THE MARQUIS DE CASTELLUX
Much the same thing had Sabatier said to Richard Barrington only that morning.
"Deputy Latour will not believe in you," he explained. "He is a fool as I have told him each day, giving him your message, and I am tired of serving fools. A day or two, monsieur, and you shall be free. Sabatier promises that. I am turning traitor."
Barrington thanked him, he could do no less, yet he felt little trust in a man who could confess so glibly to treachery. He would believe the promise when his prison door stood open, when he was free to walk out unhindered, not before.
That day was a long one; indeed, each day seemed longer than the one which preceded it. Confinement was beginning to tell its tale on Barrington. This underground dungeon, it was little better, was gradually taking the heart out of him. At first he had been able to forget long hours in sleep, but latterly this had been denied him. Sleepless nights succeeded restless days.
To-night he was restless. The silence about him was like the silence of the grave, this place was almost as hopeless as the grave. He wondered how thick these stone walls might be, whether there were other dungeons beyond where other prisoners wore out their hearts. He stood beneath the barred grating for a little while, listening. Even the world without seemed dead. No sound ever came through that narrow opening. What saint, or repentant sinner had dragged out his days here when this was a cell in a monastery? Had he never regretted his vows and longed for the world of sunshine and rain, of blue sky and breezy plain, of star-lit nights and rough weather? Surely he must have done? The world of sinners was a fairer place than this stone dwelling though a saint lodged in it. Truly it was a secure hiding place, or a prison where one might easily be forgotten. The thought was a horrible one, and Barrington went to the door. It was locked. It was a stout door, too, of wood and iron. If Latour and Sabatier were arrested, as might easily happen, that door would remain locked. Probably no other person knew that he was there. He was in the mood when such thoughts cannot be driven out of the brain. There was half a bottle of thin wine remaining from his last meal, and he drank it greedily. His throat was suddenly dry and his hand was unsteady as he raised the glass to his lips. He was conscious of the fact, shook himself, stamped his foot sharply on the stone floor, and spoke to himself aloud.
"This is cowardice, Richard, and for cowardice there is no excuse."
Something like that his mother had once said to him. He had not remembered it until he had spoken the words, and then the recollection brought many scenes to his mind, dreams of youth, back, how far back? how long ago? memories of old times, a green hummock and the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay. The world had changed since then. Father, mother gone, voices silent forever, loved voices never to be forgotten; and yet, in those days there had been no Jeanne.
"Jeanne!" he said aloud. "Jeanne!"
Then he was silent, and his nerves grew tense. The silence was suddenly broken, not rudely but stealthily as a thief breaks it, or as one who knows that crime is best accomplished in the night; a key was being fumbled into the lock. Sabatier would open quickly, knowing the key and the lock, besides, Sabatier had never come at this hour. It was a stranger. Friend or foe? Barrington moved towards the door. Whoever came would find him awake, ready to sell life dearly, perchance to win freedom. The key was pushed home and turned. The door opened cautiously.
"Seth!"
"Hush, Master Richard. I know not what danger is near us, but come quickly and quietly. Bring that lantern. We must chance the light until I find the way."
Barrington caught up the lantern from the table and followed him.
"He said to the right," whispered Seth.
"Who said so?" asked Barrington.
"Sabatier."
"Is he honest?"
"I don't know, Master Richard, but he brought me through many vaults and showed me the door, then left me quickly. He did not lie when he said you were behind it; and see, a way to the right and steps. He did not lie about them either."
They went up the stairs cautiously, Seth leading, and at the top was a trapdoor, unfastened, easily lifted.
"Again he told the truth," Seth whispered.
They were in a cellar full of rubbish, evil smelling, too, and at the end was a door; a turned handle opened it, and a few steps brought them up into a passage.
"Set down the lantern, Master Richard, and blow it out. We shall not need it. Come quietly."
The passage led to an open door, and they stepped into the street, little more than a narrow alley, dark and silent.
"Sabatier said to the right. All is well so far. Shall we follow his instructions to the end?"
"Yes," Barrington answered.
They came without hindrance into a wider street. It was the street in which Barrington had been attacked by the mob; half of that crowd must have come down this very alley. They went quickly, their direction towards Monsieur Fargeau's house. They entered the street in which it stood, and then Seth stopped.
"We don't go in yet, Master Richard, I have something to show you first. There is a little wine shop here, unknown to patriots, I think. It is safe, safer than Monsieur Fargeau's perchance."
