"And will you not trust it when Colonel Tournay's life is at stake?" asked Edmé.
"Yes, I will," La Liberté burst forth in fierce energy. "Iwilltrust your word, and test your honor."
"Then for twenty-four hours you will let me go free? You will not have me watched nor interfered with in any way?"
"I give youmyword," said La Liberté, drawing herself up, "and my word is as good as that of the proudest aristocrat."
Then changing her manner she asked quickly: "How do you propose to save Robert Tournay? What can you do?"
Edmé had no intention of imparting her plan to La Liberté, yet she did not wish to antagonize her by refusing to confide in her.
"There is not time to go into the details of it now. First help me to get away from here. Those clerks may return."
"I will prevent that," said La Liberté quickly. "I know where they sup. I will go there and delay their return. They are convivial youngsters and never refuse a glass or two. In the meantime you must see to it that those three files of warrants do not retain the slightest appearance of having been handled. Be sure that every object in the room is just as you found it."
By this time La Liberté was outside the door. Looking back into the room, she said: "When you have done that, go down this staircase, cross the street, and wait for me in the shadow of the building opposite. I will then conduct you to my house," and La Liberté's feet sprang nimbly down the stairs.
Quickly Edmé picked up the pieces of torn warrant, intending to take them away and burn them. Then she turned her attention to the documents on the table, and in a few minutes had them arranged just as she found them. She placed the chairs in a natural position before the table, and stepped back for a final survey to assure herself that she had not left a trace which might arouse the suspicion of the clerks.
No, there was nothing that Hanneton or even Clément would be likely to notice. She had been none too rapid in the arrangement of these details. The door of the adjoining chamber was unlocked and some one entered.
Edmé could tell by the footfalls that the person was traversing the room with measured tread. Then came the sound of a chair being drawn up to a desk. Then a dry cough echoed through the deserted hall as a man cleared his throat.
Edmé gave a glance toward the door that led down the staircase taken by La Liberté. It stood invitingly open, but to gain it she would have to pass the door that communicated with the tribunal. This also was open. She started on tiptoe across the floor.
The words "Bring me a light here, will you?" fell upon her ears in a harsh tone of authority. She started at this sudden command. She had made no noise, yet the mysterious personage seemed to be aware of her presence.
"In the next room there, whoever you are, bring in more light; this lamp burns villainously!"
Edmé hesitated no longer but caught up the lamp from the table and entered the tribunal chamber. As she obediently placed the light upon the desk the man who was writing there looked up with impatient gesture. Although she had never seen him before, she had heard him described many times, and she knew that he was Robespierre.
"Well!" he exclaimed, "who are you?"
"I—I am here in place of the Citizeness Privat."
"The Citizeness Privat?"
"Yes, she cleans up the rooms, and being ill"—
"Cleans!" repeated Robespierre with a laugh, blowing the dust from the top of the table, "Is that what you call it? This Privat is like all the rest, willing to take the nation's pay and give nothing in return. And you are also like the rest, eh?"
"I do not know what you mean. I am doing her work as well as I can. With your permission I will hasten to complete my task," replied Edmé.
In spite of her abhorrence of him she could not help looking at him intently, her eyes expressing the horror which she felt. To her, he was the embodiment of all that was evil, the very spirit of the Revolution. As her glance rested upon the white waistcoat, fitting close to his meagre figure, and as she thought of the cruel heart that beat beneath it, the vision of Charlotte Corday and the vile Marat flashed before her eyes with startling vividness.
What if heaven had decreed that she should be the means of ridding the world of this monster? What if the opportunity was about to present itself? She pushed the thought away from her, with the inward supplication, "God keep me from doing it."
Robespierre noticed the look of horror on her face, and attributed it to the fear his presence inspired. His small eyes blinked complacently.
"Stay," he said; "you have nothing to fear if you are a good patriotic citizeness. And you may be pardoned if you neglect your work for a few minutes to converse with Robespierre."
There was an insinuating softness in his tone as he spoke that made her nerves creep and increased her loathing for him. He sat leaning back negligently in his chair, and she stood looking down upon him like some superb creature from another world.
"By the power of beauty," he exclaimed suddenly, "you are a glorious woman! I have always said that only among women of the people is true beauty to be found."
She neither moved nor spoke, but stood still as a statue.
He leaned forward in his chair. "You shall lay aside your broom and dust-rags. I would see more of you. I have it. You shall be the Goddess of Beauty at our next great fête. In that rôle Robespierre himself will render you homage." Rising, he took one of her hands in his.
She shuddered. It was as if a snake had coiled itself about her fingers. The contact with her soft hand sent just a drop of blood to his sallow cheek.
"What sayst thou, O glorious creature? Wilt thou be a goddess of beauty and sit enthroned upon the Champ de Mars, dressed in radiant clothing, instead of these poor garments?" He spoke in low tones meant to be tender.
Again the vision of Charlotte Corday flashed before her.
"No, no!" she cried out, more in answer to the thought that terrified her than to his question.
