下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
CHAPTER XVIII
The Rue Charonne was a long street extending toward the outer limits of the city, and while at one end, near the Chat Rouge Tavern, it was a busy thoroughfare with crowded Streets on either side of it, at the other end it was quiet, and almost deserted in the evenings. The houses were less closely packed, and there were walls which trees overhung, telling of pleasant and shady gardens.
Behind such a wall the passer-by had a glimpse of the upper windows and steep roof of a house of considerable size. On one side of it stretched a garden, on the other some outbuildings joined it to another house which had nothing to do with it, but was one of a block of rather old houses which faced the street.
This house, in its pleasant garden, was, as every one knew, a private asylum and sanatorium conducted by Dr. Legrand. He had come there half a dozen years ago, and for some time there had been only a few inmates, not dangerously insane, but unfit to be at large, and two or three others who had retired into this retreat to end their days in peace. In the last few months, however, the number of residents had vastly increased. Certainly every room in the house must be occupied, the larger rooms probably divided into two or three, the neighbors argued, and most of the inmates did not appear to be insane. It was not a time to busy one's self about other people's affairs, it was much safer neither to gossip nor to listen to gossip; so to many persons the riddle of Monsieur Legrand's sudden prosperity remained unsolved.
Yet many people understood the riddle, and were not slow to profit by it. This house, although one of the best known, was not the only one of its kind to be found in Paris. Legrand was a man of business as well as a doctor, a better man of business than he was a doctor, and perceived, almost by a stroke of genius, how he might profit by the Revolution. To many a revolutionary leader gold was better than the head of an aristocrat, although by that curious twist of conscience which men can so easily contrive for themselves, direct bribery was not to be thought of. Dr. Legrand seemed to thoroughly understand this twisted and diseased conscience, and had a remedy to offer. What persuasion he used, what proportion of his exorbitant fees found its way into other pockets, cannot be said, it was a secret he locked up in his own soul, but it soon became known that aristocrats, fortunate enough to be prisoners in this house in the Rue Charonne, were safe so long as the fees were paid.
The agents of the Public Prosecutor never came there for food for the guillotine. If the fees were not paid, it invariably meant that some ill turn of fortune, which Legrand was quite unable to explain, necessitated the speedy removal of the delinquent to the Abbaye, to Sainte Pélagie, or one of the other prisons where their days were almost certain to be few.
A round-faced man, with generosity beaming in his eyes, was Dr. Legrand. His prisoners, or guests as he preferred to call them, were free to roam the house or the grounds at their will; if the table he kept was not liberal, a certain etiquette was indulged in which did something to cover the parsimony, and the insane inmates who remained in the house were pushed out of the way into odd corners as much as possible.
Into the doctor's study one morning there had come a man and a woman.
"I have come as arranged," said the man. "This is the lady."
Legrand bowed low, and appeared to overflow with benevolence.
"I am happy to welcome such a guest," he said. "There are certain formalities, and then you are as safe, mademoiselle, as you could be at Beauvais."
So it was that Mademoiselle St. Clair came to be a guest at the house in the Rue Charonne, brought there for safety by Lucien Bruslart. She had been there a week when, not far away, Richard Barrington had been obliged to run for his life, and with the help of a man, whose identity the dark entry concealed, had jumped into safety. Of this she knew nothing; she was as ignorant of what was passing in the city as though hundreds of miles separated her from it. Lucien had found her a safe retreat, and the time was not so heavy on her hands as she had expected. Although she chanced upon no intimate friends in Dr. Legrand's house, she met several acquaintances, men and women she had known something of before the flight to Beauvais. They had much to talk of in the day, and in the evenings they sang and danced. If care was heavy upon some of them, smiling faces were made to mask the fact. Saturday was a day of apprehension, a day of which the ending was greeted with a sigh of relief. It was the day for paying fees. Some the inmates paid their own, their purses refilled by friends who were free; the fees of many were paid direct to the doctor by their friends. This was the arrangement in Mademoiselle St. Clair's case. Lucien had told her that it would be the most satisfactory way, and she had given him power to draw on her money for the purpose. He had a special agreement with Legrand, he said, for Jeanne was there on a different footing from the other guests. He hinted too that Legrand was under such obligations to him that any favor he asked was practically a command. It was not until the second Saturday had passed that Jeanne understood all that the payment of these fees meant. At the table that night there were two empty places, a man's and a woman's. She asked her neighbor, an elderly Abbé, who had lived well all his life until he came to the Rue Charonne and was forever grumbling at the extortion practiced, what had become of them.
"Removed to another prison, mademoiselle. I did not hear which."
"But why?"
"They could not afford to remain here. They are not the first I have seen made bankrupt by Legrand."
"Ah! this hateful revolution!"
"It will end, mademoiselle. Already the dogs begin to tear one another, and when that happens, the quarry escapes."
"It will end, yes; but when? How long?"
"Before our purses run dry, I trust, mademoiselle," answered the Abbé, with a smile.