The shop was empty. A woman greeted them and brought them wine.
"Read that letter, Master Richard. I will tell you how I got it, and why I opened it, afterwards."
So Jeanne's letter came into the hands of the man she had turned to in her peril and distress.
Even as he read it, bending over the scraps of paper in the poorly lighted wine shop, she was eagerly questioning Marie. The letter was of such immense importance to her, so much hung upon it, that now it had gone Jeanne began to wonder whether the best means of getting it into the right hands had been taken, whether a surer method might not have been thought of.
"Monsieur Barrington had not left Paris?"
"No, mademoiselle, for the man said he would deliver the letter."
"Will he, Marie, will he? Do you think he was honest?"
"Yes, oh yes, he was honest, or I should not have parted with the letter."
"But he could have told you where Monsieur Barrington was and let you deliver it," said Jeanne.
"He would not do that, and he had a reason, a good one," Marie answered. "It was necessary that Monsieur Barrington's whereabouts should be kept secret. He could not tell any one where he was, he had promised. For all he knew I might be an enemy and the letter a trick. He would deliver it if I left it with him."
"You could do nothing else, Marie."
"What troubles me, mademoiselle, is how the gentleman is to help you to get away from this house," said the girl. "The master does not let people go unless he is told to by—by powerful men, men he must obey. I think he is as afraid of them as I am of him."
"Ah, Marie, if the letter only reaches Monsieur Barrington most of the danger is gone," said Jeanne. "He will find a way, I know he will. Somehow, he will help me. He is a brave man, Marie, I know, I know. He has saved me twice already. I should have no fear at all were I certain that he had the letter."
The girl was silent for a moment, and then said quietly—
"It must be wonderful to have a lover like that."
Perhaps Jeanne was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the girl's words, perhaps she considered it impossible to make Marie understand that it is not only a lover who will do great things for a woman; at any rate, she made no answer. It mattered little what the girl thought.
It was difficult for Jeanne to live her days quietly, to look and behave as though the coming Saturday had no especial meaning for her. Legrand, when she met him, was more than usually courteous, and Jeanne was careful to treat him as she had always done. He might be watching her, and it would be well to attract as little attention as possible. She could not tell what might happen if only her letter had found its way into Richard Barrington's hands. How could he help her? What could he do?
It was January, and cold, but the weather was fine and sunny. At noon it was pleasant to walk in the garden, and many of the guests did so. The Abbé took his daily walk there even when it rained. He might have been the host by his manner, and was certainly the ruling spirit. Even Legrand seemed a little afraid of him and treated him with marked respect. The Abbé was a worldling, a lover of purple and fine linen and of the people who lived in them; he was therefore especially attentive to Jeanne St. Clair, knowing that she belonged to one of the noblest families in the land. With him Jeanne took her daily walk in the garden, and had little need to say much, for the Abbé loved to hear himself talk; she could think her own thoughts, could even be depressed without the Abbé noticing the fact. His companionship enabled her to escape from the other guests for a while without any apparent effort on her part to withdraw herself from the daily routine. She took her place in the evening amusements, occupied a seat at one of the card tables, danced and smiled, met wit with wit, and was envied by some who were not so sure of the coming Saturday as mademoiselle must surely be.
In her walks Jeanne's eyes wandered along the top of the high garden walls. Richard Barrington might come that way, or at least give her a sign that way; and when she could be alone without raising comment she watched from her window which overlooked the garden.
So the Monday and the Tuesday passed, and Wednesday dawned. How fast the week was passing! Her letter to Richard Barrington had been very urgent. She had told him all about this house, the purpose for which it was used, how the garden stood in regard to it. She had explained the general routine, had given the names of the guests. If he was to help her the fullest information would be of use. There might be some point in her description of which he could take advantage. This was Wednesday, and he had made no sign. Surely he had never got the letter.
Had not the Abbé been so fond of hearing the sound of his own voice, had he not been so used to his brilliant listener, he must surely have noted that Jeanne was not herself to-day as they walked in the garden.
"There is a new arrival I hear, mademoiselle."
"Indeed. I thought every room was occupied."
"Ah, mademoiselle, I fear there must be some one who is not able to pay next Saturday. I have often noticed that new arrivals have come a day or two before the time, putting up with anything until the room was left vacant for them on Saturday."
"I wonder who is going," said Jeanne.
"It is a pity we cannot pick and choose," the Abbé returned. "There are one or two in the company we could well dispense with."
