THE AMBITION OF RAYMOND LATOUR
The dawn came slowly creeping over Paris, cold and with a whip of gusty rain in it. It stole in to touch the faces of many sleepers, innocent sleepers, in hiding and in prison, who for a little while had forgotten their fear and peril; brutal sleepers who for a little space lay harmless, heavy with satisfied lust and wine. It stole into empty rooms, rooms that should be occupied; into Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne where two beds had not been slept in; into hovels in narrow byways of the city to which men and women had not returned last night, but had spent the sleeping hours, as befitted such patriots, in revelry and songs and wine. It stole into a little room with cheap white curtains, and looked upon a woman who had thrown herself half dressed on the bed and had fallen asleep, tired out, exhausted. It crept into a room below and touched the figure of a man seated by the table. A lamp stood near him, but either he had turned it out, or it had burned out; an open book was before him, but he had read little, and no knowledge of what he had read remained. For hours he had sat there in darkness, but no sleep had come to him. The night had been a long waking dream of things past, and present, and the future a confusion of thoughts which could not be reduced to any order. All the threads of a great scheme were in his hands, yet he was uncertain how to use them to the best advantage. The moment he had struggled for had come. This day, this dawn, was the beginning of the future. How was he to make the best of it?
Presently he was conscious of feeling cold, and he made himself some coffee, moving about his room quietly. He remembered the woman upstairs. She was sleeping, surely. He had listened during the night and had not heard her. He had held her in his arms, had carried her up the stairs and placed her gently in a chair, leaving her in the care of the woman from the baker's shop at the corner of the alley. She would wake presently and he would see her. What should he say to her?
The coffee warmed Raymond Latour, but there was unusual excitement in his movements. As the light increased he sat down and tried to read. It was a volume of Plutarch's "Lives," a book which had done much to influence many revolutionaries; but he could not read with any understanding. To-day there was so much to be done, so many things to think of. There were his own affairs, and they must take first place, but in Paris the excitement would be at fever pitch to-day. Louis Capet was to die, the voting had decided; but when? There was to be more voting, and Raymond Latour must take his part in it. It was no wonder that he could not read.
The hours had dragged through the night, yet when a knock came at his door, it seemed to him that he had had little time to mature his plans, that it was only a very little while since he had carried the woman up the stairs. He opened the door quickly.
"The citizeness is awake and dressed. She is anxious to see you."
"What have you told her?"
"Only that the man who brought her last night would come and explain."
"I will go to her."
But Latour did not go immediately. He must have a few moments for thought, and he paced his room excitedly, pausing more than once to look at himself in a little mirror which hung upon the wall. His followers would hardly have recognized in him the calm, calculating man with whom they were accustomed to deal. It was with a great effort that he steadied his nerves and went quietly up the stairs.
Jeanne rose from her chair as he entered, but Latour could not know how her heart beat as the door opened. She looked at him steadily, inquiringly, waiting for him to speak.
"Mademoiselle has slept, I trust?"
It seemed to Latour that he looked at her for a long time without speaking, such a whirl of thoughts swept through his brain as he entered the room and saw the woman standing there. He remembered the other woman who had occupied this apartment until he had let her go two or three days since. He had hated her for being there. This room had not been fashioned with such infinite care for such a woman as Pauline Vaison, but for this very woman who now stood before him. How strangely natural it seemed that she should be there! This was the moment which had been constantly in his dreams waking and sleeping.
"I do not know you," she said. "Why am I here? Indeed, where am I?"
"Mademoiselle, I have come to explain. It is a long explanation, and you must bear with me a little."
"Tell me first, where is Monsieur Barrington?" said Jeanne.
"In safety. You have my word for it."
"Whose word?"
"You shall have the whole story, mademoiselle, and you shall presently see Monsieur Barrington."
Jeanne sat down, and Raymond Latour moved to the window and stood there.
"I must begin in the middle of my story," he said, "it is easier for me, and you will understand better. On the day of your arrival in Paris, I met Monsieur Barrington. He was watching a coach which contained a prisoner who was being escorted by a crowd of patriots to the Abbaye prison. The sight was new to him; I believe that, single-handed, he would have made an attempt at a rescue, had I not touched his arm. I knew who he was, and that he had helped you into Paris. A little later it was said that you had been arrested in the house of Lucien Bruslart, and Monsieur Barrington came to me. We both concluded that you were the prisoner in that coach. I believed Barrington to be an honest man, and I rescued the prisoner from the Abbaye, and brought her here, only to find that she was one Pauline Vaison, a woman Bruslart was to marry. Bruslart, however, had made no effort to save her. He had apparently sacrificed her to help you, and Barrington had helped him."
"It might appear so, monsieur, but such was not the case," said Jeanne.
