DR. LEGRAND'S ASYLUM
The Rue Charonne was a long street extending toward the outer limits of the city, and while at one end, near the Chat Rouge Tavern, it was a busy thoroughfare with crowded Streets on either side of it, at the other end it was quiet, and almost deserted in the evenings. The houses were less closely packed, and there were walls which trees overhung, telling of pleasant and shady gardens.
Behind such a wall the passer-by had a glimpse of the upper windows and steep roof of a house of considerable size. On one side of it stretched a garden, on the other some outbuildings joined it to another house which had nothing to do with it, but was one of a block of rather old houses which faced the street.
This house, in its pleasant garden, was, as every one knew, a private asylum and sanatorium conducted by Dr. Legrand. He had come there half a dozen years ago, and for some time there had been only a few inmates, not dangerously insane, but unfit to be at large, and two or three others who had retired into this retreat to end their days in peace. In the last few months, however, the number of residents had vastly increased. Certainly every room in the house must be occupied, the larger rooms probably divided into two or three, the neighbors argued, and most of the inmates did not appear to be insane. It was not a time to busy one's self about other people's affairs, it was much safer neither to gossip nor to listen to gossip; so to many persons the riddle of Monsieur Legrand's sudden prosperity remained unsolved.
Yet many people understood the riddle, and were not slow to profit by it. This house, although one of the best known, was not the only one of its kind to be found in Paris. Legrand was a man of business as well as a doctor, a better man of business than he was a doctor, and perceived, almost by a stroke of genius, how he might profit by the Revolution. To many a revolutionary leader gold was better than the head of an aristocrat, although by that curious twist of conscience which men can so easily contrive for themselves, direct bribery was not to be thought of. Dr. Legrand seemed to thoroughly understand this twisted and diseased conscience, and had a remedy to offer. What persuasion he used, what proportion of his exorbitant fees found its way into other pockets, cannot be said, it was a secret he locked up in his own soul, but it soon became known that aristocrats, fortunate enough to be prisoners in this house in the Rue Charonne, were safe so long as the fees were paid.
The agents of the Public Prosecutor never came there for food for the guillotine. If the fees were not paid, it invariably meant that some ill turn of fortune, which Legrand was quite unable to explain, necessitated the speedy removal of the delinquent to the Abbaye, to Sainte Pélagie, or one of the other prisons where their days were almost certain to be few.
A round-faced man, with generosity beaming in his eyes, was Dr. Legrand. His prisoners, or guests as he preferred to call them, were free to roam the house or the grounds at their will; if the table he kept was not liberal, a certain etiquette was indulged in which did something to cover the parsimony, and the insane inmates who remained in the house were pushed out of the way into odd corners as much as possible.
Into the doctor's study one morning there had come a man and a woman.
"I have come as arranged," said the man. "This is the lady."
Legrand bowed low, and appeared to overflow with benevolence.
"I am happy to welcome such a guest," he said. "There are certain formalities, and then you are as safe, mademoiselle, as you could be at Beauvais."
So it was that Mademoiselle St. Clair came to be a guest at the house in the Rue Charonne, brought there for safety by Lucien Bruslart. She had been there a week when, not far away, Richard Barrington had been obliged to run for his life, and with the help of a man, whose identity the dark entry concealed, had jumped into safety. Of this she knew nothing; she was as ignorant of what was passing in the city as though hundreds of miles separated her from it. Lucien had found her a safe retreat, and the time was not so heavy on her hands as she had expected. Although she chanced upon no intimate friends in Dr. Legrand's house, she met several acquaintances, men and women she had known something of before the flight to Beauvais. They had much to talk of in the day, and in the evenings they sang and danced. If care was heavy upon some of them, smiling faces were made to mask the fact. Saturday was a day of apprehension, a day of which the ending was greeted with a sigh of relief. It was the day for paying fees. Some the inmates paid their own, their purses refilled by friends who were free; the fees of many were paid direct to the doctor by their friends. This was the arrangement in Mademoiselle St. Clair's case. Lucien had told her that it would be the most satisfactory way, and she had given him power to draw on her money for the purpose. He had a special agreement with Legrand, he said, for Jeanne was there on a different footing from the other guests. He hinted too that Legrand was under such obligations to him that any favor he asked was practically a command. It was not until the second Saturday had passed that Jeanne understood all that the payment of these fees meant. At the table that night there were two empty places, a man's and a woman's. She asked her neighbor, an elderly Abbé, who had lived well all his life until he came to the Rue Charonne and was forever grumbling at the extortion practiced, what had become of them.
