THE PRISONER OF THE ABBAYE
The week of waiting passed slowly for Raymond Latour. He knew the risk he was running, but never for an instant was he tempted to turn from his purpose. His whole being was centered upon the enterprise; the saving of this woman was an essential thing, and every other consideration of country or self must give way to it. He was quite willing to sacrifice himself if necessary, but at the same time he intended to guard against such a necessity as much as possible. He worked with cunning and calculation, going over every point in his scheme and eliminating as far as possible every element of chance. The unlikely things which might happen were considered, and provided for. Only two persons had any part in the scheme, Jacques Sabatier and Mathon, the jailer; each had his own particular work in it, had received definite and minute instructions, yet neither of them knew the whole plot. Latour did not take them entirely into his confidence; he did not ask their advice, he only told them how to act.
The week was as any other week to Jacques Sabatier. Uplifted somewhat by Latour's confidence in him, his swaggering gait was perhaps a little more pronounced, but he was untouched by apprehension, not so much because he was a fearless man—like all swaggerers adverse circumstances would probably find him at heart a coward—but because he had implicit faith in Raymond Latour. The man he served was not only powerful and courageous; he was lucky, which counted for much. What he had set his heart upon that he obtained. It was a creed in which Sabatier had absolute faith, and the passing week was merely an interval which must elapse before success.
Mathon the jailer had not this sublime faith, and his fearfulness was perhaps natural. As a jailer he was in close touch with facts and knew by experience how unstable in these days was any man's power. A week had often served to change a master whose anger was dangerous into a prisoner whose name might at any moment be upon the list of those destined forthwith to feed the guillotine. He had not been brought so constantly in touch with Latour that he could appreciate him as a lucky man, and he contemplated his part in the enterprise with misgiving.
The plot was to be carried out on the second night upon which Mathon was on duty. This was the first precaution. Were he a party to mademoiselle's escape it would be argued that he would have seized the first opportunity; that he had not done so would go some way to prove his innocence. On this evening, too, Mathon was particularly loud in his hatred of all prisoners, of one emigré prisoner in particular, and his manners were brutal. There would be many witnesses able to prove this. In one small room at the end of a corridor he was particularly brutal. He made the mere unlocking of the door a nerve-racking sound, and stamped in swearing under his breath. Three women drew back into a corner, trembling. They were women of a coarse bourgeois type, their chief crime misfortune. They knew only imperfectly of what they were accused, why they were there, but they had few friends to spare a thought for them and expected each day to be their last. Sometimes they were afraid and tearful, at other times careless, loose, and blasphemous, despair making them unnatural, and in this mood it pleased them to curse their fellow prisoner, also a woman, and an aristocrat.
Mathon laughed as they shrank from him.
"Disappointed again," he said. "You are not called to-night. You will have another pleasant dream about it. Perhaps to-morrow your turn will come. It's time. This fine apartment is wanted for better people."
Then he turned and walked towards the fourth prisoner. If she were afraid she succeeded in hiding the fact. She was standing by the window and she did not move.
"As for you, your time is short," said the jailer, and then coming quite close to her he dropped his voice. "Listen, and don't show astonishment. You will be released probably. When the time comes, ask no questions, don't speak, do as you are told." Then he swore loudly again and, jingling his keys, went out and locked the door.
He swore partly to keep his own courage at the proper pitch, for the dismal corridors of the Abbaye were depressing to-night. Approaching footsteps startled Mathon, and the sudden salutation of a comrade turned him pale. The night was oppressive, yet he found it cold enough to make him shiver.
Presently there came heavy footsteps, and two of those dreaded officers of the Convention, men whose hours were occupied in spreading terror and in feeding the guillotine, stood before him.
"Jailer Mathon?"
"Yes."
"You have in your charge an emigré, Jeanne St. Clair. She is to be removed forthwith to the Conciergerie. There is the order."
Mathon took up a lantern and by the dim light read the paper handed to him. It was all in order, the full name of the emigré duly inserted, the genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the document. The jailer looked from the paper into the face of the man who had handed it to him.
"Do they set over prisoners fools who cannot read?" asked the man.
"No; the paper is in order," Mathon answered.
"Obey it then. Fetch out the emigré."
Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.
"It is down this passage," and his keys jingled. His fingers trembled a little as the men followed him. A few yards from the door the men halted.
"Bring her quickly. We have other work to do to-night more important than this."
Mathon unlocked the door and entered the room.
"Jeanne St. Clair, your turn has come."
The woman moved slowly.
"Quickly," said Mathon. "Your head's still in its place. Wrap the hood of your cloak well round it. There's no need to feel cold before the time. Don't speak," he added in a whisper.
They went out together, Mathon locking the door again.
"This is the prisoner."