"My opinion of Monsieur Barrington is at present in the balance," said Latour; "Lucien Bruslart I know to be a scoundrel. The release of Pauline Vaison naturally frightened Bruslart, who has gone into hiding and is not to be found. Barrington is not a coward, and it was easy to secure him. I saved him from the mob, but I kept him a prisoner. I challenged him with his treachery to me, and he denied it, yet immediately I let him go and had him watched, he straightway found you at the house of Dr. Legrand in the Rue Charonne. Watching him and his servant it was discovered that you were to be rescued from Legrand's house, with the result that you are here."
"In the hands of Monsieur Raymond Latour," said Jeanne, quietly.
"Yes, mademoiselle, though I am surprised that you know me. Monsieur Barrington is also in my hands."
"Most of this story I already know from Monsieur Barrington," she returned. "If you will believe my word, I can show you that he was not in Lucien Bruslart's confidence at all, that Lucien Bruslart from the first deceived him. If you know anything of me, you must realize that it is not easy to speak of Monsieur Bruslart in this way."
"I know all about you, mademoiselle," Latour answered slowly.
"And hate me. I have heard of Raymond Latour as a hater of aristocrats. I cannot understand, therefore, why you undertook my rescue from prison."
"Because you do not know all about me," he said "It is true I am a republican, a hater of aristocrats. Mademoiselle, you have been good to the poor in Paris, you are one of the few who have cared anything for them. Had you not fled, had you not become an emigré, I believe you could have walked the streets of the city in perfect safety. If for a moment you will put aside your class prejudice, you must know that the people have the right with them. They have been ground down, trampled on for generations, now they have struggled to freedom. If they push that freedom to excess, can you honestly be astonished? They are but retaliating for the load of cruelty which has been pressed upon them."
"Monsieur, I am no politician. Many dear friends of mine have been foully murdered. I look for no better fate for myself."
"I was rather trying to explain my position," said Latour.
"You do not explain your peculiar interest in me."
"You hardly give me time, mademoiselle," he returned with a faint smile. "Still, you can appreciate that my sympathies are with the people. That is not the entire truth, however. I had ambition, and the revolution was my opportunity. A strong man might grasp power, and I would be that strong man."
"Are there not many others in the Convention with similar ambition?"
"I think not. Whatever power I might obtain was not for my own glory, but was to be laid at the feet of a woman. Mademoiselle does not remember, perhaps, a certain day some three or four years since, when the horses attached to her coach took fright and ran away. They might have been stopped by the coachman, but they appeared to have got the better of him. It seemed to a man standing there, a poor student, that the occupant of that coach was in danger. He rushed forward, and with some difficulty stopped the horses."
"I remember it perfectly," said Jeanne.
"Mademoiselle, that poor student had in that hour seen a vision from heaven, a woman so beautiful, so far beyond all other women, that he worshiped her. He wandered the streets of Paris only to catch a glimpse of her. He enthroned her on the altar of his soul, and bowed down to her. It was a hopeless passion, yet its hopelessness had no power to kill it, rather it grew each day, took stronger possession of his dreams each night, until, reaching forward, he conceived the possibility of winning what his soul desired. That poor student was Raymond Latour. You see, mademoiselle, when you think of me as a red republican, you hardly do me full justice."
Jeanne did not answer. What possible answer was there to such a confession as this?
"Deputy Latour became a power," he went on quietly. "Many things became possible. Mademoiselle had a lover, Lucien Bruslart, a villain, a liar to her and his country. Raymond Latour, with all his faults, was a better man than he, more honest, more worthy a woman's regard, no matter who that woman might be."
He paused for a moment, but still she found no words to answer him.
"This Bruslart for some purpose of his own sent for mademoiselle to come to Paris. I discovered that he had done so. It was an opportunity to show you what sort of a man he was whom you loved. I should have balked his intention and brought you here, had it not been for the bungling of those who served me, and the courage of this man Barrington who has played Bruslart's game for him."
"Unwittingly," said Jeanne. "I grant that Lucien Bruslart is not a worthy man; you must not class the other with him." In a few words Jeanne told him how she had written the letter, how Richard Barrington came to know where she was hidden.
"Is it not a further proof against Bruslart? And to me there is still no actual proof of Barrington's honor," Latour went on quickly, as though he were afraid something would happen to prevent his speaking. "Listen, mademoiselle, this room was prepared for you long before you came, a safe retreat. Would any one think of seeking an aristocrat close to a hater of aristocrats? I have thought of everything, planned everything. The power I have I lay at your feet, now, at this moment. At your word I will become anything you wish. Without you, without the hope of you, nothing is of value to me. With you, there is nothing in the world impossible. France is not the only land. Paris is not the world. There are fairer places on God's earth where men and women may live at peace. I have papers which shall make it easy for us to pass the barriers, which shall bring us safely to the sea. I worship you, words can tell you nothing of that worship, you shall learn it day by day, hour by hour, you shall guide me as you will. You—"
"Monsieur, monsieur! what are you saying? How can I answer such madness?"