Jeanne's eyes flashed at his callousness, but he did not notice.
"There are some here that Legrand ought not to have taken," the Abbé went on.
"But they pay."
"Ah, mademoiselle, you have hit it. They pay, and this fellow Legrand is satisfied. He has no sense of the fitness of things, yet this house has the name of being exclusive."
"I am sorry for those who go, whoever they may be," said Jeanne.
"It is natural. I am not unsympathetic; but since some one must go it seems a pity we cannot choose."
"Is it a man or woman who has come?"
"A man; his name the Marquis de Castellux. If my memory serves me, it is a Breton name, a good family, but one which has not figured largely at Court."
"He should be an acquisition," said Jeanne.
"I hope so, mademoiselle. We may find him provincial, yet not without wit or merit. I will make his acquaintance, and with your permission will present him to you. You can give me your opinion when we talk together to-morrow."
How near Saturday was! This new arrival emphasized the fact. She was the one who was going, and it was this room, her room, that he would occupy presently. Even the selfish, callous Abbé would regret that she was the one to go. She could picture the surprise in his face when he saw her empty place. She would not tell him.
Jeanne stayed in her room this afternoon. It could not matter whether her absence was heeded or not. Nothing mattered now. Richard Barrington had not got her letter. The one friend she had in Paris did not know how sorely she needed him. Somehow, somewhere, he might hear what had happened, what would he say? No actual answer came to this mental question, but a train of thought was started in her brain bringing strange fancies. Perhaps Richard Barrington loved her. In an indefinite way she had considered this possibility before, but it was a passing fancy, not to be dwelt upon. Homage from such a man was pleasant, but she loved Lucien. She must be careful in this man's company, and if he overstepped ordinary courtesy in the least, she must show him plainly that she loved Lucien. Surely she had shown him this already. But to-day the thought was not to be so lightly dismissed, and a warm glow at her heart told her how pleasant the idea was. Lucien appeared to have faded out of her life. She could not believe him false, but his image had grown altogether dim, while this other man was real, vital. Even now she could feel the pressure of his hand as it had held hers as they ran together from the Lion d'Or that night. She could see the encouragement in his eyes when they had quarreled loudly as they entered the barrier next morning. She remembered the look in his face when she had last seen him in Monsieur de Lafayette's apartment, when he had said he was always at her service. He would surely remember that last meeting, too, should he ever know that she had sent him a letter which had never reached him.
"Yes, he loves me, it must be so," she said, and she rose and looked from her window into the empty garden which was growing dark now at the close of the short day. "I am glad. It gives me courage. I will be worthy of the love of such a man, though he will never know that he influenced me, will never know that I was glad he loved me. This Doctor Legrand, this miserable bargainer in lives, shall not see a trace of fear or regret in me. Wednesday passes. Three more days. I will make a brave show in them, and pass out to whatever fate awaits me with steady step and head erect, worthy of my father's name, worthy of—worthy of him."
There was a smile on her lips as she entered the salon that night, no brilliant apartment, it is true, and somewhat dimly lighted for a scene of festivity. Some one said they were to dance that night, and card tables were set ready for players. There were many brave hearts there, shadowed hearts—misery concealed by a smile.
"Yes, I will dance presently," said Jeanne to a man who greeted her. "Cards! Yes, I will play. How, else should we fill such long evenings?"
Others caught her spirit. An animation came into the conversation, there was real laughter.
"Mademoiselle," said a voice behind her, the voice of the Abbé, sonorous and important. "Mademoiselle, permit me the honor to present to you the Marquis de Castellux."
Jeanne turned, the smile still upon her lips. The Marquis bowed so low his face was hidden for a moment, but he took her hand and, as he raised it to his lips, pressed it sharply.
"I am honored, mademoiselle."
Then his head was raised. The smile was still upon her lips, kept there by a great effort. The sudden pressure of her fingers had warned her, and she gave no sign of her astonishment.
She was looking into the face of Richard Barrington.
THE COMING OF SATURDAY
"Monsieur L'Abbé."
"Mademoiselle."
"I find Monsieur de Castellux very pleasant, a little provincial as you supposed, but with wit. We have common friends, too, who have suffered. We shall have much to talk about."
Barely an hour had passed since the introduction, and very little conversation had passed between Jeanne and Barrington, but that little had been to the point.
