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The Light That Lures

by Percy James Brebner · English · Gutenberg #13312 · 486,851 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Light That Lures

Author: Percy James Brebner


        
Release date: August 28, 2004 [eBook #13312]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIGHT THAT LURES ***

_The_ LIGHT _that_ LURES


PERCY J.
BREBNER.


1911


_The English edition of this book was published under
the title of "A Gentleman of Virginia"_




THE LIGHT THAT LURES




PROLOGUE

ACROSS THE WATERS OF THE BAY


Seated on a green hummock, his knees drawn up, his elbows resting on his
knees and his head supported in his open hands, a boy sat very still and
preoccupied, gazing straight into the world before him, yet conscious of
little beyond the visions conjured up by his young mind. His were dim
visions begot of the strenuous times in which he lived, and which were
the staple subject of conversation of all those with whom he came in
contact, yet his shadowy dreams had something of the past in them, and
more, far more, of that future which to youth must ever be all
important. But this young dreamer was not as dreamers often are, with
muscle subservient to brain, the physical less highly developed than the
mental powers; on the contrary, he was a lad well knit together, his
limbs strong and supple, endurance and health unmistakable, a lad who
must excel in every manly exercise and game. Perhaps it was this very
superiority over his fellows which, for the time being, at any rate, had
made him a dreamer. While other boys, reproducing in their games that
which was happening about them, fought mimic battles, inflicted and
suffered mimic death, experienced terrible siege in some small copse
which to their imagination stood for a beleaguered city, or carried some
hillock by desperate and impetuous assault, this boy, their master in
running, in swimming, in wrestling, in sitting a horse as he galloped
freely, was not content with mimicry, but dreamed of real deeds in a
real future.

It was a fair scene of which this boy, for the moment, seemed to be the
centre. Before him lay the great expanse of Chesapeake Bay scintillating
in the light of the afternoon, a sail here and there catching the
sunlight and standing out clearly from a background of distant haze. A
wide creek ran sinuously into the land, the deep blue of its channel
distinct from the shallow waters and the swamps from which a startled
crane rose like an arrow shot across the vault of the sky. To the right,
surrounded by its gardens and orchards, stood a house, long, low, large
and rambling, the more solid successor to the rough wooden edifice which
had been among the first to rise when this state of Virginia had become
a colony for cavaliers from England. Flowers trailed over the wide porch
and shone in patches of brilliant color about the garden, alternating
with the long-cast shadows of cedar, cypress, and yellow pine; fruit
turned to opulent red and purple ripeness in the orchards; and the song
of birds, like subdued music, came from tree and flower-lined border. In
close proximity to the house Indian corn was growing, and a wide area of
wheat ripened to harvest, while beyond, like a vast green ocean,
stretched the great tobacco plantation, with here and there the dark
blot of a drying shed like a rude ark resting upon it. In the far
distance, bounding the estate, a line of dark woods seemed to shut out
the world and wrap it in impenetrable mystery. Over all this great
estate the boy sitting on the hummock was known as the young master, but
he was not dreaming of a future which should have wealth in it,
pleasure, all that the heart of a man can wish for; but of toil and
hardship bravely borne, of fighting days and camp fires, of honor such
as heroes attain to.

He had been born in stirring times. For more than five years past war
had been in the land, the struggle for freedom against a blind and
tyrannical government. It had been one thing to make the Declaration of
Independence, it had been quite another matter to carry it into effect.
Early success had been followed by disasters. Washington had been
defeated on Long Island; his heroic endeavor to save Philadelphia by the
battle of Brandywine against an enemy far superior in numbers had
failed; yet a month later a large British force had been compelled to
surrender at Saratoga. These fighters for freedom seemed to know defeat
only as a foundation upon which to build victory. England might send
fresh armies and fresh fleets, but there were men on land and sea ready
to oppose them, ready to die for the freedom they desired and the
independence they had proclaimed; and it was only a few months ago that
the war had been virtually ended by the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at
Yorktown.

