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CHAPTER XXVI
To the individual, his affairs, petty though they be, are often of more moment than those greater doings which have a whole world for stage and are destined to throw an echo far down the corridors of Time. Most of us live in a narrow little world, a very mean little world often, and are never able to mount up a step or two to see how exceedingly mean and narrow it is. Yet, for all this, the workings of the greater world do affect us, though we may be unconscious of the fact; our little affairs are influenced in greater or less degree, as the rippled circles from a stone's cast spread to the shores of the pond.
Balked greed and craven fear tore at Legrand's very soul when he returned to the cockloft in the Faubourg St. Antoine and found it empty. After all he was not to handle the money. He felt like an honest man who has been cheated, so far was he able to deceive himself. Bruslart had outwitted him, would perhaps succeed in leaving Paris, and a terrible lust to get equal with him seized upon the doctor. The chance words of two men talking in the street told him the truth, and then fear took the place of greed. There was no knowing what Bruslart might say. The temper of the Convention was uncertain. He might be arrested too, or perchance plundered of his gains. For a few moments he was doubtful whether it would be safe to go home, and then, driven by that desperate desire to know the worst which so often makes a coward seem courageous, he hastened in the direction of the Rue Charonne, and was in his study when the officers of the Convention arrived to remove Jeanne St. Clair. Legrand had communicated with the authorities, but somewhat vaguely. He declared that it was evident that he had been deceived, that the ci-devant aristocrat ought never to have been placed under his care, but he had not definitely stated an opinion that the American, Richard Barrington, was responsible. It was difficult for Legrand to make a straightforward statement at any time, and that he had not done so on this occasion might prove useful now that Lucien Bruslart was arrested. He was therefore prepared to wriggle out of his awkward position. Mademoiselle had managed to get out of his house, how he could not tell, but she could not have left Paris. An immediate and diligent search must result in her capture.
Strange to say the awkward questions were not asked, nor was an immediate search instituted. For the moment, at any rate, Jeanne St. Clair was of small account, another name was in everybody's mouth, another personality was forced into tragic prominence, and the hundreds of deputies on whose word so much depended had no time or inclination to think of any one else.
Wednesday and Thursday, which were marked days for Jeanne St. Clair, were stupendous days for Paris, for France, for the world. The fate of Louis Capet, once king, was sealed in them. He must die. By the vote of the deputies this was decided. His crime? Who shall say. Chiefly perhaps that he was born to be a king, and lived, a weak king, in a strenuous time. And yet the business was not at an end. Some would have an appeal made to the people, a proposition easily overruled; some would have delay, and that was not so easily settled. There must be more voting. So on this Saturday and Sunday the deputies were busy, and Paris vibrated with excitement. Raymond Latour now voted for delay, as before he had voted against the death sentence, firm to his conviction that the head of a king was not necessary to the safety of France. Patriots hissed at him and at many others. Robespierre noted the set of his face and thought of the future; others noted that set face and thought of the future, too. Was Raymond Latour as strong a man as some declared? Was he safest as a friend or as an enemy? Once more the votes were counted. Louis Capet must die, that fact remained unaltered, but there was added something more to the sentence, he must die within twenty-four hours. It was a merciful addition perchance, though not so intended; the shorter the time, the less the suffering. Patriotic Paris flung its red cap into the air, rejoicing greatly. Less than twenty-four hours to wait for the greatest amusement that had yet been vouchsafed to the mob. There was no time to sleep, no reason in sleep. Armed men would keep the streets to-morrow, but there would be vantage places to be struggled for and kept through long hours of waiting—yet not so long after all. Monday morning came quickly—ten o'clock—one carriage and its guard. The last ride of a king! The bitter mockery of fate sounded to-day for the Deep Purple of an empire—and France laughed. Revenge, too, perchance smiled, for the passage of that lone coach left its trail of dead and wounded. Slowly he mounted into view of his people, and a heart here and there may have pitied him. He would speak. Surely in this last hour he may say a word; the words of a man at such a moment, be he king or peasant, may perchance have a strange meaning and appeal in them; and also they may be dangerous. Yes, he will speak. He is innocent, that much was heard, and then another spoke, a word of command, and there was the loud rolling of the drums. Nothing could be heard above the beating of those drums. It was difficult even to see through the forest of bayonets which surrounded the scaffold. It looked like a moment's struggle between executioners and hand-tied victim, an unequal contest. Still the drums—then the sound of the heavy falling knife. Then silence, and Samson, chief priest of the guillotine, holding the head high, at arm's length, that all may see it and know that tyranny is at an end, that France is free. Patriotism, armed and otherwise, went mad with delight. This was a gala day! Sing, dance, drink in it! Such a day was never known in Paris before!
It was no wonder that Jeanne was forgotten, that Dr. Legrand was not called upon to answer awkward questions. It was not remarkable that the alleys and byways of Paris were deserted for the wider streets and places where patriots could rejoice together, and that many who were in hiding should be free for a day or two from the alarms which almost hourly beset them.