Jeanne had no fear for her own safety, but great compassion for others. She began to hate the smiling face of Dr. Legrand. She heard something of the enormous sums he charged, and wondered what Lucien was paying for her, and how long he would have to pay it. He had said that at least a month must elapse before it would be safe to make an attempt to leave Paris. Unfortunately, he had to think of his own safety as well as hers. Poor Lucien! She had braved Paris to help him, and her presence in the city had only added to his difficulty and danger. What was he doing day by day to end it all? Was Monsieur Barrington helping him? Lucien would be foolish not to accept the help of such a man, so brave, so full of resource, so——
These thoughts concerning Richard Barrington made Jeanne start a little. She was suddenly conscious that she was comparing the two men, and that one seemed to take hold of her, hurry her along, as it were, and absorb her attention, until she could only bring her thoughts back to the other with an effort. Barrington stood out clear and distinct, definite in word and action, knowing what he intended to do and doing it without thinking of failure; Lucien was a shadow in comparison, indistinct, waiting rather than acting. Barrington would have made an attempt to get her out of Paris before this, and Jeanne was convinced that she would have gone without fear. If the enterprise had failed, it would have been a splendid failure. Lucien had not made the attempt. She did not blame him, his nature was to exercise greater caution, and when he did move, perhaps the chances of success would be greater; yet she knew that with Lucien she would feel greater responsibility, feel that she was obliged to protect him almost as much as he protected her. Lucien would ask her advice and be guided by it; Barrington would tell her what to do and be angry if she did not obey at once.
"It is my love which makes the difference," she told herself. "A woman must exercise protection over the man she loves. In the love of all good women there is the mother instinct. That is the reason why I feel like this toward Lucien." And then she thought of how she had passed the barrier with Barrington and his servant Seth. It seemed a mad scheme, yet it had succeeded. And Lucien had asked her whether this man was to be trusted!
So the days passed, much dreaming in them for want of other employment. It was sometimes too cold and wet to walk much in the garden, and the sense of confinement within high walls was depressing. Not always could cards or music dispel the anxiety which these guests had to endure, and Jeanne, with all her bravery, had hard work to keep her tears back at times. She had been at the house in the Rue Charonne a month when Marie, a maid of all work in the establishment, came to her one morning, a frightened look in her face and evidences of tears in her eyes. Marie was generally assumed to be of rather weak intellect, chiefly perhaps because she made no complaint against the drudgery of her life, and because, unlike the other servants, she did not copy the rapacity of the master and extort fees at every opportunity. She was especially attached to Mademoiselle St. Clair, who had in times past befriended her aged mother, and she had endeavored to repay the debt by special devotion to her, and, when they chanced to be alone, by a loquacity which was intended to be encouraging. Her present doleful appearance was therefore the more surprising.
"What is the matter, Marie?" Jeanne asked.
"The doctor wants to see you in his study."
"I wasn't thinking of your message, but of your appearance. You have been crying."
"Yes, that's the reason," Marie answered. "The master wants to see you, and it's Saturday morning."
Jeanne had forgotten the day, and the information, coupled with the message, startled her for a moment.
"There is no need to be afraid, Marie," she said quietly.
"I know you're brave, you couldn't be anything else," returned the girl, "but I know what Saturday morning in that study means. Mademoiselle, I'll do anything I can. No one takes any notice of me. I can slip out of the house almost any time I like."
"Thank you, Marie. I will not forget."
In spite of the servant girl's pessimistic view, Jeanne had little apprehension as she went to the doctor's study, and Legrand's method of receiving her was reassuring. He rose, bowed low and placed a chair for her. He spoke of the pleasant crispness in the air, of the little dance which had taken place in the salon on the previous night.
"Even the Abbé was persuaded to a few steps," he laughed. "It was very amusing."
"I am waiting to hear the business which necessitates my presence here," said Jeanne.
"Ah, mademoiselle, it is a painful matter; it pains me. There is no remittance from Monsieur Bruslart this week. It has always come on Friday night, but this is Saturday morning and it is still not here."
Jeanne did not answer for a moment.
"Of course there is some mistake," she said.
"I thought so," said Legrand. "It did not trouble me much last night, but this morning—mademoiselle, I was so surprised that I called on Monsieur Bruslart this morning. He has left Paris."
"Gone!"
"Leaving no word behind him, mademoiselle."
"It is more likely that he has been arrested," said Jeanne.
"I have inquired. He has not been arrested, but he would have been had he remained."
"Are you suggesting that he has run away without a thought for me?"
"Mademoiselle, the most prominent members of my profession have little knowledge of men's thoughts. Of the working of Monsieur Bruslart's mind I know nothing; I only know that he has left Paris without sending money."
"And the consequence to me?" asked Jeanne.
"That is what pains me," Legrand answered. "This house is secure only on certain conditions, a peculiar arrangement in which I have personally little influence. Some of my guests are ungracious enough to disbelieve this. When the fees remain unpaid I have no choice in the matter. My guest is removed elsewhere."