Colonel Barrington had taken an active and honorable part in the
conflict, yet in the beginning of the trouble, like many another man of
his class, he had been for peace, for arbitration, for arrangement if
possible. His fathers had been among the earliest settlers in Virginia,
representatives of an English family, whose roots stretched far back
into history. They had come to rest on this very spot of earth, had
raised their first rough wooden dwelling here, calling it Broadmead,
after the name of their home in England. Love for the old country was
still alive in Colonel Barrington, and it was only after grave
deliberation that he had drawn the sword, convinced that he drew it for
the right. Doubtless there were some in this great conflict who were
self-seeking, but this was certainly not the case with Henry Barrington.
He had much to lose, nothing personal to win which seemed to him of any
consequence. Broadmead he loved. He had been born there. In due time he
had brought home to it his beautiful young wife, daughter of a French
family in Louisiana, and until this upheaval the years had passed
happily, almost uneventfully, yet bringing with them increasing
prosperity.

The boy, dreaming dreams and stretching out toward an ideal, might well
have taken his father for model, but, while reverencing him and knowing
him to be a great and good man, his young imagination had been fired by
a different type of hero, the man whose restless and adventurous spirit
had brought him four years ago to fight as a volunteer in the cause of
freedom; who had come again only a year since and had done much to bring
about the surrender of Lord Cornwallis; the man who, only the other day,
had been publicly thanked by General Washington speaking for the nation
he had helped to found; the man who was at this moment his father's
guest--the Marquis de Lafayette. There was much of the French spirit in
the boy, inherited from his mother, and to every word the Marquis had
uttered he had listened eagerly, painting his hero in colors that were
too bright and too many, perhaps. An hour ago he had stolen out of the
house to this hummock, a favorite spot of his, to dream over all he had
heard and of the future.

His eyes were fixed upon a distant white sail, sun touched, which
lessened far out across the bay, which presently became a point of light
and was then hidden in the haze of the horizon. That was the way of
dreams surely, the road which led to the realization of hope. That ship
might go on and on through sunlight and storm, through mist and clear
weather, and some time, how long a time the boy did not know, it would
reach another land, France perchance, surely the best of all lands,
since it bred such men as the Marquis de Lafayette.

"Dreaming, Richard?"

The grass had deadened the sound of approaching footsteps and the boy
rose hastily. His face flushed as he recognized his visitor.

He was a thin man, still young, with an earnest face which at once
arrested attention. It was far more that of a visionary than was the
boy's, a difficult countenance to read and understand. If, for a moment,
the neatness and precision of his dress suggested a man of idle leisure,
a courtier and little more, there quickly followed a conviction that
such an estimate of his character was a wrong one. Dreamer he might be,
in a sense, but he was also a man of action. The spare frame was full of
energy, there was determination in the face. This was a man who knew
nothing of fear, whom danger would only bring stronger courage; a man
who would press forward to his goal undaunted by whatever difficulties
stood in the way. He was an idealist rather than a dreamer, one who had
set up a standard in his life and, right or wrong, would live his life
true to that standard. He was a man to trust, even though he might not
inspire love, a leader for a forlorn hope, a personality which brought
confidence to all who came in touch with it. His eyes, kindly but
penetrating, were fixed upon the lad to whom he was a hero. He was the
famous Marquis de Lafayette.

"Yes, sir, I was--I was thinking."

"Great thoughts, I warrant, for so young a mind. Let us sit down. This
is a famous seat of yours, a good place to dream in with as fair a slice
of the world's beauty to gaze upon as could well be found. Come, tell me
your dreams."

The boy sat down beside him, but remained silent.

"Shall I help you?" said the Marquis. "Ah, my lad, I know that it is
difficult to tell one's dreams, they are often such sacred things; but
your good mother has been telling me something about you. We are of the
same blood, she and I, so we talk easily and tell each other secrets, as
two members of a large family will. She tells me, Richard, that you have
thought a great deal about me."

"Indeed, sir, I have."

"And made something of a hero of me; is that it?"

"Would that anger you, sir?"