"By coming with me, gift for gift, love for love. Somewhere I will so labor that my wife shall know the depth of my reverence, the greatness of my love."
"I have no answer, monsieur, for such folly."
"Not yet, but you will have. A man does not play for such stakes as I have played for, win them, and then throw them away."
"If I understand your folly rightly, you have not won. I could pity—were there not a tone of threatening in your voice. To love you is, and always will be, impossible."
"Has mademoiselle considered all that such a decision means?"
"I know nothing worse that you can do than denounce me to the Convention," said Jeanne, standing up, and looking straight into his eyes. "I expect nothing less and have no fear. You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have sent another innocent person to the guillotine."
"There is another mademoiselle might wish to save. I have said Monsieur Barrington is in my hands."
"I have never seen fear in Richard Barrington. I do not think he would be afraid of the guillotine."
"You love him," said Latour, sharply.
"Yes;" and then she went on passionately, "Have you revolutionaries not yet learned that death is but a passing evil, and that there are men and women who do not fear death? I love Richard Barrington; his death or mine cannot alter that, and do you suppose I would purchase life by a promise to you or any other man in the world?"
"Yet he shall plead my cause for me. For himself he may not be a coward, but for the woman he loves he will be. He would rather see you in my arms than send you to the guillotine."
"Monsieur, the decision rests wholly with me. Richard Barrington has already risked his life for me; if necessary, he will give it for me, and he would rather see me dead than give any promise to a man I despise. You cannot understand such men."
"Mademoiselle, I too, risked my life in bringing out of the Abbaye prison the woman I believed was you."
"For that I thank you," she said quickly. "It is strange to me that the same man can stoop to threaten me now."
"You will understand if you think of all I have told you," said Latour, moving to the door. "You are safe for a little while. Your lover shall plead for me. He is a man, and will know what a man's love is."
Jeanne turned to the window. There was nothing more to be said.
Latour went slowly down to his room. All his excitement had vanished. He was calm and calculating again, a man in a dangerous mood; yet Jeanne's words were still in his ears. "I love Richard Barrington; his death or mine cannot alter that." What had he expected from this interview? He hardly knew. He had declared that his game was won, but it was not the game he had schemed to play. It was to have been his love against Lucien Bruslart's. To plead that would have been easy, and surely the woman must have listened, yes, and recognized the true from the false. This cursed American had altered the game; still, he was a man, a man of his word. He had promised to plead for him. He should do it.
Raymond Latour passed out presently into the Rue Valette and went in the direction of the Tuileries. There was public business he must do. Paris was clamorous and dangerous. The mob cried out to Deputy Latour as he passed, telling him how to vote, but he took no notice, never even turning his head. He was not thinking of a king, but of the woman he loved.
A DEBT IS PAID
Dr. Legrand slept late on this Saturday morning; his dreams had been pleasant, and he hastily descended to his study, his face beaming, his body tingling with excitement. The regret which he had expressed last night, and really felt in his own limited fashion, was gone; how could he feel regret when in a short hour or two he was destined to handle so much money?
As he went to his study a servant stopped him.
"Monsieur, monsieur, we have only just discovered, but Mademoiselle St. Clair—"
"Yes, yes; what about her?"
"Gone, monsieur."
"Gone!"
The doctor staggered back against the wall, his face working in a sudden convulsion. It was as though the servant had struck him a heavy blow between the eyes.
"Yes, monsieur. Her bed has not been slept in. The Marquis de Castellux is not to be found either. We have inquired among the guests. No one has seen them since they left the salon last night."
No articulate word came from Legrand, only a growl like that of an angry animal. He rushed to mademoiselle's room, then to the one Monsieur de Castellux had occupied temporarily. In a few moments the house was being searched from cellar to garret, every room was entered, whether the guests expostulated or not, but there was no sign of the fugitives, nor anything to show how they had gone. No one noticed that the window at the end of the passage had been unfastened.
A little later Dr. Legrand hurried along the Rue Charonne, caring nothing that people looked after him. He was a doctor of lunatics, they said, possibly he had gone mad himself. They laughed and took no further notice of him. He traversed several streets in the Faubourg St. Antoine, evidently familiar ground to him, and presently entered a tumbledown tenement. Going hastily to the top floor, he knocked with his knuckles at a closed door, two low, single knocks, and a double one. It was evidently a signal, for the door was opened at once and Lucien Bruslart stood before him.
"So soon!" he exclaimed.
Legrand entered, pushing Bruslart back into the room, and shut the door.
"She's gone! Escaped! Last night!"
Bruslart showed no sign of surprise. He sat on the edge of the table and waited for more information. Legrand had no more to give. In his hurried journey from the Rue Charonne he had thought of many things, and now made no mention of the fact that another of his guests had also disappeared.
"How did she manage to escape out of your clutches?" asked Bruslart, after a pause.