"Removed to another prison, mademoiselle. I did not hear which."
"But why?"
"They could not afford to remain here. They are not the first I have seen made bankrupt by Legrand."
"Ah! this hateful revolution!"
"It will end, mademoiselle. Already the dogs begin to tear one another, and when that happens, the quarry escapes."
"It will end, yes; but when? How long?"
"Before our purses run dry, I trust, mademoiselle," answered the Abbé, with a smile.
Jeanne had no fear for her own safety, but great compassion for others. She began to hate the smiling face of Dr. Legrand. She heard something of the enormous sums he charged, and wondered what Lucien was paying for her, and how long he would have to pay it. He had said that at least a month must elapse before it would be safe to make an attempt to leave Paris. Unfortunately, he had to think of his own safety as well as hers. Poor Lucien! She had braved Paris to help him, and her presence in the city had only added to his difficulty and danger. What was he doing day by day to end it all? Was Monsieur Barrington helping him? Lucien would be foolish not to accept the help of such a man, so brave, so full of resource, so——
These thoughts concerning Richard Barrington made Jeanne start a little. She was suddenly conscious that she was comparing the two men, and that one seemed to take hold of her, hurry her along, as it were, and absorb her attention, until she could only bring her thoughts back to the other with an effort. Barrington stood out clear and distinct, definite in word and action, knowing what he intended to do and doing it without thinking of failure; Lucien was a shadow in comparison, indistinct, waiting rather than acting. Barrington would have made an attempt to get her out of Paris before this, and Jeanne was convinced that she would have gone without fear. If the enterprise had failed, it would have been a splendid failure. Lucien had not made the attempt. She did not blame him, his nature was to exercise greater caution, and when he did move, perhaps the chances of success would be greater; yet she knew that with Lucien she would feel greater responsibility, feel that she was obliged to protect him almost as much as he protected her. Lucien would ask her advice and be guided by it; Barrington would tell her what to do and be angry if she did not obey at once.
"It is my love which makes the difference," she told herself. "A woman must exercise protection over the man she loves. In the love of all good women there is the mother instinct. That is the reason why I feel like this toward Lucien." And then she thought of how she had passed the barrier with Barrington and his servant Seth. It seemed a mad scheme, yet it had succeeded. And Lucien had asked her whether this man was to be trusted!
So the days passed, much dreaming in them for want of other employment. It was sometimes too cold and wet to walk much in the garden, and the sense of confinement within high walls was depressing. Not always could cards or music dispel the anxiety which these guests had to endure, and Jeanne, with all her bravery, had hard work to keep her tears back at times. She had been at the house in the Rue Charonne a month when Marie, a maid of all work in the establishment, came to her one morning, a frightened look in her face and evidences of tears in her eyes. Marie was generally assumed to be of rather weak intellect, chiefly perhaps because she made no complaint against the drudgery of her life, and because, unlike the other servants, she did not copy the rapacity of the master and extort fees at every opportunity. She was especially attached to Mademoiselle St. Clair, who had in times past befriended her aged mother, and she had endeavored to repay the debt by special devotion to her, and, when they chanced to be alone, by a loquacity which was intended to be encouraging. Her present doleful appearance was therefore the more surprising.
"What is the matter, Marie?" Jeanne asked.
"The doctor wants to see you in his study."
"I wasn't thinking of your message, but of your appearance. You have been crying."
"Yes, that's the reason," Marie answered. "The master wants to see you, and it's Saturday morning."
Jeanne had forgotten the day, and the information, coupled with the message, startled her for a moment.
"There is no need to be afraid, Marie," she said quietly.
"I know you're brave, you couldn't be anything else," returned the girl, "but I know what Saturday morning in that study means. Mademoiselle, I'll do anything I can. No one takes any notice of me. I can slip out of the house almost any time I like."
"Thank you, Marie. I will not forget."
In spite of the servant girl's pessimistic view, Jeanne had little apprehension as she went to the doctor's study, and Legrand's method of receiving her was reassuring. He rose, bowed low and placed a chair for her. He spoke of the pleasant crispness in the air, of the little dance which had taken place in the salon on the previous night.
"Even the Abbé was persuaded to a few steps," he laughed. "It was very amusing."
"I am waiting to hear the business which necessitates my presence here," said Jeanne.