"Anger me! Why, my lad, the man who can become a child's hero should be
proud of it. There must be something good mixed with his common clay for
him to achieve so much. I am glad and proud, as proud as I am of General
Washington's thanks the other day; you need not look at me with such
disbelief in your eyes, for I only say what is true. So now tell me your
dreams."

"They are only half dreams," said the boy slowly, but to-day they seem
clearer. They have one end and aim, to be like you, to fight for the
oppressed, to fight and to conquer."

"The dreams are worthy, Richard, but set yourself a higher standard.
That you think so much of me almost brings a blush to my cheek, lad, for
I am a poor hero. Yet, there is this in common between us, I too, have
had such dreams--have them still. I am striving to make my dreams come
true. So much every man can do. You have, or you will have presently,
your duty set straight before you. Duty is like that; it never lies in
ambush. Along that path of duty you must march and never turn aside. It
is a strange path, for though it is distinct and clear that all may
recognize it, yet for each individual it seems to have a different
direction. It leads some to mighty deeds which must echo round the
world; some it will bring to poverty, obscurity, disgrace perchance, but
these are heroes, remember, as the others are, greater heroes I think,
since no man knows them or cheers them on. You have not thought of such
heroes, Richard?"

"No, sir."

"I thought not. That is why I came to talk to you. I cannot tell what
your future is to be, I do not know in what way you are destined to
travel, but duty may not call upon you to wear the sword or ride in the
forefront of a charge. This country has just had a glorious birth, a
rebirth to freedom. Your father has helped to fight for it; you may be
called upon to work peaceably for it."

"I hope, sir, my duty will mean the sword and the charge."

"Your countrymen are probably glad to have peace," he answered.

"But this is not the only land where men are cruelly treated and would
fight for freedom," the boy returned. "You came here to help us against
the English. Some day may I not journey to help others?"

"Perhaps."

"My mother is French, therefore I am partly French. I love my father,
but I am more French than English. I should love to fight for France,"
and the boy looked up eagerly into his companion's face.

"So that is the real secret out at last," said Lafayette, with a light
laugh. "You would love to fight for France."

"Yes, sir; and it makes you laugh. I have not told it to any one else; I
knew they would laugh."

"But you expected better things of me. Forgive me, lad, I was not
laughing at you; yet you must learn not to mind the laughter of others.
Whenever a man is in earnest there will always be some to ridicule what
they term his folly. He is something of a hero who can stand being
laughed at."

"Sir, did you not say to my father only to-day as you sat at dinner in
the hall, that France was groaning under oppression, and there was no
knowing what would be the end of it?"

"I did, Richard, I did."

"Then, Monsieur de Lafayette, it might be that some day I might cross
the sea to help France."

The Marquis laughed softly and patted the boy's head.

"So that is your dream. I hope freedom may be bought without blood,
but--"

"But you do not think so, sir."

"Why should you say that?"

"Partly because of the way you say it, partly because I have been told
that you are farseeing. I have listened so eagerly to all the stories
told about you."

"If such a fight for freedom came in France, it would be far more
terrible than the war here," and the Marquis made the statement rather
to himself than to the boy.

"Then it may be my duty to come and help you," said Richard.

"If the opportunity should come, see that your adventurous spirit does
not make it your duty whether it be so or not. There are some years to
pass before these young limbs of yours are fit for fighting, or this
brain of yours has to make a decision. You have a good father and
mother, they will guide you. Dream your dreams, and I doubt not, my
friend Richard Barrington will become a hero to many. Are you coming
back to the house with me? Within an hour I am leaving."

"You are going back to France?"

"Yes."

"It is a wonderful land, isn't it?"

"To a true man his own country is always a wonderful land."

"Yes, and I am mostly French," said the boy.

"No, lad. You are an American, a Virginian. Be proud of it."

"I am proud of it, sir; yet a Virginian gentleman might fight for
France."

"And France might be glad to claim his sword. Yes, that is true. Well,
lad, come in peace or in war, do not fail to make inquiry in Paris for
Lafayette. He shall return you something of the courtesy which has been
shown to him in this country and in your father's house."

"Thank you, oh, thank you a thousand times. I can talk about it to my
mother now. She shall share my dreams."