"Fear nothing, fair one," he said soothingly. "Robespierre is only terrible to the guilty; to the good he is always magnanimous and kind. Some say that I abuse my power, but that is false. True, I condemn many, but 'tis done with justice; and I also pardon many. Should I receive no credit for my clemency?" he continued, as if he were arguing with some unseen personage.
He released her hand and leaned his elbow on the desk. Her hand fell cold and numb to her side, but the spell in which he had held her was broken. A sudden daring resolve entered her head.
"I have been told that you were a cruel monster, who condemned for the pleasure of condemning; who did not know the meaning of clemency," she said, "and therefore I am afraid of you."
"They have maligned me," he answered.
"Will you prove it by granting me a pardon, one that I can use as I may wish?"
Robespierre became alert on the instant.
"You would set some man at liberty?"
"Yes."
"Your lover, is it not?"
"I pray you, do not ask me."
"Do not ask you!" repeated Robespierre. "And yet you ask me to pardon him. Why should I do it?"
"To prove that you know what clemency is."
"I would rather show it in some other way. I should be a fool to set your lover at liberty, so that you both might laugh at me."
"I have not said that it was my lover."
"No, but I say so."
"You said a moment ago that you knew what mercy was, yet you cannot understand my feeling at the thought that he must die."
Robespierre took up a pen from the table and poised it over a sheet of paper. The pleading look in the beautiful eyes gave him great enjoyment, and he took a keen relish in prolonging it.
"A few words from my pen," he said tantalizingly, "would set the man at liberty. How would you reward me if I wrote them for you?"
"Oh, I pray you to do so," she cried out, throwing herself at his feet. "I pray you to write them. If you have the power, use it for mercy."
Robespierre gazed deep into the eyes which looked up at him imploringly.
"Who are you?" he demanded with the energy of sudden passion. "You are no woman of the common people. Who are you?"
"One who would have you do a noble action," she answered. "One who is pleading with you for your own soul's sake."
"Whoever you may be, you have bewitched me. Promise you will come hence with me, and I will write the release."
"Write it," she whispered faintly.
Robespierre dashed off a few hurried lines.
"What is the fellow's name?" he asked.
"Sign the paper," she murmured, dropping her eyes. "I implore you, do not ask me his name. Let me fill that in."
"I will free no man from prison unless I know his name," replied Robespierre.
"I will never tell you that," she replied, rising to her feet and going to the other side of the desk, "never."
"What foolish nonsense," he complained, signing his name. "Now," he continued, shaking the sand box over the wet ink, "tell me his name, and I will send this pardon to the conciergerie at once. See, I have written 'immediate release' upon it. You have only to tell me his name. Do you still hesitate?"
There was a sudden rattle in the drawer on Edmé's side of the desk. Leaning forward, she brought one hand down upon the paper, while with the other she pointed a pistol at Robespierre's head.
He turned deadly white and drew back in his chair.
"Would you murder me?" he gasped out.
"If you make one movement," she replied, "Marat's fate will be yours." He cringed further away from the muzzle of the weapon that stared him in the face. With one hand she folded up the document and put it in the bosom of her dress, all the while keeping the pistol aimed steadily at him.
"Now," she continued coolly, "you have the key of the door. Make no movement," she added quickly, bringing the pistol still nearer him, "but tell me where to find it."
"It is in the door now," he snarled.
She came cautiously around the corner of the desk, still keeping the weapon leveled at his head.
He rose to his feet and sprang toward her. The pistol snapped. He caught her by the wrist. Then pinning both her arms to her side with his arms about her waist he breathed in her ear:—
"You cannot fire a pistol that is not loaded, though youdidstartle me. Now give me that paper."
Edmé did not speak, but struggled desperately to break from his grasp. She determined that he might kill her before she would give back the paper. So fiercely did she struggle that he had to exert all his strength to hold her.
"I'll have that paper again if I have to strangle you to get it!" he muttered through his teeth. He succeeded in holding down both arms with one of his, leaving his left arm free.
Before he could make use of it, he felt himself seized from behind. His nerves, strained by his previous fright, gave way completely at this unexpected attack. Uttering a cry, he released his hold completely.
"Save yourself; I will not hold you to your promise!" cried a voice. Edmé waited to hear nothing more, but darted swiftly from the room, leaving the baffled Robespierre confronted by La Liberté.
For a moment he stood still, his surprise rendering him incapable of speech or action. La Liberté walked jauntily to the door through which Edmé had just vanished, locked it, and stuck the key in her belt beside the knife she always wore there.
"Do you know what you are doing, you mad creature?" cried Robespierre, running to the door and putting his hand upon the latch. "Unlock this door at once."
"Wait a moment; I have something to say to you," was La Liberté's rejoinder.
"Give me that key instantly, do you hear?" he yelled, stamping his foot upon the floor. "You do not know what you are doing."
"I know," said La Liberté, nodding her head. "I have seen and heard everything; I have been watching you from the door of the back staircase."