"Ah, mademoiselle, it is a painful matter; it pains me. There is no remittance from Monsieur Bruslart this week. It has always come on Friday night, but this is Saturday morning and it is still not here."
Jeanne did not answer for a moment.
"Of course there is some mistake," she said.
"I thought so," said Legrand. "It did not trouble me much last night, but this morning—mademoiselle, I was so surprised that I called on Monsieur Bruslart this morning. He has left Paris."
"Gone!"
"Leaving no word behind him, mademoiselle."
"It is more likely that he has been arrested," said Jeanne.
"I have inquired. He has not been arrested, but he would have been had he remained."
"Are you suggesting that he has run away without a thought for me?"
"Mademoiselle, the most prominent members of my profession have little knowledge of men's thoughts. Of the working of Monsieur Bruslart's mind I know nothing; I only know that he has left Paris without sending money."
"And the consequence to me?" asked Jeanne.
"That is what pains me," Legrand answered. "This house is secure only on certain conditions, a peculiar arrangement in which I have personally little influence. Some of my guests are ungracious enough to disbelieve this. When the fees remain unpaid I have no choice in the matter. My guest is removed elsewhere."
Jeanne showed not a trace of nervousness or alarm. The whirl of thoughts and doubts in her brain caused the lines in her face to harden a little, but there was no quiver in her eyes, no tremble in her voice.
"Is the money paid in advance?" she asked.
"Always, mademoiselle; that is one of the conditions."
"Then it is for the coming week that the money is due?"
"That is so."
"I do not know, Dr. Legrand, whether you are fully aware of Monsieur Bruslart's position and my own?"
"I think so, mademoiselle. You were, I believe, to be man and wife."
His suggestion that such a thing was now impossible was not lost upon Jeanne and was a little startling. Did he believe that Lucien Bruslart was a scoundrel?
"Do you know that the fees paid to you by Lucien Bruslart are paid out of my money?"
"Officially I only know that they are paid by a certain person, and I ask no questions. Having some knowledge of Monsieur Bruslart's position, I have imagined that the necessary money was supplied by you."
"I have only to authorize the banker who has funds of mine in hand to pay the amount."
"Mademoiselle, I naturally thought of that. All that was necessary was a form for your signature, so I called upon the banker. I regret to tell you that he has no longer any funds of yours in hand. The whole amount has been withdrawn."
"By whom?"
Legrand shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not know. If you wish me to make a guess, I should say by Lucien Bruslart. You will know whether he had any document in his possession giving him such power."
Jeanne knew that he had. She had trusted him fully. Even now she did not jump to the hasty conclusion that he had betrayed that trust. There might be a dozen good reasons why he had withdrawn the money; to save it from being misappropriated by the State consequent on the banker's possible arrest, or to spend carefully in arranging her escape. It was probably an accident that the messenger had not arrived with the money this week, and in preparation for escape it was quite likely that Lucien might let it be understood that he had left Paris. He would not be likely to confide in Monsieur Legrand. He would certainly not desert her.
"Will you tell me the amount due for next week?" she asked.
The doctor took a paper from a drawer and handed it to her. She uttered a sudden exclamation as she saw the amount.
"It is out of all reason," she said.
"Mademoiselle, the security offered by this house may be said to be out of all reason too."
"If this is paid, I remain a guest for another week?"
"Until next Saturday."
Jeanne took her purse and counted out the money. She had little left when it was done.
"Count it, Dr. Legrand, and give me the receipt."
His eyes beamed as he counted and found the sum correct.
"I am happy again," he said. "So much may happen in a week. I assure you, mademoiselle, your ability to pay lifts years from my shoulders."
"Yes, monsieur, I have bought a long respite," Jeanne said, rising as she took the receipt. "I doubt not much will happen in a week."
As she went out and closed the door, Legrand placed the money in a drawer which he locked.
"It was a warning," he muttered, "and she has robbed me of seeming generous by promising to give her a week free of cost. She must have touched me in some way, or I should never have thought of giving her such a warning. It was a fortunate idea. Had I left it until next Saturday she would have been able to pay for another week, and I should have been obliged to hunt for a pretext for refusing her money. She must be removed elsewhere next Saturday. My little consideration, my wish to prepare her, has turned out well; besides, I have received double fees for this coming week. I cannot complain."
