard him mutter. I kept perfectly quiet, not giving vent even to a breath.
"'Who's there?'
"I clung close to the shelter of my friendly water pipe.
"'Speak, or I'll fire!'
"I knew he could not see me, and if he did fire his old cannon, I felt sure that it would explode and blow him into atoms; but the noise would alarm the neighborhood, and I had a vision of a score of lights flashing; night-capped heads appearing in all the surrounding windows; gendarmes running up with their lanterns, and poor Gaillard, clinging like a frightened cat to the water spout.
"That gave me an idea.
"'Miauw!' answered I plaintively.
"'It's a cat!' exclaimed old Avarie in disgust.
"'Mew—mew—mew,' cried I.
"'What is it?' said a woman's voice, evidently his wife's.
"'Nothing but a cat,' growled Avarie. 'But I think I will let drive at her just because she disturbed my sleep.'
"I stopped my mewing on the instant.
"'Don't,' pleaded the woman, 'the gun may kick.'
"'Bah, do you think I can't handle a gun?' And I heard a click.
"'Good-by to thee, old Avarie,' I said under my breath.
"'Don't be a fool, husband, and awake the whole neighborhood just for a cat!' exclaimed his wife.
"Almost at my window another window was thrown open and the little soubrette's head appeared. She is very fond of cats.
"'Here puss, puss, puss,' she cried.
"'Is that your cat, citizeness?' asked old Avarie.
"'It must be; he has stayed out all night, the naughty fellow. Kitty, kitty, poor kitty, come in out of the wet.'
"My teeth were chattering with cold and fatigue and that was just what I most desired, but I did not dare to risk it.
"'You ought to keep the animal at home, and not let him out to disturb everybody's sleep,' called out the testy old man as he closed his window with a bang.
"Luckily for me the little soubrette's attention was all directed toward the roof of the lower extension on the left where her pet evidently had a habit of straying. She did not see me, crouched behind the pipe so near as to almost be able to touch her by putting out one hand. By the way, she looked very pretty in her little white nightcap edged with lace. I was not very sorry, however, to see her close the window and to be left alone with my water spout. A few minutes later I had pushed open the window of my kitchen and wriggled into the room.
"I dared not strike a light for fear of its reflection on the wall opposite, and groped my way about the room in the dark. My heart leaped with joy when I had assured myself that no seal had been placed on the windows nor upon any of the inside doors; the one seal on the outer door evidently having been deemed sufficient. The dust was an inch thick over everything, and I moved about in ghostly stillness, struggling to repress a sneeze. Nothing appeared to have been touched since the night of my enforced departure.
"I hugged myself with a childish glee at being alone in my little home in the dead of night. The thought of the gendarmes outside in the rain made my sides ache with suppressed laughter.
"First, I unearthed my little economies of last winter. Thirteen francs, five sous. 'Gaillard you're a prodigal fellow,' I said to myself as I dropped them into my pouch, 'but it is better than nothing.' Then I collected a few necessities. My beautiful wig of silver hair, and a suitable dress to go with it. I handled lovingly a few other costumes, but had the strength of mind to return them to the chest. I should like to have appeared before you as the 'Spanish outlaw' but it would have been too dangerous. The character of the English 'milord' would have been congenial but equally hazardous. So I sensibly adhered to my sober selection, and tied up all my effects in a neat bundle.
"When all was completed I took one last, longing survey of my rooms, went to the casement, and, dropping the bundle, held my breath. Thud! it reached the bottom and lay there innocently in the court. Not a sound was heard. Old Citizen Avarie, in the adjoining apartment, was snoring in a way that would put his blunderbuss to shame, and the little citizeness below had evidently retired into the recess of her lace-trimmed nightcap to dream of her missing pet.
"Sliding silently from the window I found the iron brace with my toes, and grasped the clammy water pipe with both hands. I could not close the casement. 'Never mind, they will think it was the wind that opened it,' I said, and I descended to the ground with an agility born of practice.
"In the early morning hours I retired to my bridge, put on my silver wig and old man's dress, sunk my other clothes to the river bottom, and appeared in the light of day as an old man.
"I now walk the streets in safety under the very noses of my old enemies, the police; I come to you and I ask, 'How do you like your old uncle?'"
"You deceived me completely, my Gaillard," Tournay confessed; "but tell me this. You said you were still residing at 15 Rue des Mathurins. May I ask in what capacity? As cat?"
"Having little money, I must earn some more in order to live. I went to my dear friend, the theatre director, just as I am, and asked him to employ me about the theatre in any capacity. He did not recognize me, and putting his hand in his pocket, brought out a piece of forty sous."
"'Sorry, my poor fellow, but I have no place for you. Take this.'"
"I would trust my manager with my life, so I leaned forward to his ear. 'I am Gaillard, hunted, proscribed, but always your old friend Gaillard. Call me Citizen Michelet.' He gave me a look for which I could have taken him to my heart, there in his bureau, and hugged him.
"'Citizen Michelet,' he said, 'there is a place of a doorkeeper which you can have. The pay is small, fifteen francs the week, but it may suffice your needs.' I knew it was five francs more than old Gaspard received,—the doorkeeper who drank himself to death,—and I took the place gladly. When one is old, my nephew, one does not despise even fifteen francs," and Gaillard looked pathetically into Tournay's face. "Now I sit every evening at the stage door of the theatre and see the familiar faces pass in and out. They do not recognize me; but they are beginning to address kindly nods and occasional words to old Michelet.
"I found a vacant room to let on the ground floor of No. 15 Rue des Mathurins, so I took the lodging and live there quietly. I am on the best of terms with the gendarmes, and I talk with them out of my window, where we exchange pinches of snuff and other like civilities."
"My dear friend"—began Tournay.
"You might as well call me uncle," interrupted Gaillard, "to accustom yourself to it, for under this guise I shall visit you again."
"My dearuncle, it is like a draught of wine to a thirsty man to hear you talk. It is like a ray of sunshine to see your wrinkled old face."
"I hope to be the ray of sunshine to light you out of this prison," said Gaillard.
"I'm afraid that will be a difficult matter," replied Tournay. "I am not so clever as you in wearing disguises."
"You will wear no disguise," answered Gaillard. "Are you in a cell by yourself?" he asked in the next breath.
"No, strange to say I have a companion, Citizen St. Hilaire."
"That is not so bad; only we shall have to include him in our plans," replied Gaillard. "You can trust him?"
"Implicitly."
"When I lean forward over my stick," said Gaillard, "run your hand stealthily up the back of my head under my long hair. Now."
Tournay did as he was bid.
"Do you feel it?"
"I feel something hard, like a little file."
"Good! You could not expect a chest of tools; the jailer searched me thoroughly. Untie that little file from the hair. Can you do it?"
"I think so."