As he went toward the house he looked back across the waters of the bay.
Yet another sail, with the sun upon it, was fading slowly into the
distant haze.




CHAPTER I

THE MAN BY THE ROADSIDE


A solemn twilight, heavy and oppressive, was closing a dull, slumberous
day. It was late in the year for such weather. Not a breath stirred in
the trees by the roadside, not a movement in hedge or ditch; some plague
might have swept across the land, leaving it stricken and desolate, even
the cottages here and there showed no lights and appeared to be
deserted. The road ran straight between ill-conditioned and neglected
fields, and for an hour or more no traveler had passed this way, yet it
was a high road, and at a few miles distance was Paris. Yonder toward
the northeast lay the city, the twilight heavy over it too, but it was
not silent. The throb of human passion and anger beat in it with quick,
hammering strokes, and men and women, looking into one another's eyes,
either laughed while they sang and danced madly, or shrank away, afraid
of being seen, fearing to ask questions.

The twilight had grown deeper, and the horizon was narrowing quickly
with the coming of night, when the sound of horses' hoofs broke the
silence and two riders came rapidly round a bend into the long stretch
of straight road, traveling in the direction of Paris. They rode side by
side as comrades and as men with a purpose, a definite destination which
must be reached at all hazards, yet at a casual glance it would appear
that they could have little in common. One was an elderly man with
grizzled hair, face deeply lined, sharp eyes which were screwed up and
half closed as if he were constantly trying to focus things at a
distance. He was tall, chiefly accounted for by his length of leg, and
as thin as a healthy man well could be. His horsemanship had no easy
grace about it, and a casual observer might have thought that he was
unused to the saddle. There would have been a similar opinion about
anything this man did; he never seemed to be intended for the work he
was doing, yet it was always well done. He was a silent man, too, and
his thoughts were seldom expressed in his face.

His companion was a young man, twenty-five or twenty-six, although his
face might suggest that he was somewhat older. His was a strong face,
cleanly cut, intelligent, purposeful, yet there was also a certain
reserve, as though he had secrets in his keeping which no man might
know. Like his comrade, there was little that escaped his keen
observation, but at times there was a far-off look in his eyes, as
though the present had less interest for him than the future. He sat his
horse as one born to the saddle; his hands were firm, his whole frame
full of physical force, energy, and endurance--a man who would act
promptly and with decision, probably a good man to have as a friend,
most certainly an awkward one to have as an enemy.

"We delayed too long at our last halt, Seth. I doubt whether we shall
see Paris to-night," he said presently, but made no effort to check the
pace of his horse.

"I've been doubting that for an hour past, Master Richard," was the
answer.

The grizzled man was Seth, or sometimes Mr. Seth, to all who knew him.
So seldom had he heard himself called Seth Dingwall that he had almost
forgotten the name. Born in Louisiana, he believed he had French blood
in him, and spoke the language easily. He had gone with his mistress to
Virginia when she married Colonel Barrington, and to him Broadmead was
home, and he had no relation in the wide world.

"Is it so necessary to reach the city to-night?" he asked after a pause.

"I had planned to do so."

The answer was characteristic of the man. As a boy, when he had made up
his mind to do a thing, he did it, even though well-merited punishment
might follow, and the boy was father to the man. Save in years and
experience, this was the same Richard Barrington who had dreamed as he
watched sunlit sails disappear in the haze over Chesapeake Bay.

"I was thinking of the horses," said Seth. "I reckon that we have a long
way to travel yet."

"We may get others presently," Barrington answered, and then, after a
moment's pause, he went on: "We have seen some strange sights since we
landed--ruined homes, small and great, burned and desolated by the
peasants; and in the last few hours we have heard queer tales. I do not
know how matters stand, but it looks as if we might be useful in Paris.
That is why we must push on."

"Master Richard," he said slowly.

"Yes."

"Have you ever considered how useless a man may be?"

"Ay, often, and known such men."

"You do not catch my meaning. I am talking of a man who is full of
courage and determination, yet just because he is only one is powerless.
A lion might be killed by rats if there were enough rats."

