TWO PRODUCTS OF THE REVOLUTION
In the Rue Valette, a street of long memory, down which many students had passed dreaming, Calvin not least among them, there was a baker's shop at the corner of an alley. Students still walked the streets, and others, dreaming too, after a fashion, but not much of books. In these days there were other things to dream of. Life moved quickly, crowdedly, down the Rue Valette, and this baker's shop had gathered more than one crowd about it in recent days. Life and such a shop Were linked together, linked, too, with government. Give us bread, was one of the earliest cries in the Revolution. Is not bread, the baker's shop, the real center of all revolutions?
Behind this shop, entered by the alley, was a narrow courtyard, not too clean a depository for rubbish and broken articles, for refuse as well, which on hot days sent contamination into the air. A doorway, narrow and seldom closed, gave directly on to a stairway, and on the first landing, straight in front of the stairs, was a door always closed, usually locked, yet at a knock it would be immediately opened. Behind it two rooms adjoined, their windows looking into the court. The furniture was sparse and common, the walls were bare, no more than a worn rug was upon the floor, but on a hanging shelf there were books, and paper and pens were on a table pushed against the wall near the window. The lodging of a poor student, a descendant, and little altered, of generations of students' lodgings known in this city of Paris since it had first been recognized as the chief seat of learning in Europe.
The student himself sat at the table, a book opened before him. He was leaning back in his chair, thoughtfully, his mind partly fixed on what he had been reading, partly on other matters. He was not only a student, but a man of affairs besides. For most men the affairs would have closed the books permanently, they were sufficient, full enough of ambition and prospect, to do so, but Raymond Latour was not as other men. Life was a long business, not limited by the fiery upheaval which was shaking the foundations of social order. There was the afterwards, when the excitement would be burned out, when the loud orators and mad enthusiasts should find no occupation because none wished to hear them talk. The sudden tide sweeping them into prominence for a moment would assuredly destroy many and leave others stranded and useless, but for a few there was the realization of ambition. Those few must have power to grapple with their surroundings, brains to hold fast to the high position upon which the tide wave must fling them. Of these Raymond Latour would be. The determination was expressed in every feature, in the steel gray eyes, in the firm set mouth, in the square and powerful build of the man. Nature had given him inches above his fellows, muscles which made them courteous to him; and study had given him the power to use men. His ability was recognized and appreciated, his companions had thrust him into prominence, at the first somewhat against his will, but carried on the crest of the wave of popularity one easily becomes ambitious. He was of the Jacobins Club, almost as constant an attendant there as Robespierre himself, holding opinions that were not to be shaken. He was not of those who had thought the Jacobins slow and had massed themselves, with Danton and the Club of the Cordeliers, nor was he with the milder Lafayette and the Feuillants Club; he was no blind follower of any party, yet he was trusted without being thoroughly understood. It was difficult to decide which held the higher place with him, his country or his own interests. He could not have answered the question himself as he leaned back in his chair, a flood of thoughts rushing through his brain, one thought more prominent than the rest, destined perchance to absorb all others.
There were footsteps on the stairs without, and a knocking at the door. The visitor had swaggered up the Rue Valette, conscious that some turned to look at him as a man to be feared and respected, yet his manner changed as he passed through the alley, the swagger lessened with each step he mounted, and when Latour opened the door to him, the visitor was full of respect, almost cringing respect. Here was a strange caricature of equality!
"Welcome, Sabatier, I was thinking of you. What news?"
"The best. She has come. To-night she is a league from Paris at the tavern of the Lion d'Or on the Soisy road."
"Good news, indeed," Latour answered, and a flush came into his face as he turned away from his visitor as though to hide some weakness in his character. "How was it accomplished?"
"By Mercier turning first thief, then aristocrat, and playing each part so well that it seems to me he is now doubtful which he is. I have only just returned from the Lion d'Or."
"You saw her?"
"No, citizen. She is still in ignorance of her destination in Paris."
"She comes here to-morrow," said Latour, sharply, and his steel gray eyes were suddenly fixed on Sabatier as though they went straight to his soul with the penetration of a shoemaker's awl. "She is to be delivered to me, and you and the others had best forget that you have been engaged on any private mission."
"It is easy to serve Citizen Latour," Sabatier said.
"Spoken as a brother," was the answer. "It is advantageous to serve him as it would be dangerous to play him false, eh? Sabatier, my friend, most of us have some private revenge locked away in our hearts, the lack of opportunity alone prevents our satisfying it. In these times there is much opportunity, it is that alone which makes us seem more vindictive than men in more peaceable circumstances. Forget that you have helped me to mine, do not ask what form that revenge is to take. I may some day help you to yours and be as secret and reticent."