"I tied it quite firmly for fear it would fall out. Do not be afraid of pulling my hair, but do not pull the wig off. You may take both hands,—the turnkey is not paying any attention,—as if you were arranging your old uncle's coat collar."
"I'll have it in a moment. There!"
"Slip this up your sleeve, my colonel. Now a few questions and remarks. How many bars has your window?"
"Four."
"How long will it take you to file them all?"
Tournay considered. "We could only work in any safety in the middle of the night, perhaps four hours in the twenty-four."
"How long do you think it will take you to cut through the four bars?"
Tournay thought for a moment. "We can work only at intervals in the dead of night," he replied, "so it may take several days."
"Good! In four days I will bring you a rope."
"In God's name, Gaillard, how can you manage to bring a rope into this place?"
"I am not certain of that point yet, but I shall manage it," was the cool rejoinder.
"My dear Gaillard, I believe you. If you were to promise me to bring a spire of Notre Dame wrapped up in gold paper I should expect to see it at the appointed hour. With a rope in our possession and the bars cut, we can get down the forty feet to the yard beneath. But there is the sentry, and the difficulty of escape from the yard!"
"I will take care of the sentry and the escape," replied Gaillard, "and in four days I shall be here again. Meanwhile cut through the bars so that you can push them out of place at any moment. Attention; here comes the turnkey.
"Good-by, my nephew. Be of good cheer. A good patriot need have no fear," said Gaillard in a quavering voice.
"Good-by, my uncle," rejoined Tournay as he went back to his cell. "I shall see you then next week at the same hour," he called out through the bars of the door.
"Yes."
"Well, then, good-by again. Mind the step. Be careful lest my uncle trip, citizen turnkey; he is old and rather venturesome for one of his years."
"Agatha," said Mademoiselle de Rochefort, "I am going back to Paris."
Agatha turned and looked at her mistress in the greatest surprise.
"Do I understand you, mademoiselle, or am I dreaming? It is impossible that you could have said"—
"I am going back to Paris."
Edmé repeated the words quietly, but there was a decision in her manner which Agatha understood full well. She gave a gasp of consternation and sank into a chair, fixing her wide-open eyes upon Edmé's face, while she waited to hear more.
Edmé was seated in her bedroom in the Castle of Hagenhof. It was evening, and two candles, one upon the dressing-table, the other upon a stand at Agatha's side, gave to the room a mild half-light. The curtains were not yet drawn, and through the large casement the stars gleamed softly.
"During the five months we have lived in absolute quiet and security here at Hagenhof," Edmé continued, looking out of the window at the forest of pine trees that stretched away from the castle like a sea of ink, "we have been completely shut off from the world outside, hearing almost nothing of the events taking place there."
"That was your wish, was it not?" asked Agatha as Edmé paused.
Mademoiselle de Rochefort did not make any direct reply, but continued speaking as if she was answering her own thoughts, rather than conversing with her maid.
"There was a great battle fought. It was a full month afterward that I heard of it and of the glory won by Colonel Tournay. The Republicans were victorious. Had they been defeated, the restoration of the Monarchy would have been one step nearer. But the allies were defeated, their finest troops were sent flying back before the raw recruits. And I! Did I mourn the defeat of our allies as much as I rejoiced in Colonel Tournay's triumph?The hero of Landau!That is what he was called."
Then, turning toward Agatha, she exclaimed: "How do you think they have rewarded him in France? They have thrown this hero into prison. They have kept him there for months. And I heard of it only to-night from the officers who returned with Colonel von Waldenmeer yesterday. They spoke of affairs in France. They said that the Republic is approaching its final doom. The leaders are now at discord. The terrible Danton has been sent to the guillotine. They said that the officers of the army are being suspected; mentioned Colonel Tournay's arrest, and then casually passed on to other topics. I heard no more. I could not listen after that, and came up here as soon as I could withdraw from the table. Agatha, I am going back to France."
"Why are you going?" asked Agatha gently, fearing to antagonize her mistress in her present mood.
Again Edmé looked out of the window at the swaying tops of the mournful pines. "I cannot stay here," she answered fiercely. "The melancholy of the place is killing me."
"Do not be a child, mademoiselle," said Agatha in the tone of authority she sometimes employed in reasoning with her beloved mistress. "If you are not happy here, we will leave. Perhaps we can go to Berlin, or to London. But never to France!"
"Twice has he risked his life for me," said Edmé, again speaking to herself. "I owe so much to him, and have repaid him nothing."
"All that is true," persisted the cool-headed Agatha. "He aided you because he had the power; if you could serve him, it would be different. But you can do nothing. If you go to Paris, you will be arrested and guillotined. That is all. No, my dear mistress, you must not go."
"I shall go," answered Edmé firmly. "If I am apprehended, so much the worse."
"You will only place yourself in peril," cried Agatha. "You must not go!"
"When Colonel Tournay parted from me," said Edmé impressively, "he swore that we should some day meet again. He would keep his word if it were possible. Fate has decreed that he shall not come to me; she decrees, instead, that I shall go to him."
"Mademoiselle," cried Agatha in a horrified tone, "what are you saying? Think of your rank, think of your family, your pride of birth!"
"My rank!" laughed Edmé scornfully. "Did that avail me when I crossed the river Loire? My pride of birth! Did that protect and bring me safely out of France? A brave and loyal man was my sole protection. He is now in the greatest danger. I am going to him."
There was a ring in her voice as she spoke that seemed to bid defiance to the long line of ancestry behind her.
"Now that you know that I am not to be swayed from my determination, will you go with me or remain here?"
"I shall go with you, mademoiselle."
"We must leave here clandestinely, Agatha. I little thought, when the kindly Grafin von Waldenmeer took me under her roof, I should leave it like this."
"We shall have to travel through France in the disguise of peasants, mademoiselle," said Agatha.
"We have had some experience in that disguise, Agatha. You know how well I shall be able to play my part."
From Hagenhof, starting at dead of night, the two women traveled to Paris. It took them three weeks to make the journey that they had once made in five days. But they were obliged to travel slowly, as became two women of their class.
On the morning of the twentieth day they found themselves in the Rue Vaugirard in Paris, almost under the very shadow of the Luxembourg. Agatha stopped before the doorway of a small house in the window of which a placard announced that lodgings were to let within.
"This is what we want, mademoiselle," said the girl. "I will knock here."
A woman answered the summons. She was about forty years old, with stooping shoulders, and hands gnarled and twisted by hard work. Her skin was dark, but an unhealthy pallor was upon her face, which, thin and worn, was lightened by a pair of brilliant eyes.
"Can we obtain lodging here, good citizeness?" inquired Agatha. The woman did not reply at once, being busy looking at them closely with her bright eyes.
"Have you any lodgings to let?" said Agatha once more.
"Perhaps," was the reply.