"We have much to say to one another, mademoiselle," Barrington said; "we must let these people believe that we have common interests to account for our friendship. The Abbé is inclined to be inquisitive, you must explain to him. I will casually let others know that our families are connected. Where is it easiest to be alone here?"
"In the breakfast room."
"No one watches us there?"
"I think not. There is no desire to run away; people remain here to be safe."
"Then to-morrow, mademoiselle," said Barrington. "We will not notice each other much further to-night."
Jeanne did as she was told, it seemed natural to obey Richard Barrington, and she explained to the Abbé, who was delighted that so presentable a person had joined the company.
"Mademoiselle, I shall look to become better acquainted with him," he said. "Most probably he and I have common friends, too."
It was not until Jeanne had shut herself in her own room that night, that she realized fully what the coming of Richard Barrington meant to her. It was still Wednesday, but what a difference a few short hours had made! Saturday had lost its meaning for her. There was no sense of fear or apprehension at her heart; she was strangely happy. Not a word of his plans had Richard Barrington whispered to her, no explanation of how he came to be there; he told her that he had got her letter, that was all. Yet she suddenly felt safe. That which was best to be done, Richard Barrington would do, and it would certainly be successful. On this point no doubts disturbed her. Doubts came presently in another way. The reflection in her mirror brought them. She remembered the face which had looked out at her only a few hours ago, and the face that laughed at her now was a revelation. There was color in the cheeks, so bright a color she did not remember to have noticed before, not even in those moments when she had been tempted to compare herself favorably with other women; there was a sparkle in the eyes that never since the flight from Paris to Beauvais had she seen in them. It was a joyous, happy girl who looked back at her from the depths of the mirror, and Jeanne turned away wondering. It was natural she should feel safe now Richard Barrington had come, but how was the great joy in her heart to be accounted for? Would it have been there had it been Lucien who had come to save her? The question seemed to ask itself, without any will of hers, and the little room seemed suddenly alive with the answer. It almost frightened her, yet still she was happy. She sank on her knees beside the bed and her head was lowered before the crucifix. The soul of a pure, brave woman was outpoured in thankfulness; "Mother of God, for this help vouchsafed I thank thee. Keep me this night, this week, always. Bring me peace. Bring me—" The head sank lower, the lips not daring to ask too much.
The morning came with sunlight in it, cold but clear. Jeanne peeped from her window and was satisfied, peeped into the mirror, and wondered no more at the smiling face there. She knew why such joy had come. She could not reason about it, she did not attempt to do so; the knowledge was all sufficient. It was Thursday morning. Saturday was very near. What did it signify? Nothing. To-day it would be like spring in the garden.
Barrington greeted Jeanne with the studied courtesy of a comparative stranger.
"We must be careful," he whispered, "there are certain to be watchful eyes. Show no interest or astonishment in what I tell you as we eat. Remember, you are merely being courteous to a new arrival of whose existence you have known something in the past."
"I understand. I shall listen very carefully."
"I am greatly honored, mademoiselle, by your letter. I need not ask whether you trust me."
"Indeed, no," she answered.
"It might easily have come into my hands too late," Barrington went on. "We are both victims of deception, and where the truth lies I cannot tell even now. I will recount what has happened; you may be able to throw some light upon it."
Barrington told her everything from his first meeting with Raymond Latour when a filthy crowd was yelling round a prisoner, to the moment when her letter had been handed to him by Seth.
"Your letter gave me an idea, mademoiselle. To help you I must become an inmate of this house. Yesterday Seth brought me here, posing as a wealthy eccentric relative anxious to place me in safety. I am a little mad, and there is no knowing what folly I might commit were I allowed to continue at liberty. My stay here is likely to be a long one, and my relatives care little what they pay so long as I am out of their hands. You may guess perhaps that Dr. Legrand asked few questions with such a golden bribe before him. Now, mademoiselle, what do you know of this Raymond Latour?"
"Nothing."
"But—"
"Nothing at all," Jeanne answered. "I have heard him spoken of as being one of the leaders of the Revolution. To my knowledge I have never seen him."
"Has Lucien Bruslart never mentioned him?"
"As we drove here that morning he said that this Latour was one of the most bitter antagonists of aristocrats, and that he would do all in his power to capture me. Lucien said this was the chief reason for bringing me to this place of safety. I must tell you, Monsieur Barrington, that on leaving you that morning, we got into a coach and drove straight here. My coming had already been arranged for. I did not go to Lucien's apartments at all. He did not seem inclined to trust either you or the Marquis de Lafayette."
