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CHAPTER XIII
The arrest of an aristocrat, or of some poor wretch who had no claim to the title, but served just as well for a victim, was a common enough occurrence. In the first panic there had been a rush for safety across the frontier, but there were many who remained, either not foreseeing how grave the danger would become, or bravely determining to face the trouble. Some, like Monsieur de Lafayette, true patriots at heart, had attempted to direct the trouble, and being caught in its cyclonic fury were at grips with death and disaster; some, like Lucien Bruslart, having themselves or their friends to serve, openly threw in their lot with the people, playing the while a double game which kept them walking on the extreme edge of a precipice; and there were others who, finding their bravery and honesty of no avail, realizing that it was now too late to escape out of the country, hid themselves in humble lodgings, or were concealed in the homes of faithful servants. There were patriots who were ready to howl death to all aristocrats, and yet gave shelter to some particular aristocrat who had treated them well in the past. Kindnesses little heeded at the time saved many a man in his hour of need.
To Richard Barrington that slowly moving coach, surrounded by a filthy, yelling mob, was a new and appalling thing; to Raymond Latour it was a very ordinary matter, a necessary evil that France might be thoroughly purged from its iniquity. When he laid his hand upon Barrington's arm, he had no idea who the prisoner in the coach was. Had he known, he might still have put out a restraining hand, realizing that to throw two lives away uselessly was folly, but in the wine shop afterward he would have treated his companion differently.
That morning he had waited patiently for the coming of Mademoiselle St. Clair. He had made a last inspection of the rooms he had hired, satisfying himself that there was nothing left undone which it was in his power to do for her. Then he had gone to his own room and tried to read during the interval of waiting. His patience was strained to the limit when, at noon, Mercier and Dubois arrived alone. He had expected them long before. The delay had almost prepared him to hear that his plans had been frustrated, yet the two men who had entered, afraid of his anger, were surprised at the calmness with which he listened to their story.
It was not all the truth. Mercier said nothing of the amount of wine he had drunk, nothing of his boasting. He described the men at the Lion d'Or as truculent, easily ready to take offense, difficult to persuade.
"They began by rejoicing that a market woman was on her way to Paris to give evidence against an aristocrat," Mercier said, "and then the devil prompted some man to speculate whether she might not be an aristocrat in disguise. They were for making certain, and if she were an aristocrat they would have hanged her in the inn yard. I had to threaten to shoot the first man who attempted to mount the stairs."
"And even then they only waited to get the better of us," said Dubois.
"They left the inn sulkily at last," Mercier went on, "but all night we kept guard upon the stairs, wasting precious hours as it happened."
"Go on," said Latour, quietly.
"Soon after dawn we were startled by a groan from the end of a passage, and we went to find a man lying there half dead. He had been badly handled, near where he lay was a door opening onto stairs which went down to the kitchens and the back entrance to the house. We went to mademoiselle's room and found that she had gone. How it had been accomplished neither Dubois nor I could tell, but we were both convinced that some of the men had stolen back after leaving the inn and had taken mademoiselle away, telling her some plausible tale to keep her silent. We roused the sleeping inn and searched it from cellar to garret. From the man lying in the passage we could get no coherent words, though we wasted good brandy on him. We went to the village, and were not satisfied until we had roused every man who had been at the Lion d'Or that night. More hours wasted. Then we went back to the inn and found the man revived somewhat. He declared that as he came to the top of the stairs a man and a woman met him. Before he could utter a cry the man seized him by the throat; he was choked and remembered nothing more. It was natural that our suspicions should turn to this fellow Barrington whom we had so easily outwitted at Beauvais. On this theory we asked ourselves which way he would be likely to take mademoiselle. It did not seem possible that they could enter Paris. We were at a loss what to do, and indeed wasted more time in searching the country in the neighborhood of the Lion d'Or for traces of the fugitives."
"You have certainly wasted much time," said Latour. "Tell me, what is this man Barrington like." He had already had a description from Jacques Sabatier, but a word-picture from another source might make the man clearer to him. Mercier's description was even better than Sabatier's.
"Did you tell this story of the Lion d'Or at the barrier?"
"No," Mercier answered. It was evidently the answer Latour wished to receive, and in a sense it was true. Mercier had not proclaimed at the barrier that he had been outwitted, and no one knew what business had taken him from Paris; but he had said that he believed an emigré in the disguise of a market woman had entered the city that morning. "What emigré?" he was asked. "Mademoiselle St. Clair," he had answered. The guard said nothing, no more inclined to confess to carelessness than Mercier was, and Mercier and Dubois had ridden on convinced that mademoiselle was not in Paris. At the barrier his remarks might have been taken for badinage, a sneer at the vigilance which was kept, had not the entrance of the quarreling market woman been remembered.
"If she is in Paris, we shall find her," said Latour.
"It is more likely she had ridden back to Beauvais," said Dubois. "If she is wise that is the way she has taken."
"Women in love are not always wise," said Latour.
"I am afraid, citizen, this unfortunate business has interfered with your plans. I am sorry. We had managed the whole affair so excellently." Mercier was so relieved to find Latour so calm that he was inclined to swagger.