"Perhaps," repeated Edmé somewhat impatiently. "Do you not know?"
"I am Citizeness Privat," the woman answered. "There are lodgings to let in this house, most assuredly, and I have charge of the renting of them; but I act for another, and he," with emphasis on the pronoun, "insists that I shall only take those who can furnish references. Can you do so?"
"Let us come inside and we will see what can be done," said Agatha, pushing forward. The woman stepped back, and Edmé followed Agatha into the house. Agatha closed the door before speaking.
"Citizeness Privat," she said, "we are two women from the country, who have come to Paris for the first time. We know no one here, and can give you no references except money. Will that not satisfy you?" And Agatha drew a purse from her pocket.
"It will satisfy me, but not him who employs me. If I disobey him I may lose this place which is my only shelter." Edmé caught a glimpse of a neat sitting-room through a half-open door. The cool and quiet of the house were doubly attractive after the noise and heat of the city streets.
"We must stay here," she whispered to Agatha. The latter opened her purse.
"We will pay you well," she said persuasively. The citizeness shook her head mournfully, and put one hand upon the handle of the door.
"Stay one moment, I implore you!" exclaimed Edmé impulsively. "Listen to what I have to say."
The citizeness turned her strange eyes upon Edmé. The latter started as she beheld the expression on the pale face.
"Agatha! look!" Edmé cried out in alarm, and the next instant the Citizeness Privat had fallen to the floor. Quickly Edmé bent over her. "She has fainted. How cold her hands are! Look at her face. It is ghastly. It cannot be that she is dead, Agatha?" Edmé continued in a tone of awe.
Agatha took one hand and began to chafe it to restore the circulation while Edmé rubbed the other. "She is breathing," said Agatha. "Perhaps with your assistance, mademoiselle, we can lift and carry her into one of the rooms."
Between them the Citizeness Privat was carried gently into her room and placed upon a bed. To their intense relief, the woman gave a sigh, and opened her eyes as she sank back on the pillows.
"Are you in great suffering, poor creature?" asked Edmé, compassionately surveying the pale features. Citizeness Privat signed that she was not in any pain, and after a few moments, during which her breath came regularly, she said faintly:—
"I shall be better soon; I am used to these attacks of sudden giddiness. My greatest fear is that they may seize me some day while I am in the streets. For that reason I dread to go out alone."
"Let us remove her clothing and put her in the bed where she will be more comfortable," suggested Mademoiselle de Rochefort, and in spite of the feeble remonstrances of the sick woman they soon had her comfortably installed between the sheets.
"You are very good," she murmured.
As Agatha removed the gown a card fell from the pocket to the floor.
"I shall be unable to attend to my task this evening," sighed the woman Privat, as if the fluttering pasteboard recalled to mind some urgent duty. "I can ill afford to let the work go either. It helps so much towards my support, but to-day it will be impossible."
Edmé picked up the card, and in doing so glanced at it casually, then read it with a start:—
FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY TRIBUNAL.Permit the Citizeness Jeanne Privat to enter the various rooms of the tribunal when engaged upon her routine duties.
FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY TRIBUNAL.
Permit the Citizeness Jeanne Privat to enter the various rooms of the tribunal when engaged upon her routine duties.
The Citizeness Privat smiled faintly. "I see you wonder what I have to do with the tribunal," she said; "I merely go there in the afternoon at dark and clean up the rooms. There are many of them, and as I am the only person employed to look after them, they get into a dreadful state of disorder and dirt." Here the citizeness was taken with a fit of coughing.
Edmé thrust the card mechanically into her pocket, and ran to fetch a glass of water.
"You are very good to me," said she faintly as soon as she could speak. "I turned you away," a slight flush coming to her cheek. "Believe me, it was not my heart that spoke when I told you that I could not let you have the lodging; I was merely obeying the commands of the owner, who allows me my bare rent for my services. He is very strict, but at the risk of incurring his displeasure, I shall refuse to let you go after this kindness."
"Do not fear; do not trouble about that," replied Mademoiselle de Rochefort quietly, "but tell me more about your work in the tribunal. Is it that which has worn you so?"
"No, it is not so wearing, only I am far from strong, and sometimes I get so fatigued. My brother, who is a turnkey in the conciergerie, obtained this employment for me, as it was thought I could do it; but I fear I shall have to give it up."
Edmé smoothed the counterpane. "Do not worry," she said gently, "but go to sleep now. We will remain here until you are better."
The citizeness smiled faintly, her lips moved as if in apology; then she fell into a quiet sleep.
Agatha turned to her mistress.
"Go into the next room, mademoiselle, and rest there. I will watch over this sick woman."
"I cannot rest, dear Agatha; I have something else to do, but you must stay here until I return."
"Where are you going?"
"To the Luxembourg."
"Not now, mademoiselle; wait—I will accompany you."
"No, Agatha, I prefer to go alone; you must remain here until I come back," commanded Edmé.
Agatha knew it would be useless for her to remonstrate further, so she resumed her place by the bedside, and with the greatest anxiety saw her mistress leave the house, and, passing by the window, disappear up the street.
"How does one obtain admission to visit a prisoner, citizen doorkeeper?"
"How does one obtain permission?" repeated the keeper without looking up from the work with which he was occupied. "One waits in that room," and he gave a wave of the pen, "until the proper hour, then if one passes satisfactorily under the inspection of the chief prison-keeper and everything appears to be quite regular, one is allowed to see and converse with the prisoner for a short time."
"I wish to see some one here. Pray tell me where I shall find the chief keeper?"
"I am he," replied the keeper, pausing as he dipped his pen in the ink, and looking over the top of his desk saw a woman neatly but simply dressed, as became a citizeness of the Republic. The outlines of her features were partly hidden by the hood of a gray cloak drawn up about her head, but the shadows cast by this garment were not deep enough to hide altogether the beauty of the oval face beneath it.
"Whom do you wish to see?" he asked, evidently satisfied with his inspection, for he dipped his pen in the ink-bottle and resumed his work of ruling perpendicular lines in a ledger.
"I wish to see the prisoner, Robert Tournay."
The jailer put down his ruler. "That is impossible; the prisoner Tournay is not here."
"Not here! Then he has been set at liberty!" The cry of joy that sprang to her lips checked itself, frozen by the quick negative gesture on the keeper's part. She placed one hand upon the iron rail before her and closed her fingers tightly around it. "He is not—Do not tell me he is dead!" she whispered, looking up at the inexpressive face with a pleading expression in her eyes, as if the jailer were the arbiter of Tournay's fate.
"Transferred to the conciergerie. You may see for yourself, citizeness," and he held up the book and pointed with his forefinger to the notation upon the neatly ruled page, "'Trans. to C.' That means that Robert Tournay, former colonel in the army of the Republic, was yesterday transferred to the prison of the conciergerie."
