A RIDE IN THE NIGHT
Once again the dawn found Raymond Latour seated by the table. No book lay open before him, he had not attempted to read. Last night he had gone to the rooms above, taking Sabatier with him. Sabatier forgot to swagger as he stood before Jeanne St. Clair, trying to look as steadily at her as she did at him. Then Sabatier had gone with a promise on his lips which he roundly swore to keep, and for a little while longer Latour remained with Jeanne. His face was calm when he left her, but Barrington might have retaliated and said there were tears in his eyes. Perchance it was the cold wind on the stairs, for the night was bitter, Latour wrapped himself in a thick coat when he went out, and turned his steps in the direction of the Conciergerie. It was near midnight when he returned home, but there was no sleep for him. So the dawn found him seated by the table. Again he felt cold and made himself coffee, but he was not excited. His plans were made. He was ready for the day and the work there was to do in it.
Yesterday the head of a king, a triumph surely to last for many days. Patriots might rest a little now. But Robespierre thought otherwise as he talked with Duplay, the cabinet maker, over the evening meal in the Rue St. Honoré; great-voiced Danton knew that this was a beginning, not an ending; and many other deputies were sure that having gone so far they must go further. There were other heads to offer to the guillotine, many others. The tumbrils must carry the daily food, and the stock of such food must not be allowed to run short. Many were condemned already; there were others waiting to be condemned; it would be well to get on with the work expeditiously. Trials took time, though, truly, they need not be long. There was one man waiting for whom nothing could be said. The aristocrat, Lucien Bruslart, who had posed as an honest citizen, yet had hidden an emigré in the city. Denounced by Citizeness Pauline Vaison, who was declared with one consent to be a true patriot, what hope could there be for him?
Yet this man found a strange advocate, no less a person than Raymond Latour. The prosecution was short and convincing; the president's bell sounded with a sense of finality in it; the women in the gallery were ready to jeer at the next prisoner; in this case of Bruslart there was no excitement at all. Then Raymond Latour rose, and the loud murmur of astonishment quickly fell into silence. They had often heard and applauded Deputy Latour; what was he doing here? There was going to be excitement after all.
Raymond Latour was an orator, rough and passionate at times, yet seldom failing to get into sympathy with his audience. He looked at the white-faced, cringing prisoner, and he hated him, yet on his behalf he spoke more eloquently than he had ever done before perhaps. A less powerful advocate would not have been listened to. Latour's words were hung upon and applauded at intervals. He could not deny the charges brought against the prisoner; he was an aristocrat, he had helped an emigré, but he was not the only aristocrat who had become a true and worthy patriot. He had done many things which deserved acknowledgment. His apartment had always been open to his fellows, he had helped many with his money and his influence. Birth had made him an aristocrat, but he had not fled from Paris; he had stayed to champion the people. That surely was in his favor, seeing how powerful an incentive he had for crossing the frontier—love. Of all the charges brought against him, there was only one which counted—that he had helped an emigré. Citizens might hiss, but ought they not first to understand who this emigré was? She was, to begin with, an emigré against her will. She had been forced to leave Paris by her friends, by the Marquise de Rovère. That was known to many who listened to him. Mademoiselle St. Clair was known personally to many. She had fed the hungry; she had cared for the poor. Had she remained in Paris, not a hand would have been raised against her, and if it had been, a thousand would have been raised in her defense. True, she had become an emigré; true, she had entered Paris by stealth, and that might require some explanation were he defending her, but he was only speaking for the man who had hidden her. They must remember all the circumstances. It was said that mademoiselle had heard that her lover was in danger, and had returned to help him. Every woman would appreciate her action, every woman who had loved; the prisoner finding her in danger had hidden her, could not every lover understand his doing so? Here was no conspiracy against the people but a romance, a tale of lovers, which some poet might well make a song of for all true lovers to sing. Certainly Lucien Bruslart was not deserving of death.
There was applause when Latour finished, but many hisses. A woman's voice cried out that it appeared as though Citizen Latour loved the emigré himself, and laughter and a nodding of heads greeted the sally. A man shouted that Deputy Latour had ceased to be a true patriot, or he would never have spoken for such a prisoner. There was uproar, silenced by the president's bell—a pause, then sentence:—Lucien Bruslart was condemned. No eloquence in the world could have saved him.