"The back staircase!" exclaimed Robespierre, starting toward it.
"You need not trouble to go to it. I locked that door when I came in."
Robespierre came toward her, furious with passion. "I will have none of your escapades," he said fiercely; "give me that key or I will"—
"Keep off! keep off!" cried out La Liberté, bounding lightly out of his reach with a little mocking laugh. "Don't catch me about the waist; I carry my sting there."
"You wasp! I will crush you!" he cried out, foaming with rage.
"Better take care how you handle wasps," was her rejoinder as she perched herself upon the edge of a desk and shook her brown curls defiantly at him.
"Come, Liberté," he said, trying a coaxing tone, although his anger almost choked him; "I know you will open the door at once when I tell you that woman has obtained from me by a skillful ruse a pardon in blank. I don't know whose name will be filled in. Perhaps some great enemy of the Republic will be set at liberty, unless I can send word at once to the conciergerie and forestall it."
"I know who will be liberated," sang La Liberté, swinging her feet.
"You do!" vociferated Robespierre in genuine astonishment. "Is this a plot? Are you concerned in it?" And he came toward her, his small eyes winking rapidly.
"You don't get it yet," laughed La Liberté, sliding over to the other side of the desk. "I am concerned in enough of a plot to keep you from sending to the scaffold a man to whom I've taken a fancy. I do not very often take a particular interest in any one person, but when I do, it is lasting." And she regarded him airily from her point of vantage.
"I'll send you to the guillotine," hissed Robespierre between his teeth, striking his clenched fist upon the desk in front of him. "I'll have you arrested to-night. I'll bear with you no longer. I have permitted you to swagger around in public, to come into the Jacobin Club and flourish your pistols, because it amused the populace, and I laughed with them at your antics; but now you have overstepped the line. This meddling with national affairs will cost you your life."
For a moment La Liberté confronted him from behind her barricade, her eyes darting fire.
"How dare you threaten me!" she cried shrilly.
"You have conspired against the Republic; you shall pay for it," he repeated, his fingers working convulsively as if he would like to lay hands upon her.
"My name is La Liberté," she said proudly, drawing herself up. "I am a child of the Revolution. I have drunk of her blood. Do you think, Robespierre, to terrify me with your shining toy, the guillotine? Bah! I snap my fingers at it;" and speaking thus, she advanced toward him, one hand resting on the dagger at her hip. He fell back before her, step by step, until they reached the door. Voices were heard outside and some one tried to enter.
"Break the door down, whoever you are!" cried Robespierre. "Kick the panel in; throw your whole weight against it."
"We are Hanneton and Clément, clerks; we found the rear doorway locked"—
"Break in, I say!" called out Robespierre impatiently.
The hall reverberated with the noise of an attack made by Hanneton's heavy shoes and Clément's shoulder.
La Liberté inserted the key in the lock. "I might as well open it now," she said, throwing back the door.
The two clerks stood on the threshold in open-mouthed surprise.
La Liberté passed them like a fawn and sped swiftly down the staircase.
"We were merely returning to finish up a little work," stammered Clément, who was the first to recover the use of his tongue; "but if we intrude"—
"Come in," interrupted Robespierre quickly. "I have an errand of importance for you." Seating himself at a table, he dashed off two short notes. The clerks exchanged glances from time to time.
"Here!" said Robespierre looking at Clément, and sealing the letters as he spoke. "You look the less stupid. Take this at once to the keeper of the conciergerie, then report to me in person at my house. You other fellow, take this to Commandant Henriot. You will find him either at the Hôtel de Ville or at the Jacobin Club. Tell him to report to me in person. Now go, both of you."
The two clerks did not wait to be twice bidden, and Robespierre followed them from the room.
An hour later the commandant stood before the president of the committee in his own house.
"Well," asked Robespierre, "have you executed the warrant?"
"The Citizeness Liberté has been incarcerated in the Luxembourg prison," was the reply.
Robespierre's eyes blinked rapidly. "She is a child of the Revolution," he repeated softly, "and does not fear my toy."
Upon Henriot's heels entered Clément. Robespierre turned to him eagerly.
"Fifteen minutes before I reached the conciergerie, a prisoner, named Robert Tournay, was liberated on a release signed by you, citizen president. It was delivered by a woman," was the brief report.
An oath sprang to Robespierre's lips. "Tournay!" he cried out. "So it was Tournay whom that woman has freed. The man is dangerous," he continued, speaking to himself. "He should have perished long ago had I not wished to get at Hoche through him. But he shall not escape me; nor shall the woman."
"Henriot," he exclaimed in his next breath, "order every route leading out of the city guarded. Lodge information at every section for the arrest of Robert Tournay, and of one other, a woman."
"Yes, citizen president, and who"—
"Wait, I will write her description for you," cried Robespierre. "There it is. Now be prompt, my patriot. We can still recapture our prisoner, and then"—He did not complete the sentence, but his teeth came together with a snap, and he drew his thin lips over them tightly.