Jeanne showed not a trace of nervousness or alarm. The whirl of thoughts and doubts in her brain caused the lines in her face to harden a little, but there was no quiver in her eyes, no tremble in her voice.
"Is the money paid in advance?" she asked.
"Always, mademoiselle; that is one of the conditions."
"Then it is for the coming week that the money is due?"
"That is so."
"I do not know, Dr. Legrand, whether you are fully aware of Monsieur Bruslart's position and my own?"
"I think so, mademoiselle. You were, I believe, to be man and wife."
His suggestion that such a thing was now impossible was not lost upon Jeanne and was a little startling. Did he believe that Lucien Bruslart was a scoundrel?
"Do you know that the fees paid to you by Lucien Bruslart are paid out of my money?"
"Officially I only know that they are paid by a certain person, and I ask no questions. Having some knowledge of Monsieur Bruslart's position, I have imagined that the necessary money was supplied by you."
"I have only to authorize the banker who has funds of mine in hand to pay the amount."
"Mademoiselle, I naturally thought of that. All that was necessary was a form for your signature, so I called upon the banker. I regret to tell you that he has no longer any funds of yours in hand. The whole amount has been withdrawn."
"By whom?"
Legrand shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not know. If you wish me to make a guess, I should say by Lucien Bruslart. You will know whether he had any document in his possession giving him such power."
Jeanne knew that he had. She had trusted him fully. Even now she did not jump to the hasty conclusion that he had betrayed that trust. There might be a dozen good reasons why he had withdrawn the money; to save it from being misappropriated by the State consequent on the banker's possible arrest, or to spend carefully in arranging her escape. It was probably an accident that the messenger had not arrived with the money this week, and in preparation for escape it was quite likely that Lucien might let it be understood that he had left Paris. He would not be likely to confide in Monsieur Legrand. He would certainly not desert her.
"Will you tell me the amount due for next week?" she asked.
The doctor took a paper from a drawer and handed it to her. She uttered a sudden exclamation as she saw the amount.
"It is out of all reason," she said.
"Mademoiselle, the security offered by this house may be said to be out of all reason too."
"If this is paid, I remain a guest for another week?"
"Until next Saturday."
Jeanne took her purse and counted out the money. She had little left when it was done.
"Count it, Dr. Legrand, and give me the receipt."
His eyes beamed as he counted and found the sum correct.
"I am happy again," he said. "So much may happen in a week. I assure you, mademoiselle, your ability to pay lifts years from my shoulders."
"Yes, monsieur, I have bought a long respite," Jeanne said, rising as she took the receipt. "I doubt not much will happen in a week."
As she went out and closed the door, Legrand placed the money in a drawer which he locked.
"It was a warning," he muttered, "and she has robbed me of seeming generous by promising to give her a week free of cost. She must have touched me in some way, or I should never have thought of giving her such a warning. It was a fortunate idea. Had I left it until next Saturday she would have been able to pay for another week, and I should have been obliged to hunt for a pretext for refusing her money. She must be removed elsewhere next Saturday. My little consideration, my wish to prepare her, has turned out well; besides, I have received double fees for this coming week. I cannot complain."
Alone in her own room, Jeanne nearly broke down. The strain of the interview and all that it implied left her with little strength to fight the despair that settled upon her. Yet she held back the tears that threatened, and fought back the disposition to fling herself upon the mean little bed and give way to her grief. A week! Only a week! She had bought it at an enormous price and every hour in it was of immense value. If Lucien Bruslart were a traitor, she had still one friend in Paris. She was as sure of this as of the emblematic meaning of the small crucifix which she had hung above her bed. She must act. There was no time to give way to despair.
On scraps of paper she wrote a long letter, telling the whole history of the house in the Rue Charonne, how she came to be there, and the peril she was in. She sealed it, and then waited until she could get Marie alone.
"Marie, you promised to help me."
"I meant it. What can I do, mademoiselle?"
Jeanne gave the girl minute instructions for finding the house in which the Marquis de Lafayette had his apartment, and Marie showed little sign of weak-mindedness as she listened.
"I know the house, mademoiselle."
"Go there, say you come from me and ask to see him. Give him this letter and ask him to see that it is safely delivered."
"And if he is away, mademoiselle?"
"Then ask his servant to tell you where the man to whom this letter is addressed lives."
"And if he does not know?"
"Ah, Marie, I cannot tell what you are to do then. Take the letter, hide it away. Heaven grant it reaches its destination."
Marie stood with the letter in her hand.
"Who's it to? I cannot read, mademoiselle, but if I know the name, I may find him even if the servant doesn't know."
"It is addressed to Monsieur Richard Barrington," said Jeanne.
The girl put the letter into her pocket, and patted her dress to emphasize the security of the hiding-place.
"I'll go to-morrow. I have a holiday all day; that gives me plenty of time to find the man who loves mademoiselle. Richard Barrington; I shall not forget the name."
"Not my lover, Marie."
"Ah, mademoiselle, why pretend with me? Yours is not the first secret I have kept."