"He was justified perhaps in not trusting me on so slight an acquaintance. I do not blame him. Still, I am much puzzled by his subsequent actions, and the fact remains that while Lucien Bruslart has done little for you, or so at least it appears, this man Latour most certainly risked his life to get you out of the Abbaye prison."
"Yes; I do not understand it," said Jeanne; and then after a pause she went on, "You read all my letter?"
"A dozen times," Barrington answered.
"Does it not help you to understand something?"
"Mademoiselle, you ask me a difficult question. I answer it directly, and in spite of the fact that it must pain you, only because of the seriousness of your position. I have never trusted Lucien Bruslart. I believe he has played you false from first to last in this affair. I believe he sent for you to come to Paris; how else could your coming here have been arranged for? Honestly, I have tried to drive these thoughts out of my mind as treacherous and unworthy, but your letter seems only to confirm them. How is it your fees to this scoundrel Legrand have not been paid? How is it your own money has been taken? Bruslart is not in prison. Where is he? Could anything short of locks and bars stop your lover from coming to you?"
He spoke in a low, passionate tone, but his face remained calm, and he made no gesture of anger, of impatience. Watching him, the keenest eyes could not have detected that he was moved in any way.
"My letter must have shown you the doubts in my mind," Jeanne answered quietly. "Since you helped me into Paris at so much risk to yourself, I cannot see that your thoughts could be called unworthy or treacherous."
"For all that, they were. Had you not loved Lucien Bruslart it would have been different."
"Why?"
"That question must remain unanswered, mademoiselle."
Jeanne turned to him for a moment, but Barrington did not look at her.
"I think I know," she said quietly, after a pause. "Some other day I shall ask the question again, monsieur—if we live. I wrote my letter to the one friend I knew I had in Paris; that man is now beside me. I have no fear, Monsieur Barrington, just because you are here. You are risking your life for me, not for the first time. If you fail it means my death as well as yours. I would rather it came that way than any other, and I am not afraid. Tell me your plans."
For a few moments Barrington was silent. "We will not fail," he said suddenly. "I want to laugh and cry out for joy but dare not. I have been in a dream, mademoiselle, while you have been speaking; sitting on a small green mound looking across the bluest waters in the world. I shall tell you about that mound and those waters some day. We shall live, mademoiselle, never doubt that we shall live. My plan is not yet complete, but—"
"Never fear, Mademoiselle, we shall live."
"Never fear, Mademoiselle, we shall live."
"This is Thursday," said Jeanne. "Saturday is very near."
"I know. We go to-morrow night, but the exact details I cannot tell you yet. There are one or two things I must find out first. I have arranged everything as far as I can, but we cannot hope for much help from others. The first thing is to get out of this trap, the rest we must leave for the present. The Abbé yonder looks as though he envied me your company, mademoiselle. I think you should go to him. I shall not attempt to speak to you much more to-day. To-morrow morning we will meet here again for a final word."
The Abbé was more than ever convinced of his own attractions as Jeanne left the Marquis de Castellux with a little grave courtesy and joined him. He had found her substitute a poor companion and walked much less in the garden than usual.
"You find the Marquis very interesting?" he asked.
"Yes, but very provincial. One soon becomes weary of such company, yet one must be kind, Monsieur l'Abbé," and Jeanne laughed lightly. She appeared much more interested in him than she had been in the Marquis.
Richard Barrington talked to others for a little while, and then went into the office. He found a servant and asked if he could see Legrand. The doctor was out. Barrington was rather annoyed. He wanted to see the room he was to have after Saturday. At present he was stalled like a pig, he declared.
"Monsieur will have nothing to complain of after Saturday," the servant answered.
"Which guest is leaving?"
"Pardon, monsieur, it is not etiquette to speak of it; but if monsieur likes I can show him the room."
"Show it to me, then."
"I am a poor man, monsieur, and cannot afford to work for nothing."
"How much?" Barrington asked.
The servant named a price, and if he received many such fees he would not long be able to call himself a poor man. Barrington paid him, and was taken upstairs and shown Jeanne's room. He did not cross the threshold, hardly glanced in at the door, in fact, but grumbled at its size and its position. He would have liked this room or that. Why not one at the end of this passage? He liked to be in a light passage.
"It is not a pleasant outlook this side, monsieur, stable roofs, a bare wall and no garden."