Raymond Latour found himself hustled as he left the building. It was remembered that he had voted against the death of the king, that he had been for delay. To-day had proved that he had sympathy for aristocrats and emigrés. Yet he was Deputy Latour, powerful in the Convention, powerful in many quarters of the city, a man who was only partially understood and therefore dangerous. Robespierre, it was whispered, feared him, and Danton had been heard to say that he was better as a friend than an enemy. Even the firebrand Hébert had dared to say little against him in his paper "Père Duchesne." Latour was keenly alive to the angry storm which threatened, but this was not the moment to face it. A few hours might turn storm to sunshine, or perchance increase the storm to a veritable cyclone against which no man could stand. He passed into the street and out of the crowd, his face firm set, unreadable. He showed no sign of fear, he seemed curiously indifferent to man's opinion of him. It was noted by some that he did not go in the direction of the Rue Valette, and when he had passed out of sight they told one another that there was a set purpose on the deputy's face. What purpose? He hurried presently, choosing narrow and deserted streets, as a man who carries a secret and does not wish to be seen.
Barrington had roused from a night of dreamless sleep, refreshed, ready for the new day which was already creeping into his cell. Would Jeanne decide to see him once more? Yes, he was convinced she would. He was glad to feel the new strength in him, for there must be no tears in his eyes at that meeting, only brave words on his lips and strong encouragement in his face. Surely that meeting would be to-day. Latour would not delay. Yet, what did he mean when he said it might be difficult?
He asked no questions when Mercier brought his breakfast. It was strange, after all that had happened, that he should trust Latour, yet he did. He could not help doing so when they had grasped hands first in the wine shop—how long ago that seemed!—he had done so yesterday when they had gripped hands across this little table. He was a strange mixture of good and evil, this Raymond Latour. What did he intend to do? Would he sacrifice Jeanne rather than lose her?
"I cannot guess," Barrington murmured to himself. "He probably thinks that Jeanne will marry him rather than see me sent to the guillotine. It is a hard test. How must I counsel her?"
The light which came through the high grating gradually grew less. The night was coming quickly. He was not to see Jeanne to-day, perhaps never again. The bravery of the early hours passed from him and a chill of despair was at his heart as he sat at the table, his face buried in his hands.
The room was dark when the door opened and Mercier entered.
"Monsieur, will you follow me?"
Barrington sprang to his feet at once.
"Monsieur will have been told by Citizen Latour that he is to do as I direct."
"I am so tired of these walls that a journey to the Place de la Revolution would be almost welcome."
Mercier carried a lantern, and, after locking the door of the cell, he led Barrington by the same way that he and Seth had taken. They passed through the trapdoor into the cellar, and from there into the passage of the house.
"This way," said Mercier, opening a door which gave on to a dark alleyway covered in but apparently joining one house to another. Barrington did not stop to ask himself questions, to consider whether it was wise to trust this man. At the end of this alley Mercier opened another door, and they entered a room barely furnished, and dimly lighted. Two men rose quickly from seats beside a stove, and one came forward with a glad cry.
"Master Richard! Master Richard! I thought they'd been lying to me. I thought you were dead. Thank God for the sight of your face again."
Their hands clasped and were held tightly, as men who are comrades yet do not speak of it much.
"I've been lying in some cellar underneath here with the wits out of me," said Seth. "Now we're to take a journey, though I cannot worm out of these gentlemen where to. It doesn't matter much so long as we are together."
"A journey?" said Barrington, turning to Mercier.
"That is so, monsieur."
"It's strange that we four should be together again," said Seth. "They were the Count and his friend when we drank a bottle of wine at Beauvais."
"Now Citizens Mercier and Dubois," said Mercier, putting down the lantern. "And a bottle of wine will not harm us. It will keep the cold night out. There's a bottle in the cupboard, Dubois."
Dubois got it out and drew the cork with evident relish.
"Remember the last, Master Richard," Seth whispered.
Mercier could not have heard what he said, but he evidently remembered the last occasion.
"There is nothing in this to make one sleep heavily. Here's the proof," and he filled a glass and drained it. "I've tasted better wine, but at any rate it's harmless. Now for the other things, Dubois."
Dubois brought from the cupboard coats, hats, tri-color cockades and sashes, sabres and wigs, which he placed upon the table.
"You will remember what Citizen Latour said, monsieur," said Mercier, turning to Barrington. "You were to do as I directed. One false step and your lives are forfeit, and mine, and Citizen Latour's too."
"We go to—"
"On a journey, monsieur, a dangerous one, but with a good end to it, I hope. Let me help you to dress in this coat and wig."
"I care not how I go, so that the journey leads me to—to my desire," said Barrington.
"That's the road we all try to travel," Dubois returned, as he helped Seth fit his wig and tied the sash round him.
"It's a long road and few reach the end of it," Seth remarked, "but with a sword to hand I find my courage rising."