The order signed by Robespierre for the immediate release of a prisoner had not been questioned by the keeper of the conciergerie, and within a few minutes from the time when Edmé presented the document with a heart fluctuating between the wildest hope and the greatest fear, Colonel Tournay walked out of the prison a free man.
The sudden manner of his release, the fact that it had been effected by Edmé's own daring and sagacity, and that he owed his life to her whom he loved, made his brain reel. Then the recognition of the danger that still menaced him, and above all the woman who was by his side, brought him back to himself, and he was again cool, alert, and determined as she had always known him. Drawing her arm through his and walking rapidly in the shadows of Rue Barillerie, he said quickly:—
"The pursuit will be instant. Robespierre will ransack all Paris to find us. But I know a hiding-place. Come quickly."
She looked up at him. "I feel perfectly safe now," she said, and together they hurried onward.
Suddenly she stopped. "But how about Agatha!" she exclaimed, as the thought of her faithful companion came to her mind for the time.
"Agatha! Where is she?" asked Tournay almost impatiently, chafing at a moment's delay.
"At the Citizeness Privat's in the Rue Vaugirard. They will surely find and arrest her. Robert, we must not let them."
"The delay may mean the difference between life and death," replied Tournay, turning in the direction of the Rue Vaugirard; "but we must not let Agatha fall into Robespierre's clutches."
In a few minutes they passed up the Rue Vaugirard. "Which is the house?" asked Tournay anxiously.
"There; the small one with the blinds drawn down. Agatha will be anxiously waiting for me, I know. There she is now in the doorway. She sees us! Agatha, quick! Never mind your hat or cloak. Ask no questions. Now Robert, take us where you will."
Passing Edmé's arm through his own, and with Agatha on the other side, Tournay conducted the two women rapidly down the street.
At the same moment gendarmes were running in all directions carrying Robespierre's orders.
Two of them hastened to the house of Citizeness Privat. They found her in bed. Awakened from her sleep, she could only give meagre information about her lodgers. There were two of them; one, she thought, was still in the room across the hall. A tall gendarme opened the door and walked in without ceremony. He found the room empty, although a few articles of feminine apparel indicated that it had been occupied recently.
"Hem!" sniffed the tall gendarme, "women!" Then he called in his companions, and they proceeded to examine everything in the hope of finding a clue.
At that moment Robert Tournay, Edmé, and Agatha were approaching the Rue d'Arcis.
"It is only a step from here," said Tournay encouragingly as they crossed the bridge St. Michel. "Once there we cannot be safer anywhere in Paris. I know of the place from a fellow prisoner in the Luxembourg."
They passed through a narrow passageway and underneath some houses, and emerged into the Rue d'Arcis. Crossing the street, and looking carefully in both directions to see if they were unobserved, Tournay struck seven quick low notes with the knocker on the door. They waited in silence for some time; then Tournay repeated the knocking a little louder than before. They waited again and listened intently. Edmé's teeth began to chatter with nervous excitement, and Tournay looked once more apprehensively up and down the street.
"Who knocks?" was the question breathed gently through a small aperture in the door.
"From Raphael," whispered Tournay, "open quickly."
"Enter."
The door swung inward on its hinges, and the three fugitives hastened to accept the hospitality offered them.
It was an old man who answered their summons and who closed the door carefully after them. He now stood before them shading with his palm a candle, which the draft, blowing through the large empty corridors, threatened to extinguish altogether. The dancing flame threw grotesque shadows on the wall. As the light played upon the features of the old man, first touching his white beard and then shining upon his serene brow, Edmé thought she looked upon a face familiar to her in the past, but, no sign of recognition appearing in the eyes that met her gaze, she attributed it to fancy.
"Your name is Beaurepaire?" inquired Tournay.
"That is my name," was the old man's answer.
In a few words Colonel Tournay told of his acquaintance with St. Hilaire, and explained how, had their plan of escape succeeded, they would have come there together. Unfortunately he alone had escaped,—and now came to ask that he and his two companions might remain there in hiding for a few days.
"You came from Raphael," replied Beaurepaire with the dignity of an earlier time. "The length of your stay is to be determined by your own desire."
He led the way along the corridor, down a short flight of steps, through a covered passageway, into what appeared to be an adjoining house; Tournay asked no questions, but, with Edmé and Agatha, followed blindly.
Their aged conductor ushered them into a large room, which had formerly been a handsome salon; but the few articles of furniture still remaining in it were decrepit and dusty. The once polished floor was sadly marred, and appeared to have remained unswept for years. The room was wainscoted in dark wood to the height of six feet, and upon the wall above it hung portraits of ladies and gentlemen of the house of St. Hilaire. Here they had hung for years before the Revolution, dusty and forgotten.
At the end and along one side of the room ran a gallery which was reached by a short straight flight of stairs, and around this gallery from floor to ceiling were shelves of books.
Beaurepaire mounted the stairs, and looking among the books as if searching for a certain volume, pushed back part of a bookcase and revealed a door. He motioned them to ascend.