The officers without a word placed themselves on either side of her, and they went quickly along the corridor leaving the jailer alone, one hand holding his keys, the other pressed to his pocket to make sure that the order he had obeyed still rested there.
Aberlinstood in the little square before the prison, the driver half asleep. He had no imagination, this driver, and this square was to him as any other in Paris. Yet on another night, not long since, how different it had been! Then a mob filled it, filled it to overflowing, a mob mad with lust of blood and murder, armed with sabers, pikes and hatchets, any weapon that came to hand. Within the prison sat a sudden jury, a mockery of Justice; without stood Fate. A brief questioning, the veriest caricature of a trial, and prisoners were escorted to the doors, but no farther. The rest of the journey they must go alone. A lane opened before them, all must traverse it, old and young, man or woman. It was a short journey, and amid frenzied shrieks they fell under the sabers and the pikes. There was no mercy, only red death and horror. Rain had fallen in Paris since then, yet surely there must still be blood in the gutters of this square. The driver could not tell where he had been that night, not here certainly, but wherever it was he was minding his own business. He had enough to do to live from day to day, and had no use for a long memory. He had carried people, men and women, from one prison to another before this, and took no special interest in this job. The revolution mattered little to him if he could get sufficient for his wants. He had a room high up in the Faubourg St. Antoine, with a wife and child in it, and cared little what heads fell daily in the Place de la Revolution. He woke from his reverie at the sound of footsteps. A woman was helped into the coach quickly, a man following her and closing the door sharply behind him. A second man climbed to the box beside the driver.
"To the Conciergerie," he said.
The woman in the coach did not speak, but leaned back in the corner. The man was also silent until they had driven away from the square.
"Listen to me, mademoiselle," he said presently. "We are driving in the direction of the Conciergerie, but the way will be altered in a few minutes. My comrade will arrange that. Keep your cloak well round you and do not speak. You and I will have to walk presently to a safe retreat already prepared. You must do exactly as you are told or we may fail. Your escape may be discovered at any moment."
The woman did not answer. She had no idea who her companion was, had perhaps a doubt in her mind concerning him, but she determined to obey; indeed, what else could she do?
The man beside the driver was silent, and sat in a somewhat bent attitude as though he were desirous of attracting no attention, yet his eyes were keen as the coach went forward at a jogging pace, and if any passer-by seemed to show any interest in the conveyance he was quick to note the fact.
"Take the next turning to the left," he said suddenly.
"That is not the way," returned the driver.
"It's my way. We might fall in with a crowd."
"But—"
"To the left," said the man. "I will direct you."
The coach turned into the street indicated, and afterward round this corner and that at the bidding of the man on the box until the driver was utterly confused.
"I'm lost, citizen," he said; "and what's more I believe you are, too."
"You'll see directly. Sharp round to the right here."
The driver turned.
"Why, it's as I said, you've lost yourself. This is a blind alley."
Indeed it was, a narrow lane between high walls, a place where refuse collected and was allowed to remain undisturbed, a place upon which looked no prying window and which echoed to no footfall.
The driver had turned to jeer at his companion when he found himself seized in a grip there was no fighting against. He tried to call out, but succeeded in giving only a whispered respiration, and then a heavy blow robbed him of his senses.
The coach door opened. The man inside got out quickly and helped the woman to descend.
"Keep silent, mademoiselle; it is all arranged," he whispered, and in a few moments he had divested himself of his coat and hat, of everything which marked him as an officer of the Convention, and even of the shaggy hair which hung about his eyes and neck, and threw all this disguise into the coach. He was another man altogether. "Come; we must walk. The worst danger is past."
The man who had sat on the box was bending over the coachman. He said nothing, did not even look up as the two went swiftly down the alley. When they had gone he, too, divested himself of everything that proved him an officer of the Convention and of the wig which had concealed his identity. These he put into the coach. Then he lifted the unconscious driver from the ground and put him into the coach also, closing the door upon him. The horse had not attempted to move. He was a tired, worn-out beast, glad to rest when and where he could. He was unlikely to move until his master roused to make him, and the dawn might be no longer young when that happened, unless some stray pedestrian should chance down that deserted way.
For an hour that evening Raymond Latour plied his friends and fellow patriots with wine. So glorious an hour seemed of long duration. In case of accident there would be a score of good witnesses to swear that their friend the deputy had been drinking with them all the evening. Under the influence of wine and loud patriotism the flight of time is of no account.
It was close on midnight when Latour entered the alley by the baker's shop in the Rue Valette, walking slowly. Seated at the top of the stairs he found Sabatier.
"Yes, and asleep probably," said Sabatier, answering the question in his eyes.
"It was well done," said Latour. "Come to me early to-morrow. This man Barrington may be suspected and must be warned."
"And Bruslart?"
"Yes, to-morrow we must think of him, too. Good night, citizen."