"True, Seth, but there would be fewer rats by the time the lion was
dead, and a less number for the next lion to struggle with."

"A good answer," said Seth, "and I'm not saying it isn't a right one,
but I'm thinking of that first lion which may be slain."

A smile, full of tenderness, came into Barrington's face which, in the
gathering darkness, his companion could hardly have seen had he turned
to look at him, which he did not do.

"I know, Seth, I know, but I am not one man alone. I have you. It seems
to me that I have always had you, and Heaven knows I should have had far
less heart for this journey had you not come with me. In the old days
you have been nurse and physician to me. I should have drowned in the
pond beyond the orchard had you not been at hand to pull me out; I
should have broken my skull when the branch of that tree broke had you
not caught me; and I warrant there's a scar on your leg somewhere to
show that the bull's horn struck you as you whisked me into a place of
safety."

"There was something before all those adventures, Master Richard."

"What was that, Seth?"

"It was a morning I'm not forgetting until I'm past remembering
anything. We all knew you were coming, and we were looking every day to
hear the news. When we did hear it, it was only part of the story, and
the other part was most our concern for a while. The mistress was like
to die, they said. I remember there was wailing among the plantation
hands, and Gadman the overseer had to use his whip to keep 'em quiet.
We others were just dumb and waited. Then came the morning I speak of.
The mistress was out before the house again for the first time. I
chanced to be by, and she called me. You were lying asleep in her lap.
'Seth,' she said, 'this is the young master; isn't he beautiful? You
must do your best to see that he comes to no harm as he grows up.' Well,
that's all I've done, and it's what I'm bound to go on doing just as
long as ever I can. That was the first time I saw you, Master Richard."

Barrington did not answer. His companion's words had brought a picture
to his mind of his home in Virginia, which he had never loved quite so
well perhaps as at this moment when he was far away from it, and was
conscious that he might never see it again. Only a few months ago, when
he had sat on the hummock, falling into much the same position as he had
so often done as a boy, he had even wondered whether he wanted to return
to it. Broadmead could never be the same place to him again. His father
had died five years since, and that had been a terrible and sincere
grief to him, but he had his mother, and had to fill his father's place
as well as he could. The work on the estate gave him much to do, and if
the news from France which found its way to Broadmead set him dreaming
afresh at times, he cast such visions away. He had no inclination to
leave his mother now she was alone, and he settled down to peaceful,
happy days, hardly desiring that anything should be different, perhaps
forgetting that some day it must be different. Not a year had passed
since the change had come. A few days' illness and his mother was
suddenly dead.

He was alone in the world. How could Broadmead ever be the same to him
again?

"Seth, did my mother ever say anything more to you about me?" he asked
suddenly.

"She thanked me for saving you from the bull, though I wanted no
thanks."

"Nothing more?"

"Only once," Seth returned, "and then she said almost the same words as
she did when I first saw you lying on her knee. 'See that he comes to no
harm, Seth.' She sent for me the night before she died, Master Richard.
That's why I'm here. I didn't want to leave Virginia particularly."

Barrington might have expressed some regret for bringing his companion
to France had not his horse suddenly demanded his attention. They had
traversed the long stretch of straight road, and were passing by a thin
wood of young trees. Long grass bordered the road on either side, and
Barrington's horse suddenly shied and became restive.

"There's something lying there," said Seth, whose eyes were suddenly
focused on the ground, and then he dismounted quickly. "It's a man,
Master Richard, and by the Lord! he's had rough treatment."

Barrington quieted his horse with soothing words, and dismounting,
tethered him to a gate.

"He's not dead," Seth said, as Barrington bent over him; and as if to
endorse his words, the man moved slightly and groaned.

"We can't leave him, but--"

"But we shall not reach Paris to-night," Seth returned. "Didn't they
tell us we should pass by a village? I have forgotten the name."

"Trémont," said Richard.

"It can't be much farther. There's no seeing to find out his injuries
here, but if you could help to get him over the saddle in front of me,
Master Richard, I could take him along slowly."

