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CHAPTER XV
The week of waiting passed slowly for Raymond Latour. He knew the risk he was running, but never for an instant was he tempted to turn from his purpose. His whole being was centered upon the enterprise; the saving of this woman was an essential thing, and every other consideration of country or self must give way to it. He was quite willing to sacrifice himself if necessary, but at the same time he intended to guard against such a necessity as much as possible. He worked with cunning and calculation, going over every point in his scheme and eliminating as far as possible every element of chance. The unlikely things which might happen were considered, and provided for. Only two persons had any part in the scheme, Jacques Sabatier and Mathon, the jailer; each had his own particular work in it, had received definite and minute instructions, yet neither of them knew the whole plot. Latour did not take them entirely into his confidence; he did not ask their advice, he only told them how to act.
The week was as any other week to Jacques Sabatier. Uplifted somewhat by Latour's confidence in him, his swaggering gait was perhaps a little more pronounced, but he was untouched by apprehension, not so much because he was a fearless man—like all swaggerers adverse circumstances would probably find him at heart a coward—but because he had implicit faith in Raymond Latour. The man he served was not only powerful and courageous; he was lucky, which counted for much. What he had set his heart upon that he obtained. It was a creed in which Sabatier had absolute faith, and the passing week was merely an interval which must elapse before success.
Mathon the jailer had not this sublime faith, and his fearfulness was perhaps natural. As a jailer he was in close touch with facts and knew by experience how unstable in these days was any man's power. A week had often served to change a master whose anger was dangerous into a prisoner whose name might at any moment be upon the list of those destined forthwith to feed the guillotine. He had not been brought so constantly in touch with Latour that he could appreciate him as a lucky man, and he contemplated his part in the enterprise with misgiving.
The plot was to be carried out on the second night upon which Mathon was on duty. This was the first precaution. Were he a party to mademoiselle's escape it would be argued that he would have seized the first opportunity; that he had not done so would go some way to prove his innocence. On this evening, too, Mathon was particularly loud in his hatred of all prisoners, of one emigré prisoner in particular, and his manners were brutal. There would be many witnesses able to prove this. In one small room at the end of a corridor he was particularly brutal. He made the mere unlocking of the door a nerve-racking sound, and stamped in swearing under his breath. Three women drew back into a corner, trembling. They were women of a coarse bourgeois type, their chief crime misfortune. They knew only imperfectly of what they were accused, why they were there, but they had few friends to spare a thought for them and expected each day to be their last. Sometimes they were afraid and tearful, at other times careless, loose, and blasphemous, despair making them unnatural, and in this mood it pleased them to curse their fellow prisoner, also a woman, and an aristocrat.
Mathon laughed as they shrank from him.
"Disappointed again," he said. "You are not called to-night. You will have another pleasant dream about it. Perhaps to-morrow your turn will come. It's time. This fine apartment is wanted for better people."
Then he turned and walked towards the fourth prisoner. If she were afraid she succeeded in hiding the fact. She was standing by the window and she did not move.
"As for you, your time is short," said the jailer, and then coming quite close to her he dropped his voice. "Listen, and don't show astonishment. You will be released probably. When the time comes, ask no questions, don't speak, do as you are told." Then he swore loudly again and, jingling his keys, went out and locked the door.
He swore partly to keep his own courage at the proper pitch, for the dismal corridors of the Abbaye were depressing to-night. Approaching footsteps startled Mathon, and the sudden salutation of a comrade turned him pale. The night was oppressive, yet he found it cold enough to make him shiver.
Presently there came heavy footsteps, and two of those dreaded officers of the Convention, men whose hours were occupied in spreading terror and in feeding the guillotine, stood before him.
"Jailer Mathon?"
"Yes."
"You have in your charge an emigré, Jeanne St. Clair. She is to be removed forthwith to the Conciergerie. There is the order."