"Truly, a prospect to drive a man to despair," growled Barrington, looking from the passage window on to the roofs of outbuildings a few feet below, and across at the house which these buildings joined, and which was at the end of a row of houses facing the street. There was only one window in that opposite wall, twelve or fourteen feet above these outbuildings, a dirty window, fast shut.
"I think very little of Monsieur Legrand's asylum," said Barrington, turning away in disgust. "I shall tell him so."
"Certainly, monsieur, if it will ease your mind."
"He is out, you say?"
"Since early this morning."
"He ought to stop here and look after his guests," and then Barrington became apprehensive. "He would be angry if I told him so. Would he?"
"He might."
"Or if you told him I had said so?"
"Probably."
"You must not tell him. See, here is more money, and there will be more still so long as you do not tell him."
The servant promised to be silent, and told the other servants that the Marquis could be plundered at will. Barrington considered the money well spent. He had examined the house without any risk of being caught taking observations, and he had ascertained that Legrand could not have spied upon him had he walked in the garden.
That night the Abbé decided that, although the Marquis had not made any great impression on Mademoiselle St. Clair, he was a decided acquisition to the establishment, witty within his provincial limits, the breed in him unmistakable. At Versailles he would speedily have learned how to become a courtier.
In the salon that evening there was dancing, and Barrington danced, but not with Jeanne.
"I dare not, mademoiselle," he said in a whispered explanation. "I can trust myself only to a certain point, and to touch you would be to betray my happiness. I dare not run that risk. I am bent on showing that I have no special regard for you, and that there is no reason why you should give any special thought to me."
She did not answer, but the color was in her face, a glow was in her heart.
When the Abbé went out into the garden on the following morning Jeanne left the Marquis at once, and joined him for their usual walk. Certainly she had not given the Marquis more than five minutes of her company. The Abbé would have talked of him, but Jeanne pleaded that he should talk of something interesting.
"Upon my honor, mademoiselle, I believe you will end by disliking poor Monsieur de Castellux."
"Would that be worth while?" Jeanne asked.
She seemed to listen eagerly to all the Abbé said to her, but she was thinking of her short conversation with Barrington. She must show no excitement.
Legrand came into the salon that night. He took no notice of Barrington, who was playing cards, totally absorbed in his game, but he watched Jeanne for a little while, and presently approached her.
"You are very brave, mademoiselle," he said.
"Is it not best?"
"I am very grieved," said Legrand.
"Monsieur, you have heard nothing from—from Lucien Bruslart?"
"Nothing."
"To-morrow! Where will they take me to-morrow?"
"I do not know, mademoiselle. I am never told."
Late hours were not kept at the Maison Legrand, candles were an expensive item. Jeanne was among the first to move this evening.
"Good night, Monsieur l'Abbé."
"Good night, mademoiselle," he said, raising her hand to his lips. "To-morrow is Saturday. I wonder who goes to-morrow? We are happy in having no anxiety."
Barrington was by the door and opened it for her.
"Does mademoiselle permit?" and as he bent over her hand he whispered, "Be ready. Listen. Wait until I come."
THE EMPTY HOUSE
The thought of the morrow was pleasant to Dr. Legrand. In his study he bent over a paper of calculations, figures that appealed to the greedy soul that was in him.
"Vive la Revolution," he murmured; "it makes me rich. He is careful, this citizen, and does not trust me to fulfill a bargain. To-morrow I shall have the papers; it will be early, and then—then the money. He cannot escape without my help, he cannot escape me."
He put down his pen and rubbed his hands together. He was excited to-night.
"I am sorry for mademoiselle," he said as he went to bed, but his sorrow did not keep him awake, his conscience was too dead to trouble him. He slept as a just man sleeps, soundly.
Jeanne did not sleep. She sat in the dark, waiting, listening. Doors were shut in distant corridors, the house gradually grew quiet. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, a little excited, but not impatient. How long she had waited, how long she would have to wait, she did not know, but she had perfect faith, and did not become restless. A moment was coming when she must act, and she was prepared. Just that moment mattered and nothing else; all her thoughts were focused upon it.
It came suddenly, a scratching on the door, so light as to be inaudible except to listening ears. Jeanne rose at once, silently opened the door, which purposely she had not latched, and stepped into the passage. A hand touched her on the arm and then slid down her arm until it clasped her fingers. She was pulled forward gently.
"The stairs—carefully," whispered a voice.