"I don't know, and does it matter? She is gone, that is enough."
"Bad for you, Legrand. She will explain how she came to be in your house, and your friends will be asking why you took any one they did not send to you. An awkward question, Legrand."
"I shall easily answer that. The difficulty is for you, my friend. How will you explain your dealings with an aristocrat for whom all Paris is hunting?"
"More easily perhaps than you imagine."
"You cannot, you cannot. I am the only man who can help you."
"Your help does not seem very effectual, does it?" said Bruslart. "You were to have come this morning with certain papers assuring me that a certain troublesome person was in the hands of the authorities, and in return you were to receive a certain fee. Well, you have no papers, therefore you get no fee."
"But what will you do?"
"Wait here. I have been safe so far."
"It is impossible," said Legrand. "I shall be asked questions, I shall have to answer them. I know Citizen Bruslart as a good patriot. He brings me a lady to take charge of. What could I do but obey? I shall be asked where Citizen Bruslart is now."
"I see you contemplate betraying me, is that it?"
"No, no, but I must answer questions."
"How do you propose to help betraying me then?" Bruslart asked.
"Now you are sensible. We must work together, is it not so? Paris is dangerous for you. You are a rich man and the place for you is across the frontier. A friend of mine, a good citizen, has for days been ready to travel at a moment's notice, and will take a servant with him. He has papers that cannot be questioned for himself and for you, his servant. He goes by way of Metz and then to Valenciennes. You will slip across the frontier into Belgium. You have heard of the inn, on that road, La Houlette. Once there you may throw away your cockade and become again a nobleman. It is your métier, my friend, you were never intended for a patriot. And now that you have money what better could you wish for?"
"It is an attractive programme, and I am a little tired of this cockloft," answered Bruslart. "How is it to be managed?"
"In an hour I will be back with all that is necessary to alter your dress and appearance. In two hours you may commence your journey."
"Very well, my good Legrand, I shall expect you in an hour."
"Yes, but the money," said the doctor. "I run a risk, and my friend must also be paid."
"Anything that is reasonable."
"Oh, it is reasonable."
"What is the figure?" Bruslart asked.
"I think I can arrange everything if you give me the fee I was to have had for the papers you expected me to bring this morning."
"Nonsense, Legrand. That fee is nearly half of my fortune."
"Mademoiselle's fortune," corrected Legrand.
The two men looked at each other, and understood each other well. Bruslart knew that the doctor was quite prepared to betray him if he did not come to his terms. Legrand knew that Bruslart was in dire straits, and that once in the hands of the Convention his doom was sealed. In one sense the doctor was the more honest of the two. He could do what he said with every prospect of success, and was prepared to fulfill his bargain to the letter. Bruslart was already planning how he could overreach his companion.
"It is a monstrous price to pay."
"It saves you from the guillotine," answered Legrand.
"Very well, I'll pay it," said Bruslart, after a moment's thought.
"Quickly, then. I will go at once. Give me the money."
"A bargain is a bargain, my good doctor, and I do not part with my money until you have completed your work. I shall expect you in an hour."
Legrand hesitated.
"I cannot get away," said Bruslart, "but there is a possibility that you might not return."
"You are over careful," was the answer.
"I have my head to consider," Bruslart laughed. "No man pays the doctor before he has taken his physic."
The doctor laughed too, it was the only way to deal with such a man, and departed. Bruslart could not escape him. The money was already as good as in his hands. Bruslart once out of Paris, Legrand could answer any question the officers of the Convention might put to him. He had done as Citizen Bruslart had commanded him, what else could he have done? Monsieur Fouquier-Tinville and others could not say much, they were too interested in his establishment. Besides, although mademoiselle had escaped from his house, it was most unlikely that she could leave Paris. She would be found.
Bruslart locked his door when the doctor had gone. Before the doctor he had shown no anger, no agitation, but alone, he was like an animal caught in a trap. For this money he had schemed, lied, and betrayed an innocent woman; he had just enough conscience to hate the remembrance of all he had done, and now half the reward of his treachery was to be filched from him. For a moment he was tempted to go before Legrand returned, but he was afraid. Legrand had the whip hand of him. Could he cheat him? The opportunity might come at the last moment. How could it be done?
He was deep in a dozen plans which came in a chaotic confusion into his mind, when there was a knock at the door, two low, single knocks followed a double one, Legrand's signal. An hour had not passed. Legrand had returned quickly. What had happened? He opened the door, then started back.
"Pauline!"
For a moment she stood on the threshold apparently with some feeling for the dramatic effect in her attitude, then she entered and closed the door.
"Yes, Pauline," she said.
Bruslart had been taken unawares; he had unfortunately allowed the woman to see his surprise, and cursed his folly as he regained his equanimity with an effort.
"You are welcome, Pauline, as welcome as—"
"As the devil," she answered. "No, I want to do the talking. You sit down and listen."