"Let me touch your face with a little black from the stove," said Mercier. "You are a little too pale, Monsieur Barrington."
"It is no wonder. It seems an age since I felt the wind on my cheeks."
"That is better," said Mercier, as with some skill he tinted Barrington's face and then treated Seth in the same fashion. "Now listen. You, Monsieur Barrington, are Citizen Roche, your man here is Citizen Pinot. You are both officers of the Convention under the leadership of Citizen Mercier, a trusted servant of the Convention. Remember these names, Roche, Pinot;—think of no others. I have papers with me in which you are so named. Leave the speaking to me. You are glum fellows lusting only for the work you have been given to do."
"But where do we go?" asked Barrington.
"You must trust me, monsieur. I have my instructions from Citizen Latour. It may be that I do not know the whole of his purpose. May I trust you to follow my instructions to the letter? for truly, if you presently ask questions and show curiosity, my head is as good as in Madame Guillotine's basket."
"You may trust me," Barrington answered.
"Then we may go at once. Good night, Citizen Dubois."
"Good night."
Through a doorway they passed into a yard shut in by the backs of houses, from which, high up, dim lights glimmered. Mercier led the way, bidding them keep close to him, and presently turned into a shed—a stable. Three horses were there ready saddled.
"Mount, Pinot, mount, Roche. We ride toward the barrier and journey to Versailles. We have urgent business that way."
Barrington asked no question as he mounted. Mercier led the way out of this yard, into a narrow, cobbled street, then into a wider street. There were not many people abroad in this direction, and no one took particular notice of them. They crossed the Seine, and it was evident that Mercier chose his way carefully, avoiding certain streets for good reasons, probably. They rode in silence. Even when they approached the barrier Mercier gave no word of warning.
They were challenged and stopped, all three reining in their horses on the instant.
"Business of the Convention at Versailles," said Mercier.
"More heads, citizen?"
"I judge so."
"You are Citizen Mercier?" said the guard, holding up his lantern to look at him.
"Yes. This is Citizen Roche; this, Citizen Pinot."
The man raised his lantern and looked into each face in turn.
"Devilish poor traveling companions," whispered Mercier, leaning from his saddle toward the guard; "lustful fellows who get no fun out of their lusts, as merry as death, and as silent."
The guard laughed and raised his lamp to look into Barrington's face again.
"Provincials, eh?"
"Ay, from some corner of France where they breed mutes I fancy," said Mercier.
"They're useful maybe, and if Madame Guillotine eats them presently, what matter? She must have foul food as well as fine. Any fresh news worth the telling?"
"None," Mercier answered.
"Then you may save your breath for your journey. Pass on, citizens."
They rode forward, slowly for a little way, then faster, but they were soon off the road to Versailles. The night was dark, a keen wind blowing in their faces, and there were gusts of rain at intervals. Still Barrington asked no questions. If this man Mercier were deceiving them, he was at their mercy. They were out of Paris, leaving it farther behind them every moment. They had been in Latour's power, he could have devised no trap for them at the end of this journey. It would be without reason. But where was Jeanne? Could she be somewhere along the road in front of them, or were they leaving her behind? The thought was horrible, and, curiously, it had not occurred to Barrington until now. Not only was he inclined to trust Latour, but he could see no possible reason for his helping him to leave Paris unless he intended him to meet Jeanne. Latour had said such a meeting might be difficult to arrange. As they rode onward through the night there came a sudden suspicion, a reason for this journey, which Barrington cursed himself for not thinking of before. It fitted Latour's character, the good and evil that was in it. Was Latour getting rid of him by helping him to escape, and so leaving Jeanne entirely in his power with every opportunity to play upon her feelings as best suited his purpose?
"Do we return to Paris presently?" Barrington asked suddenly.
"I do not know, monsieur," Mercier answered. "By dawn my part in this business ends, and we part company."
"I am inclined to return to Paris at once," said Barrington.
"I would ask you to remember all that Citizen Latour said to you," was the answer. "He bid me repeat this to you as constantly as you were inclined to doubt."
"Do you know what Latour said to me?"
"No."
"Am I to see Latour at the end of this journey?"
"That I do not know. I am following out my instructions, but I am convinced that Citizen Latour is acting for your good."
They rode on in silence again, the beating hoofs of the horses the only sound in the night.
The dawn had not come when Mercier drew rein where two roads forked.
"We will go quietly, monsieur, in case there is danger. There is a house here we must visit, a wayside inn."
Barrington let his horse walk but made no answer, and it was evident, by Seth's movement in his saddle, that he was prepared for attack.