Edmé's heart grew cold. She had no means of knowing the full purport of the change, but she felt that it boded nothing but ill to Robert Tournay.
"Can you tell me why this removal was made?" she asked, although fearing to hear the answer.
"To facilitate his trial. As every one knows the Revolutionary Tribunal is in the same building with the conciergerie. A prisoner may be brought from his cell in the prison into the tribunal chamber, be tried, sentenced, and returned to his dungeon without once being obliged to go outside. He only passes out into the streets on his way to the guillotine."
"Has the trial already taken place? Can I see him if I go there at once?" she demanded hurriedly.
As the jailer saw the young woman's evident distress his voice softened a little as he made reply: "That you may be prepared for another disappointment, I tell you now, that in order to visit him in the conciergerie, you will have to be furnished with a written permit from some member of the committee. Robert Tournay is confined 'in secret.'"
"Thank you, citizen jailer," was the faint reply. As Edmé turned and left the prison lodge, the custodian of the Luxembourg bent over his work again. The book was already filled with lists of names, written evenly in long columns. This book was the record of all the prisoners of the Luxembourg. When one left the prison his departure was duly noted in the space opposite his name. His transfer to another jail was indicated by the abbreviation "trans." If he was summoned before the tribunal and acquitted, this fact was chronicled by the letters "acq." If he was sentenced to death by the guillotine, the jailer marked him with a little black cross "X." He had once been a schoolmaster, and it was his pride to keep his prison records with neatness and accuracy.
"Nevertheless, I am going to the conciergerie," said Edmé to herself as she passed along the Rue Vaugirard; "to the conciergerie," she repeated. She stopped abruptly in the street as the remembrance of the Citizeness Privat came to her mind. Putting her hand into her pocket, she drew out the card. "'Permit the Citizeness Privat to enter the rooms of the tribunal.' I will be Madame Privat to-night" was Edmé's resolution. "Once in the tribunal chamber, I shall at least be very near the prison."
It was late in the afternoon when she reached the Quai de l'Horloge that skirted the frowning walls of the formidable prison. She passed the iron grating of the yard, and looking in, wondered why some sparrows which were twittering and fighting on the pavement beneath an unhealthy looking tree should remain for a moment in a prison yard when they had the whole outside world to fly in. Her pace, which had been a rapid one all the way from the Luxembourg, slackened as she approached the main entrance, and her fingers closed tightly on the card in her pocket, while the heart beneath the gray cloak beat rapidly.
She did not know where to find the tribunal chamber. She had never been in that part of Paris before. She only knew that somewhere in that pile of gray stone were the old Parliament rooms, at present converted into the tribunal chambers of the Republic. Once in those rooms she would be under the same roof with Robert Tournay. Passing along the prison wall, she turned up the Rue Barillerie, and there saw the words "Revolutionary Tribunal," in large letters over a doorway. Here was the place to begin the rôle of the Citizeness Privat.
The June evening was warm, and the air in the street fetid, as if it were poisoned by the prison atmosphere; yet with a quick movement of the hand she pulled the hood closer about her face, and rapidly ascended the stone staircase.
A porter sitting by the doorway looked at her with indifferent gaze, but said nothing as she showed him the permit. She passed into the large hall with a strange feeling, as if she were no longer Edmé de Rochefort.
From the information she had received Edmé knew that there was some means of communication between this hall and the prison. This communication she must discover, but she resolved to set about the task coolly and carefully in order that she might not arouse suspicion in the minds of any chance observer.
She imagined that she heard footsteps in a corridor on the other side of the chamber, and this reminded her forcibly that she must play the part of the Citizeness Privat. She gave a glance around the room, wondering how the worthy citizeness did her work. The room certainly was dirty and needed a good deal of cleaning. Bits of paper littered the floor and were scattered about upon the desks. Upon a set of shelves, some books and pamphlets were buried so deeply in dust that Edmé began to think the Citizeness Privat had been somewhat lax in the performance of her duty. After a short investigation she discovered a broom in an ante-room; and armed with this she returned to the hall and began to sweep into a heap the scraps of paper that littered the floor. This work soon began to fatigue her, and it also rolled up billows of dust which settled down over chairs and tables. She placed the broom in a corner, and looked about for some easier work which would serve her turn as well.
She espied a green cloth protruding from the edge of a table drawer. Opening the drawer she put in her hand and was surprised to find that the innocent cloth encased a large pistol. She removed the weapon and returned it to the drawer, while with the green case as a dust-cloth she made an attack upon the shelves of books with such violence and success as to cause her to draw back quickly with a sneeze. She stopped, and, with the green dust-cloth poised in air, listened attentively. No sound was heard. Cautiously approaching the door she looked up and down the passageway.
At the further end of this corridor she could see a small iron-barred door. This, she rightly conjectured, led to the conciergerie, and through it passed the prisoners when they were brought in for trial. She determined to pass into the prison through this door, and went toward it with a firm step. Taking hold of the bars with both hands, she pressed her face against the ironwork.
"What do you want here?" demanded a voice, and Edmé saw in the sombre half light the figure of a sentry. He stood so near the door upon the other side that by stretching her hand through the bars she could have touched him.
"I wish to enter here," Edmé replied.
"One does not enter here, citizeness. Go around to the main entrance on the Quai."
"It is so far," she demurred pleadingly. "I have been doing my work here in the tribunal chambers, and now wish to have a few words of conversation with the turnkey Privat."
"Who are you?"
"I—I am Jeanne Privat, his sister."
"Well—such being the case, I will let you come through, but you must be sure to come out this way, citizeness. If you were seen going out of the lower entrance, not having entered there, it might get both of us in trouble. And you might lose your place as well as I."
As he spoke he opened the lower half of an iron wicket. "Duck your head a little, citizeness, and enter quickly."
Edmé did not need a second bidding; the gate closed with a snap, and she was inside the conciergerie.
"Privat is in the second corridor. Go to the right and then turn to the left," said the warder. "There he is now, just at the corner," he added hastily. "Hey, Privat," and he gave a prolonged, low whistle, "here is your sister, come to see you."
François Privat was slow of speech as well as of brain, so he merely stood gaping with amazement at sight of the young woman who claimed him as a brother, and who bore not the slightest resemblance to his sister Jeanne. Edmé stepped quickly forward toward the turnkey, saying in a low voice as she approached him:—
"I bringa messagefrom your sister; the good sentry should have told you." Then in the same breath, she went on hurriedly to say: "The poor woman was taken quite ill this afternoon, so ill that she had to be put to bed. I came to do her work in the tribunal chambers, but thought you should be told of your sister's illness, so asked the sentry to let me speak to you."
In her trepidation, she hardly knew what words came to her lips.