"Nothing will please me better," Bruslart returned, smiling. "I have been forced to go into hiding, and have lost touch with events."
"And I have been in prison."
"In prison! You!"
"Strange, isn't it? I dare say the story will interest you, but there are other things to talk of first. What has forced you into hiding?"
"Circumstances and Raymond Latour," he answered.
"And why should you keep your hiding-place a secret from me?"
"I will explain. It is rather a long story, and—"
"And I do not want to hear it," she said. "I know. It is not a pretty story. To save one woman you sacrifice another, and in the end are false to both."
"What nonsense have you been told, Pauline?"
"I have been told very little, perhaps only know part of the tale even now, but it is sufficient. I only found out your hiding-place on Wednesday night. On Thursday and Friday, Citizen Legrand was with you. By your contriving Mademoiselle St. Clair was in hiding. A large part of her money was in your hands, and she was in your way, so Legrand was instructed to send word to the Convention that one Richard Barrington, an American, had contrived by false representation to place her in Legrand's house for safety, and the doctor, suddenly discovering the falsehood, was to prove himself a good patriot and give her up. So Lucien Bruslart, by paying the doctor, was to get rid of a troublesome woman and retire to Belgium."
"I do not know who can have told you such a story."
"There are many spies in Paris," she answered with a short laugh. "But that is not all the tale. Yesterday you were very confidential with Citizen Legrand. You told him of another woman who was in love with you, and was troublesome, or would be if she knew where to find you. You had promised to marry her, a promise to the pretty fool which you did not intend to keep. It amused you to think how furious Pauline Vaison would be when she found out you had gone."
"So that devil Legrand has been talking, has he?"
"Poor Lucien! Do you imagine you are the only scoundrel in Paris?"
"Scoundrel! Why, you pretty fool—it is your own expression, so let me use it—do you imagine I should tell the truth to Legrand? His own cupidity ruins him. Half the tale is true, the other half—why, Pauline, is it not the very scheme I told you of? I had hoped to rise to power in Paris; that I cannot do, but I have the money, and Pauline Vaison will join me across the Belgian frontier."
"You only have half the money, Lucien, Legrand is to have the other half. It is his little fee."
"Now you have come we may cheat him," said Bruslart, quickly.
"Yes, a very excellent plan, but it won't work, my friend. I had none of this story from Legrand. Your money holds him faithful. He will be back in an hour, and in two hours you may perhaps be out of Paris."
Bruslart looked at her, realizing the full extent of his danger for the first time.
"That is an awkward riddle for you to read, isn't it?" she said. "It is an unpleasant position, as unpleasant as mine when they arrested me in the place of Mademoiselle St. Clair, and my lover took no steps to set the mistake right; as unpleasant as when my escape from the Abbaye forced you to hide from me. That is why you ran away, Lucien. You were afraid of me. Now I have found you, and mademoiselle has really escaped out of your clutches. It is a very awkward position, Lucien. I do not see how you are going to wriggle out of it."
"The way is plain, let us arrange everything before Legrand returns," said Bruslart.
"There is nothing to arrange. This little cockloft does not fill the whole of this upper story. There is another attic on the other side of that partition, with a cupboard in it. Standing in the cupboard, with the ear against the woodwork, one can hear all that is said here, and if you look in that partition you will find a crack, through which nearly the whole of this place can be seen. You may take my word for it, I have lived on the other side since Wednesday night. Your own servant betrayed your hiding-place to me, for a ridiculously small sum. Your worth is not great even in his eyes."
"Be sensible, Pauline. I will—"
"Pay me for secrecy? Will you give me the other half of mademoiselle's money?"
"I said, be sensible. Come with me, join me on the road to the frontier. It is what I have intended all along."
"It's a lie!"
The woman was suddenly alive with passion—dangerous, and Bruslart knew it.
"You are not polite," he said.
"I am better than that; I am honest."
"Be sensible as well. The time is short. Sit down and let us arrange quickly."
"I have told you, there is nothing to arrange," she answered.
"Once for all, will you come? Yes or no," he said angrily.
"No."
"What are you going to do?"
"Pay, Lucien, pay. Legrand will return, but he will not find you."
"You she-devil!"
The words were hissed out as he sprang toward her. It was his life or hers. There was no other alternative. Murder was in his hands, in his soul. She realized this and even as he touched her, she cried out—
"Help! Help, citizens!"
In a moment the door was thrown open and Lucien Bruslart was in the hands of the officers of the Convention, crouching in their grasp, white and afraid, too terrified even to curse his betrayer.
"The payment, Lucien! I warned you. I keep my promise. For you it is the Place de la Revolution—the guillotine."
The words were shouted at him savagely, and then she leaned back against the wall in a paroxysm of horrible laughter.