"I shall not forget the promise," Sabatier returned, and it was easy to see that he was pleased with the confidence placed in him.
"First thing in the morning get to the inn and tell Mercier and Dubois to bring her here. She must be made to understand that her safety depends upon it. They need tell her nothing more."
Sabatier had his hand upon the door to depart when Latour stopped him.
"What about the man who was robbed, this aristocrat you found at Trémont?"
"Safe in Beauvais, citizen, where he is likely to remain. I put fear into him at Trémont and he ran."
"He may come to Paris."
"Then he is easily dealt with," Sabatier answered, and went out.
He was a friend of Citizen Latour, a trusted friend; his swagger was greater than ever as he went down the Rue Valette.
Half an hour later Raymond Latour passed along the street, avoiding publicity rather than courting it. He walked quickly until he came to the Rue St. Honoré, when his pace slackened a little and he grew more thoughtful. His whole scheme was complete, and he reviewed every point of it to make certain there was no flaw in it. He became suddenly conscious of a man walking in front of him, one of many in the street yet distinct from them all. He was slight, so slight that he seemed tall, walked delicately, something feminine about him, a weak man, perhaps, whom strong men would despise; yet heads were turned to look after him, and a second glance found something definite and determined in the delicate walk, something feline. He went forward noticing none, straight forward, men of bigger bulk stepping out of his path. Latour, whose thoughts were of self just now, not of country, went more slowly still. He had no desire to overtake this man although he knew him well, and dawdled until he saw him enter a cabinet-maker's shop. All Paris knew that here Maximilian Robespierre had his lodging.
Latour quickened his pace and entered a house at the corner of a side street. Yes, his master, the Citizen Bruslart was in, was the answer to his inquiry, and the suspicion of a smile touched Latour's face at the man's hesitation. After waiting a few moments he was announced, and smiled again a little as he entered a room on the first floor, it was so unlike his own, even as the occupant was unlike him.
"You favor me by this visit," said Bruslart, rising to welcome his guest.
"You have not yet heard the reason of it."
If Latour expected his host to show any sign of anxiety he was disappointed, and it was the man's nature to respect courage even in an enemy. He hardly counted Bruslart as such, outwardly indeed they were friends. Had Lucien Bruslart been a coward he would hardly have occupied such an apartment as this and surrounded himself with so much luxury. There was danger in luxury, yet it was a part of the man, fitted him, was essential to him. He called himself citizen, sought the society of patriots, talked as loudly as any. He had talked to such purpose that, arrested and imprisoned as a dangerous aristocrat, he had been released and welcomed as a true son of Paris. For all this, he was an aristocrat to his finger tips, hated the very atmosphere of a true patriot, and washed their touch from his hands with disgust. His own interests were his paramount concern, he was clever enough to deceive friends and foes as it suited him; even Latour was doubtful how to place him. He was a handsome man, and had found that count for something even in Revolutionary Paris; he was a determined man, with wit, and that art of appearing to hide nothing. An aristocrat! By the misfortune of birth that was all. A patriot! It was a safe profession. Luxury! Why not?
"Is my country in need of my services?"
"Always; but this happens to be a private matter," Latour answered. "You have been in the Conciergerie, citizen."
"It is not very long since I was released," was the answer.
"Fear touched you in the Conciergerie."
"Narrow walls and uncertainty are unpleasant. You will know what I mean if you should ever be as unfortunate as I was."
"And a servant, fearful for your safety, fled to your friends for help. Is that so?"
"I have heard it since my release. He is a faithful fellow, and acted on his own initiative."
"Entirely?" asked Latour.
"Entirely. Let me be fair to him. I do not fear danger, citizen, but I have eyes to see its existence. It exists for honest men as well as others, and I have said to Rouzet, that was his name, 'If harm should come to me try and carry news to those who still love me in spite of the fact that I have turned patriot,' I even gave him a little gold trinket that it might be known his news was true."
"Since your release have you sent another messenger to prevent Mademoiselle St. Clair from coming to Paris?"
"She is coming to Paris!" Bruslart exclaimed, half rising.
"Have you taken any steps to prevent her doing so?" asked Latour.
"Do you suppose I would have called her here on my account? She is not a patriot. She would come to her death."
"That might be a way in which you could serve your country; a decoy to attract lovers and friends."
"Are you serious? Is this the meaning of your visit?"
"What is your answer to it?"
"Rather the guillotine, citizen. Is the answer short and definite enough?"
"Short enough and well spoken," said Latour, with a smile. "You will rejoice to hear that your messenger never reached mademoiselle."