Alone in her own room, Jeanne nearly broke down. The strain of the interview and all that it implied left her with little strength to fight the despair that settled upon her. Yet she held back the tears that threatened, and fought back the disposition to fling herself upon the mean little bed and give way to her grief. A week! Only a week! She had bought it at an enormous price and every hour in it was of immense value. If Lucien Bruslart were a traitor, she had still one friend in Paris. She was as sure of this as of the emblematic meaning of the small crucifix which she had hung above her bed. She must act. There was no time to give way to despair.
On scraps of paper she wrote a long letter, telling the whole history of the house in the Rue Charonne, how she came to be there, and the peril she was in. She sealed it, and then waited until she could get Marie alone.
"Marie, you promised to help me."
"I meant it. What can I do, mademoiselle?"
Jeanne gave the girl minute instructions for finding the house in which the Marquis de Lafayette had his apartment, and Marie showed little sign of weak-mindedness as she listened.
"I know the house, mademoiselle."
"Go there, say you come from me and ask to see him. Give him this letter and ask him to see that it is safely delivered."
"And if he is away, mademoiselle?"
"Then ask his servant to tell you where the man to whom this letter is addressed lives."
"And if he does not know?"
"Ah, Marie, I cannot tell what you are to do then. Take the letter, hide it away. Heaven grant it reaches its destination."
Marie stood with the letter in her hand.
"Who's it to? I cannot read, mademoiselle, but if I know the name, I may find him even if the servant doesn't know."
"It is addressed to Monsieur Richard Barrington," said Jeanne.
The girl put the letter into her pocket, and patted her dress to emphasize the security of the hiding-place.
"I'll go to-morrow. I have a holiday all day; that gives me plenty of time to find the man who loves mademoiselle. Richard Barrington; I shall not forget the name."
"Not my lover, Marie."
"Ah, mademoiselle, why pretend with me? Yours is not the first secret I have kept."
CITIZEN SABATIER TURNS TRAITOR
The Rue Charonne in the neighborhood of the Chat Rouge was a busy street. Its importance as a business quarter had been on the increase for some years, yet in the adjoining back streets extreme poverty existed and there were warrens of iniquity into which the law had feared to penetrate too deeply. It was an old part of the city, too, built on land once belonging to a monastery whose memory was still kept alive by the names of mean streets and alleys into which byways respectable citizens did not go. There were stories current of men who had ventured and had never come forth again. With some of the inhabitants, it was asserted, the attainment of an almost worthless trinket, or a single coin, or even a garment, was considered cheap as the price of murder; and so intricate were the streets, so honeycombed with secret hiding-places known only to the initiated, that attempts to enforce justice had almost invariably ended in failure. Naturally this squalid neighborhood materially swelled the yelling crowds who, in the name of patriotism, openly defied all law and order, and made outrage and murder a national duty as they drank, and danced, and sang the "Ca-ira," flaunting their rags, sometimes even their nakedness.
Into the midst of such a crowd Richard Barrington had walked as he went to the Chat Rouge; as bloodthirsty a mob as he could possibly have encountered in all Paris, and the Rue Charonne had been turned into Pandemonium when it was realized that the quarry had escaped. Houses were forcibly entered, men and women insulted and ill-used, the Chat Rouge was invaded and searched, the landlord barely escaping with his life. The opportunity to drink without cost presently kept the mob busy, however, and as the liquor took effect the work of searching was abandoned for the night, but the next morning the crowd came together again, and for days it was unsafe to go abroad in the Rue Charonne.
Of this quarter was Citizen Jacques Sabatier, never so criminal as many of his fellows, perhaps, yet a dangerous man. He might pass along these streets in safety, and since he had become a man of some importance, had influence with this mob. Through him Raymond Latour could count upon the support of those who dwelt in the purlieus of the Rue Charonne, but both he and his henchman knew perfectly well that there were times when any attempt to exert such influence would be useless. Sabatier, waiting by the Chat Rouge, had heard the sudden cry, "An aristocrat! The American!" yet he dared not have interfered openly to save Barrington. Had the fugitive not turned suddenly into the archway where Sabatier waited, it is certain that Sabatier would not have gone out to rescue him. The chance to help him at little risk had offered itself, and he had taken it.
As Richard Barrington rose to his feet in the straw, he was in pitch darkness, but not alone. There was a quick movement beside him, and then a voice whispering in his ear:
"A narrow escape. Give me your hand; I will lead you into a place of greater safety."
Barrington had no idea who his deliverer was, but he thanked him and took his hand. He was led along evil-smelling passages into which no ray of light penetrated, but which were evidently familiar to his guide. There were turnings, now to right, now to left, an opening and shutting of doors, and finally entrance into a wider space where the air was comparatively fresh.