ENEMIES OR FRIENDS
To the individual, his affairs, petty though they be, are often of more moment than those greater doings which have a whole world for stage and are destined to throw an echo far down the corridors of Time. Most of us live in a narrow little world, a very mean little world often, and are never able to mount up a step or two to see how exceedingly mean and narrow it is. Yet, for all this, the workings of the greater world do affect us, though we may be unconscious of the fact; our little affairs are influenced in greater or less degree, as the rippled circles from a stone's cast spread to the shores of the pond.
Balked greed and craven fear tore at Legrand's very soul when he returned to the cockloft in the Faubourg St. Antoine and found it empty. After all he was not to handle the money. He felt like an honest man who has been cheated, so far was he able to deceive himself. Bruslart had outwitted him, would perhaps succeed in leaving Paris, and a terrible lust to get equal with him seized upon the doctor. The chance words of two men talking in the street told him the truth, and then fear took the place of greed. There was no knowing what Bruslart might say. The temper of the Convention was uncertain. He might be arrested too, or perchance plundered of his gains. For a few moments he was doubtful whether it would be safe to go home, and then, driven by that desperate desire to know the worst which so often makes a coward seem courageous, he hastened in the direction of the Rue Charonne, and was in his study when the officers of the Convention arrived to remove Jeanne St. Clair. Legrand had communicated with the authorities, but somewhat vaguely. He declared that it was evident that he had been deceived, that the ci-devant aristocrat ought never to have been placed under his care, but he had not definitely stated an opinion that the American, Richard Barrington, was responsible. It was difficult for Legrand to make a straightforward statement at any time, and that he had not done so on this occasion might prove useful now that Lucien Bruslart was arrested. He was therefore prepared to wriggle out of his awkward position. Mademoiselle had managed to get out of his house, how he could not tell, but she could not have left Paris. An immediate and diligent search must result in her capture.
Strange to say the awkward questions were not asked, nor was an immediate search instituted. For the moment, at any rate, Jeanne St. Clair was of small account, another name was in everybody's mouth, another personality was forced into tragic prominence, and the hundreds of deputies on whose word so much depended had no time or inclination to think of any one else.
Wednesday and Thursday, which were marked days for Jeanne St. Clair, were stupendous days for Paris, for France, for the world. The fate of Louis Capet, once king, was sealed in them. He must die. By the vote of the deputies this was decided. His crime? Who shall say. Chiefly perhaps that he was born to be a king, and lived, a weak king, in a strenuous time. And yet the business was not at an end. Some would have an appeal made to the people, a proposition easily overruled; some would have delay, and that was not so easily settled. There must be more voting. So on this Saturday and Sunday the deputies were busy, and Paris vibrated with excitement. Raymond Latour now voted for delay, as before he had voted against the death sentence, firm to his conviction that the head of a king was not necessary to the safety of France. Patriots hissed at him and at many others. Robespierre noted the set of his face and thought of the future; others noted that set face and thought of the future, too. Was Raymond Latour as strong a man as some declared? Was he safest as a friend or as an enemy? Once more the votes were counted. Louis Capet must die, that fact remained unaltered, but there was added something more to the sentence, he must die within twenty-four hours. It was a merciful addition perchance, though not so intended; the shorter the time, the less the suffering. Patriotic Paris flung its red cap into the air, rejoicing greatly. Less than twenty-four hours to wait for the greatest amusement that had yet been vouchsafed to the mob. There was no time to sleep, no reason in sleep. Armed men would keep the streets to-morrow, but there would be vantage places to be struggled for and kept through long hours of waiting—yet not so long after all. Monday morning came quickly—ten o'clock—one carriage and its guard. The last ride of a king! The bitter mockery of fate sounded to-day for the Deep Purple of an empire—and France laughed. Revenge, too, perchance smiled, for the passage of that lone coach left its trail of dead and wounded. Slowly he mounted into view of his people, and a heart here and there may have pitied him. He would speak. Surely in this last hour he may say a word; the words of a man at such a moment, be he king or peasant, may perchance have a strange meaning and appeal in them; and also they may be dangerous. Yes, he will speak. He is innocent, that much was heard, and then another spoke, a word of command, and there was the loud rolling of the drums. Nothing could be heard above the beating of those drums. It was difficult even to see through the forest of bayonets which surrounded the scaffold. It looked like a moment's struggle between executioners and hand-tied victim, an unequal contest. Still the drums—then the sound of the heavy falling knife. Then silence, and Samson, chief priest of the guillotine, holding the head high, at arm's length, that all may see it and know that tyranny is at an end, that France is free. Patriotism, armed and otherwise, went mad with delight. This was a gala day! Sing, dance, drink in it! Such a day was never known in Paris before!
Paris flung its red cap in the air and France laughed.
Paris flung its red cap in the air and France laughed.