There was silence; then after Privat had gotten the information into his head, and had digested it, he said slowly:—
"Tell Jeanne Privat that I shall come to see her—let me see—day after to-morrow—no—the day after that, Thursday, my first free time."
Edmé looked up into his face. He was very tall and of a ruddy complexion, fully fifteen years younger than his sister.
"Is that all your message?" she inquired, in order to gain time for thought.
"At four o'clock in the afternoon, if you like, but she knows the time well enough—from four to six."
Then without showing any further interest in the subject, the imperturbable Privat took up his bunch of keys and began to polish one of them upon his coatsleeve.
There was a pause.
Edmé summoned all her courage and spoke with as much composure as she could assume, although she felt that her voice trembled:—
"Citizen Privat, I have an urgent request to make you."
Privat blinked at her out of his stupid eyes.
"But I am prepared to pay for it."
A sign of animation seemed to come into the turnkey's face, but he did not move nor seek to question her.
"What I am about to ask may be very difficult for you to do, and that is why I am prepared to pay youwell." She dwelt upon the last words, seeming to guess that she had struck the right note.
"How much are you prepared to pay?" he asked in his slow way.
Edmé drew a purse from the folds of her gown, and opening it disclosed a number of shining gold pieces. Privat's eyes were animated now.
"All that!" he exclaimed. "What do you want me to do for it? It must be something dangerous. I—I am not a brave man."
"It is merely," continued Edmé, holding the open purse in her hand, "to procure me speech with a prisoner."
"What prisoner?"
"Colonel Robert Tournay."
"But it is impossible; he is in secret confinement."
"I know he is, but what I ask is not impossible. There are five hundred francs here; five hundred francs, all for you, if you will but bring me to the cell of Robert Tournay."
"I cannot do that; I have not the key."
"You know who has the key. Surely some of this gold will enable you to get it. I leave the means with you."
Privat's mind seemed to be going through the process which served him for thought.
"At the further end of the south corridor," he finally said, motioning with a key, "in half an hour, the prisoner Tournay will be allowed to walk for exercise. The south corridor is separated from this one by a grated door. I will see that you get through that door. That is all I can do."
Edmé pressed the purse into his huge palm, which closed upon it greedily.
"Shall I come with you now?" she asked, her pulse beating high between expectation, hope, and fear.
"No, wait here in the shadow until I come to fetch you to him. I shall also come to tell you when you must leave the south corridor. You will have to do so quickly and go back the same way you came. If you are discovered here, I shall get into trouble. You understand?"
"I understand," she answered.
For three days Tournay and St. Hilaire worked away persistently at the bars of their window. They only dared work between the hours of one and four in the morning. Not only secrecy but great ingenuity was called for, as it was necessary that the bars should preserve in the daytime their usual appearance of solidity.
To do this, all the filings were kept, and at the termination of each night's work, this dust, moistened by saliva into a paste, was smeared into the fissure they had made. Their intention was to cut each bar nearly through, leaving it standing, but so weakened that it could be torn out by a sudden wrench.
On the morning which terminated their third night's labor, just as the first gray streak in the east announced the early coming of the long, hot summer day, the third bar had been cut halfway through. The two prisoners looked into each other's eyes. Both realized that they must work rapidly in order to complete their task in time.
"At all hazards we must begin earlier to-night," whispered St. Hilaire significantly. Tournay nodded. "There is still a good deal of work to be done, although a thin man might squeeze through," he said.
"Not a man of your breadth, colonel," replied St. Hilaire, carefully rubbing the dampened filings into the crevice. "We shall have to cut through all of them, and even then it will be a narrow passageway for your shoulders."
"Now for a little rest," he continued, descending from the table as quietly as a cat, and putting it in another part of the cell.
Tired out by their work and the attendant excitement, the two men threw themselves, fully dressed, upon their beds and slept until late in the morning. Their slumber might have continued until past noon had they not been rather unceremoniously awakened by the appearance of the turnkey and a couple of gendarmes by their bedside.
"What is wanted?" exclaimed Tournay sleepily.
"You are to be transferred to the conciergerie, citizen colonel, that is all," was the reply, although the tone implied a deeper meaning.
Tournay sprang from the bed, wide enough awake now, and with a sickening feeling at his heart. He looked at St. Hilaire, who was lying upon his own pallet outwardly indifferent to the announcement, but whose fingers silently stole under the mattress and closed upon the file that had been placed there the night before. St. Hilaire continued to lie there motionless, feigning sleep; but his alert brain was busy with the problem as to where it would be possible for him to deftly and successfully hide the useful little tool in case the guards had also come to search their cell.
"Are you ready, citizen colonel?"
Tournay gave a quick glance at their window. St. Hilaire rose to a sitting posture.
"Citizen colonel," he said, "will you take my hand at parting?"
Tournay stepped to his bedside. Outwardly calm, the two prisoners clasped hands. Tournay felt the hard substance of steel against his palm.
Giving no sign of his surprise, he shook his head sadly. "It is useless," he said.
"Good-by, citizen colonel," said St. Hilaire carelessly, as one might bid adieu to a chance acquaintance. "I am thinner than you, and I may grow still more so if they keep me here many days longer." He gave an imperceptible glance of the eye in the direction of the window.
The colonel turned away while the file slid up his coat sleeve.
"I am ready, citizen officers," he said.
The two gendarmes preceded him into the corridor. As he stepped over the threshold, Gendarme Pierre caught him quickly by the wrist and the next instant had the file in his own possession.
It was done so adroitly and quickly that Tournay could have offered no resistance even had he been so inclined. The other gendarme was not even aware of what took place.
"I like a clever trick," said Pierre with a chuckle.
"You are quite a magician," was Tournay's rejoinder.
The tall gendarme gave his grim chuckle. "I am called Pierre the prestidigitateur," he said, "though you are yourself fairly adept at palming. What have you been doing with this little plaything?" he continued, as they walked down the corridor.
"You mean 'What did I intend to do with it?' do you not?"
The gendarme examined the file carefully.
"No, I mean what have you been using it on," he said.
Tournay was silent.
"Oh, you need not hesitate to speak; it will be found out."
Tournay shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply.
"Well, you are right," said the gendarme. "It is for us to find out." And he relapsed into a silence that was not broken until they reached the conciergerie.
"You will hardly escape from this place though you had a whole workshop of tools," he said grimly at parting.
Tournay realized the truth of this statement, for he was now in the most dreaded of all the prisons of Paris, and he knew well what his transfer foreshadowed.
Tournay had no certain means of knowing whether their attempt to cut their way out of the Luxembourg had been discovered; and he still cherished the slight hope that St. Hilaire might be able to escape from the Luxembourg with the assistance of Gaillard.