For an instant Bruslart seemed surprised, but it was impossible to tell whether it was at the failure or at the fact that his visitor knew so much.
"If you can assure me this is true, I shall rejoice," he said. "I have been imprudent. It did not occur to me that she might come to Paris."
"A woman who loves will do much."
"If she loves. Women sometimes deceive themselves and us. But tell me how you are able to bring me this news."
"You were an aristocrat, citizen, therefore suspected and watched. Your servants were watched, too, and this man's movements were noted. He was followed out of Paris. He was caught upon the road and questioned. Some patriots have rough manners, as you know, and your servant was faithful, perchance showed fight. All I know for certain is that he is dead."
"Poor Rouzet," said Bruslart, covering his face with his hands for a moment. "Poor Rouzet, I believe his family has been attached to ours for some generations."
"And were more faithful than their masters, doubtless. No, citizen, the words do not refer to you, you are no longer an aristocrat," Latour went on quickly. "Still, a word of friendly advice, you talk too much like one. I understand, but the people are ignorant."
"Thank you for your advice. I must be myself whatever else I am."
"As a patriot it would be well to think no more of mademoiselle," Latour went on. "Such love is unnatural the people will affirm. Are there not women in Paris as beautiful? Find one to love and there will be proof of your patriotism."
"You take much interest in me," said Bruslart.
"Is there not a kind of friendship between us?" was the reply. "Were I Lucien Bruslart, I should leave Paris. I know a man who would do something to help him."
Bruslart looked at him steadily for a moment. "Again I thank you," he said quietly, "but, my friend, you are not the only man who is competent to prophesy in what direction things may turn. You have set yourself a goal to win, so have I. It would almost seem that you expect our aims to clash."
"Diable! Is that all you can see in good advice," said Latour. "I thought your wit went deeper."
"Need we quarrel?" said Bruslart.
"No; let us laugh at each other. In our different ways, doubtless, we shall both be satisfied."
Latour did not often laugh, but he laughed now as he turned to the door. The curtains over the archway leading to an inner room swayed outwards with the draught as he opened the door, and then seemed to draw back suddenly, as Latour said good-by, still laughing. The door was closed, the footsteps went quickly down the stairs, the curtains hung straight for a little space. Then they parted sharply, and a woman, holding them on either side of her, stood between them.
A JEALOUS WOMAN
The archway archway into the inner room was behind Bruslart, but he did not turn as the curtains parted. He knew the woman was hidden in that room, she had gone there when Latour was announced; he knew that she must have overheard the conversation, that she would ask questions, but for the moment he was absorbed in Latour's news. That Rouzet had failed to reach Beauvais was a disaster he had not reckoned upon.
"Lucien!"
"My direct and opinionated friend has gone, Pauline, you may come out of hiding."
Still for a moment the woman stood there grasping the curtains, as though she would will the man to turn and look at her. She was angry, the flash in her eyes Was evidence of the fact, yet she was not unconscious of the picture she made at that moment. A woman is seldom angry enough to forget her beauty. Beautiful she certainly was, or Lucien Bruslart would have taken little interest in her. Beauty was as necessary to him as luxury, and in this case was even more dangerous. Here was another proof that he was no coward, or he would surely not have placed himself in the hands of Pauline Vaison. She was dark, her figure rather full, voluptuous yet perfect in contour. Her movements were quick, virile, full of life, seductive yet passionate. She was a beautiful young animal, her graces all unstudied, nature's gifts, a dangerous animal if roused, love concealing sharp claws ready to tear in pieces if love were spurned. Her personality might have raised her to power in the dissolute Court of the fifteenth Louis, even in this Paris of revolution she might play a part.
Letting the curtains fall together she came and faced Lucien, who looked at her and smiled.
"I heard all he said. I listened."
"Interesting, wasn't it?" Lucien answered. "It is a marvel to me how fast news travels, and how important unimportant things become. I shouldn't Wonder if he knows exactly what I have eaten to-day."
"Paris knows something of Latour," she answered. "He is not a man to waste his time over trifles."
"It certainly appears that he considers me of some consequence since he troubled to visit me."
"And you lied to him."
"My dear Pauline, you are imaginative. Kiss me. You are a delightful creature. I never spend an hour in your company but I discover some new grace in you."
Her kisses were not to be had when she was angry.
"You lied to him and you have deceived me," she said, still standing before him, her body erect, her hands clinched.
"It is not always advisable to speak the exact truth, you know that well enough, Pauline; but I have not deceived you. Does a man deceive the woman he really loves?"
"The lie and the deceit are one," she returned. "You sent for this other woman, this Mademoiselle St. Clair. It was not your servant's plan. Latour was a fool to believe you."