Not a sound was in the house, nor in the world it seemed, as they went down the stairs and along the passage to the window which overlooked the roof of the outbuildings. The night was dark, overcast, not a star. This was a window seldom opened. Last night Barrington had examined it, had eased the latch; now there was hardly a sound as he opened it, only the cold night air coming in.
"I go first," said Barrington; and he climbed out and dropped silently on to the roof some five feet below. Jeanne followed, and he lifted her down. Then he climbed up again, and, supporting himself on the sill, closed the window.
"Give me your hand," he whispered; and he led her across the roof, feeling his way carefully to prevent tripping over a partition or gutter. Jeanne did not speak, but followed his whispered instructions; she made no sound when he bent down and taking her foot placed it upon a little parapet which they had to cross, and she stood perfectly still until he lifted her down. A few paces more and Barrington stopped. He guided her hand to a rope.
"Give me your other hand," he whispered.
Thar, too, he guided until it grasped a rope, a second rope. Then he took her foot and put it upon a strand of rope which gave under her weight.
"A ladder," he whispered. "I will hold you as far as I can, then you must go up alone. A hand will be stretched down to help you. My man Seth is at the window above."
Barrington gave a low whistle, hardly more than a sign, which was answered from above.
"Now," he said.
He helped her as far as possible, then held the rope ladder as steady as he could. In a few seconds another low whistle came from above, and Barrington went up the ladder quickly. He climbed in at the open window, drew up the ladder, and closed the window.
"An excellent night for our purpose, Master Richard," Seth whispered. "Here is a sword, it is well to masquerade and be as much like truculent ruffians as possible; and two cockades, one for mademoiselle."
"We are expected, Seth?"
"Yes, any time before morning. They are prepared for us."
"Where are we going?" whispered Jeanne.
"To the lodgings of a servant of Monsieur de Lafayette," Barrington answered. "This is an empty house which we shall leave by a window below. The worst is over. We shall be secure in our retreat until we can leave Paris. Lead the way, Seth."
A set of rooms opened out into another, a door enclosing them from the passage without. Seth led the way through the rooms and opened this door quietly. Then he stopped and drew back a little.
"What is it?" said Barrington under his breath.
"Listen!"
Jeanne's hand was still in Barrington's, and he felt her fingers tighten. To her the house was as still as death, the blackness of it empty; but to her companions whose ears were trained to keenness, there was movement in the air close to them.
"How many," Barrington whispered, not asking information, but rather confirmation of his own estimate.
"Several," Seth answered.
"Tramps, perhaps, lodging here for the night."
"I fear not. They are on the stairs. We shall soon see," answered Seth.
"Lock the door; we must wait," said Barrington.
It was done in a moment, and immediately there were stealthy, shuffling feet in the passage without.
"Curse them," muttered Seth. "I have been followed. For all my care I have brought you into ruin. What can we do?"
"Wait."
"Master Richard, is there no other way of escape from that roof below?"
"None."
Jeanne's hand was still in his, still holding him tightly. He could not feel that she trembled, yet he could not trust himself to speak to her. He had failed to rescue her. There were many in the passage without, he was sure of that. He could fight for her, die for her, but he could not save her. He dared not speak to her lest he should cry out in the anguish of his soul.
The handle of the door was tried, gently. Then there was silence again.
"Give us the woman and you may go free."
The words were not spoken loudly. It seemed like the offer of a secret bargain, a suggestion in it that the woman might not hear, and might never know that her companions had betrayed her to save themselves.
Then Jeanne spoke, in a whisper but quite clearly.
"It is the end. You have done all that a man could do. I thank you—I thank you; and you, too, Seth. A woman never had truer friends."
She stretched out a hand to Seth, who caught it almost roughly and pressed his lips to it.
There was pressure upon the door, and the cracking of the wood.
"There's quick death for the first man who crosses this threshold," Seth muttered as he went to the door.
"Richard! Richard!"
"Jeanne!"
Barrington's head was lowered as he whispered her name. It seemed as though failure had made him ashamed.
"I know your secret, dear, I know it and am glad," she whispered. "I thank God that I am loved by such a man. I would rather be where I am at this moment, by your side, than in the place of any other woman in the world, however free she may be. Richard, kiss me."
"Jeanne! Jeanne!" he cried as he caught her in his arms. "I love you! I love you! God, send a miracle to help us."
"He will let us be together soon and for always, if not here, in heaven," she whispered.