Had they both escaped, St. Hilaire and he had formed a daring plan to rescue the Republic from the hands of those who were destroying it. And now, even though it was frustrated, he could not help going over all the details in his mind, although the thought of their complete failure added to his misery.
The news of the arrest of General Hoche had reached Tournay's ears some time before, and although it had caused him great pain to learn of the misfortune that had befallen his chief, he felt that the event would embitter the army, and that they would the more readily give their support to any plan that would of necessity liberate Hoche.
This plan had been made for Tournay to reach the army and enlist the officers in his support; then return to Paris with a sufficient force at his back to destroy the tyrants and overawe that part of the Commune that still idolized them. That would give an opportunity for the cooler and more moderate heads in the convention to come to the front, restore order, and form a stable government based upon the constitution.
St. Hilaire, meanwhile, was to remain in hiding; but the first approach of the national troops and the first blast of the counter-revolution was to be the signal for him to appear in the faubourgs, supported by all the followers he could muster, armed with all the eloquence he could command, to move the people to action, and fan to white heat the flame of opposition to the Terrorists which was already smouldering on every side.
But now all the fabric of the carefully spun scheme had been blown roughly aside by one puff of adverse wind.
Once in the conciergerie, a prisoner was not kept in uncertainty for any length of time. The next day after his transfer Tournay was summoned for trial. At first he attempted to defend himself with all the eloquence which the justice of his case called forth. All the fire of his nature was aroused, and as he spoke the attention of the crowded court room was held as if by a spell. Murmurs of applause rose from the multitude, even among those who had come in the hope of seeing him judged guilty.
But upon his judges he made no visible effect. They refused to call his witnesses. They suppressed the applause, and cutting short his defense hastened to conclude his trial. Tournay saw the futility of his defense. He read the verdict in the eyes of the judges, and sat down.
After the verdict had been given he was taken back to the conciergerie, "sentenced to die within eight and forty hours."
"Oh, for a month of freedom!" he cried inwardly, as he reëntered the prison. "For one short month of liberty! After that time had passed I would submit to any death uncomplainingly."
Withdrawing to the further end of the corridor where he was permitted to walk for a short time, he sat down by a rough table where some of the lighter-hearted prisoners had, in earlier days, beguiled the time at cards. Here he rested his head upon his arm and sat motionless.
Then his thoughts returned to Edmé, or rather continued to dwell upon her, for no matter what he did or spoke or thought, no matter how absorbing the occupation of the hour, she was always in his mind, the consciousness of her presence was ever in his heart.
"Oh, for one little month of liberty," he cried aloud, "to make one attempt to rescue France, and to see you, Edmé, once again!" He rose from his seat with a gesture of despair, and turning, saw her standing there before him. He stood in silence, looking at her as if she were the creation of his fancy, stepped for a moment from the shadow of the gray walls to melt into nothingness, should he, by speaking, break the spell.
She came toward him, putting her finger to her lips as a sign of caution. "Speak low," she whispered, "lest they hear you!"
"Mademoiselle de Rochefort," he replied in a low voice, "is this really you? In God's name tell me how you come to be here?"
"I have come to you," she answered simply, putting her hands in his. "When I heard that you had been arrested and put in prison, I knew that I should come and find you. You see all France was not wide enough to keep me from you."
"Then you are not a prisoner?" he exclaimed joyfully.
"No, I came in of my own free will. No one suspects who I am."
"Merciful God, do you know the risk you run? Why have you done this?"
"Have you not risked your life more than once for my sake? Did you think that Edmé de Rochefort would do less for you?"
"Edmé!"
For a moment the prison walls vanished. His shattered plans were forgotten. The redemption of the Republic became as nothing; he only knew that Edmé de Rochefort had proved beyond all human doubt her love for him, and that it was her loyal, loving heart he could feel throbbing, as he pressed her to his breast.
Only for a moment, then the full realization of the terrible risk she ran smote him with redoubled force. He turned pale. She had never seen him so deadly white before, and it frightened her.
"Hush," he whispered before she could speak, and stepping cautiously to the grated door he peered out between the bars. As far as the elbow of the corridor, he could see no one. With a sigh of relief he came back to her. His fears for her safety restored the activity of his mind.
"It is dangerous for you to go about the city. The merest accident, the slightest inquiry in regard to you might lead to your detection."
"I will be very careful," she replied submissively.
"Ah, Edmé," he said, "who am I to deserve such a love as yours? The thought of the risk you incur almost drives me mad. The knowledge of your love will make my last hours the happiest of my life."
"Do not speak of dying, Robert," she said. "There must still be hope. They dare not condemn you."
The words, "You do not know," sprang to his lips, but the look upon her face told him that she was as yet in ignorance of his sentence. He lacked the courage to tell her.
"It must come, Edmé; we should not be blind to that. I would gladly live, if only long enough to see France freed from the talons that rend it, and the true Republic rise from under the tyranny that is crushing it to death. I would gladly live for your love, a love I never dared to hope for either on earth or in heaven. Surely I ought to be the happiest of men to have tasted such bliss even for a moment; and to die with the firm belief that we shall meet beyond the grave."
She did not answer. The quick heaving of her bosom and the quiet sobbing she struggled to suppress went to his heart.
"Do not grieve for me so much," he whispered, drawing her to him; "after all, it will only be for a little while."
"For you who go the time may seem short," she answered mournfully; "but each year that I live without you will seem an eternity. I cannot bear it."
"Courage, dear one, I beseech you; do not grieve for me. Why, I might have met death any day within the past years. I have come to regard it with indifference. Not that I despise life," he added quickly. "Life with you would be more than heaven, but the very nature of a soldier's life makes him look upon his own sudden death as almost a probability. It is but a pang, and all is over."
"I will not grieve for you, Robert," she replied with firmness, "not while there is something to be done. Something that I can do. They shall not murder you."
"What are you going to do?" he asked quickly, fearing that some rash undertaking had suggested itself to her mind.
"This Robespierre rules through the fear he has inspired, but he is hated," replied Edmé. "The people accept his decrees like sheep, but they obey sullenly. They do not criticise him, but that bodes him the greater ill. It needs but one blast to make the whole nation turn against him. There must be men in the convention who are ready to rebel against him," she continued, talking rapidly. "I shall go to them."
"No, Edmé, you shall not. It would be"—
"Listen to what I have to say," she said, interrupting him with an imperative gesture. "I shall find them out; I shall go to their houses. It needs but a little fire; I will kindle it. I will plead with them. If they have any regard for their Republic they will listen to me. Your name, Robert, shall not be mentioned, but it will be my love for you that shall speak to them. In the name of the Republic I shall plead with them, but it will be only to save you. If they have any courage or manhood left, they will accept now."
Robert Tournay looked at her with wonder and admiration as, with a flush of excitement on her cheek, she outlined clearly and rapidly a plan strikingly similar to that evolved by St. Hilaire and himself,—similar, but more daring, more impossible; one that could not fail to be disastrous to her, whatever the ultimate result.