"One moment and I will get a light."
The dim light from the lantern revealed a small chamber, square and built of stone, the work of a past age. A barred grating high up in the wall let in air, and possibly light in the daytime. A common chair and table standing in the center, a bowl with a water can beside it in one corner, and a heap of straw in another comprised the furniture. These things Barrington noticed at once, and then recognized that the man who set the lantern on the table was Jacques Sabatier.
"A prison," said Barrington.
"A place of refuge, citizen," was the answer. "Were you not here, you would be decorating a lantern by this time."
"We meet in Paris under strange circumstances," said Barrington.
"Still we do meet. Did I not say at Trémont that every true patriot must sooner or later meet Jacques Sabatier in Paris, though for that matter I expected it to be in a wine shop and not here, underground."
"Where are we?"
"In a cell of the old monastery which once stood hard by the Rue Charonne, which has served as a cellar at some time, but now for a long while has been forgotten. Citizen Latour would have been here with mademoiselle to meet you, but the mob in the neighborhood will keep them away to-night. You must wait here, monsieur, it may be for some days."
"Mademoiselle is safe?"
"Quite safe in the care of Deputy Latour. I had the honor of helping him to bring her out of the Abbaye prison."
"And what are Citizen Latour's plans for getting her out of Paris?"
"He is making them, but they change from day to day as the circumstances change. At the first opportunity he will come to you."
"I must wait with what patience I can," said Barrington.
"And remain as quiet as you can," said Sabatier. "The crowd will be hunting for you for some time, and a noise might attract them."
"I shall not court death; I have a good deal to live for," said Barrington.
"Then, monsieur, I will leave you. Citizen Latour will be distressed until he knows you are safe."
Richard Barrington's patience was destined to be sufficiently tried. It was a poor, miserable caricature of daylight which found its way through the barred grating, and for three days Sabatier visited him every morning with the same news that the crowds parading the Rue Charonne made it impossible for Latour to come.
"Is it necessary to lock me in?" Barrington asked.
"It is not to prevent your going out, monsieur, but to insure that your enemies do not come in."
"I feel like a prisoner."
"Better that than falling into the hands of the mob."
On the fourth day Sabatier brought a message from Latour. Barrington's servant Seth had been to him inquiring about his master. Naturally, perhaps, he was not inclined to believe Latour's word that he was safe, and unless he had some definite proof might ruin everything by making inquiries in other directions.
"Will you write a letter to your servant, monsieur, telling him to wait until he has further instructions from you?"
"Might he not come to me here?"
"For the present that would be too dangerous," Sabatier answered. "I come and go, monsieur, because I was bred in this quarter of the city. The mob claims me as a part of it, and truly I am, except in this business. I began by simply obeying Citizen Latour, for my own benefit, I make no secret of it; now I am also interested in Monsieur Barrington."
The letter to Seth was written and given to Sabatier to deliver. Two more weary days of waiting passed, and then late one afternoon Raymond Latour came.
Barrington welcomed him, both hands held out to him.
"It was bravely done," he exclaimed. "You must have run great risk in getting her from the Abbaye prison."
"Yes, great risk. I have come to talk to you about it."
Latour ignored the outstretched hands. He stood in front of Barrington with folded arms. There was something amiss.
"What has happened?" Barrington asked.
"The usual thing when an honest man trusts a liar; the honest man has been deceived."
"You speak of—"
"Of one Richard Barrington, a liar I was fool enough to trust. Oh, this is no time for fighting," Latour went on quickly, as sudden anger stiffened Barrington's figure, and gave a dangerous fire to his eyes. "You will be wise to hear me out. This was a place of safety, it is a prison, and a word from me will send you to the guillotine as surely as we are standing face to face at this moment."
"First prove me a liar; afterward threaten me if you will," Barrington returned.
Latour regarded him in silence for a few moments and then said slowly:
"Tell me, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"
"Jeanne! She has gone?" cried Barrington. "Sabatier said she was with you, that she—"
"It is well done, monsieur; I am no longer a fool or I might be convinced, might still be deceived."
"For Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean," and Barrington spoke hoarsely.
"If it pleases you to keep up the deception, let me put facts plainly," said Latour. "You admit the risk I ran in securing an escape from the Abbaye Prison; you know that the risk was run to no purpose. It was well planned, it was successful, but the woman rescued was not Mademoiselle St. Clair."
"You made a mistake?"