"The door gives, Master Richard," Seth said.
"Back into the corner, Jeanne. Who knows what may happen?"
"We may win through, Master Richard. Be ready, the door will be down in a moment."
The clumsy saber with which Seth had provided him was in his hand, as he stepped forward in readiness. They might have retreated through the other rooms, to the one into which they had climbed, closing every door they could in the face of their enemies, but for what purpose? There was no escape that way, time was no object to them, whereas it was just possible that their assailants would expect them to do this and rush past them. Barrington hastily whispered this possibility to Seth. There was no time for an answer. The door splintered and broke, and the foremost ruffians were shot into the room by the pressure of those behind. There was no rush towards the rooms beyond, nor a shout of triumph even. The first articulate sound was a cry from the man cut down by Seth.
In the fierce struggle of an unequal fight a man thinks little. The forcible present of each moment obliterates the past and future. Just for one instant it occurred to Barrington that Jeanne might possibly escape unnoticed if Seth and he fought savagely enough, and the next moment he was putting this idea into action without any thought beyond it. In the doorway there were men holding dim lanterns, and the light flickered on savage faces, now here, now there. The room seemed full of men, crowded, there was hardly room to fight effectually. Barrington struck on this side and that, yet his blows never seemed to reach their destination. For a little while he and Seth were back to back, but had soon been separated. Now there seemed no order or purpose in the struggle. It was a nightmare of confusion. A face glared into his for a moment then disappeared, its place taken the next instant by another. Strangely familiar faces some of them seemed, memories from dreams long ago. There had been hands on the estate in Virginia, men he had been rather afraid of when he was a little child; they seemed to stare at him now for a moment, lit by a red fire which no longer seemed merely the light from the lanterns. Then came other faces; that of the man he and Seth had found on the Trémont road, that of Sabatier's companion at the inn. Then the faces of the men who had made a rush for the stairs that night at the Lion d'Or fiercely glared at him; then Mercier's, so close that he could feel the hot breath upon his cheek. And then suddenly out of the darkness glowed another face, that of the man who had looked at him when he was caught in the crowd on his way to the Rue Charonne that night, and it seemed to Barrington that once again he sprang forward to make an attempt to save himself by flight. The illusion was complete, for there was a voice of command in his ear. He struck at something that was in his way, something which seemed to catch him by the throat, then he jumped and fell. He was in darkness and silence.
Jeanne had started from her corner. Everything happened quickly. She heard the door break inwards, saw a rush of men, and lanterns in the opening. For a few moments she could distinguish Richard Barrington and Seth. Then Seth fell, dragging others with him. For a little longer Barrington struggled, and then from behind something was thrown over his head and he was pulled backwards. Jeanne started from her corner with a cry, and immediately arms were about her, holding her back.
"No harm will come to him, we are friends," said a voice in her ear. "A sound may betray you and us."
She tried to speak, but could not. Her words were turned into a mumble. A cloth was over her mouth and face, fastened tightly, strong arms lifted her and carried her forwards. She could not see, she could not struggle. The noise of the fighting grew rapidly less. She was being swiftly carried away from it, now along a passage, now down two or three flights of stairs. She was in the open air, the cold wind of the night was about her. There were voices, a quick word or two, then other arms were about her, placing her in a chair it seemed—no, a coach. Wheels turned quickly on the uneven cobbles of the street, a horse galloped, and then settled into a fast trot. Whether the journey was long or short, Jeanne hardly knew, her brain was in a whirl, refusing to work consecutively. The coach stopped, again strong arms lifted her, again a passage, the night air still about her, then stairs up which she was borne. A door opened and she was gently placed in a chair. The door closed again. For a moment there was silence.
"You're quite safe, chérie," said a woman's voice, and fingers were undoing the cloth which was bound round Jeanne's head. "You're quite safe. No one in Paris would think of looking for you here."
The cloth fell off, and Jeanne, half dazed, only partly understanding what had happened, looked about her. Her companion, an old woman with a tri-color cockade fastened to her dress, watched her.
The room, one of two opening into each other, was small, mean, yet fresh and dainty. Cheap curtains hung before the windows and about the alcove where the bed was; the curtains and the paintwork were white, two or three cheap prints were upon the walls, a strip of carpet and a rug lay on the polished boards.
"Where am I?" Jeanne asked.
"In safety," answered the old woman.
So Mademoiselle St. Clair came at last to the rooms which Raymond Latour had so carefully prepared.