For a moment he feared to speak, knowing the inflexibility of her will. "I pray you, Edmé, abandon your design. It will only drag you into the net and will not avail me."
"Robert, my mind is fixed; my action may result in saving you, but if not, your fate shall be mine also."
"Edmé! Do not speak thus. The thought of you standing on that scaffold, the terrible knife menacing your beautiful neck, will drive me mad. Oh, the horror of it!" and he put his hand before his eyes and trembled.
"Promise me that you will not do this," he continued pleadingly. "Robespierre's power will come to an end, but the time is not yet ripe. Do not try to save my life. Do not even try to see me again." He took her head between his hands. "Let this be our last adieu," he pleaded. "Listen! the turnkey is advancing down the passageway. I touch your lips; the memory of it shall dwell in my soul forever."
She threw her arms about his neck for a moment, then before the heavy turnkey entered the inclosure she had passed quickly along the dark corridor through the wicket gate into the Tribunal Hall.
The chamber was dimly lighted by two smoky oil lamps, one on each side of the room; but they gave out enough light to enable her to see the way between the desks and chairs toward the door through which she had first entered from the street.
Edmé turned the handle of the door but could not open it. It had been locked on the outside. She ran to one of the front windows. By the faint light in the Rue Barillerie, she could discern an occasional passer-by. With an effort she raised the heavy sash and leaned out. It was between eight and nine o'clock, and the small street was very quiet. The few pedestrians were already out of hearing, and had they been nearer she would have feared to call out to them. She looked down at the pavement. The height was twenty feet; she closed the window with a shudder. Looking about the room she saw, what had before escaped her notice, a ray of light coming through the crack of a door into an adjoining room.
A number of voices in conversation was audible. She resolved to play again the part of Citizeness Privat. Whoever might be there, when he learned that she had been accidentally locked in while at work, would show her the way out.
The door opened wider, and a man came forth. Edmé, who had hastily taken up the same broom she had before used, pretended to be at work, while she summoned her self-possession. The man gave her no more than a casual glance as he went to a table, took out from a drawer a bundle of papers, and proceeded to look them over.
Edmé looked at him closely, sweeping all the while. Her first apprehension was quieted when she saw he was a very young man with rosy cheeks and a pen behind his ear. He was evidently one of the government clerks, staying late at the office to finish some piece of work.
She breathed more freely every moment notwithstanding the amount of dust she raised. The clerk put the bundle of papers under his arm with a gesture of annoyance, and went back to the other room.
Edmé waited a few minutes, put the broom under her arm, and approached the door which the clerk had left ajar. She could not help starting as she read the large letters on the panel of the door. The room which contained the apple-faced and harmless looking little scribe was designated "Chamber of Death Warrants."
"Here's a pretty state of affairs, Clément," she heard a voice exclaim in a tone of annoyance. "The list of warrants for 'La Force' to-morrow consists of thirty-seven names while I have only thirty-six documents."
"Count them again, Hanneton; you know at school you were always slow at figures."
"I have compared the warrants with the list of names twice most carefully. I assure you one warrant is missing. See for yourself, 'Bonnefoi, Charles de, ex-noble' is on the list, but there is not a single Bonnefoi among to-morrow's pile of warrants."
"Have you looked through those of day after to-morrow?"
"I have, both of the day after to-morrow and the day following that. In fact, I have gone over all the warrants for all the prisoners, but still noBonnefoi, Charles de, ex-noble."
"Lucky for Bonnefoi!"
"But unlucky for me. I shall be discharged if I let these go out this way."
"I tell you what to do," said Clément, "take one from the day after to-morrow. They are in too great a hurry in the office these days to compare the lists; they just see if the number tallies, and send off the warrants to the keepers of the various prisons."
"But if I do that I shall still be one short, day after to-morrow."
"No you will not," replied the facile Clément; "you just take one from the day following that, and so on and so forth. You merely keep the thing going. Your lists and warrants will agree as to number every day. No question arises, and the only result is that some fellow gets shoved along under the national razor just twenty-four hours earlier than he would have, had not some one,—I won't say named Hanneton,—but some one who shall be nameless, made a little blunder."
"I rather dislike to do such a thing, Clément."
"Oh, Hanneton, my boy, I always said you were slow. What's twenty-four hours to a man who has got to die anyway? and then think of Bonnefoi; he'll be overlooked for a long time. Some of those fellows among the aristocracy have been in prison two or three years already. They get to like it and lead quite a jolly life there. I am told they have fine times in some of the prisons. Bonnefoi will be wondering why they don't come to shave him, but he won't say anything. Bonnefoi won't peep. You can count on his silence."
"But my friend Clément, it will be discovered some day."
"Well, I can't look ahead so far as that. If you are found out you can say you made a mistake. They can't any more than discharge a man for making a mistake."
"I'll do it, Clément. Here goes—good luck to Bonnefoi."
"And good luck to the fellow you shove ahead in his place; we'll drink an extra glass to him when we finish work to-night. Let's see what may his name be."
"'Tournay, Robert, former Colonel!' Hello, what's that?" cried Clément, interrupting him.
"I did not hear anything," replied Hanneton.
"The sound seemed to come from the next room."
"Oh, it's only that woman who is cleaning the place. She has knocked over a table or a chair. Come. Let's go out and get something to eat. I'm famished. We can return later, and finish our work."
The revelation that Tournay was condemned, the awful knowledge that he would be executed on the morrow, conveyed to her thus suddenly, made the room reel before Edmé's eyes. In her dizziness she fell against one of the tables and held to it for support.
In the quiet that followed the departure of the clerks she pressed her head and tried to think. At first her benumbed brain refused to work; then as the full significance of the clerk's action came back to her, when she realized just what he had done and what she in her turn might do, she stood erect, alert, and courageous.
The warrant for Robert's death; could she get possession of it? With a beating heart she glided into the chamber of death warrants.
A lamp was burning in the room, and there in plain view upon the table were three packets of black-covered papers. She bent over them hastily and at once took up the file marked: "Warrants of the eighth Thermidor." With nervous fingers she ran them through, looking at each name until she came to that of "Tournay, Robert, ex-colonel." At sight of the name she gave a half-suppressed cry, and took it quietly from the others. "They shall not send you to the guillotine to-morrow, Robert," she breathed. Her first thought was how to make way with the fatal paper. She looked round the room; it had one window and two doors. The window looked out upon the street. One doorway led back into the tribunal chamber. Through the other, a small one, the two clerks must have passed out. She hastened towards it, praying fervently that they had omitted to fasten it. Vain prayer, the clerks had not been remiss in their duty here. It was locked. Yet it was not a strong barrier. A few blows struck with some heavy object might break it through; or better still there was a pistol in the drawer of one of the desks; with that she could blow the lock to atoms. Either method would make a noise, but she must take the risk.