"In here," he said, pointing to a small room with low-studded ceiling, "the two ladies can retire. It is the only room in the house suitable for their comfort. You, sir," he continued, looking at Colonel Tournay, "will have to lie here upon the gallery floor. There is only a rug to soften the oak boards, but you are, I see, a soldier. To-morrow I will see what can be done to make the place more habitable."
Edmé and Agatha passed through the aperture in the wall, the venerable Beaurepaire bowing low before them.
"At daylight I will bring you some food; until then I wish you good repose." He withdrew, and Colonel Tournay was left to stretch himself out upon the gallery floor to get what sleep he could.
It was daylight when he opened his eyes, and looking through the balustrade to the room below, saw a loaf of bread, some grapes, and a steaming pitcher of hot milk set on a large mahogany table which stood against the wall. He had evidently been awakened by the entrance of his host, for the figure of Beaurepaire was standing with his back to him, looking out of the window into the courtyard. The colonel kicked aside the rugs which had served him for a bed, and rising to his feet, started to descend.
The figure at the window turned at the sound of the tread upon the stairs, and Tournay stopped short with one hand on the rail. "He has shaved off his flowing beard overnight," was his astonished thought. Then the next instant he recognized that it was not Beaurepaire, but Father Ambrose, the old priest of La Thierry, who stood before him.
The latter approached with his usual dignity.
"Father Ambrose," exclaimed Tournay in surprise, "how can this be? Who, then, is this Beaurepaire?"
"He is my brother. I have lived here for more than six months. I saw you when you came last night, but waited until now before making myself known. Inform me, my good sir, how fares it with Mademoiselle de Rochefort?"
"You shall see her presently. She and Agatha are in the chamber behind the secret panel. They are doubtless much fatigued from the excitement of yesterday, and we would better let them sleep as long as they can. In the meantime I will eat some of this food, for I am desperately hungry."
"Do so, my son," replied the priest. "I would eat with you, but for the fact that I never break my fast before noon."
Tournay helped himself to a generous slice of bread and a bunch of grapes.
"Tell me," he asked, as he began on the luscious fruit, "how do you obtain the necessities of life? Do you dare venture out to buy them?"
"I have not set my foot outside the door since I first entered. All the communication with the outside world has been held by my brother, who has managed to keep free from suspicion, and who goes and comes in his quiet way as the occasion arises."
A knock upon the door brought Tournay to his feet. He stopped with the pitcher of milk in one hand and looked at Father Ambrose.
"There is no cause for alarm," said the priest; "it is my brother's knock;" and going to the door he drew back the bolt.
Tournay set down the milk jug untasted, with an exclamation of surprise, as he saw Gaillard burst into the room, followed by the old man Beaurepaire. The actor, no longer dressed in the disguise of an old man, was greatly excited.
"Great news, my colonel!" he exclaimed without stopping to explain how he had found his way there. "Robespierre has been arrested by the convention."
Tournay sprang forward and grasped his friend by both shoulders. "At last they have done it!" he cried excitedly. "Gaillard, tell me about it. How was it brought about?"
"Embrace me again, my colonel," exclaimed Gaillard, throwing his arms about Tournay and talking all the time. "It was this way: I heard the cry in the streets that the convention had risen almost to a man and arrested Robespierre and a few of his nearest satellites. At once I ran to the conciergerie to try and see you. Everything was in confusion. The news of Robespierre's arrest had just reached there. 'Can I see Colonel Tournay?' I demanded of the jailer.
"'He is not here,' he answered, turning from me to a dozen other excited questioners.
"'He has not been sent to the guillotine?' I cried, with my heart in my mouth.
"'No; liberated by Robespierre's order last night.'
"'What!' I shouted, thinking the man mad.
"'The order was countermanded fifteen minutes after the citizen colonel had left the prison,' cried the warden in reply. 'Don't ask me any more questions. My head is in a whirl; I cannot think.'
"I, myself, was so excited I could not think; but when I collected my few senses I recollected that St. Hilaire had told you of a place of refuge in case of emergency. 'My little colonel is there,' I said to myself, and flew here on the wind. Everywhere along the way people were congratulating one another. The greatest excitement prevailed. No notice was taken of an old man of eighty running like a lad of sixteen. When I reached your door I took off my wig and beard and put them in my pocket. Ah, my colonel, we shall wear our own faces; we shall speak our own minds, now that the tyrant himself is in the toils."
"Will they be able to keep him there?" asked Father Ambrose; "he will not yield without a struggle. The Jacobins may try to arouse the masses to rescue him."
"The populace is seething with excitement," said Gaillard. "Some quarters of the town are for the fallen tyrant; others are against him. In the Faubourg St. Antoine, the stronghold of the Jacobins, Robespierre is openly denounced by some, yet his adherents are still strong there and are arming themselves. The convention stands firm as a rock. 'Down with the tyrant!' is the cry."