"There was no mistake. The woman was Pauline Vaison, a woman Lucien Bruslart has promised to marry. The mob found her in his apartment, took her for the aristocrat, and carried her to prison in the place of mademoiselle. You are Bruslart's friend and accomplice. I ask you again, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"
It never occurred to Richard Barrington that Latour might be deceiving him, and for the moment he had no thought how he could best convince Latour that he was innocent of any deception. He was utterly overwhelmed by the news. Deep down in his heart he had never really trusted Lucien Bruslart, and all this time Jeanne had been in his hands. Bruslart then had lied from the first, had imposed upon him his feigned grief, and all the time he had been perfecting some foul plot. What had become of Jeanne? The horrible possibilities unnerved him, took the heart out of him. He was as a man who when brought face to face with peril is afraid, who shrinks back and would fly if he could. Latour knew nothing of the thoughts rushing through Barrington's brain, he only saw a man with the courage suddenly gone out of him; he put his own construction upon his manner and laughed.
"It is always unpleasant when the time comes to pay for such deceit," he said.
"I swear to you"
"Spare yourself. I have asked you a question. I want it answered."
"I don't know where she is. I wish to Heaven I did."
"It suits my purpose to give you time to think better of your answer," said Latour. "You shall even buy your miserable life by telling the truth. When you tell me where Mademoiselle St. Clair is, you shall leave this prison, not before. I will even do something to get you safely out of Paris and to the seacoast."
"I tell you I do not know. Find Bruslart, ask him."
"I have you safe, that is enough; and I would advise you to come to my terms quickly. There is no escape except through me. Your letter has silenced your servant, and his patience is likely to outlast mine. Tell the truth quickly, Monsieur Barrington; it will be safer."
Latour turned to the door, but Barrington sprang toward him and caught him by the arm.
"Are you mad? Think of her; she is in Bruslart's hands."
Latour wrenched himself free, and as he turned sharply there was a pistol in his hand.
"Stand where you are! I would shoot you like a dog rather than let you escape."
"The devil take you for a fool!" exclaimed Barrington. "I thought I had a man to deal with!" and he turned his back upon Latour, who went out of the room, locking the door after him.
Barrington's anger was quickly absorbed in the realization of the utter hopelessness of his position. Latour had trapped him. When he sent him the appointment to come to the Chat Rouge, he must have known what he had told him to-day; he had deliberately said nothing until after Seth's anxiety had been quieted; and his jailer, Jacques Sabatier, was a party to the deceit. Latour had it firmly fixed in his mind that he was in league with Bruslart, and it seemed that nothing short of a miracle would drive this idea out of his mind. Barrington could conceive no way in which he could convince him, and the thought that all this while Jeanne was in peril almost drove him mad. Could he escape? For the first time since he had entered it he examined his stone cellar carefully. It was a very grave for security.
When Sabatier visited him next morning, his manner gave Barrington an idea. Sabatier entered more carefully than he was wont to do, his hand upon a pistol thrust into his tri-color sash. It was evident he feared attack. His greeting was friendly, however; he showed a keen interest in the prisoner, and gave him odds and ends of news which were of little importance.
"Any message for Citizen Latour?" he asked as he was leaving.
"Tell him he is a fool."
Why should Barrington not attack and overpower his jailer? It might be useless, perhaps others were watching in the passage without, ready to rush in at the slightest sound; still, it would be something attempted. He had succeeded in silencing the man at the Lion d'Or that night, why should he not succeed again?
The next morning Sabatier came before his time, Barrington was not ready to take him unawares. Again he asked the same question, and Barrington gave him a similar answer.
"Tell Latour he is a fool."
"I will. He may end by believing it. I may have news for you to-morrow."
There was meaning in the words, a suggestion that the news might be good news. Barrington decided to give his jailer a chance of telling it.
Sabatier came at the usual hour.
"Do you bring news?" Barrington asked.
"Citizen Latour remains a fool. I mean it. I do not believe you know where mademoiselle is."
"Then you will help me?"
"Monsieur, I try every day to persuade Deputy Latour that he is mistaken."
"We must try another way, Sabatier."
"I will, if monsieur will agree to what I say. I have to think of myself, and Citizen Latour is a dangerous man to thwart. For a day or two longer I will try and persuade him; if I fail I will do my best to help you to escape, but you must be patient or you put my neck under the knife. Do you agree?"
"Agree! I must. I have no choice."
"Your servant Seth might help me; where shall I find him?"