A mean house, not a light showing from any window, stood by the roadside. Mercier dismounted and bid his companions do the same. Having tied the horses to a rail he knocked at the closed door, and Seth touched his master to warn him and draw his attention to the fact that the knock was peculiar and had a signal in it. The door was opened by a man, his figure outlined against the dim light coming from a room beyond.
"Welcome. I expected you an hour ago," he said.
The voice was familiar, and they followed him down a narrow passage into the lighted room at the back. It was not Latour but Jacques Sabatier.
"Welcome, Monsieur Barrington; we meet in strange places."
"And what is the purpose this time?"
"Your safety," answered Sabatier. "When we first met I never supposed I should have been employed so often in your affairs, ay, and have risked my head on your behalf, too."
"You seem to forget that you have tricked me."
"Has it not turned out for the best?" said Sabatier.
"I will answer that question when I know for what purpose I have been brought to this place to-night."
"Truly, it's a poor hostelry to welcome any man to, especially officers of the Convention," laughed Sabatier.
"I go no farther until I know where I go and the purpose."
"We go toward Bordeaux and the sea; the purpose, to put you on board some vessel which shall carry you in safety to America."
Barrington moved swiftly to the door and set his back against it.
"So Latour has tricked me once more. He will be rid of me so that a defenseless woman may be altogether in his power. I return to Paris at once. The odds are equal, and you have papers which I must have. They may be useful to me."
There was the sharp clatter of steel as Barrington and Seth drew their sabres. Then a door, which neither of them had noticed, on the other side of the room, opened, and a man stood on the threshold.
"The odds are with us, Monsieur Barrington," said Sabatier. "I think you will be compelled to travel toward Bordeaux."
THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
There had been no fresh news to tell at the barrier on the Versailles Road, nor at other barriers, until late that night, yet Paris was excited all day. The storm was destined to develop quickly into a cyclone. Where was Latour? What secret plotting against the people had he been engaged in that he should come forward to defend such a man as Lucien Bruslart? One put the question to Robespierre himself; the answer was a look and a whisper which meant much. There was the suggestion that the deputy was a traitor. There seemed no other answer to the question, and inquiry must be made. Who was the woman who had cried out that Deputy Latour might himself be in love with the emigré? She was a good patriot surely, and she was not difficult to find, for she thrust herself into prominence. Yes, she was the woman who had denounced Lucien Bruslart. Why? It was a long story, and she did not intend that the deputy's eloquence should save Bruslart. He had been her lover, but what was love when the country was in danger? She had been a prisoner in the Abbaye, taken there in mistake for an aristocrat. She had been rescued. This man Raymond Latour had rescued her. Might it not be that he loved the aristocrat? The mob made her a heroine and plied her with questions which she answered. Scores remembered how she had been arrested, remembered her journey through the streets. She was believed to be an aristocrat then, Jeanne St. Clair; now she was known for Pauline Vaison, as good a patriot as there was in Paris, and as handsome a woman, too. She was a queen to-day. Certainly there must be more inquiry, and at once.
The jailer Mathon was found in a wine shop, being off duty, and he was somewhat muddled with wine fumes though it was still early in the afternoon. At first he could not remember anything, but fear presently cleared his wits. Yes, a woman had escaped from the Abbaye, but he had been held blameless. His papers were in order. The authorities had been satisfied. Had he recognized the officers who had taken the prisoner away? That was the point. Was one of them Deputy Latour? No; and yet, now it was suggested to him, there had been something strangely familiar about one of the men. It might have been Deputy Latour. This was good evidence, and Mathon, the jailer, was suffered to go back to his wine.
But there was further inquiry still, more subtle questioning. Lucien Bruslart was condemned to die; to-morrow, a week hence, no one knew yet when it would be, but certain it was that one day soon his name would be in the list; then the last ride and the end. He was in despair one moment, mad for revenge the next. Latour had come at his bidding to defend him, not for his sake but for his own, and he had failed. He could ruin Latour probably, why should he not do so? For one instant the good that is in every man, deep buried though it be, struggled to the surface and he shrank back from the thought, yet again revenge filled his soul, and there came the lust to drag others down with him, Latour, Jeanne, Pauline, and this cursed American. He hated them all. Why should they live if he was to die?
Why should he die? Perhaps there would be no need. It was a subtle suggestion in his ears, no fancy whispering to him, but a real voice. A man in authority had entered his prison to talk to him. True, Citizen Bruslart had been condemned, and justly, for he had not acted as a true patriot should, but mercy was always possible. His prison doors might yet open again if he would tell the whole truth. There were many questions asked; many answers given; true answers some of them, but all fashioned to save Lucien Bruslart from the guillotine, no matter who else they might send to it. Yes, that was all he knew; was it enough to save him? Patience. He must wait a little. It seemed enough. So there was hope in the mean little soul of Lucien Bruslart, even though the prison doors were still closed upon him.