"Most excellently," was the answer. "I am as far from having mademoiselle in my power as I was when you started."
"Citizen—"
"Is there need to say more?" Latour asked sharply. "I shall have other work for you presently; see that it is accomplished better. Did you meet Jacques Sabatier on the road this morning?"
"No, citizen. We have not seen him since he met us at the tavern yesterday and rode to Paris for your instructions. This morning we left the road several times to make sure the fugitives were not hidden in some shed or hollow. If he travelled to the Lion d'Or that is how we must have missed him."
"Come to me to-night at nine," he said, dismissing them. His anger was great, but it did not suit him to say more.
This was all Latour knew when he chanced upon Richard Barrington in the afternoon. He was thinking of mademoiselle when the noise of the approaching crowd reached him, and then he noticed the tall, strongly knit figure of the man just before him. A second glance convinced him that this was the American; therefore mademoiselle was in Paris. This was the man who had brought all his scheming to naught; his enemy, a daring and dangerous foe. He noted the expression on Barrington's face as the crowd went by, saw the intention in his eyes. In another moment his enemy might be destroyed, gashed with pikes, trampled under foot, yet Latour put out his hand and stopped him. Why? Latour could not see even his enemy throw his life away so uselessly. He hardly gave a thought to the wretched prisoner in the coach, but his interest was keen in the man who went with him to the wine shop. It was no mere phrase when he said he was a man after his own heart, he meant it. Their paths in life might be antagonistic, their ideals diametrically opposed, yet in both men there was purpose and determination, a struggle towards great achievement, a definite end to strive after. Circumstances might make them the deadliest of foes, but there was a strong and natural desire for friendship as they clasped hands.
"I could love that man," Latour mused as he went towards the Rue Valette afterwards. "Yet I must spy upon him and deceive him if I can. Mademoiselle is in Paris and he knows where she is hidden. He is Bruslart's friend, and Bruslart I hate."
He climbed the stairs to his room to find Sabatier waiting for him on the landing.
"I have heard," said Latour, unlocking his door and entering the room with his visitor, "I have heard the whole story. The fools have been outwitted. I have just left this man Barrington."
"Citizen, I do not think you have heard the whole story."
Latour turned quickly. Something in the man's tone startled him.
"Mademoiselle was taken to the Abbaye prison this afternoon," said Sabatier.
A cry, a little cry almost like the whine of a small animal suddenly hurt, escaped from Latour's lips. His strength seemed to go out of him, and he sank into a chair by the table, his face pale, his hands trembling.
"Tell me," he said, his voice a whisper.
"I cannot say how suspicion first arose, but some one at the barrier must have started it. Whether it was a guess, or whether some one recalled her face some time after she had been allowed to pass, I do not know, nor does it matter much. It got wind that Mademoiselle St. Clair had entered Paris, and where in Paris would she be most likely to go?—to Citizen Bruslart's. A crowd was quickly on its way there. Bruslart was away from home, but they would go in, and there they found her. Not an hour ago they were shouting round her as they took her to the Abbaye."
"There is wine in that cupboard, Sabatier—thanks. This news has taken the nerve out of me. Bruslart must have known she was in his house. Barrington would leave her there."
"I am not so sure of that," said Sabatier. "I do not know how much this Barrington suspects, but I do not think he is a man to make so obvious a mistake. I give him credit for more cunning, and with reason, I think."
"And Bruslart must have known the danger," said Latour.
"He may not, if he supposed mademoiselle had managed to get into Paris unseen. I cannot understand Citizen Bruslart."
"Dieu! Did he betray her himself, Sabatier?"
"I do not know. If I could see any object in his doing so I might suspect him."
"The Abbaye," Latour muttered, getting up and pacing the room. "The Abbaye. We must get her out, Sabatier. She would never be acquitted. Had she remained in Paris, the good she has done to the poor might have been remembered in her favor, but an emigré, her great name and all that it stands for—. No, she is as surely doomed as any prisoner who has entered the Abbaye. I have business at the prison to-night, Sabatier. I may learn something of her."
"Wait, citizen. To-morrow will do. You will not be careful enough to-night."
Latour paused by the table, a little astonished perhaps at the concern in his companion's voice. Sabatier was to be trusted as a man who served well for payment, but his hands had been red often, and it was strange to hear anything like sentiment from his lips.
"One would think you had some real affection for me," said Latour.
Sabatier swaggered to hide such weakness. "I am a man, citizen, who fears nothing. I can recognize another man who fears God or man as little as I do."
"The wine has cured me," said Latour. "I shall do my business, nothing more. I am not a fool. There will be no need of carefulness. Sabatier, to-morrow you must find out what Citizen Bruslart does. His movements may be interesting."
"And this man Barrington?"
"Leave him to me," answered Latour.