Sabatier went down the stairs, and Latour entered his room.
Midnight! Was she yet asleep? Sabatier had told her nothing except that she was safe, and that the man who had planned her rescue would come to her and explain everything. She would think it was Lucien Bruslart. Who would be so likely to run such risk for her sake? Only one other man might occur to her, the man who had already done so much to help her—Richard Barrington. Would she be likely to sleep easily to-night? No. Surely she was wide awake, waiting and watching.
Raymond Latour went quietly up the next flight of stairs to the room above his own which he had furnished and made ready with such infinite trouble. She was not so safe in these rooms as she would have been had he succeeded in bringing her there in the first instance, straight from the Lion d'Or as he had intended. Bruslart could not have suspected him then as he must certainly do now; but Bruslart could only work in secret, he dare not speak openly, and Barrington was powerless. To-night Latour would say little. He would look upon her for a moment, be assured that she had everything for her comfort, proclaim himself only as one of those who had had a part in her rescue, and receive some thanks. This would be enough for to-night.
The key was in the lock on the outside of the door. Latour knocked before turning it.
"Mademoiselle."
"Come in."
The answer was faint. She was in the inner room. Even when told to enter, Latour hesitated. This was a crisis in his life, fully understood and appreciated. Here was the accomplishment of something he had labored for; it was natural to hesitate. Then he turned the key and went in.
The room was in darkness, but the light of a candle came from the inner room, and the next moment the door opened wide and a woman stood there, a beautiful woman, dark in hair and eyes, with figure as lissom as a young animal, poised just now half expectantly, half in fear.
A sharp exclamation came from Latour's lips as he leaned forward to look at her.
"Monsieur, I—" and then a flush of anger came into her face. "Am I still to be insulted?"
"In the devil's name, woman, who are you?"
Latour had crossed the space between them in a hasty stride or two, and his fingers were tightly round the woman's wrist.
"What right—"
"Who are you? Answer."
For a moment longer she was defiant, even made a feeble struggle to free herself, but the man's eyes were upon her and she was compelled to look into them. Anger blazed in them, anger was in every line of his set face. She had seen this man before, knew he was Raymond Latour, knew his power, and she was afraid.
"I am Pauline Vaison," she said in a low tone.
THE TAVERN AT THE CHAT ROUGE
Terribly leaden-footed had this week of waiting been to Richard Barrington. He had not seen Lucien Bruslart, although each afternoon he had passed the wine shop with the sign of the three barrels. He had nothing to occupy him, and for most of the day he remained within doors. He shrank from witnessing the squalor and savagery which might at any moment be met in the streets; he could not bear the sight or the sound of those slowly rolling tumbrils carrying their wretched victims to the guillotine, and he would not go in the direction of the Place de la Revolution even when there was no yelling crowd there, when the scaffold was untenanted and the great knife still. Another consideration kept him indoors. His constant presence in the streets might serve to make his face and figure familiar, and this would be a disadvantage if he were presently to help Mademoiselle St. Clair to escape from Paris.
In the house of Monsieur Fargeau life ran a smooth and even course, if not entirely ignorant of the revolution, at least having no personal concern with it. The shouting mob did not penetrate into this quiet corner of the city. Monsieur Fargeau knew nothing of politics, and was ignorant of the very names of many of those members of the Convention who were filling distant parts of Europe with horror and loathing. Some people had lost their lives, he was aware of that; possibly they had only met with their deserts, he did not know. The times were hard, but he was prepared for a rainy day, and could afford to wait until business improved again. To do the Marquis de Lafayette a service he had let rooms to two Americans, who paid him well, who said pleasant things to his wife and children when they met them on the stairs, and beyond this he thought or cared little about them. He knew nothing of their reason for being in Paris, and had no idea that he was harboring dangerous characters. Both Barrington and Seth had been careful to leave and return to their lodgings cautiously, and by a roundabout route, and were convinced that if they were watched they had succeeded in baffling the spies in discovering their hiding place. Barrington was therefore rather startled one afternoon when, as he returned from his daily walk past the wine shop, a man suddenly came from a doorway and spoke his name in a low tone.
"It is Monsieur Barrington?"
"Yes."
"You may remember me, monsieur. I am a servant to Monsieur de Lafayette."
"Yes, I thought I recognized your face. You have a message for me?"
"My master has left Paris, monsieur. There was a rumor that he was in the city, and he was in danger of arrest. He has rejoined the army in the North, but it may not be possible for him to stay there. If not, he will ride across the Belgian frontier."
"It is bad news?" said Barrington.
"Yes, monsieur, and I was to say to you that you would do well to leave Paris at the first opportunity. There is no place for an honest man to-day in France. My master told me to say that."