"My good friend, how can I tell? Paris is a large place," was the prompt answer. Barrington was not going to speak of Monsieur Fargeau. His house might presently prove the only safe retreat for him in the city.
"It is a pity, but I shall manage alone," Sabatier answered. "Am I to give the usual answer to Citizen Latour?"
"Yes. Can any answer be better than the truth?"
Had a miracle happened? Was this man honestly meaning to help him, or had he seen that the prisoner intended to attack him and chosen this way of protecting himself? Barrington could not tell. He could only wait and see.
THE LETTER
Jacque Sabatier is busy in these days, also his master Raymond Latour. Their private affairs must proceed as quickly as possible, but there are public affairs which must be done at once, which cannot wait, which a frenzied people loudly demand with cursings and dancings and mad songs.
War thunders along the frontiers, and passes beyond them. Such a gathering of nations in arms that right and justice may be done, is a new thing. Paris has realized its danger, has known it for weeks past; Jacques Danton, mighty in the Club of the Cordeliers, has urged it with great words, with a great voice which has made the rafters ring; more, he has shown how the danger must be met. Safety lies in daring, not once but again and always. "De l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace et la France est sauvée." It is a battlecry which has stirred hearts, and sent ill-conditioned men to face trained regiments, which are surprised when such a ragged rabble does not turn and run. Courage is under those rags and something of true patriotism. But there are other patriots in Paris, and of a different sort. The frontiers are a long way off, but here to hand is work for them, work which is easy and pleases them. The Place de la Revolution is their battlefield where they can yell their war crys and their war songs; their weapon is the guillotine, and the guillotine is always victorious. The enemy, cursed aristocrats, and others not aristocrats but equally cursed because they differ from the people and the people's demigods, are foredoomed to defeat and death. Only one thing is lacking, sufficient enemies that the guillotine may not stand idle. Each day must bring its excitement. The denizens of the slums and alleys of Paris must have their amusement day by day. The inhabitants of the narrow streets off the Rue Charonne have forgotten the American they hunted so fiercely, although Richard Barrington waiting in his underground prison does not know it. They are yelling, half afraid of their own audacity, for another victim. They gather daily, in another part of the city, by the Riding Hall close to the Tuileries. There is excitement in plenty here. In the Rue Charonne one might walk in safety.
From the Temple prison an aristocrat, more, a king, has been brought to answer the charges made against him. They are charges only recently framed and strangely got together. Save that he is a king, which he cannot help, what charges can be brought against him? None. There are many who would make them on the flimsiest foundation, but even such a foundation does not exist. Danton himself cannot send a king to the Place de la Revolution for nothing. That would be to dare too greatly. They have found nothing at the Tuileries or at Versailles to condemn him. Roland has had diligent search made, fearful perchance of some letters of his own being found; even the cesspools of the palace have been dragged. There is no result worth the trouble. No drawer has any secret to give up save one which has no accusation in it, a child's letter, simple, loving wishes for a happy New Year, signed by the little Dauphin, addressed to "My dear Papa." Little enough can Roland make out of this, for he has no ability to understand even the pathos of it. Then one day there comes from Versailles, one, François Gamain by name, a locksmith of that place, a coward fearful for his own safety. The king has been fond of lock-making, something of the craft Gamain has taught him, and the king has shared a secret with him. There is a hiding-place in a corridor behind the king's bedroom, which Gamain has helped to make, which he now shows to Roland. There are papers there, many of them, enough in them to prepare evidence against the king and many others, if necessary; and lest this should fail Gamain has a story that when the work was done the king attempted to poison him so that the secret might be safe. So the king must be tried. And louder than ever thunders the war along the frontier while this trial goes forward. There can be no quarter, no terms of peace. The sword is sharply naked, there is no scabbard in which to sheath it. What gauge shall France hurl at the feet of her enemies? Once again Danton, mighty in the Club of the Cordeliers, suggests the answer: Why not the head of a king?
Raymond Latour was busy. Little time could he give to Sabatier when he came each morning to make report of the prisoner in his cell underground; he was not inclined to listen to Sabatier's persuasion, or to be impressed by his henchman's ideas.
"He knows where she is. He shall tell the truth."
It was Latour's daily statement, although Sabatier thought it was less definitely said as the days passed. He was not sure whether Latour's faith in his conviction was wavering, or whether it was only that he had other things to think of.