"Was he? My dear, wise Pauline, his point of view and yours are not the same. You are jealous, whereas he—"
"I stop at nothing when I am jealous," she said. "The sooner you discover that phase in my character the better for you, Lucien."
"I discovered that after I had known you ten minutes," laughed Lucien, "and I am not afraid. Shall I tell you why? I have not deceived you, nor have I any intention of doing so. This Latour is too inquisitive, and inquisitiveness is always asking for a lie. Latour got it and is quite satisfied. Mademoiselle Pauline Vaison is a woman, a woman in love, and just because she is so, is suspicious. All women in love are. So I have not told her all my plans. To complete them it was necessary to get Mademoiselle St. Clair to Paris, so I sent for her."
"You are in love with her. You—"
"She is rich," Bruslart answered. "Her fortune is in her own hands. Wait, Pauline. Had I wanted to marry her, what was to prevent my crossing the frontier when so many of my friends and acquaintances did? But I am in love with her fortune. If I am to make myself felt in Paris, if I am to do what I have set my heart to accomplish, money I must have. True, I am not penniless like some of our ragged patriotic comrades, but, believe me, power will eventually rest with the man who can scatter the most gold to the people. That man I am scheming to be."
"Therefore you would marry this woman," said Pauline.
"Therefore I would obtain part of her fortune."
"That is what I say; you would marry her."
"No, I had not thought of that," said Bruslart, carelessly.
"How, then, can you obtain it?"
"Once she is in Paris, there are many plans to choose from. I have not yet decided which one to take; but certainly it will not be marriage. She, too, is a woman in love, and such a woman will do much for a man. A few marks of a pen and I am rich, free to work towards my end, free to help Mademoiselle St. Clair to return to Beauvais. You say you heard all that Latour told me?"
"Everything."
"Then you heard his advice concerning marriage. Find a woman in Paris, as beautiful, more beautiful than this emigré aristocrat, a woman who is a patriot, a true daughter of France, marry her, prove yourself and see how the shouting crowds will welcome you. Latour might have known this part of my scheme, so aptly did he describe it. I have found the woman," and he stretched out his hand to her.
"Lucien!"
She let him draw her down beside him, his caress was returned with interest.
"Together, you and I are going to climb, Pauline. For me a high place in the government of France, not the short authority of a day; brains and money shall tell their tale. Citizen Bruslart shall be listened to and obeyed. Citizeness Bruslart shall become the rage of all Paris. Listen, Pauline. I have cast in my lot with the people, but I have something which the people have not, a line of ancestors who have ruled over those about them. Revolution always ends in a strong individual, who often proves a harder master than the one the revolution has torn from his place. I would be that man. Two things are necessary, money and you."
"And your messenger has failed to reach mademoiselle," she whispered.
"Another messenger may be found," he said, quietly. "Besides, it is just possible that Latour was lying, too."
"Perhaps you are right;" and then she jumped up excitedly, "I believe you are right. What then? Other men may be scheming for her wealth as well as you."
"And others besides Latour have spies in the city," Bruslart answered.
"You are wonderful, Lucien, wonderful, and I love you."
She threw herself into his arms with an abandon which, like all her other actions, was natural to her; and while he held her, proud of his conquest, not all Lucien's thoughts were of love. Could Pauline Vaison have looked into his soul, could she have seen the network of scheming which was in his mind, the chaotic character of many of these plans, crossing and contradicting one another, a caricature, as it were, of a man's whole existence in which good and evil join issue and rage and struggle for the mastery, even then she would not have understood. She might have found that one end was aimed at more constantly than any other—self, yet in the schemes of most men self plays the most prominent part, and is not always sordid and altogether despicable. She would not have understood her lover; he did not understand himself. He was a product of the Revolution, as were thousands of others walking the Paris streets, or busy with villainies in country places; character was complex by force of circumstances, which, under other conditions, might have been simple and straightforward. With some a certain straightforwardness remained, not always directed to wrong ends. It was so in Lucien Bruslart. It was not easy for him to be a scoundrel, and self was not always master. Even with Pauline Vaison in his arms he thought of Jeanne St. Clair, and shuddered at the way he had spoken of her to this woman. What would happen if Jeanne came to Paris? For a moment the horrible possibilities seemed to paralyze every nerve and thought. He spoke no word, he did not cease his caressing, yet the woman suddenly released herself as though his train of thought exerted a subtle influence over her, and stood before him again, not angrily, yet with a look in her eyes which was a warning. So an animal looks when danger may be at hand.
"If you were to deceive me," she said, in a low voice, almost in a whisper, the sound of a hiss in it.