This news added to Barrington's feeling of impotence, and was depressing. Had his days been full of active danger it would not have had such an effect upon him. Naturally disposed to see the silver lining of every cloud, he was unable to detect it now. Instead, his mind was full of questions. Was Bruslart honest? Was he leaving no stone unturned to release Mademoiselle St. Clair? Had Raymond Latour lied to him? Was this week of waiting merely a pretext in order that he might have time to render the prisoner's acquittal absolutely impossible?"
"I'd trust this man Latour before I would Bruslart," Seth said, when Barrington appealed to him, but in such a tone that he did not appear really to trust either of them.
"And at the end of this week what are we to do if mademoiselle is still a prisoner?"
"Master Richard, we're just men, ordinary men, and we cannot do the impossible. We shall have done all that it is in our power to do, and a ride toward the sea and a ship bound for Virginia would be the best thing for us."
"You would leave a defenseless woman in the hands of her enemies?" Barrington asked.
"It seems to me she must remain there whether we stay or go. I'm looking at the matter as it is, and I see no opening for a romantic side to it," Seth answered. "You cannot do battle with a whole city, that would mean death and nothing accomplished; you cannot go to these ruffians and demand her release, that would mean death, yours and hers, in the shortest time possible. No, unless this man Latour keeps his word, I see naught for us but a return to Virginia as quickly as may be."
"You would never spend another night of sound sleep, Seth."
"I should, Master Richard. I should just forget this time as though it had never been, wipe the marks of it off the slate. He's a wise man who does that with some of the episodes of his life."
"I am a fool with a long memory," said Barrington.
"Ay, but you will grow older, Master Richard; and life is less romantic as we grow older."
So from Seth there was not much consolation to be had, only sound common sense, which was not altogether palatable just now as Barrington counted the days. Latour had been very indefinite. He had said a week, and on waking one morning Barrington's first thought was that the week ended to-morrow. It was a proof of his trust in Latour, half unconscious though such trust might be, that he had not expected to hear anything until the week had passed. He judged Latour by himself.
Seth went out in the morning as usual, looking as true and uncompromising a patriot as any he was likely to encounter in the street. He rather prided himself on the way he played his part, and wore the tri-color cockade with an air of conviction. Grim of feature, he looked like a man of blood, a disciple of rioting, and he had more than once noticed that certain people who wished to pass unobserved shrank from him, which pleased him greatly. Early in the afternoon he returned hurriedly. It was so unlike him to come up the stairs hastily, two at a time, that Barrington opened the door to meet him.
"Shut it, Master Richard," he said, as he entered the room.
"What has happened?"
"The unexpected. Mademoiselle escaped from the Abbaye Prison last night."
"You are sure! You have seen Latour?"
"Sure! The news is all over Paris. The mob is furious. There are cries for a general massacre of prisoners, as happened a little while since, so that no others may escape. There is talk of a house-to-house search, and there are more ruffians in the streets to-day than I have seen at all."
"Is there any mention of Latour, any suspicion of him?"
"I heard none, but they talk of—"
"Bruslart!" ejaculated Barrington.
"No, of a scurvy devil of a royalist who helped mademoiselle into Paris."
"Of me? By name?"
"I did not hear your name spoken, but it is you they mean. They are looking in every direction for mademoiselle, but they are keeping their eyes open for you, too. There'll be some who will remember seeing you at the barrier the other day. Yours is a figure not easily to be forgotten. Keep within doors, Master Richard, until it is safe for us to sneak away."
"You know that is impossible."
"Mademoiselle has escaped," said Seth. "It is now your turn to seek safety."
"With her escape my part commences," said Barrington, with a laugh that had happiness in it. "It is for me to take her back to Beauvais or elsewhere to safety."
"It is madness to think of it," said Seth. "To be in your company would increase her danger. Think of her, Master Richard, think of her. Your lust for romantic adventure makes you selfish. For days to come you are a marked man. In the streets, at any moment, you may be recognized. Even in this quiet corner of the city you are hardly safe. They'll trap you if they can and only a miracle can prevent them."
"I have given a promise, Seth."
"Break it, if not for your own sake, for the woman's. You risk bringing her to ruin. I came back here to-day more cautiously than I have ever done. One moment of carelessness and you are lost. If this man Latour must be seen, let me go to him. No one is likely to recognize me. No one turns to look after me as I pass. I am insignificant, of no account. Let me go."
"Seth, you have not told me everything," he said, suddenly. "There is something you are keeping back. What is it?"
Seth was by the window looking down into the quiet street as though he expected to see danger enter it at any moment.
"What is it?" Barrington repeated.
"I'd give half my remaining years if my conscience would bid me lie to you," Seth answered, fiercely. "I've prayed, yes, I prayed as I hurried through the streets that your mother's spirit might be allowed to whisper to me and bid me deceive you."