Those who served Latour were kept busy. It was a time when loss of popularity might be dangerous, and their master had thrown his into the balance. His voice had been heard in the Riding Hall where friends were daily being divided and factions made. He had spoken on behalf of Louis Capet. The head of a king was not necessary to save France. He had naught to do with mercy, not even with expedience; Justice spoke louder than either, and Justice would not be served by the death of Louis Capet. There were some who roared at him, some who shouted for him; it was difficult to tell which side was the more numerous. Robespierre looked at Latour but said nothing. Danton tried argument. Barrère, the President, tried to understand the popular feeling, and failed. Raymond Latour had many friends, but he turned some old friends into enemies by his speech. He was farseeing enough to know that his desire for Justice was dangerous, would be doubly so unless his hold upon the different sections of the populace was maintained. So Sabatier, Mercier, Dubois and the rest had much to do in the districts and among those sections of the populace where they had influence.
Still every morning, Sabatier kept Latour in mind of his private affairs, and argued with him. He did not wait to receive advice, he gave it, and in such a way that Latour listened. He was still convinced of Barrington's deceit, but time was passing and mademoiselle was not found.
"Even if he knows, the American is not a man to betray confidence. Under like circumstances you would not speak yourself, citizen."
"True. I should go to the guillotine as he must."
"Not yet," said Sabatier. "Give him time and opportunity."
"Curse him," said Latour. "I want to hear no more about him, I only want to know that mademoiselle is found."
In his daily visits to Barrington, Sabatier said little of what was passing in Paris, but much to persuade him to patience; and as he went along the streets he kept his eyes open hoping to see Seth. He did not see him, yet another man gave him the clew and unwittingly directed him to the house of Citizen Fargeau.
Seth went little abroad in these days. It was not fear which kept him within doors, but the hope of receiving at any moment further word of his master. Everything might depend on prompt action when the moment came. Few men could remain so patiently inactive as Seth, once he was convinced that inaction was the best course to pursue. This Latour had not lied to him. The promised letter from Richard Barrington had been given to him, he knew that it was genuine, and was content to obey that letter. For the time being he was as little interested in politics as Fargeau was, and the news of the king's trial which came into this quiet retreat had an unreal sound about it, like a faint echo of something happening a great way off. Richard Barrington filled Seth's mind, he had little room for any other thoughts.
One evening there came a knock at his door and the servant of Monsieur de Lafayette entered.
"News, at last," Seth said, and in a tone which showed that in spite of his patience, the waiting had been weary work.
"A letter," the man answered.
Seth looked at it. It was addressed to Richard Barrington, just the name written, that was all.
"How did you get it?" asked Seth.
"A girl brought it only to-day. She asked for my master, and when I told her he was not in Paris, she asked where she could find Monsieur Barrington. I did not tell her, but I said I could deliver the letter."
Seth nodded as he turned the letter over and over, a puzzled expression in his face.
"She seemed doubtful about leaving it with me, but in the end did so, saying it was a matter of life and death."
"It's good of you to have brought it," said Seth. "She did not say who it was from?"
"No."
"Look at the writing again and tell me if by any chance it comes from the Marquis."
"That's a woman's writing," said the man.
"But not a writing you know?"
"Quite strange to me."
When he was alone, Seth locked his door and again examined the writing. His master only knew one woman in Paris, and surely she could not be writing to him. She must know where he was. If she didn't, then in some fashion Latour had deceived him. He put the letter on the table and began to walk slowly about the room.
"It is right that I should open it," he said suddenly. "It may be a matter of life and death to Master Richard. He will forgive me."
He took up the letter, and after a little hesitation tore it open.
"It is from her," he said, glancing at the name on the last of the scraps of paper of which the letter was composed. "I was right to open it."
He sat down by the table and read it slowly, certain portions of it he read a second time, and at intervals made a sound with his mouth like an oath cut short, or a gasp of surprise half suppressed. So Latour had lied, and Bruslart had lied, and mademoiselle was—
"A life and death matter! It's true. It is. Oh, Master Richard, where are you? It's your letter. She calls to you. What can I do?"
The words were muttered in hot haste as though the answer must come quickly. It did.
"Your letter, yet mine since you are not here. So your work becomes mine, Master Richard. I must rescue mademoiselle. How? Let me think. Let me think. God, help me to think."
There was a slow, heavy footstep upon the stairs, and in a moment Seth had hidden the letter. Then a knock at the door. Seth opened it, and stood face to face with Jacques Sabatier, who had his finger upon his lip.
"Let me in, citizen. I have turned traitor and have a story to tell."