"Deceive you?"
It was not easily said, but a question only half comprehended, as when one is recalled from a reverie suddenly, or awakes from a dream at a touch.
"To deceive me would be hell for both of us, for all of us," said the woman.
He tried to laugh at her, but he could not even bring a smile to his lips at that moment.
Pauline caught his hand and pulled him to the window, opened it, and pointed.
"There. You know what I mean," she said.
The roar of Paris floated up to them, the daily toil, the noise of it, its bartering, its going and coming. Men and women must live, even in a revolution, and to live, work. Underneath it all there was something unnatural, a murmur, a growl, the sound of an undertone, secret, cruel, deadly; yet the woman's pointing finger was all Lucien was conscious of just now.
"You know what I mean," she repeated.
He shook his head slightly, dubiously, for he partly guessed. In that direction was the Place de la Revolution.
"If this other woman should take my place, if you lied to me, I would have my revenge. It would be easy. She is an aristocrat. One word from me, and do you think you could save her? Yonder stands the guillotine," and she made a downward sweep of the arm. "It falls like that. You couldn't save her."
Lucien stood looking straight before him out of the window. Pauline still held his hand. She waited for him to speak, and when he did not, she shook his hand.
"Do you hear what I say?"
"Yes" and then?"
"Then, Lucien, I should have no rival. You would be mine. If not, if you turned from me for what I had done—God! That would be awful, but I would never forgive, never. I would speak again. I would tell them many things. Nothing should stop me. You should die too. That is how I love. Lucien, Lucien, never make me jealous like that."
She kissed his hand passionately, then held it close to her breast. He could feel her heart beat quickly with her excitement.
"That would put an end to all my scheming, wouldn't it?" he said, drawing her back and closing the window. "Perhaps Latour would thank you."
"I wasn't thinking of Latour," and she clung to him and kissed him on the lips.
Into Lucien's complex thought Latour had come, not unnaturally, since this conversation. This exhibition of latent jealousy was the outcome of his visit. Without formulating any definite idea, he felt in a vague way that Latour's career was in some way bound up with his own. There was something in common between them, each had an interest for the other and in his concerns. Lucien did not understand why, but Latour might have found an answer to the question as he went back to the Rue Valette.
He was not sure whether Bruslart had spoken the truth, he did not much care, yet he felt a twinge of conscience. It troubled him because he had not much difficulty in salving his conscience as a rule. It was generally easy to make the ends justify the means. He had taken no notice of the swaying curtains as he left Bruslart. He never guessed that a woman stood behind them. There might have been no prick of conscience had he known of Pauline Vaison.
He entered the baker's shop in the Rue Valette. Behind the little counter, on which were a few loaves and pieces of bread, an old woman sat knitting.
"Will you give me the key of those rooms? I want to see that everything is prepared."
The old woman fumbled in her pocket and gave him the key without a word.
"She comes to-morrow," said Latour. "You will not fail to do as I have asked and look after her well."
"Never fear; she shall be a pretty bird in a pretty cage."
Latour paused as he reached the door. "She is a dear friend, no more nor less than that, and this is a nest, not a cage. Do you understand?"
The old woman nodded quickly, and when he had gone, chuckled. She had lived long in the world, knew men well, and the ways of them with women. There might be some things about Citizen Latour which set him apart from his fellows, but all men were the same concerning women.
Latour crossed the courtyard and went quickly up the stairs to the second floor. The rooms here corresponded with his own below, yet how different they were. Everything was fresh and dainty. Cheap, but pretty, curtains hung before the windows and about the alcove where the bed was. The furnishing was sufficient, not rich, yet showing taste in the choice; two or three inexpensive prints adorned the walls, and on the toilet table were candlesticks, a china tray, and some cut-glass bottles. The boards were polished, and here and there was a rug or strip of carpet; the paint was fresh and white—white was the color note throughout. Here was the greatest luxury possible to a shallow pocket, very different from Bruslart's room, yet with a character of its own. Latour had chosen everything in it with much thought and care. He had spent hours arranging and rearranging until his sense of the beautiful was satisfied. Now he altered the position of a rug, and touched a curtain by the bed to make it fall in more graceful folds. Then he sat down to survey his work as a whole.