"There is work for us," exclaimed Tournay. "Father Ambrose," he continued, turning to the priest, "I must go out at once. I leave you to tell the news to Mademoiselle de Rochefort. Tell her to remain here in the strictest seclusion until I return and assure her that we can leave here in safety. I leave her in your keeping, Father Ambrose. Now, Gaillard, let us go."
In the streets, Tournay found that his friend had not exaggerated the popular excitement. As they walked along both he and Gaillard kept their ears alert to hear everything that was said.
Suddenly a noise caused them to stop and look into each other's faces with consternation.
"The tumbrils!" exclaimed Gaillard, in answer to Tournay's look.
"That looks bad for our party," said Tournay. "One would expect the executions to cease, or at least be suspended, on the day of Robespierre's arrest."
"There is no one to give a coherent order," replied Gaillard. "Some of the prison governors do not know which way to turn, or whom to obey. The same with the police. They need a leader."
As he spoke they turned into the Rue Vaugirard and saw coming toward them down the street two death carts, escorted by a dozen gendarmes. The street was choked with a howling mass of people, and from their shouts it was manifest that some were demanding that the carts be sent back, while others were equally vociferous in urging them on. Meanwhile, the gendarmes stolidly made their way through the crowd as best they could.
Many of the occupants of the tumbrils leaned supplicatingly over the sides of the carts and implored the people to save them.
The crowd finally became so large as to impede the further progress of the carts.
"My God!" cried Tournay, grasping Gaillard by the arm. "There is St. Hilaire."
In the second cart stood the Citizen St. Hilaire. He held himself erect and stood motionless, his arms, like those of the rest of the prisoners, tightly pinioned behind him. But it could be seen that he was addressing the populace and exciting their sympathy. By his side was Madame d'Arlincourt, her large blue eyes fixed intently upon St. Hilaire; she seemed unmindful of the scene around her, and to be already in another world.
In the rear of the cart, dressed in white, was La Liberté. Her face was flushed and animated, and she was talking loudly and rapidly to the crowd which followed the tumbril.
Tournay sprang to the head of the procession. He still wore his uniform, and the crowd made way for him.
"Why did you take these tumbrils out to-day?" he demanded of the gendarmes. "Do you not know that Robespierre is in prison and the executions are to be stopped?"
"I have my orders from the keeper of the Luxembourg. I am to take these tumbrils to the Place de la Révolution," replied the officer; then addressing the crowd, he cried, "Make way there, citizens, make way there and let us proceed!"
"No, no!" cried a great number of voices, while others cried out, "Yes, make way!" But all still blocked the passage of the carts.
"The keeper of the Luxembourg had no authority to order the execution of these prisoners to-day. Take them at once back to the prison," ordered Tournay.
"Where is your authority? Show it to me and I will obey you," replied the police officer.
"This is not a day on which we present written authority," answered Tournay. "I tell you I have the right to order you back to the prison. It is the will of the convention."
"I take my orders from the Commune," replied the gendarme stubbornly. "I must go forward."
Gaillard had meantime worked his way to Tournay's shoulder, and the latter said a few words in his ear. Gaillard plunged into the crowd and was off like a shot in the direction of the convention.
"Citizens, let us pass!" cried the gendarmes impatiently.
"Citizens," Tournay cried out in a loud voice, "it is the will of the convention that no executions take place to-day. These carts must not go. I call upon you to help me." As he spoke he ran to the horses' heads. The crowd swept the gendarmes to one side, and in a moment's time the tumbrils were turned about.
Then a clatter of hoofs was heard, accompanied by angry shouts, and the crowd broke and scattered in all directions, as Commandant Henriot, followed by a troop of mounted police, rode through them.
"What is the meaning of this?" he roared out.
"Where shall we go, back to the Luxembourg or forward to the Place de la Révolution?" cried out the bewildered gendarmes who guarded the tumbrils.
"To the guillotine, of course, always the guillotine," answered Henriot. "About, face! Citizens, disperse!"
The crowd had closed up and were muttering their disapproval, many even going so far as to flourish weapons.
"Citizens," cried Tournay fearlessly, "this man Henriot has been indicted by the convention. He should now be a prisoner with Robespierre."
"Charge the crowd!" yelled Henriot to his lieutenant. "I will deal with this fellow; I know him. His name is Tournay." And he rode his horse at the colonel.
The latter sprang to one side, and seizing a sword from a gendarme, parried the trust of Henriot's weapon. Catching the horse by the bridle, he struck an upward blow at the commandant. The animal plunged forward and Tournay was thrown to the pavement, while the crowd fled before the charge of the mounted troops.
Before Henriot could wheel his charger, Tournay was on his feet, and realizing the impossibility of rallying any forces to contend with Henriot's, he took the first corner and made the best of his way up a narrow and deserted street.
He was somewhat shaken and bruised from his encounter, and stopping to recover breath for the first time, he noticed that the blood was flowing freely from a cut over the forehead which he had received during the short mêlée.
As he stanched the wound with his handkerchief, he heard footsteps behind him, and turning, saw a man dressed in the uniform of his own regiment running toward him. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he recognized Captain Dessarts who had served with him for the past year.