With the gathering night came a cyclone. Against Pauline Vaison there could be no accusation, no matter what the prisoner Bruslart had said, she was the darling of the mob; but for the others, the deputy, the aristocrat, and the American, there could be no mercy. Somewhere in Paris the American was hiding, he would be found presently. Latour had slunk away that day, many had seen him go; it was a pity he had not been stopped then, the hunt for him must begin at once. As for the woman, this emigré, they knew where she was. Pauline Vaison had suggested the place, so had the prisoner Bruslart. Forward, citizens! Here are the officers who will arrest her; patriots may well go with them and rejoice. There will be no mistake this time.
Dancing, singing, filling the roadway and making the night hideous, the mob passed along the Rue Valette, fought and struggled through the narrow passage by the little baker's shop, and burst into the courtyard beyond. The officers went up the stairs, straight on to the second floor, and as many of the crowd as could squeeze up the stairway, followed them. The door was locked.
"Open, in the name of the Nation!"
Neither the loud knocking, nor the command, brought any answer.
"Burst it open!" came a roar of voices.
It was a poor, common door, and splintered inwards almost at the first blow. A rush of feet crossed the threshold, officers, and dirty men and women, marking the floor, kicking aside rug and strip of carpet. A dainty apartment, white paint, white curtains over the windows and the bed, prints hanging on the walls, a faint fragrance in the air. She was here not long since. See the woman's things upon the table! There were her clothes upon the bed, a coarse dress; but these other garments! Look at them, citizens! Here's lace and fine linen! One hag, twisting her bony fingers into a garment, rent it in pieces, while a second, wrapping another garment round her dirty rags, began to dance to an accompaniment of ribald laughter. The aristocrat was here, and not long ago, but she had gone! The curtains were torn from the windows and from the bed, soiled in a moment and trampled on; the prints were wrenched from the walls; the bottles on the toilet table were hurled to the floor and broken; the furniture was shattered. The nest which had been so carefully prepared was quickly a heap of ruins.
With curses and blasphemy the crowd hurled itself down the stairs to the floor below. Here lived Deputy Latour, who had slunk into hiding. There may be papers in his room; if not, they can break it up as they have done the room above. Burst open this door too.
The officers knocked loudly. "Open, in the name of the Nation!"
It was a loud summons, no answer expected, yet at once the lock shot back and Raymond Latour stood in the doorway.
"What do you want with me, citizens?"
He had been waiting for the summons, was ready for it. His hands had tightened a little as he heard the wreckage of the room above. He knew that the woman was no longer there, he knew that with his capture they would forget all about her for a little while. The hours to-night would be precious to her. Two men loved her, and Richard Barrington was not the only man who was willing to die for her. So he faced the crowd upon the stairs which, after one yell of triumph, had fallen silent. This man had always been feared. No one knew his power for certain. He was feared now as he stood, calm and erect, in the doorway.
"What do you want, citizens, with Raymond Latour?"
Still a moment more of silence; then a fiendish yell, earsplitting, filling the whole house hideously, repeated by the crowd in the courtyard, finding an echo far down the Rue Valette.
"Latour is taken! We've got that devil Latour!"
They brought him out of the house, bareheaded and with no heavy coat to shield him from the bitter night, just as they had found him. The officers, with naked sabres, were close to him as they crossed the courtyard, and went through the passage to the street. They were afraid that the crowd might attack the prisoner. A woman, old and wrinkled, looking out from the baker's shop, shrank back behind the little counter that she might not be noticed. The mob danced and sang, but no one attempted to touch Latour. They were still afraid of him, he walked so erect, with so set a face, with so stern a purpose. He was the one silent figure in this pandemonium.
"The man who would have saved Louis Capet!" cried one, pointing at him.
Latour heeded not.
"The lover of an aristocrat!" cried another.
No one noticed it, but a smile was on Latour's face. This was his real offense, that he loved. The face of the woman seemed to shine down upon him out of the darkness of the night. All the past was in his brain; his love, his ambition, his schemes which had ended in this hour of ruin and failure. Yet still the smile was upon his lips, and there was a strange light in his eyes. Was it failure after all? This end was for her sake, the supreme sacrifice. What more can a man do than lay down his life for love?
THE END OF THE JOURNEY
Richard Barrington looked at the man in the doorway and laughed. He was a mere stripling.