No man knew better when to wait and when to act than Raymond Latour, and few men had a keener perception of possibilities, of chances which were worth taking, of risks it was unwise to run. He appreciated his own power and influence to the very turn of a hair in the balance, and although to his companions he might exaggerate or underrate that influence to suit the occasion, he never made the fatal mistake of deceiving himself in the matter. Under ordinary circumstances, had his interest been aroused in a prisoner, he would have gone openly to those in authority and put the case before them, with every confidence not only of being listened to, but of getting his request granted. He had a strong following and was too powerful to offend. But for such a prisoner as Mademoiselle St. Clair, he knew that he dare not plead. The strongest man in Paris would be howled down by the mob if he attempted to procure her acquittal. She was closely connected with the best hated families of France, she stood not for herself but for what she represented, and the mob had assisted at no capture that pleased it more. This knowledge had for a moment robbed Latour of his nerve and courage. Strong man and self-contained as he was, he had not been able to control himself and hide his fear from Jacques Sabatier; yet now, as he passed quickly through the streets in the direction of the Abbaye prison, his step was firm, his face resolute, his course of action determined upon.
For an hour he talked with two friends of his who were in charge of this prison of the Abbaye, laughed and rejoiced with them at the arrest of such an important emigré that day; and then, at their prophecy that she would not be long in their keeping, that the tribunal would see to it that she went speedily upon her last journey to the Place de la Revolution, Latour ventured a protest—the first move in his scheme. It was so definite a protest that his companions were astonished.
"What! Does a woman appeal to you? Are you losing your hatred for aristocrats?"
"The woman appeals to me in a curious way," Latour answered. "After all, what is she? A little fish out of a great shoal. I would net in the shoal. It is not difficult with this little fish for bait. Do you not see how it is? This little fish is precious to the shoal, and lost, the shoal, or part of it, at any rate, will turn to find her. So long as it is known that she lives, there will be other emigrés stealing into Paris to look for Mademoiselle St. Clair."
"You are right. Delay will be wise," was the answer.
"Urge it, then," said Latour, with gleaming, sinister eyes. "Urge it. You are the keepers of prisoners and should know best when to spare and when to kill. It is not my business, and I have a name for gentleness in some matters, a reputation which it suits me to preserve, but I am bloodthirsty enough to give you good advice."
Latour knew how swift revolutionary justice was sometimes. It might be only a matter of hours between mademoiselle and the guillotine. He had counseled delay, confident that these men would counsel it in their turn, and take to themselves the credit for so excellent an idea.
He had other business as he passed along the corridor of the prison, a jest with the red-capped turnkey concerning the pretty birds he tended so lovingly.
"Some of them sing even, citizen," answered the man, with a great, coarse laugh. "Shall I show you some of my pets? You may not have another opportunity."
"I do not understand birds."
"Will you not look at the new one caught only to-day?"
"Ah, the aristocrat! I had forgotten her. Where is she caged?"
"Yonder, a small cage, and with three others not of her breed. She does not sing, citizen, she scolds. I tell you she has some strange oaths and curses at her tongue tip, and mingles them curiously with prayers for deliverance."
Latour laughed. He must show no anger at this man's humor, and he had nothing to suggest which might secure mademoiselle greater comfort.
He glanced along the corridor in the direction the man had pointed. A few yards of passage and a locked door were all that separated him from the woman he would help. The temptation to look upon her for a moment was great, the thought that by a glance he might convey a message of assurance to her seemed to offer an excuse, but he resisted the temptation.
"I shall see enough of your birds when you send them on their last flight," he said, carelessly. "I hoped to see Mathon—where is he?"
"Drinking in the nearest wine shop, citizen, I'll wager, since he is off duty."
"It is a bad habit for turnkeys to drink," said Latour, severely, and the red-capped bully felt a sudden qualm of nervousness in his frame as he remembered how powerful this man was.
"Mathon is a good fellow. I spoke in jest, not to do him harm. When he has the keys in his keeping he does not drink, citizen."
"I am glad to hear that," answered Latour, as he passed on.
He found the turnkey Mathon in a neighboring wine shop, and called him out. The order was peremptory, and the man came quickly. Mathon had a history. He had been lackey to a nobleman, and while shouting with patriots in the beginning of the trouble, had helped his old master and his master's friends. Since then he had mended his ways and become a true patriot, with no desire to help a living soul but himself, with no sentiment and no fear in him except for one man—Raymond Latour. Latour knew the truth about him, was the only man who did, and held the proof, therefore Mathon was bound to serve him. He came quickly out of the wine shop and followed Latour into a side street.
"You know the room where this aristocrat was placed to-day?"
"Yes, citizen."
"She is not likely to be moved from there?"
"No, citizen, not until—not until she is condemned."
"When will you be in charge of the keys of her prison?"
"Not for a week, citizen."
"A week!"
"My turn for that part of the prison comes in a week, and she may not be there then. If you would speak with her, I might manage it before then."
"I do not want speech with her," Latour returned.
Mathon looked at him sharply.
"More than speech," said Latour. "In a week I will see you again. You shall run small risk, I will see to that."
Mathon nodded, he could not refuse his help, though his throat grew dry, and the collar of his shirt seemed to tighten as he thought of what the consequences might be. He hastened back to the wine shop and Latour returned to the Rue Valette slowly, thinking of a week hence.
He hardly noticed those who passed him on the way, and was certainly quite unconscious of the figure which followed him like a shadow.