"You are wounded, colonel!" exclaimed Dessarts, taking the hand which Tournay stretched out to him. "Can I assist you?"
"It is only a scalp wound, but it bleeds villainously. You can tie this handkerchief about my head if you will."
"I tried to help you rally the crowd, my colonel, but it was hopeless. Yet with a few good soldiers behind his back, one could easily have cleared the streets of those hulking gendarmes. Do I hurt you?" he continued as he tied the knot.
"No," answered Tournay. "Tie it quickly and then come with me."
"I must go to the barracks, Colonel Tournay," replied Dessarts. "Your old regiment has been disbanded. I am here with my company, ordered to join another regiment and proceed to the Vendée."
"Where are your men quartered?" asked Tournay excitedly.
"Two streets above here."
"Will they obey you absolutely?"
"To the last man, my colonel."
"Will you follow me without a question?"
"To the death, my colonel."
"Come then, and bring me to your men at once. Every instant is worth a life. Let us run."
Surrounded by Henriot's mounted guards, the tumbrils lumbered slowly to the Place de la Révolution. There a large crowd had assembled to witness the daily tribute to the guillotine.
"You shall not be disappointed, my patriots!" cried Henriot.
They answered him with a cheer. The crowd here was in sympathy with him, and he felt grimly cheerful.
"My friends, you will cheer again when you learn that one hour ago Robespierre was set free by me. The convention is trembling. The Commune triumphs."
Again the crowd cheered.
Henriot rode up to the guillotine.
"Sanson," he cried out to the executioner, "here is your daily allowance. We have kept you waiting, but you can now use dispatch."
The occupants in the tumbrils had seen their last hope of deliverance vanish in the Rue Vaugirard. They were fully prepared for death. One after another they mounted the fatal scaffold and were led to the guillotine.
Some went bravely forward to meet their fate. Others almost fainted and were nearly dead from fear by the time they reached the hands of Sanson.
La Liberté came forward with a firm step. As she did so, the crowd set up a deafening shout. It was a shout of genuine astonishment at the sight of this well-known figure, though mingled with it were cries of satisfaction from those who had been jealous of her popularity. Some thought it was a new escapade on her part, and they applauded it all the louder because of its daring nature.
Even the red-handed Sanson opened his huge bull's-mouth with surprise as she appeared before him.
"Bon jour, Sanson," said she airily; "you did not look for me to-day, I imagine. Do not touch me," she exclaimed as he stretched out his large hand towards her. "I have sent too many along this road, not to know the way myself, alone." Then walking down until she stood under the very shadow of the knife she looked out over the sea of faces.
The mighty yell was repeated.
The pallor of approaching death was on her face, but unflinchingly she met the gaze of thousands, while with a toss of her chestnut curls she surveyed them proudly, taking the shouts as a tribute to herself.
Suddenly her face became animated and the color rushed back to her cheeks.
"Well done, my compatriot!" she exclaimed aloud; she no longer saw the crowd at her feet, but stood transfixed, her gaze on the further corner of the square.
There Robert Tournay, at the head of some of his own men, charged upon Henriot's troops. Steel clashed upon steel, and Tournay's men pressed on.
"Bravely struck, my compatriot. Well parried, my compatriot. That was worthy of my brave colonel. One little moment, Sanson," she pleaded as the burly executioner caught her by the arm.
"You have had twice the allotted time already," he objected; "you are keeping the others waiting."
"One more look, Sanson, just one! Ah, well done, my brave."
"En avant," said the ruthless Sanson.
"Good-by, compatriot," murmured La Liberté, a tear glistening in her eye. The knife descended, and La Liberté was no more.
"Another!" said the insatiable executioner, extending his huge hands towards the cart.
St. Hilaire looked into Madame d'Arlincourt's face. Their eyes met full.
"Madame," he said, "in such a case as this you will pardon me if I precede you," and stepping in front of her he walked quietly up the scaffold.
Meantime Colonel Tournay, with Captain Dessarts at his shoulder and a company of his own troops behind him, had dashed out of a side street into the Place de la Révolution.
Tournay, with the ends of the blood-stained kerchief flapping on his forehead, and the sword wrested from the gendarme waving in his hand, urged his men forward.
Commandant Henriot, his forces augmented by a company of civic guards, charged upon them. The commandant's men outnumbered those led by the colonel, two to one, but in the shock that followed the tried veterans held together like a granite wall, and broke through Henriot's troops, hurling them in disorder to the right and left of the square.
Tournay saw the white-clad figure of La Liberté disappear under the glittering knife. He saw St. Hilaire standing on the scaffold with head turned toward Madame d'Arlincourt.
"Soldiers, on to the guillotine!" cried the colonel, dashing forward at full speed.
The populace, who, between the blood of the executions and the battle going on in the square, were mad with excitement, pressed forward, and circled about the scaffold, angrily menacing the approaching troops, who seemed about to put an end to their entertainment.