It was no wonder that Jeanne was forgotten, that Dr. Legrand was not called upon to answer awkward questions. It was not remarkable that the alleys and byways of Paris were deserted for the wider streets and places where patriots could rejoice together, and that many who were in hiding should be free for a day or two from the alarms which almost hourly beset them.
Richard Barrington had remained untroubled for many hours. As he fought in the empty house, struggling against a crowd which seemed to press in upon him from every side, and out of which looked familiar faces, his brain had played him a trick he thought he was fleeing from his enemies, jumping into darkness for safety. There had followed a period of total unconsciousness, set in the midst of a continuous dream as it were, for he seemed to realize at once without any break that he had fallen upon a bed of straw and could safely lie there to rest his tired limbs. There was no recollection of Legrand's asylum, or of the night escape over the roofs, but presently there came a conviction that he ought to be with Jeanne. It seemed to him that he tried to get out of the straw but was unable to do so. It had so twined about his body and limbs that he was bound by it as if with ropes. He must rest a little longer until he had more strength to break his bonds. Then again, faces looked at him, faces he ought to know, yet could not remember. There were low voices about him. He was thirsty, and in his struggles to free himself from the straw, chance guided his hand to a cup. Cool liquid was in it, water or wine, he could not tell which, but he drank eagerly and lay still again for a long time. Presently his strength was certainly returning, for without any great effort he drew his hands free from the binding straw and raised himself. A faint light was about him, showing stone walls, a narrow room, in a corner of which he was lying. On the floor beside him was a cup, a wine bottle, and a piece of bread. He picked up the bread and almost mechanically bit a piece out of it. He found that he was hungry. There was wine in the bottle and he drank. The straw no longer bound him, and he rose slowly to his feet and stared about him. Then, like waters suddenly breaking down a dam and flowing again into their old channel, memory reasserted itself and his brain grew clear. He recollected the empty house, the sudden movement on the stars, the fight, Jeanne standing behind him in the corner. What had happened? Where was she? Where was Seth? He knew where he was. The chair and table, the bowl and water can, the straw bed, the stone walls and the high grating—he was again in that buried cell of the old monastery.
"My head is heavy," he said aloud. "I must have been hurt and been delirious. For how long, I wonder?"
He began to move slowly about the cell. It was daylight, whether morning or afternoon he could not tell. He was not meant to die yet, or the wine and the bread would not be there, yet why was he in this place instead of an ordinary prison? His limbs were stiff, his head ached, it was difficult to think clearly. He could not detach reality from dreams. What had happened in that empty house? Where was Jeanne? He threw himself upon the straw bed again, intending to lie there and try to solve the problem, but he fell asleep.
He was roused suddenly. A man was bending over him, had probably touched him. It was Raymond Latour. For a moment or two Barrington was uncertain whether this was a dream or reality.
"So you're awake at last," said Latour.
Barrington rose slowly to his feet, and then sat down in the chair by the table.
"What day is it?"
"Monday—Monday afternoon."
Barrington appeared to make a calculation.
"Monday!" he said. "Then I have been here—"
"Since early on Saturday morning," said Latour. "You were knocked about a bit in that empty house, and you've been in a more or less unconscious condition ever since. Have you your wits now? I have something important to say to you."
"Then you know about that empty house?"
"Yes."
"You arranged the—"
"Your capture—yes."
Barrington rose to his feet quickly, but stumbled a little as he did so.
"Now you must settle with me," he said.
"You're not strong enough yet," said Latour, easily catching the arm which aimed a feeble blow at him. "Mademoiselle St. Clair is safe. She is not in prison. Your man is safe. You, too, are safe for the present. You had better listen to all I have to say."
Barrington sat down again, frowning at his impotence. He had not realized how weak he was.
"I let you out of this place believing you a liar, and had you watched," said Latour. "I still believed you a liar when I found that you knew mademoiselle was in Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne. Your man was watched too, and his preparations in that empty house understood. You know the result. I have it from mademoiselle's own lips that you are not a liar, that you are not in league with Lucien Bruslart, and I believe her."
"Where is she?"
"Safe in my keeping."
Barrington did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, "She is the aristocrat in whom you are interested?"
"Yes."
"Then it is you who have lied?"
"I deceived you, yes. Be a man, Barrington; look at this thing with the eyes of a man. What reason was there that I should trust you with such a secret? I had set myself a goal to win, why should I jeopardize my chances? Bruslart was the man she loved, not you."
"They say all is fair in love," said Barrington. "Go on, Latour, go on. I suppose you have come to bargain with me. My arm may be weak, but my head grows clearer every minute."
"I want you to fulfill your promise. You owe me something. You said you would do your utmost to help me with the woman I loved. I know now that I could have no more powerful advocate."
"I cannot admit the debt," was the answer. "What do I owe you?"
"Your life once, perhaps twice, and again now. It is mine to save or destroy. A word from me and you change this place for a prison and the guillotine."
"I set no value on my life," Barrington answered.