"You will want greater odds than that to drive desperate men," he said fiercely. "We return to Paris at once and must have your papers."
"Richard!"
Barrington stood perfectly still for a moment as the stripling stepped into the room, then he sprang forward with a little cry.
"Jeanne!"
"Ah! I hate that you should see me like this," she said, "but Citizen Sabatier declared it was necessary."
Her face was smeared, much as his own was, a ragged wig concealed her hair, she was dressed, booted, sashed as a patriot, a pistol at her waist, a cockade in her hat, young-looking, yet little about her but her voice to proclaim her a woman.
"The odds are on our side, monsieur," said Sabatier, and then he touched Seth on the shoulder. "Come into the next room, there is wine there. We may finish the bottle. Love is wine enough for them. We must start in half an hour, Monsieur Barrington."
"Tell me, Jeanne, how did you come?" said Barrington, as the door closed leaving them alone. "I thought they had cheated me. Until I entered this room I hoped that my journey would lead me to you. I hardly know why but I trusted Latour. Then I was mad to think of my folly in believing, and now you are here. Truly, a miracle has happened."
"Oh, I have been so afraid, such a coward," she said, drawing his arm round her. "Raymond Latour came to me, straight from seeing you, I think, bringing this man Sabatier. He told me that I should see you again, and that I was to do exactly as Sabatier said. He had changed, Richard. He was very gentle. He asked me not to think unkindly of him. He kissed my hand when he left me, and, Richard, he left a tear on it."
"I think he loved you, Jeanne."
"He said so; not then, but when he first came to me. It was horrible to hear love spoken of by any man but you. He threatened me, Richard. I thought he meant what he said."
"He did when he said it," Barrington answered. "He came to me, demanding that I should urge you to marry him."
"And you refused?"
"Yes, and yet—ah, Jeanne, I hardly know what I should have urged. The thought of the guillotine for you made me afraid."
"It would have been easier than marrying any other man," she whispered. "Something, perhaps something you said, Richard, changed Latour. He evidently arranged my escape. Sabatier came early yesterday with these clothes. He told me to dress myself in them. Think of it, Richard! I walked through the streets with him like this, into a house in some alley, where we waited until it was dusk. Then we rode to the barrier. I was some horrible wretch thirsting for blood, young as I was; I do not know what Sabatier said, but even the men at the barrier shuddered at me and turned away."
Barrington laughed and held her closer.
"Then we rode here. We came by the Sceaux road, Sabatier said. This lonely place made me afraid. It was so unlikely you would find me here. Then I wondered whether you were dead. You have always seemed to come to me when I was in need, and this time—oh, it seemed so long, so hopeless! Now I want to cry and laugh both at once."
"You have no fear of the journey before us?" Barrington whispered.
"Fear! With you!"
"I mean just because it is with me. Do you know what we are going to do? We travel to the sea, to a ship, then to my home in Virginia. Are you sure you do not fear the journey which means having me always with you?"
"Richard," she whispered, "you have never yet asked me to take that journey. Won't you ask me now?"
"Jeanne, my darling, my wife to be, will you come?"
"If God wills, dearest—oh, so willingly, if God wills."
She remembered how far the sea was, how terribly near to Paris they yet were. Disaster might be lying in wait for them along the road.
"He will keep us to the end, dear," Barrington whispered.
Presently she drew back from him. "How hateful I must look!" she exclaimed. "Do I seem fit to be the wife of any man, let alone your wife?"
"Shall I tell you what is in my mind?" he said.
"Yes, tell me, even if it hurts me."
"I am longing to see you again as I first saw you at Beauvais. I did not know who you were, remember, but I loved you then."
"Even then?"
"Yes," he answered, "and ever since and forever-more."
A few minutes later Sabatier entered the room.
"It is time," he said. "We must start at once. Citizen Mercier goes no farther. You are now three men under my command. Your names are as before Roche and Pinot. Mademoiselle is called Morel, a desperate young patriot, Monsieur Barrington. Do not forget that; only forget that she is a woman."
They rode far that day, and after a few hours' rest, journeyed through part of the night. The spirits of the fugitives rose as Paris was left farther behind them, yet they were destined to be many days on the journey, and to encounter dangers. Although they traveled as officers of the Convention, Sabatier was careful to avoid the towns, and even villages, as much as possible. If the suspicion of only one patriot were aroused, their journey might end in disaster. Jeanne St. Clair rode as a man, looked a man, but she looked very young for such work as they were supposed to be engaged in, and there was a soft light in her eyes sometimes which might set a keen observer wondering. Then, too, there might be pursuit upon the road behind them. Some swift messenger, keeping the direct road, which they could not always do, might pass them, and carry a warning before them. There were many dangers, many possibilities.