"Sweep them away!" cried Tournay ruthlessly, his eye still upon the scaffold where St. Hilaire stood. "Use the bayonet!"
Meanwhile Henriot, by desperate efforts, had rallied his own troopers at the other side of the square, while his civic guards, having no further stomach for the fray, had fled incontinently.
"Colonel, they are about to attack us in the rear," said Dessarts warningly.
Tournay wheeled his men about as the enemy rode at them for a second time. Henriot, with his brandy-swollen face purple with excitement, was reeling drunk in his saddle, yet he plunged forward with the desperate courage of a baited bull.
"Down with the traitor!" he yelled. "The Commune must triumph; Robespierre is free, and the Republic lives."
With the answering cry of "Long live the Republic!" Tournay's men braced themselves firmly together.
"Fire!" commanded the colonel. A deadly volley poured into the commandant's forces.
"Charge!"
Henriot's troops were dashed back, scattered in all directions, and their drunken commander, putting spurs to his horse, fled cursing from the scene.
The populace, now thoroughly dismayed and frightened, parted on all sides before the soldiers. Tournay ran to the guillotine. He leaped up the steps of the scaffold.
"In the name of the convention, halt!" he cried.
"I know nothing about the convention," protested Sanson, laying his hand upon St. Hilaire's shoulder. "This man is sent to me to be guillotined—and"—
Tournay threw the executioner from the platform to the ground below, and cutting the cords that bound St. Hilaire set his arms at liberty.
Captain Dessarts formed his men around the scaffold to prevent interference on the part of the crowd. St. Hilaire took Tournay by the hand.
"You have come in time, colonel, to do me a great service," he said. "Now give me a weapon, and let me take part in any further fight."
Tournay gave him a pistol. St. Hilaire went to the side of Madame d'Arlincourt. The crowd began again to surge around the soldiers threateningly.
"Let the guillotine go on!" "Let the executioner finish his work!" were the cries from all sides.
"Citizens," yelled Sanson, who had risen to his feet and was now rubbing his bruised sides, "you are a thousand. They are only a few soldiers. Take back the prisoners and I will execute them."
"Make ready—aim," was Colonel Tournay's quick command. The muskets clicked; the crowd fell back. "Fix bayonets, forward march." And through the press Colonel Tournay bore those whom he had saved from the guillotine.
No organized attempt was made to attack them, and the party proceeded to the Rue d'Arcis unmolested. Here Tournay turned to his captain.
"Dessarts, leave a file of men here and take the others back to their barracks for repose, but hold them subject to immediate orders."
"Very good, my colonel," and the soldiers were marched away.
Madame d'Arlincourt showed signs of succumbing to the effects of the terrible strain to which she had been subjected, and St. Hilaire, supporting her gently, hastened to the door of his former servant.
In another instant they were all inside.
They passed through the corridor and entered the wainscoted salon. As they did so the bookcase above moved gently. Edmé entered through the secret door and stood for an instant surrounded by a frame of dusty books, looking down upon them.
In her plain gown of homespun, with her skin browned by exposure to the air, and cheeks which had the glow of health in them despite the hardship she had undergone, Edmé de Rochefort was a different picture from that of the girl of five years before. Yet it was not the present Edmé that suffered by comparison.
With a cry of joy she hastened down the stairs. "I have been told the glorious news," she cried. "Have you returned to tell me it is all true? But you are wounded!" she exclaimed in the same breath, with a cry of alarm.
"'Tis nothing," Tournay replied, folding her in his arms. "I do not even feel it."
"Is all the danger over?" she asked anxiously, looking up in his face.
"Not all over," he answered caressingly. "The result hangs in the balance, but we shall win, we shall surely win. At present we have need of a little food and repose. St. Hilaire and myself must go out again shortly. Has Gaillard come with a message? I expected him from the convention," he continued, addressing Beaurepaire.
"He has not returned," was the answer.
Edmé turned to assist Agatha in caring for Madame d'Arlincourt, while old Beaurepaire busied himself in setting forth some food upon the table.
At this moment Gaillard burst into the room, followed by Father Ambrose.
"I bring glorious news!" cried the actor excitedly. "Robespierre, at one time released by the aid of Henriot, has been rearrested. He has attempted suicide. Henriot, St. Just, Couthon, are also arrested. They will all be sent to the guillotine. The convention triumphs. The Commune is defeated. The Reign of Terror is at an end."
The news was received with a great shout of joy. "Listen," called out Gaillard, "and you will learn what the people think."
The booming of guns and the ringing of bells throughout the city verified his statement.
"We have won!" said Colonel Tournay.
"Let us celebrate the victory by this feast that Beaurepaire has provided!" exclaimed St. Hilaire.
Tournay drew Edmé into the recess of one of the large windows. The sound of a whole city rejoicing at the abolition of the Reign of Terror filled the air. In the room at the back the voices of Gaillard and St. Hilaire were heard in joyful conversation.
For a moment they stood in silence. She looked into his eyes and read the question there.