Mathon took up a lantern and by the dim light read the paper handed to him. It was all in order, the full name of the emigré duly inserted, the genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the document. The jailer looked from the paper into the face of the man who had handed it to him.
"Do they set over prisoners fools who cannot read?" asked the man.
"No; the paper is in order," Mathon answered.
"Obey it then. Fetch out the emigré."
Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.
"It is down this passage," and his keys jingled. His fingers trembled a little as the men followed him. A few yards from the door the men halted.
"Bring her quickly. We have other work to do to-night more important than this."
Mathon unlocked the door and entered the room.
"Jeanne St. Clair, your turn has come."
The woman moved slowly.
"Quickly," said Mathon. "Your head's still in its place. Wrap the hood of your cloak well round it. There's no need to feel cold before the time. Don't speak," he added in a whisper.
They went out together, Mathon locking the door again.
"This is the prisoner."
The officers without a word placed themselves on either side of her, and they went quickly along the corridor leaving the jailer alone, one hand holding his keys, the other pressed to his pocket to make sure that the order he had obeyed still rested there.
A berlin stood in the little square before the prison, the driver half asleep. He had no imagination, this driver, and this square was to him as any other in Paris. Yet on another night, not long since, how different it had been! Then a mob filled it, filled it to overflowing, a mob mad with lust of blood and murder, armed with sabers, pikes and hatchets, any weapon that came to hand. Within the prison sat a sudden jury, a mockery of Justice; without stood Fate. A brief questioning, the veriest caricature of a trial, and prisoners were escorted to the doors, but no farther. The rest of the journey they must go alone. A lane opened before them, all must traverse it, old and young, man or woman. It was a short journey, and amid frenzied shrieks they fell under the sabers and the pikes. There was no mercy, only red death and horror. Rain had fallen in Paris since then, yet surely there must still be blood in the gutters of this square. The driver could not tell where he had been that night, not here certainly, but wherever it was he was minding his own business. He had enough to do to live from day to day, and had no use for a long memory. He had carried people, men and women, from one prison to another before this, and took no special interest in this job. The revolution mattered little to him if he could get sufficient for his wants. He had a room high up in the Faubourg St. Antoine, with a wife and child in it, and cared little what heads fell daily in the Place de la Revolution. He woke from his reverie at the sound of footsteps. A woman was helped into the coach quickly, a man following her and closing the door sharply behind him. A second man climbed to the box beside the driver.
"To the Conciergerie," he said.
The woman in the coach did not speak, but leaned back in the corner. The man was also silent until they had driven away from the square.
"Listen to me, mademoiselle," he said presently. "We are driving in the direction of the Conciergerie, but the way will be altered in a few minutes. My comrade will arrange that. Keep your cloak well round you and do not speak. You and I will have to walk presently to a safe retreat already prepared. You must do exactly as you are told or we may fail. Your escape may be discovered at any moment."
The woman did not answer. She had no idea who her companion was, had perhaps a doubt in her mind concerning him, but she determined to obey; indeed, what else could she do?
The man beside the driver was silent, and sat in a somewhat bent attitude as though he were desirous of attracting no attention, yet his eyes were keen as the coach went forward at a jogging pace, and if any passer-by seemed to show any interest in the conveyance he was quick to note the fact.
"Take the next turning to the left," he said suddenly.
"That is not the way," returned the driver.
"It's my way. We might fall in with a crowd."
"But—"
"To the left," said the man. "I will direct you."
The coach turned into the street indicated, and afterward round this corner and that at the bidding of the man on the box until the driver was utterly confused.
"I'm lost, citizen," he said; "and what's more I believe you are, too."
"You'll see directly. Sharp round to the right here."
The driver turned.
"Why, it's as I said, you've lost yourself. This is a blind alley."
Indeed it was, a narrow lane between high walls, a place where refuse collected and was allowed to remain undisturbed, a place upon which looked no prying window and which echoed to no footfall.
The driver had turned to jeer at his companion when he found himself seized in a grip there was no fighting against. He tried to call out, but succeeded in giving only a whispered respiration, and then a heavy blow robbed him of his senses.