Just as these thoughts flashed through her mind, she saw to her consternation the door-handle turn, and heard the grating of a key on the outside.
"The employees returning," she thought, and had just presence of mind enough to pass her left hand, which still clutched the death warrant, behind her back, when the door opened, and she was face to face with a woman.
"Hello!" said the latter, "I expected to find Clément and Hanneton here. Who are you?"
"I—I am,—I came in the place of Madame—of Citizeness Privat."
"You seem a little put out, citizeness, at the sight of La Liberté. You have never seen me before? That's why, eh? Tell me, now, what are you doing here?"
"I am doing the work of Citizeness Privat, who is ill," replied Edmé, recovering her self-possession.
"Hum," said La Liberté with a slight sniff, as she closed the door and passed toward the centre of the room. Edmé slowly revolved on her heel, keeping her face toward La Liberté, and her left hand behind her back.
"What are you trying to hide there?" demanded La Liberté quickly, whose bright brown eyes took in every motion of Edmé.
"I have nothing to hide."
La Liberté's glance went from Edmé to the warrants on the table, and then back to Edmé's face again.
"You are hiding something behind your back," persisted La Liberté, trying to obtain a peep at it by making a circle around Edmé. Edmé continued to turn, always keeping her face toward La Liberté.
The latter stopped. "I will see what you have there," she declared with a toss of her head, her curiosity aroused to the burning point.
"You shall not. It does not concern you," was the firm reply.
For an instant each looked into the other's eyes in silence. Both breathed defiance; both were equally determined.
Then with a tigerlike spring La Liberté dashed forward, seized Edmé about the waist with one arm, while she endeavored to secure the parchment with her other hand. Edmé quickly passed the document into her right hand, bringing it forward high above her head. With the same cat-like agility, La Liberté sprang for it on the other side and managed to get hold of it by one corner. There was a short struggle; a tearing of paper, and each held a piece of the document in her hand.
"A warrant!" exclaimed La Liberté, darting back a few paces and shaking out the piece of paper in her hand. "You have been tampering with these," she added quickly, putting one hand upon the pile of documents on the table.
Edmé made no reply.
"Why did you take it?" inquired La Liberté, taking her portion of paper near the light to examine it, while she kept one eye fixed upon her late antagonist, in fear of a sudden attack.
The warrant had been divided nearly down the centre; but the last name of the condemned man was upon the piece held by La Liberté.
"Tournay!" she cried out in surprise. "Robert Tournay! What object have you in destroying this warrant?"
"I have not destroyed it," replied Edmé, making the greatest effort to maintain an outward calm. "It was you who tore it."
"Don't try any of those tricks with me," snapped La Liberté. "Come, what was your object in taking this warrant? It is a dangerous thing to tamper with those documents."
"I shall not answer any of your questions," was Edmé's rejoinder.
For a space of ten seconds the two women stood again confronting each other, as if each waited for the other to move. La Liberté's eyes looked fixedly at Edmé, as if they would read her through and through.
"You are not what you pretend to be," she said finally; "you are no woman of the people." Then, suddenly flinging aside the torn paper, she rushed forward and seized Edmé's arm.
"I know who you are now!" she exclaimed excitedly. "You are an aristocrat! Don't deny it!" she continued passionately. "I came from La Thierry. I was a young girl when I left there, but my memory serves me well. Your name is Edmé de Rochefort. You are an aristocrat, and you love the republican colonel! You destroyed this warrant. You risked your life in the attempt to prolong his."
"Whoever I may be, whatever I attempted to do, you tore that paper. It was you who destroyed it," said Edmé as she wrenched herself free from the woman's grasp.
The only answer of La Liberté was a loud and scornful laugh. She approached Edmé again with a malignant glitter in her eyes; but Edmé held her ground and confronted her bravely.
"So you are Edmé de Rochefort," repeated La Liberté slowly. "I remember having seen you years ago when I was a girl of fifteen, at my father's mill near the village of La Thierry. You were a pale-faced girl then. You didn't wear coarse clothes then! You drove in your carriage, and didn't look at such as me; but I saw you, and hated you for being so proud. Then there was a certain marquis." A bright spot appeared on Edmé's cheek, but she did not speak.
"He came to pay his court to you, but he made love to me. He never even made a pretense of loving you. But he cared for me in his cold, selfish way. He took me to Paris, gave me everything money could buy, for a while. Then he left me, and went back to you. I hated you for that. You did not care for him. You did not marry him. That made no difference to me. Then there was another man. He was not for you. He was of my class, not yours. You had no right to his love. He never loved me, I know. I am too proud to say he loved me when it was not so. But he was kind to me. He was noble and generous, and I loved him. You had no right to him. I hate you for that more than all." Her passion wrought upon her so that her once pretty face was something fearful to behold. Edmé expected at each breath she would spring forward and tear her like a tiger cat.
"I care not for your hatred," Edmé retorted calmly. "I never willfully wronged you. Your hatred cannot harm me."
"No?" demanded the frenzied La Liberté. "It can restore this paper. I can denounce you. I can send you with your lover to the guillotine."
"That does not terrify me," replied Edmé. "You can send the woman you hate and the man you profess to love into another world together. That is all you can do. I am above your hatred."
La Liberté started to speak, then checked herself.
"You say you love him. Love," repeated Edmé in a tone of deep disdain. "You dare to call that love which would destroy its object? Such as you are not capable of love."
"If it were not thatyouloved him, I would let them cut me into pieces for his sake," retorted La Liberté fiercely.
"You say that you love him, and you are willing to send him to the guillotine," repeated Edmé.
"If it were not that it would be giving him to you, I would give my life a thousand times to save him," was the answer.
Edmé caught La Liberté by the arm.
"You have it in your power to cause my arrest. If you will not use that power, if you will give me only twenty-four hours, I may be able to save Robert Tournay's life. At the expiration of that time, whether I succeed or fail, I will surrender myself. I will denounce myself before the Committee of Public Safety."
La Liberté looked into Edmé's face searchingly but made no reply.
"You understand what I propose," Edmé continued in a cool, firm voice. "If you agree to it you can accomplish what you desire; the rescue of Robert Tournay and my death."
"Bah," said La Liberté with a shrug; "you are very heroic, but, Robert Tournay once out of danger, you would not give yourself up to the committee. In your place, I should not do it, and I will not trust you."
"I give you my promise to appear before Robespierre himself."
"Your promise," repeated La Liberté, "you ask me to accept your simple word?"
"The word of a de Rochefort," said Edmé with quiet dignity.
"The word of an aristocrat," continued La Liberté slowly. "You aristocrats vaunt your devotion to honor."