One dawn—they had ridden through the greater part of the night—a climb which the horses took at walking pace brought them to the top of a down. The world seemed stretched out before them in the light of the new day.
"That way lies Bordeaux," said Sabatier, reining in his horse, and pointing to the left. "Below us is the mouth of the Gironde, yonder the open sea."
"Our journey is nearly at an end, then," said Jeanne.
"I trust so. A day or two's delay, perhaps; I cannot tell."
Toward evening they were lodged at an inn close to the shore, a deserted spot where they were unlikely to be disturbed.
"After dark, Monsieur Barrington, I propose to leave you, and take your man with me," said Sabatier. "I must get into communication with the vessel that should be lying farther up the river. Your man will be able to help me to explain, and guarantee my statement. You are not likely to be disturbed here, but should any one come, say boldly that you are watching for two refugees who are expected here hoping to be taken off by a boat. Order them to leave you to fulfill your duties. Here are papers which prove you to be Citizen Roche. Watch for the boat, and be ready."
"Shall we not see you again?"
"No."
"Then, thank you, Citizen Sabatier, for what you have done," said Barrington. "We owe you much and have nothing but words to pay the debt."
"Monsieur, I told you once I had a liking for you; it was true."
"Is there no more danger?" said Jeanne.
"None, I think, mademoiselle. It is most improbable that your escape has been discovered. Citizen Latour is powerful in Paris and in the Convention. You have been under his care from the first. I am but the lieutenant of a great man of whom the world will hear much in the days to come. As he rises to greater heights, so may I."
"Will you carry back a message to him?" said Barrington. "Say that with full hearts we thank him for all he has done for us."
"And tell him," said Jeanne, "tell him from me that there is one woman in the world who will always pray for him."
Prayer and Jacques Sabatier had little in common; prayer was a thing to laugh at, so much at least had the Revolution done for France and old superstitions; but he did not laugh now. "He shall have the message," he said, holding Jeanne's hand for a moment, and then suddenly bending down and touching it with his lips. "He shall certainly have both your messages," he went on loudly; and, with a swaggering gait, as though he were ashamed of his momentary weakness, he passed out of the room reluctantly followed by Seth, who was apprehensive at having to leave his master again.
The night fell and passed. Dawn came and the stronger light of morning, a morning of sunshine and blue sky. The sunlight touched the white sails of a vessel, and a boat, with its oars flashing, came quickly toward the shore where a man and a maid waited hand in hand.
Jacques Sabatier rode back toward Paris. From high ground he looked and saw a white sail far out to sea, then he rode on. But the message he carried was never to be delivered.
Citizen Latour, feared in Paris, powerful in the Convention, greater than Robespierre so some had declared, was a traitor. Justice demanded quick punishment, and the mob, more powerful than Justice, clamored for it. There was proof enough against him; a score of witnesses if necessary. Why hear them all? There was no need for a long trial, and what advocate would have courage sufficient to speak for this prisoner?
Raymond Latour faced his enemies alone, his face still set, full of purpose. No man uttered a word in his favor, no single expression of pity met him. Justice might be tempered with mercy if the prisoner would say where this emigré and this American were to be found. The prisoner did not know. A storm of howls and hisses met the answer, barely silenced by the ringing of the president's bell. Had the prisoner anything to say in his defense? A great silence, unbroken even by the prisoner himself. He had been eloquent for Lucien Bruslart, for himself he had nothing to say. Again a storm of hisses; heads thrust forward, hands flung out that would tear him in pieces could they reach him. Uproar and confusion, a yelled demand for condemnation. Nothing else was possible.
Still with set face, with firm purpose, Raymond Latour waited in the Conciergerie. No friend would come to see him, he knew that. Some of those he had made use of and trusted were not in Paris, some had already proved his enemies, and none dared show sympathy even if they would. He was alone, quite alone, without a single friend.
This day his name was not in the list, nor the next. He wondered a little at the delay, but waited patiently, knowing that there was no uncertainty about the end.
"Raymond Latour."
It was the first on the list to-day. Without a word he walked into the dark passage, noticing none of the others who waited there, some pale and afraid, some as though they were starting upon a journey of pleasure.
"One, two, three tumbrils! The guillotine was hungry this morning. Raymond Latour was in the last tumbril.
"I was promised life—I told all I knew—there is a mistake. Ask! Let me wait until to-morrow—for God's sake let me wait until to-morrow!"
Latour looked at the frightened wretch who was literally thrown into the tumbril after him, but the expression on his face did not change; he did not speak.