"Jeanne St. Clair's life is in my hands, too," said Latour, slowly. "You would do something to save her?"
"Anything in the world. Save her, Latour, and though you send me to the gallows I will bless you."
Latour bit his lip a little. He wanted to hate this man who had come between him and his desires. He was convinced that he had done so, convinced that but for this American, Jeanne St. Clair would have listened to him. His worth against Bruslart's infamy must have appealed to her, had this man not come into her world.
"I know the truth," he said slowly, "I have had it from mademoiselle herself. I spoke of my love, as a man must speak when the whole passion of his life is let loose. She could never love me, she said. Why? Because she loves you. I have threatened her to no purpose. I threatened to sacrifice you unless she consented. It was of no avail. She swore that you did not fear death, that you would willingly die for her."
"She spoke only the truth," said Barrington.
"Yet you can save her," Latour returned. "You are the only man who can. You shall go to her and plead with her for me. For her sake I will desert France, go anywhere, do anything she wills. She must be mine or, for God's sake, do not make me even whisper the alternative."
"Be honest. Let me know the alternative."
"She shall die. There you have it. You may make your choice."
"And I thought you loved her," said Barrington, slowly.
"I cannot bandy phrases with you," Latour answered passionately. "You are a man as I am, there is something in us that is alike, I think. Debate such questions with yourself and you will find an answer."
"I have said that I am willing to die for her," answered Barrington.
"Go a step further than that," returned Latour. "Help another man to possess her."
"You are not prepared to make that sacrifice," said Barrington. "She must be yours or she must die. I thought Raymond Latour was too good a man for such villainy."
"Phrases! phrases! I want none of them. I want your help, the help you promised. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, although it was not mademoiselle I rescued; I expect you to fulfill yours."
"In this thing she must choose, Latour. My love is such that to make her happy I would willingly sacrifice myself were it to die for her, or harder still, live out my life away from her, forgotten by her. If it is only the thought of me which holds her back from what may bring her peace and satisfaction, I will pass out of her life and she shall never know the great sorrow at my heart. I will not hold her to any promise she has made to me. She shall be free to choose, and I will not let a hard thought of her enter my soul."
While Barrington was speaking, Latour had paced the cell slowly. Now he stopped on the other side of the little table.
"You will do no more?"
"There is nothing more I can do."
"You have thought of the consequences. You have considered my influence, the power I have to save or to kill you?"
"No, I haven't thought much of that. It doesn't seem to matter."
"You laugh at me."
"That is unworthy of you," Barrington answered. "We are two men in a tight place, and such men do not laugh at each other. Once you said that, should we prove to be enemies, it might help us to remember that we had clasped hands over our wine. Well, is not this the hour to remember it?"
"One has to forget many things," said Latour.
"True; and we come to a point when we understand how trivial are many of these things we thought most important," said Barrington. "We are at the mercy of the world's storms, and we shall surely travel ways we never set out to travel. I came to France, Latour, burning to fight for an oppressed people, burning to do something in this land like the Marquis de Lafayette had done in America. His career there fired my youthful ambition. I have done nothing. I come to this hour, facing you across this little table—two men, enemies, yet for all that liking each other a little, kindred somehow, and strangely bound together in that we both love the same woman."
Latour was silent for a few moments, the past, the present, and the future, mingled in his brain in strange confusion.
"Would you see her again?" he asked suddenly.
Barrington did not answer at once. "Let her decide," he said slowly. "There would be heaven in such a meeting, but there would be hell, too."
"There are tears in your eyes," said Latour.
"Are there?" asked Barrington, simply. "Well, why not?"
Latour turned away quickly. "I will think whether you can see her again," he said. "It may be difficult. You are weak, I will tell them to bring you food. You have seen Citizen Mercier, he is looking after you here. If you are to see mademoiselle, he will tell you. You must do as he suggests. She shall decide; I promise that."
He went toward the door, then came back again.
"If you see her will you speak of me?" he asked.
"We can hardly help doing so."
"She would believe you if you told her something of my love, of what I have done."
"I will set life and death before her, Latour, and leave her free to choose."
Latour moved again to the door and again came back.
"Men who love as we do must be enemies, still the enmity may be free from malice. Other conditions might well have made us friends. Will you grasp hands once more, Barrington?"
Across the little table their hands met, and were clasped firmly for a moment as the two men looked into each other's eyes. Then Latour went out quickly, locking the door behind him.
An hour later he went slowly up the stairs to his rooms. Jacques Sabatier was waiting for him.
"Bad news, citizen," said Sabatier.
Latour opened his door, and they entered.
"It should be bad news indeed if one may judge by your face," he said.
"Citizen Bruslart was arrested on Saturday. He is in the Conciergerie. He demands that you see him to-night. He knows that mademoiselle has escaped from the Rue Charonne, and he makes a shrewd guess where she is hidden. You must see him, citizen; he is dangerous."