"Come, Seth, tell me everything," and Barrington let his hand fall affectionately on the man's shoulder. "Could conscience persuade you to barter half your years, it would be but a device of the devil to lead us into greater difficulty."
"I was recognized to-day. That swaggerer Sabatier touched me in the street, and with a word of caution bid me walk beside him as though we were boon companions. He was a messenger from Raymond Latour."
"Yes, what did he say?"
"He told me that mademoiselle had escaped, news I had heard already, and he bid me tell you from Latour to go to-night, as soon as it began to grow dusk, to the Rue Charonne, to a tavern there called the Chat Rouge. You are to ask for the tavern keeper and say to him 'La vie est ici.' He will understand and bring you to Latour and mademoiselle. Plans are laid for your escape."
"Is that all, Seth?"
"And enough, surely. It comes from Sabatier, and we know something of him. It is a trap baited too openly. You will not go, Master Richard."
"Not go! Why, this is the very kind of message I have waited for, but I did not expect it until to-morrow."
"And I go with you."
Barrington was thoughtful for a moment.
"No. We will exercise every caution. Should escape from Paris seem possible at once, I can send for you or tell you when and where to join me; if I walk into a trap, you will still be at liberty to work for my freedom."
Seth knew from past experience that all argument was useless, and listened attentively to his master's instructions.
"If you do not see me, or hear from me within three days, you must act as you think best, Seth. Whatever my danger I shall have absolute confidence in you. Mademoiselle once in safety, you shall have your desire; we will ride toward the sea and a homeward-bound ship."
Twilight was gathering over Paris when Richard Barrington left the house of Monsieur Fargeau and went in the direction of the Rue Charonne. The wine shops were full to overflowing; small crowds were at street corners, filthy men and women ripe for any outrage. The names of unpopular deputies were freely and loudly cursed; the most unlikely revolutionists were openly accused of having sympathy with aristocrats. Some ragged miscreant, whose only popularity rested on some recent brutality, was declared capable of governing better than most of the present deputies, and the mob was more out of hand than it had been for weeks. At the call of some loud-mouthed patriot, or on the instigation of some screaming virago, a small body of dancing, swearing patriots would move away bent on mischief which would probably end in bloodshed. A street, more or less tranquil the moment before, would suddenly become a miniature battlefield, an opinion dividing patriots into factions which began to fight savagely. Anything might happen to-night, another prison might be stormed as the Bastille was, another tenth of August insurrection, another horror equalling the September massacres, anything was possible. Only a leader a little bolder than the rest was wanting, and all attempt at law and order would be trampled to nothing in a moment by a myriad of feet.
Barrington proceeded carefully with watchful eyes, yet boldly enough not to draw attention to himself. If a street was in possession of the mob he avoided it, nor did he pass in the light which came from noisy wine shops, but he did not make the mistake of avoiding those who approached him. His route to the Rue Charonne was therefore a circuitous one, but he came presently to a street which led directly into it, which seemed quieter than many he had passed through, and he took it.
He had traversed three-parts of its length in safety when from two side streets crowds came simultaneously. To hurry might raise suspicion, to turn back most certainly would; so Barrington kept on, not increasing his pace, but with his eyes and ears keenly alive. His steady pace exactly brought him into the midst of those who were at the heads of these two crowds, and he was ready to receive and return any salutation or coarse pleasantry which might be offered to him, when he found himself carried in a rush to one side of the street. Between these two crowds there was some quarrel, possibly no more than an hour old, and men and women flew at one another in a fury. Being at the edge of the fight Barrington had no great difficulty in extricating himself, and no need to defend himself beyond an arm flung out to avoid the blow from a stick. So fully were they engaged in their fight that they were unlikely to take much notice of him, and he was congratulating himself on his escape when one out of the many faces about him suddenly seemed to stand out distinct from all the rest. Barrington did not know the face, had never seen the man before that he was aware of, but it fascinated him. He was obliged to stare back into the eyes fixed upon him, and knew instinctively that he was in peril.
"An aristocrat!"
The exclamation burst out like the report of a pistol.
"The American!"
The noise of the fight sank in a kind of sob as the roar of a breaking wave sinks with an angry swish back into silence; and as there is a pause before the next wave is flung upward to break and roar, so was there a pause now. Then came the yell of fury, faction quarrel forgotten. They were all of one mind in a moment.
"An aristocrat! The American! The American!"
In the moment of pause Barrington had thrust aside a man who seemed to bar his way, and had started to run. He was a score of yards to the good; with fortune on his side he would turn into the Rue Charonne well ahead of all but two of his pursuers; an open doorway, an alley, some hiding-place might present itself. Escape was not probable, but there was a chance, that bare chance which keeps the courage steady.
Escape was not probable, but there was a chance.
Escape was not probable, but there was a chance.