Still there was the prick of conscience, not very sharp, indeed, and becoming less persistent as he argued with himself. The Raymond Latour of to-day was a different man from the old Raymond Latour, the poor student, the nobody. Was he not mounting the ladder rung by rung, higher and higher every day? He had been listened to in the Legislative Assembly, applauded; he was a man of mark in the Convention. He was still poor, and his ambition was not towards wealth. The road lay straight before him; it led to fame, he meant it also to lead to love. Give him love, and these little white rooms were all the kingdom he asked to reign in. Love, the only love that had ever touched him. He remembered its first coming. A restive horse, a young girl in a carriage and in danger. It was nothing to seize the horse, hold it, and quiet it; he had flushed and stammered when the girl had thanked him, all unconsciously casting the spell of her great beauty over him. Never again had he spoken to her. He was only a poor student, the child of simple folk in the country dead long ago; she was of noble birth, her home a palace, her beauty toasted at Versailles He saw her often, waiting to see her pass, and each day he thought of her, setting her on the high altar of his devotion. He knew that his must always be a silent worship, that she could never know it. Then suddenly had come the change, the tide of revolution. The people were the masters. He was of the people, of growing importance among them. The impossible became the possible. He had education, power he would have. Strong men have made their appeal to women, the world over, in every age. Why should not this woman love him? The very stars seemed to have fought for him. She would be here to-morrow, here in Paris, in danger; here, in these rooms, with no man so able to protect her as himself. He had spoken among his fellows and won applause, could he not speak to just one woman in the world and win love?
"This is a nest, not a cage," he murmured. "To-morrow, I shall speak with her to-morrow."
It must have been almost at this same moment that Pauline Vaison flung open the window and Lucien Bruslart looked in the direction of her pointing finger toward the Place de la Revolution.
ON THE SOISY ROAD
The Lion d'Or on the Soisy Road was well known to travelers. Here the last change of horses on the journey to Paris was usually made, or, as was often the case, a halt for the night and arrangement made for an early departure next morning. In these days it was no place of call for those who would leave the capital secretly. Patriots were inclined to congregate about the Lion d'Or and to ask awkward questions. Even in fustian garments nobility hides with difficulty from keen and suspicious eyes. For those traveling towards Paris, however, there was not such close scrutiny. If they were enemies of the state, Paris would deal with them. There were lynx-eyed men at the city barriers, and a multitude of spies in every street.
To-day three travelers had halted at the Lion d'Or, travel-stained, horses weary, going no farther until to-morrow. One of the three was a woman, a peasant woman wearing the tri-color cockade, who was needed in Paris to give evidence against an aristocrat. That was good news, and better still, her fellow-travelers were undoubtedly true patriots and had the will and the wherewithal to pay for wine. There was no need to trouble the woman with questions. She might be left alone to gloat over her revenge, while patriots made merry over their drinking.
She was alone, in a poor room for a guest, one of the poorest in the inn, but good enough for a peasant woman. Her companions had shown her the advisability of choosing this room rather than another. She would be undisturbed here after her frugal meal, except by her companions perchance, and she had thrown back her rough cloak, showing fustian garments beneath, yet she was a strange peasant woman surely. Hands and face were stained a little, as though from exposure to sun and weather, but underneath the skin was smooth. Exposure had cut no lines in the face, labor had not hardened the hands. At the inn door her form had seemed a little bent, but alone in this room she stood straight as an arrow.
One of her companions entered presently. Citizen Mercier he called himself; a hateful name handle, he explained, but necessary for their safety. He wore the tri-color, too, and plumed himself that he passed for as good a patriot as any. He closed the door carefully.
"So far we have managed well, mademoiselle. I have found a friend here who will ride into Paris and bring us word in the morning how we can most safely enter the city. We must be a little patient."
"Did he know anything of Lucien Bruslart?"
"I did not ask. It was difficult to get a moment to whisper to each other. And I will not stay with you. It would not be wise to take too much interest in a peasant woman," and he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
Jeanne St. Clair continued to stare at the door after he had gone. Her thoughts followed him as he went down the stairs to join his companions and take his share of the wine. Lucien had chosen a strange messenger, a friend Monsieur Mercier had called himself, yet Jeanne had never known him nor heard of him before. He puzzled her. Loneliness, and the circumstances in which she was placed, naturally made her thoughtful, and it was easy to be suspicious. Truly, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, full of ideas, full of resource, for danger had threatened them more than once upon the long and tedious journey from Beauvais. They had been obliged to halt at strange taverns, and there had been many delays. Now they were within a few miles of Paris—of Lucien. Yes, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, and yet, had it been possible, she would sooner have called another man friend, a man who was her enemy. How, easily she had believed him! Richard Barrington. She spoke the name aloud, but not easily, trying to say it exactly as he had done, and the deliberation which she gave to each syllable made the name sound pleasant. She had not thought him a scoundrel when he fastened her mask for her. She had been most easily deceived, taken in by an absurd story.