The man continued to cry out until the tumbrils started, then with a wail of despair he fell on his knees, shaking in every limb, chattering to himself, whether oaths or prayers who shall say?
The tumbrils moved forward slowly.
The wretch upon his knees seemed to realize suddenly that he was not alone. He looked up into the face of the man beside him. Then rose slowly and touched him.
"Latour."
There was no answer, no turning of the head even.
"Latour. So this is how we meet at last."
There were crowds in the streets, yelling crowds. He spoke clearly so that the man might hear him, but there was no answer.
"Raymond Latour—Latour—this is how we meet, both damned and betrayed for the sake of a woman."
No words answered him, but Latour turned and looked full into the eyes of Lucien Bruslart.
The tumbrils went forward slowly, a yelling mob on every side.
"Lucien! Lucien! Look at me!"
It was a woman's cry, shrill, sounding above the uproar.
Shaking with fear, yet perhaps with a glimmer of hope still in his heart, Bruslart looked. There was a woman held high above the crowd, supported and steadied by strong men's arms.
"I said you should see me laugh. Look, Lucien! I laugh at you."
"It is a mistake. Save me, Pauline, save me!"
"I laugh, Lucien," and a shriek of laughter, mad, riotous, fiendish, cut like a sharp knife through all that yelling confusion.
With a cry of rage, despair, and terror, Bruslart sank trembling in a heap to the floor of the tumbril. Latour did not move. He had not turned to look at Pauline Vaison. The thought of another woman was in his soul. Was she safe?
There was a pause, the crowd was so dense at this corner; then the tumbril moved on again. The corner was turned. Straight before him looked Raymond Latour, over the multitude of heads, over the waving arms and red caps, straight before him across the Place de la Revolution to the guillotine, to the blue sky, sunlit, against which it rose—and beyond.
HOME
A green hummock and the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay. Sunlight over the grass, sunlight over the sea, touching white sails there. A woman sat on the hummock, a man lay at her feet.
"Jeanne, you are sitting there almost exactly as I have often sat for hours when I was a youngster, with my chin in my hands, and my elbows on my knees."
"Am I, dear?"
"Little wife, what are you thinking of?"
"Just my happiness and you. When you used to sit here you never thought of me."
"No, dear."
"And yonder, all the time, I was waiting for you."
"There came a time, Jeanne, when I believed this spot could never be dear to me again, when I thought it could never again be home."
"And now, Richard?"
"Now, my darling, I am as a man who is almost too richly blessed. In this world I have found paradise."
"Of course that isn't really true," she answered, "but I like to hear you say it."
"Jeanne dear, there is only one regret. I wish my mother could be here to see you."
"She knows, Richard, never doubt that," Jeanne answered. "When I think of you, I often think of her too. I am here, in her place. Her boy has become my husband. I am very thankful to her for my good, brave husband."
He rose to his knees, put his arm round her, and kissed her.
"You have no regret, Jeanne?"
"None."
"No disappointment in me, in Broadmead, in this land of Virginia?"
"None. But sometimes, Richard, when I see a sail, like that one yonder, fading into the horizon, going, it may be, toward France, I wonder what has become of some of those we knew."
"I often wonder, too," said Richard. "Perhaps we shall never know, Jeanne."
News traveled slowly, and there was little detail in it. The Reign of Terror had come and gone, its high priests swallowed in the fury which they had created. Danton had died like a man, Robespierre like a cur; and then the end—cannon clearing the mob from the streets of Paris. A new era had dawned for France, but the future was yet on the knees of the gods. Had Raymond Latour escaped the final catastrophe? Were Sabatier, and Mercier, and Dubois still in Paris, more honestly employed than formerly perchance? Or had they all sunk in the final storm, gone down into night with their sins red upon them? No news of them reached Broadmead, only a rumor that the Marquis de Lafayette had fallen into the hands of Austria, and certain news that the Terror was at an end.
"Probably we shall never hear of them," said Richard.
"Always I think of Latour in my prayers," Jeanne said.
"Yes, you promised that. I wonder whether he ever had your message?"
"I cannot decide," said Jeanne, thoughtfully. "At first I felt that he had not, and then, quite suddenly, Richard, it seemed to me that he knew and was glad. I cannot help thinking that Raymond Latour did something for us, some great thing of which we have no idea, which we shall never know—here."
"He helped to give you to me, Jeanne. I know that, and in my heart thank him every day of my life. Listen! Wheels! That must be Seth back from Richmond. He may have news."
Hand in hand they went toward the house, and there Seth met them. He was full of the news he had heard in Richmond, but there was nothing new from France.