As he rushed into the Rue Charonne, the yelling chorus behind him, a new difficulty faced him. Just before him was the Chat Rouge, the one place in all Paris that must not attract the attention of the mob to-night. An archway was beside him and he turned into it.
"The American! The American!"
The bloodhounds were in the street. Would they miss this archway? It was unlikely.
"Quick!" said a voice in his ear as he was dragged back against the wall. "There is straw below. Jump!"
The crowd was rushing past the archway, but some stopped to examine it as Barrington jumped down, falling on his hands and knees onto a bed of straw.
"The American!"
"This way. He must have gone this way!"
The babel of voices was loud for a moment, then something silenced it, and there was the swift sound of a bolt shot home carefully.
SETH IS CAUTIOUS
It was doubtful whether any man, woman or child, not even excepting Richard Barrington himself, had any clear idea of Seth's character, or the exact standpoint from which he viewed life and his fellows. On the Virginian estate he had always led an isolated kind of existence, happier apparently in his own company than any other. His devotion to his mistress and her boy was known, and passed for one of his peculiarities, had occasionally indeed been cast in his teeth as a selfish device for winning favor. Barrington, as a boy, had made use of him, as a man he had brought him to France knowing that he was to be trusted, yet hardly realizing that Seth's trustworthiness was rooted in love, such a love as men do not often receive. Since they had landed in France, and danger had been as their very shadows, Richard had caught glimpses of this love, but had understood it rather in terms of comradeship than in any deeper sense, and had perhaps misinterpreted Seth's keen desire to return forthwith to Virginia. Seth, in short, was seldom able to express himself adequately, emotion scarcely ever sounded in his voice, and the expression of his face was a fixed and unchangeable one, somewhat dour and ill-tempered in aspect and reflecting nothing of the man within.
That his master had gone into imminent danger by keeping the appointment at the Chat Rouge, Seth was convinced, yet for three days he did nothing, nor did he plan anything in his mind. He had been told to wait three days, and he waited, no look of anxiety in his eyes, no suppressed agitation or desire for action apparent in his manner. He went out and came in as though these days had no particular interest for him, and ate and drank as a normal man with no care in his mind. Precisely at the end of those three days, however, he began the labor which he had fully expected to be obliged to do—the discovery of Richard Barrington's whereabouts. Seth knew that the Marquis de Lafayette had left Paris, or at least that his master had been told so, but, being disposed to take nothing for granted, it was to Lafayette's apartments that he went first.
The servant who was still there did not remember him, and was not inclined to give any information.
"I don't expect to see the Marquis though I asked for him," Seth answered. "I am Monsieur Barrington's man, and it was you no doubt who delivered your master's message to him. Monsieur Barrington has gone."
"I am glad. I know the Marquis was anxious that he should leave Paris."
"By gone I mean that I don't know where he is," said Seth, "but I don't think he has left Paris."
"Do you mean that he is arrested? I might get a message through to my master who is with the army in the north."
"I don't know that he is arrested. No, I think it would be better not to send a message until I am certain. It is possible, although not probable, that you may hear of my master; if you do will you let me know?"
"I will. You are still at the house of Monsieur Fargeau?"
"Yes, and shall remain there."
Seth next went to find Lucien Bruslart. He had no intention of being open with him. He had concocted an ambiguous message from his master, so framed as to astonish Bruslart, whether he knew where Richard Barrington was or not, and Seth hoped to read something of the truth in his face.
Citizen Bruslart's apartment was closed, and the concierge knew nothing about him. His servants had also gone.
"Ah! like rats from a sinking ship, eh, citizen?"
"Maybe. I'm no politician."
"Nor I," said Seth, "until there's my own skin to keep whole, and then I'll be politician enough to fight for it. It's not only the aristocrats who are dangerous, citizen."
"Why, that's true."
"And if there's a wine shop handy we might drink confusion to all the enemies of liberty," Seth returned.
The porter was nothing loth, and was soon talking glibly enough.
"I'm not to be deceived," he said, eying Seth curiously. "You are a man with power, and Citizen Bruslart is wanted."
"Ah, you may be no politician, but I see you are no fool," answered Seth, with a swagger unnatural to him. "Men are brought out of the provinces to work in Paris sometimes. Maybe that is why you do not know me. There has been some good work done in the provinces and the authorities begin to understand the value of the men who have done it. Now Citizen Bruslart—"
"I know only this," said the porter, confidentially. "He went out very hurriedly one morning, and has not returned. His man followed and has not returned either. I do not think Citizen Bruslart intends to come back."
"But they have not sent to arrest him," said Seth.
"Not until you came, citizen," answered the porter, with a wink to show how exceedingly knowing he was.
"You're a smart man. I might presently find use for you."
"I have done a little already, citizen. Two aristocrats have looked through the little window with my help."