The truth had come quickly. Richard Barrington could hardly have left the château when a man whispered Lucien's name in Jeanne's ear. She did not trouble to take this man into the chamber in the round tower, but she led him aside where he could talk without fear of being overheard. This was some trick, but she must hear what he had to say, her safety to-morrow might depend upon it.
Monsieur Mercier introduced himself as a friend of Lucien's, and quickly told his story. Lucien was in danger, grave danger, and mademoiselle ought to know. For her Paris did not hold such danger as it did for most aristocrats; it was well known that she had been good to the poor; she would certainly be able to help Lucien. Mademoiselle knew Rouzet, Lucien's servant; he had started for Beauvais taking with him a little gold star which mademoiselle had given to Lucien. Not an hour afterwards it was discovered that there were others, enemies, anxious to get mademoiselle to Paris. Rouzet had been followed. Mercier, with a friend, had immediately ridden after him, only, alas! to find him dead upon the roadside and the star gone. They continued their journey toward Beauvais, with only one clew to the scoundrel who had murdered and robbed the faithful Rouzet. He was not a Frenchman. Even now Mercier did not know his name, but he and his friend had distanced the foreigner and his companion on the road and arrived first in Beauvais. Lodgings were scarce owing to the ball, and Mercier had waited for the villains, had taken them to a lodging next his own, nothing more than adjoining cocklofts, but with this advantage, that part of the woodwork dividing them could be easily removed. An invitation to wine (carefully drugged) had followed, and during the night the golden star was retrieved from the lining of the thief's coat; and lest he should discover the loss too soon, and so hamper any plan which it was advisable to make, a rough-cut iron star was left in its place. Here was the gold trinket, and glancing round to make certain no one was watching, Mercier had put it into her open hand.
This tale must be the truth. She had made no mention of Barrington, how could this man know of the iron cross unless his tale were true? Richard Barrington had declared he knew nothing of Lucien, but Mercier knew everything about him and much about her, too. She would not believe him until she had questioned him closely. As Mercier frankly answered her, she understood with how improbable a tale Barrington had deceived her. Mercier was quick with advice. He knew that Madame la Marquise had no great affection for his friend Lucien. This other man might discover the trick played upon him and frustrate them. A hundred things might prevent mademoiselle from leaving the château if she delayed. To-night Beauvais was crowded, it would be easy for her to go, and Jeanne had consented to start in an hour.
She was proud, a daughter of a proud race. The nobility were suffering many things at the hands of the people. This fellow Barrington should be punished. Retaliation was justifiable. There was not a man in the château of Beauvais who would not stand her champion. She sought out the Vicomte de Montbard, told him that this foreigner had come to her with a lying message from friends of hers in Paris. She had met deceit with deceit, and at dawn he was to wait for her at the wood end.
"Mademoiselle, lackeys shall beat the life out of him," was the answer.
"No, not that way. Go to him yourself, challenge him. If underneath his villainy there are concealed the instincts of a gentleman, let him have the chance of dying like one. But go with one or two others, prepared for treachery. He may be a scoundrel to the very core of his heart."
"Believe me, mademoiselle, you treat him far too courteously."
"Monsieur le Vicomte, he has touched me as an equal. I believed him to be a man of honor. Let him so far profit by my mistake, and be punished as I suggest."
"You shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. To-morrow I will do myself the honor of visiting you to tell you how he met his punishment—his death."
It was not boastfully said. The Vicomte was one of the most accomplished swordsmen in France.
Within an hour Jeanne St. Clair had left Beauvais.
All this came back to her most vividly as she sat alone in that upper room of the Lion d'Or. In what manner had Richard Barrington taken his punishment? She despised him for his mean deceit; by her direction he had been punished; yet with the knowledge that he was a scoundrel came the conviction that he was a brave man. The scene in that round chamber took shape again. It was curious how completely she remembered his attitude, his words, his manner, his looks; and not these only, but also the something new in her life, the awakening of an interest that she had never before experienced. It was not his mission which aroused it, it was not the man himself; it was only that, coincident with his coming, some secret chamber of her soul had been unlocked, and in it were stored new, dreams, new thoughts, new ambitions. They were added to the old, not given in exchange for them, but they had helped her to appreciate the man's position when he found the star was iron instead of gold, they had helped her to believe his tale. Her short interview with this man had suddenly widened her view of life, the horizon of her existence had expanded into a wider circle; this expansion remained, although the man had deceived her. In spite of that deceit there was something in this Richard Barrington to admire, and she was glad she had demanded that his punishment should be administered by gentlemen, not by lackeys. Certainly he was not a coward, and no doubt he had met his death as a brave man should. This train of thought was repeated over and over again, and always there came a moment when out of vacancy the man's face seemed to turn to her and their eyes met. She had not the power to look away. There was something he would compel her to understand, yet for a long while she could not. Then suddenly she knew. This surely was a vision. The spirit of the dead man had come to her. Why? Jeanne muttered a prayer, and with the prayer came a question: had she been justified in sending this man to his death?