Richard Barrington had remained untroubled for many hours. As he fought in the empty house, struggling against a crowd which seemed to press in upon him from every side, and out of which looked familiar faces, his brain had played him a trick he thought he was fleeing from his enemies, jumping into darkness for safety. There had followed a period of total unconsciousness, set in the midst of a continuous dream as it were, for he seemed to realize at once without any break that he had fallen upon a bed of straw and could safely lie there to rest his tired limbs. There was no recollection of Legrand's asylum, or of the night escape over the roofs, but presently there came a conviction that he ought to be with Jeanne. It seemed to him that he tried to get out of the straw but was unable to do so. It had so twined about his body and limbs that he was bound by it as if with ropes. He must rest a little longer until he had more strength to break his bonds. Then again, faces looked at him, faces he ought to know, yet could not remember. There were low voices about him. He was thirsty, and in his struggles to free himself from the straw, chance guided his hand to a cup. Cool liquid was in it, water or wine, he could not tell which, but he drank eagerly and lay still again for a long time. Presently his strength was certainly returning, for without any great effort he drew his hands free from the binding straw and raised himself. A faint light was about him, showing stone walls, a narrow room, in a corner of which he was lying. On the floor beside him was a cup, a wine bottle, and a piece of bread. He picked up the bread and almost mechanically bit a piece out of it. He found that he was hungry. There was wine in the bottle and he drank. The straw no longer bound him, and he rose slowly to his feet and stared about him. Then, like waters suddenly breaking down a dam and flowing again into their old channel, memory reasserted itself and his brain grew clear. He recollected the empty house, the sudden movement on the stars, the fight, Jeanne standing behind him in the corner. What had happened? Where was she? Where was Seth? He knew where he was. The chair and table, the bowl and water can, the straw bed, the stone walls and the high grating—he was again in that buried cell of the old monastery.
"My head is heavy," he said aloud. "I must have been hurt and been delirious. For how long, I wonder?"
He began to move slowly about the cell. It was daylight, whether morning or afternoon he could not tell. He was not meant to die yet, or the wine and the bread would not be there, yet why was he in this place instead of an ordinary prison? His limbs were stiff, his head ached, it was difficult to think clearly. He could not detach reality from dreams. What had happened in that empty house? Where was Jeanne? He threw himself upon the straw bed again, intending to lie there and try to solve the problem, but he fell asleep.
He was roused suddenly. A man was bending over him, had probably touched him. It was Raymond Latour. For a moment or two Barrington was uncertain whether this was a dream or reality.
"So you're awake at last," said Latour.
Barrington rose slowly to his feet, and then sat down in the chair by the table.
"What day is it?"
"Monday—Monday afternoon."
Barrington appeared to make a calculation.
"Monday!" he said. "Then I have been here—"
"Since early on Saturday morning," said Latour. "You were knocked about a bit in that empty house, and you've been in a more or less unconscious condition ever since. Have you your wits now? I have something important to say to you."
"Then you know about that empty house?"
"Yes."
"You arranged the—"
"Your capture—yes."
Barrington rose to his feet quickly, but stumbled a little as he did so.
"Now you must settle with me," he said.
"You're not strong enough yet," said Latour, easily catching the arm which aimed a feeble blow at him. "Mademoiselle St. Clair is safe. She is not in prison. Your man is safe. You, too, are safe for the present. You had better listen to all I have to say."
Barrington sat down again, frowning at his impotence. He had not realized how weak he was.
"I let you out of this place believing you a liar, and had you watched," said Latour. "I still believed you a liar when I found that you knew mademoiselle was in Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne. Your man was watched too, and his preparations in that empty house understood. You know the result. I have it from mademoiselle's own lips that you are not a liar, that you are not in league with Lucien Bruslart, and I believe her."
"Where is she?"
"Safe in my keeping."
Barrington did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, "She is the aristocrat in whom you are interested?"
"Yes."
"Then it is you who have lied?"
"I deceived you, yes. Be a man, Barrington; look at this thing with the eyes of a man. What reason was there that I should trust you with such a secret? I had set myself a goal to win, why should I jeopardize my chances? Bruslart was the man she loved, not you."
"They say all is fair in love," said Barrington. "Go on, Latour, go on. I suppose you have come to bargain with me. My arm may be weak, but my head grows clearer every minute."
"I want you to fulfill your promise. You owe me something. You said you would do your utmost to help me with the woman I loved. I know now that I could have no more powerful advocate."
"I cannot admit the debt," was the answer. "What do I owe you?"
"Your life once, perhaps twice, and again now. It is mine to save or destroy. A word from me and you change this place for a prison and the guillotine."
"I set no value on my life," Barrington answered.