"Good, very good. May you receive the reward you deserve," Seth answered, rising as he finished his wine. "I shall hardly earn my pay if I stay longer. You're of the kind I should like to reward, an excellent double-faced man, Judas-like, betraying with a kiss. These are the men who succeed to-day. I love them as I love hell and the guillotine."
Even the porter was a little afraid of such a patriot, and was rather glad to see the back of him as he swaggered away.
Bruslart's disappearance was comprehensible. The escape of mademoiselle would naturally draw suspicion upon him. Was Richard Barrington with him?
This was the first question Seth asked himself. It gave quick birth to another. What part had Raymond Latour in the scheme?
The set purpose in Seth's mind was apparent by the fact that he took the most direct route to the Rue Valette. Twice at intervals of an hour he knocked at Latour's door and received no answer, nor heard any sound within. The third time the door was opened, and Latour faced him.
"Your business, citizen."
"I have something important to tell Citizen Latour," Seth answered.
"I do not know you."
"Does Citizen Latour know all his admirers?"
"No, nor all his enemies," was the answer.
"Were I an enemy I do not think you would be afraid. As it happens I want to be a friend."
"Come in, then, and remember a deputy's time is not his own. You may be from the provinces, citizen, and therefore I do not know you," said Latour, as he closed and locked his door, and Seth noticed that he was armed and prepared to use his pistol at a moment's notice.
"From Louisiana originally, from Virginia recently with my master, Richard Barrington."
Latour remained standing by the door a moment, then moved to a chair by the table, and sat down.
"I am interested. What do you want with me?" he said.
"I want to know where my master is."
Latour regarded him fixedly. If Seth expected to read this man's thoughts in his face he was doomed to disappointment.
"Surely you come to a strange person to make such an inquiry," said Latour, slowly.
"It will save time, monsieur, if I tell you at once that I am in my master's confidence."
"Ah! Then you should be able to give me most interesting information."
"I think not, monsieur, nothing more than you know already. I am aware that you and he planned to rescue Mademoiselle St. Clair, and that she has escaped from the Abbaye Prison. I know that she is being looked for in every corner of Paris, and that my master is suspected. It was to me that Jacques Sabatier gave your message bidding my master go to the Chat Rouge tavern in the Rue Charonne."
"You must be a faithful servant for your master."
"I am more, a man who loves him."
"Even so I doubt whether such confidence is wise," said Latour.
"Wise or not, it happens to serve a useful purpose on this occasion," Seth returned. "If he did not return, my master told me to take what steps I thought fit, after waiting three days. You will know, monsieur, that I have waited three days."
"So your first idea is to apply to me. It was natural."
"You think so, without taking any precaution?"
"Precaution! I do not follow you."
"It is easy," said Seth, a sudden inspiration coming to him, perhaps because he was convinced that this man was bent on baffling inquiry. "To come here was to put myself in your power. Monsieur Barrington has trusted you, but I should be a fool to trust you without reason; indeed, I have reason to distrust you since my master is missing. You could easily have given word that he would be at the Chat Rouge at a certain hour, and the doors of a Paris prison would close on him."
"Yes, that could have been done," said Latour, "and, faithful servant though you be, I fail to see what counter stroke you could have made."
"No? It seems obvious to me. Play the life of Deputy Latour against the life of Richard Barrington. There would speedily be a yelling crowd on the stairs if I denounced you as the man who had rescued Mademoiselle St. Clair."
Seth looked for some change of expression in his companion's face, but it did not come. Fear never caught at this man's heart.
"I think there would," said Latour, "if you could make the crowd believe it."
"You can make the mob believe anything at the present moment."
"You may be right. I do not study the mob much. There is one point, however, which you overlook," said Latour, quietly. "I might take steps to prevent your telling the mob."
"That is exactly the danger against which I have taken precaution," Seth answered. "You are not the first person to whom I have applied."
Latour was fully alive to the danger which such a precaution implied. A casual word had power in it to ruin him, yet he gave no sign of being disturbed, and Seth appreciated to some extent the kind of man he had to deal with.
"You see, monsieur, there are those who would not wait three days if I did not return from my visit to you," he said.
Latour nodded as though the position were quite an ordinary one, as though he had been aware of it from the first.
"I hope your caution, which I quite understand, but which was unnecessary, is not likely to injure your master."
"I have been very careful," said Seth.
"I am glad to hear it. At present Monsieur Barrington is safe."
"Then you can take me to him."
"For the moment that is exactly what I cannot do," Latour answered. "In one sense Monsieur Barrington's danger and mine are the same, but in another way his is greater than mine, at present. The mob does not suspect me; it does suspect your master. I can add to your knowledge a little. As he went to the Chat Rouge that night he was recognized and had to run for his life. Through Jacques Sabatier, whom you know, I was instrumental in saving him, but for some little time he will have to lie very closely. Were you or I to be seen near his hiding-place it would only be to betray him."