When the vision finally passed from her she could not tell; whether she had fallen asleep in her chair she could not tell; but coming to full consciousness that she was alone in a mean room of a tavern on the Soisy road, the question still hammered in her brain as though it would force an answer from her. Was it only her loneliness and the shadows creeping into the room which brought doubts crowding into her mind? This friend of Lucien's, this Monsieur Mercier, what real guarantee had she of his honesty? He had brought her the gold star. It seemed a sufficient answer, but doubts are subtle and have many arguments. Why should she believe his story rather than Barrington's? Might not Mercier have been the thief? They were within a few miles of Paris. They had arrived at the Lion d'Or early in the day, why had they not pressed on to Paris? Their safety demanded patience, Mercier had said. Was this true? Was this the real reason for the delay?
The shadows increased, even the corners of this narrow room grew dim and dark. There was the sound of distant laughter, loud, coarse, raucous, many voices talking together, a shouted oath the only word distinguishable. Was this place, crowded with so-called patriots, safer for her than Paris? She started to her feet, suddenly urged to action. What was Monsieur Mercier doing?
She crossed the room and opened her door quietly. The passage without was dark save for a blur of light at the end where the top of the staircase was. Walking on tiptoe, she went toward this light. She would at least make an effort to discover how her companions were engaged.
From the top of the stairs she could see nothing, nor was it a safe place, for the light fell on her there. She crept down the stairs which were in darkness until she could see into the room from which the noise came. Even when bending down and looking through the banisters she could only see a part of the room. There were more visitors than chairs and benches, some sat on casks standing on end, and by way of applause at some witty sally or coarse joke, pounded the casks with their heels until the din was almost deafening. At a table upon which were many bottles, one or two of them broken, sat Monsieur Mercier and his comrade Dubois, both in the first stages of intoxication when men are pleased to have secrets and grow boastful.
"There's going to be good news for you, citizens," Mercier hiccoughed. "I've done great things, and this good fellow has helped me."
Dubois smiled stupidly.
"Tell me, is there any more room in the prisons, or are they filled up with cursed aristocrats?"
Jeanne held her breath. Was Mercier playing a part for her greater security? How well he played it!
"There'll be room for you and your friends," laughed a man, "or they'll make room by cutting off a few heads. It's very easy."
"There's more demand for heads than supply," growled another. "There's some calling themselves patriots that might be spared, I say."
Drumming heels greeted this opinion.
"Very like," Mercier answered. "Shouldn't wonder if I could throw this bottle and hit one or two at this moment, but I'm thinking of emigrés."
A savage growl was the answer.
"They're safe over the frontier, aren't they?" laughed Mercier. "They won't bring their heads to Paris to pleasure Madame Guillotine, will they? No," cried Mercier, clasping a bottle by the neck and striking the table with it so that it smashed and the red wine ran like blood. "No, they think they're safer where they are. The only way is to fetch them back. Lie to them, cheat them until we get them in France. Then—"
He slapped his hands onto the table, into the spilled wine, then held them up and laughed as the drops fell from his finger ends. His meaning was clear.
"Bring them back, Citizen Mercier, and you'll be the first man in Paris," said one.
"That's what I am doing. I've been to Beauvais, playing the aristocrat, and doing it so well that one cursed head is already being carried to Paris by its owner, and others will follow."
Jeanne crouched on the stairs, holding her breath.
"Long live Mercier!" came the cry.
There was an instant's silence, then a thud as a man jumped from a cask, overturning it as he did so.
"The woman upstairs! The peasant woman! There are plenty of heads in Paris. Why not to-night, here, outside the Lion d'Or? Madame Guillotine is not the only method for aristocrats."
There was a shout of acclamation, a sudden rush to the room door. A man staggering with the drink in him, fell upon the threshold, bringing two or three companions down with him.
"Stop!" Mercier cried, suddenly sober, it seemed. "She's a peasant, my witness against an aristocrat. I'll shoot the first man who goes to her."
This was dangerous acting surely.
Jeanne had started back as the rush was made. Should she make an attempt to reach the inn door and flee into the night, or rush to her room and lock herself in? Her room, it was safer. They would fight among themselves, whether she was to be disturbed or not. Locked in her room she would at least have a moment for thought. The decision came too late. She had not seen any one reach the stairs, but even as she turned a man was beside her—touching her.