"Jeanne St. Clair's life is in my hands, too," said Latour, slowly. "You would do something to save her?"
"Anything in the world. Save her, Latour, and though you send me to the gallows I will bless you."
Latour bit his lip a little. He wanted to hate this man who had come between him and his desires. He was convinced that he had done so, convinced that but for this American, Jeanne St. Clair would have listened to him. His worth against Bruslart's infamy must have appealed to her, had this man not come into her world.
"I know the truth," he said slowly, "I have had it from mademoiselle herself. I spoke of my love, as a man must speak when the whole passion of his life is let loose. She could never love me, she said. Why? Because she loves you. I have threatened her to no purpose. I threatened to sacrifice you unless she consented. It was of no avail. She swore that you did not fear death, that you would willingly die for her."
"She spoke only the truth," said Barrington.
"Yet you can save her," Latour returned. "You are the only man who can. You shall go to her and plead with her for me. For her sake I will desert France, go anywhere, do anything she wills. She must be mine or, for God's sake, do not make me even whisper the alternative."
"Be honest. Let me know the alternative."
"She shall die. There you have it. You may make your choice."
"And I thought you loved her," said Barrington, slowly.
"I cannot bandy phrases with you," Latour answered passionately. "You are a man as I am, there is something in us that is alike, I think. Debate such questions with yourself and you will find an answer."
"I have said that I am willing to die for her," answered Barrington.
"Go a step further than that," returned Latour. "Help another man to possess her."
"You are not prepared to make that sacrifice," said Barrington. "She must be yours or she must die. I thought Raymond Latour was too good a man for such villainy."
"Phrases! phrases! I want none of them. I want your help, the help you promised. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, although it was not mademoiselle I rescued; I expect you to fulfill yours."
"In this thing she must choose, Latour. My love is such that to make her happy I would willingly sacrifice myself were it to die for her, or harder still, live out my life away from her, forgotten by her. If it is only the thought of me which holds her back from what may bring her peace and satisfaction, I will pass out of her life and she shall never know the great sorrow at my heart. I will not hold her to any promise she has made to me. She shall be free to choose, and I will not let a hard thought of her enter my soul."
While Barrington was speaking, Latour had paced the cell slowly. Now he stopped on the other side of the little table.
"You will do no more?"
"There is nothing more I can do."
"You have thought of the consequences. You have considered my influence, the power I have to save or to kill you?"
"No, I haven't thought much of that. It doesn't seem to matter."
"You laugh at me."
"That is unworthy of you," Barrington answered. "We are two men in a tight place, and such men do not laugh at each other. Once you said that, should we prove to be enemies, it might help us to remember that we had clasped hands over our wine. Well, is not this the hour to remember it?"
"One has to forget many things," said Latour.
"True; and we come to a point when we understand how trivial are many of these things we thought most important," said Barrington. "We are at the mercy of the world's storms, and we shall surely travel ways we never set out to travel. I came to France, Latour, burning to fight for an oppressed people, burning to do something in this land like the Marquis de Lafayette had done in America. His career there fired my youthful ambition. I have done nothing. I come to this hour, facing you across this little table—two men, enemies, yet for all that liking each other a little, kindred somehow, and strangely bound together in that we both love the same woman."
Latour was silent for a few moments, the past, the present, and the future, mingled in his brain in strange confusion.
"Would you see her again?" he asked suddenly.
Barrington did not answer at once. "Let her decide," he said slowly. "There would be heaven in such a meeting, but there would be hell, too."
"There are tears in your eyes," said Latour.
"Are there?" asked Barrington, simply. "Well, why not?"
Latour turned away quickly. "I will think whether you can see her again," he said. "It may be difficult. You are weak, I will tell them to bring you food. You have seen Citizen Mercier, he is looking after you here. If you are to see mademoiselle, he will tell you. You must do as he suggests. She shall decide; I promise that."
He went toward the door, then came back again.
"If you see her will you speak of me?" he asked.
"We can hardly help doing so."
"She would believe you if you told her something of my love, of what I have done."
"I will set life and death before her, Latour, and leave her free to choose."
Latour moved again to the door and again came back.
"Men who love as we do must be enemies, still the enmity may be free from malice. Other conditions might well have made us friends. Will you grasp hands once more, Barrington?"
Across the little table their hands met, and were clasped firmly for a moment as the two men looked into each other's eyes. Then Latour went out quickly, locking the door behind him.
An hour later he went slowly up the stairs to his rooms. Jacques Sabatier was waiting for him.
"Bad news, citizen," said Sabatier.
Latour opened his door, and they entered.
"It should be bad news indeed if one may judge by your face," he said.
"Citizen Bruslart was arrested on Saturday. He is in the Conciergerie. He demands that you see him to-night. He knows that mademoiselle has escaped from the Rue Charonne, and he makes a shrewd guess where she is hidden. You must see him, citizen; he is dangerous."