"I only have your word for this," said Seth.
"And it is not enough?" said Latour, with a smile. "I consider myself a judge of character, and I am not surprised. There is a way out of the difficulty. Will you be satisfied if your master sends you a letter telling you to await his further instructions patiently?"
"Yes. I have means of knowing that such a letter could not be forged."
"You shall have the letter to-morrow morning. Where shall I send it?"
"I will come here for it," Seth answered.
"An excellent idea. You will be able to tell me at once whether you are satisfied," said Latour, rising and going to the door, which he threw open with a bow. "The lion's den is not so dangerous a place as you imagined."
"Monsieur, I shall think well of you until to-morrow," said Seth.
"And afterward, I hope," Latour returned.
The smile faded from Latour's face as he went back into his room, and an expression of perplexity took its place. This was a new and unexpected danger. Probably he was honest, but it was hardly likely that Barrington had told the whole truth to his servant. After a little while spent in thought and calculation, Latour went upstairs to the rooms above his own. He knocked at the door, then turned the key and entered.
Pauline Vaison showed no pleasure at the visit, but there was unmistakable relief. It was quite evident that she half expected a worse enemy.
"Have you come to release me, citizen?" she asked, doing her utmost to appear indifferent.
"You are only a prisoner for your own safety."
"You have already said so, but I cannot understand of what importance I am to the State."
"Mademoiselle, I was a little rough with you when you were first brought here," said Latour. "I believed you were a party to a plot, to defeat which you were smuggled out of the Abbaye Prison. You told me a story which, frankly, I did not believe, but from further knowledge I am inclined to alter my opinion. Your story was this, correct me if I am wrong in any detail: You went one morning to visit Citizen Bruslart, he was out and you waited for him, you have done the same before. The house was suddenly invaded and you were arrested as an aristocrat, one Mademoiselle Jeanne St. Clair. You protested, but you were not believed. Is that so?"
"I was laughed at and insulted," said Pauline.
"Citizen Bruslart is a friend of yours?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever heard that he was to marry Jeanne St. Clair?"
"Whatever he once intended, I have the best reason for knowing that he has changed his mind. Lucien Bruslart is to marry me."
Latour showed no surprise. "Have you ever seen this Jeanne St. Clair?" he asked.
"Never."
"You were not voluntarily there that day in her place, so that she might escape?"
"No. I am a patriot and hate all aristocrats. I am woman enough to hate this one particularly since Lucien once cared for her."
"When one's life is at stake, it is easy to lie if a lie will be useful, but I believe you, citizeness," said Latour. "I wish to be your friend, that kind of friend who is honest even if honesty gives pain. First, then, it is absolutely necessary that you remain here in hiding for a little while. The mob which carried you to prison knows you have escaped. You are being hunted for. So beautiful a woman cannot pass unnoticed. You would be recognized, and since you are still believed to be Mademoiselle St. Clair, I doubt not the nearest lantern would be your destination."
Pauline turned pale. "But, citizen—"
"Believe me, you are perfectly safe here," said Latour. "In a few days the people will know that they made a mistake, and you will be a heroine."
"I will stay here," she said. "You are sure the woman who brings my food and looks after these rooms will not betray me?"
"I am certain of that. She believes you are very dear to me, and she is mine body and soul. Now I come to the second point. It is known that this aristocrat is, or was, in Paris. It is certain that Lucien Bruslart knew this; it is almost certain that he has found her a safe hiding-place. That makes you angry, but there is something more. He knew that Jeanne St. Clair was supposed to have been arrested in his apartment, knew that a mistake had been made, but he has taken no steps to put that mistake right. Is it not possible, even probable, that he knows you were arrested in her place, and that it has suited his plans to remain silent?"
Pauline sprang from her chair, her eyes blazing, her little hands clinched, her whole frame vibrating with the lust for revenge.
"If I thought—"
"Citizeness, I am your friend," said Latour. "We will find out. At present, Lucien Bruslart is not to be found. For three days, ever since your escape, mark you, he has not been near his apartment."
"You shall help me," said Pauline, savagely. "I will not yet believe him false, but if he is, he shall pay for it. I should laugh to see his neck under the knife."
"You let me into a secret, citizeness, the greatness of your love."
"Great love like mine means hatred if it is scorned," she said; and then she added quickly, "But he may have got safely away from Paris."
There was in her attitude that sudden savagery which a cat shows at the prospect of being robbed of its prey.
"He has not left Paris," said Latour.
"Even if he had, I should find him," she said.
Latour left her and returned to his own rooms.
"This woman will find him, once she is let loose," he muttered. "I can almost pity Citizen Bruslart, thrice damned villain that he is. And Barrington? I must see Barrington."