The coach door opened. The man inside got out quickly and helped the woman to descend.
"Keep silent, mademoiselle; it is all arranged," he whispered, and in a few moments he had divested himself of his coat and hat, of everything which marked him as an officer of the Convention, and even of the shaggy hair which hung about his eyes and neck, and threw all this disguise into the coach. He was another man altogether. "Come; we must walk. The worst danger is past."
The man who had sat on the box was bending over the coachman. He said nothing, did not even look up as the two went swiftly down the alley. When they had gone he, too, divested himself of everything that proved him an officer of the Convention and of the wig which had concealed his identity. These he put into the coach. Then he lifted the unconscious driver from the ground and put him into the coach also, closing the door upon him. The horse had not attempted to move. He was a tired, worn-out beast, glad to rest when and where he could. He was unlikely to move until his master roused to make him, and the dawn might be no longer young when that happened, unless some stray pedestrian should chance down that deserted way.
For an hour that evening Raymond Latour plied his friends and fellow patriots with wine. So glorious an hour seemed of long duration. In case of accident there would be a score of good witnesses to swear that their friend the deputy had been drinking with them all the evening. Under the influence of wine and loud patriotism the flight of time is of no account.
It was close on midnight when Latour entered the alley by the baker's shop in the Rue Valette, walking slowly. Seated at the top of the stairs he found Sabatier.
"Yes, and asleep probably," said Sabatier, answering the question in his eyes.
"It was well done," said Latour. "Come to me early to-morrow. This man Barrington may be suspected and must be warned."
"And Bruslart?"
"Yes, to-morrow we must think of him, too. Good night, citizen."
Sabatier went down the stairs, and Latour entered his room.
Midnight! Was she yet asleep? Sabatier had told her nothing except that she was safe, and that the man who had planned her rescue would come to her and explain everything. She would think it was Lucien Bruslart. Who would be so likely to run such risk for her sake? Only one other man might occur to her, the man who had already done so much to help her—Richard Barrington. Would she be likely to sleep easily to-night? No. Surely she was wide awake, waiting and watching.
Raymond Latour went quietly up the next flight of stairs to the room above his own which he had furnished and made ready with such infinite trouble. She was not so safe in these rooms as she would have been had he succeeded in bringing her there in the first instance, straight from the Lion d'Or as he had intended. Bruslart could not have suspected him then as he must certainly do now; but Bruslart could only work in secret, he dare not speak openly, and Barrington was powerless. To-night Latour would say little. He would look upon her for a moment, be assured that she had everything for her comfort, proclaim himself only as one of those who had had a part in her rescue, and receive some thanks. This would be enough for to-night.
The key was in the lock on the outside of the door. Latour knocked before turning it.
"Mademoiselle."
"Come in."
The answer was faint. She was in the inner room. Even when told to enter, Latour hesitated. This was a crisis in his life, fully understood and appreciated. Here was the accomplishment of something he had labored for; it was natural to hesitate. Then he turned the key and went in.
The room was in darkness, but the light of a candle came from the inner room, and the next moment the door opened wide and a woman stood there, a beautiful woman, dark in hair and eyes, with figure as lissom as a young animal, poised just now half expectantly, half in fear.
A sharp exclamation came from Latour's lips as he leaned forward to look at her.
"Monsieur, I—" and then a flush of anger came into her face. "Am I still to be insulted?"
"In the devil's name, woman, who are you?"
Latour had crossed the space between them in a hasty stride or two, and his fingers were tightly round the woman's wrist.
"What right—"
"Who are you? Answer."
For a moment longer she was defiant, even made a feeble struggle to free herself, but the man's eyes were upon her and she was compelled to look into them. Anger blazed in them, anger was in every line of his set face. She had seen this man before, knew he was Raymond Latour, knew his power, and she was afraid.
"I am Pauline Vaison," she said in a low tone.