A feeble light glimmered presently along the road, which proved to be
the light from a tavern which stood at one end of the village, a rough
and not attractive house of entertainment, a fact that the neighbors
seemed to appreciate, for no sound came from it.

"Those who attacked him may be there, Master Richard, refreshing
themselves after their dastardly work."

"They must be saying silent prayers of repentance, then. Stay in the
shadows, Seth; I'll make inquiry."

Leading his horse, Barrington went to the door and called for the
landlord. He had to call twice before an old man shuffled along a dark
passage from the rear of the house and stood before him.

"Are there lodgings for travelers here?"

"Lodgings, but no travelers. Trémont's deserted except by children and
invalids. All in Paris, monsieur. Ay, these be hard times for some of
us."

"I'm for Paris, but must rest here to-night."

"You're welcome, monsieur, and we'll do our best, but it's poor fare
you'll get and that not cheap."

"Are there no travelers in the house?"

"None; none for these two months."

"No visitor of any kind?"

"None. Only four to-day, and they cursed me and my wine."

"I have a friend with me, and a wounded man. We found him by the
roadside."

"We'll do our best," said the landlord, and he turned away and called
for his wife.

As Barrington and Seth carried the wounded man in, the landlord looked
at him and started.

"You know him?" asked Barrington sharply.

"I saw him only to-day. I'll tell you when you've got him comfortable in
his bed."

"Is there a doctor in Trémont?"

"No, monsieur. Over at Lesville there's one, unless he's gone to Paris
with the rest, but he couldn't be got here until the morning.".

"I may make shift to patch him up to-night, Master Richard," said Seth.
"I helped the doctors a bit before Yorktown, when I was with the
Colonel."

Possibly no physician or surgeon would have been impressed with Seth's
methods. He was never intended to dress wounds, and yet his touch was
gentle.

"He'll do until the doctor comes to-morrow," said Seth, as he presently
found Barrington at the frugal meal.

The landlord apologized for the frugality, but it was all he could do.

"May I never face less when I am hungry," said Barrington. "You saw this
man to-day, landlord, you say?"

"Yes. I told you that four men cursed me and my wine. They had been here
an hour or more, talking of what was going forward in Paris, and of some
business which they were engaged upon. I took little note of what they
said, for every one is full of important business in these days,
monsieur, but the man who lies upstairs presently rode past. I saw him
from this window, and my four guests saw him, too. They laughed and
settled their score, and five minutes later had brought their horses
from the stable behind the inn and were riding in the direction he had
taken."

"And attacked him a little later, no doubt."

"It would seem so," said the landlord.

"Should they return, keep it a secret that you have a wounded man in the
house. Will that purchase your silence?"

The landlord looked at the coins Barrington dropped into his hand.

"Thank you, monsieur, you may depend upon it that no one shall know."

Seth presently went to see the patient again, and returned in a few
moments to say he was conscious.

"I told him where we found him, and he wants to see you, Master
Richard."

"Your doctoring must be wonderfully efficacious, Seth."

"Brandy is a good medicine," was the answer; "but the man's in a bad
way. He may quiet down after he's seen you."

The man moved slightly as Barrington entered the room, and when he spoke
his words came slowly and in a whisper, yet with some eagerness.

"They left me for dead, monsieur; they were disturbed, perhaps."

"Why did they attack you?"

"I was carrying a message."

"A letter--and they stole it?" asked Barrington.

"No, a message. It was not safe to write."

"To whom was the message?"

"To a woman, my mistress, from her lover. He is in the hands of the
rabble, and only she can save him. For the love of Heaven, monsieur,
take the message to her. I cannot go."

"What is her name?" Barrington asked.

"Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"Certainly, she shall have it. How shall I make her understand?"

"Say Lucien prays her to come to Paris. In my coat yonder, in the lining
of the collar, is a little gold star, her gift to him. Say Rouzet gave
it to you because he could travel no farther. She will understand. You
must go warily, and by an indirect road, or they will follow you as they
did me."

"And where shall I find Mademoiselle St. Clair?"

"At the Château of Beauvais, hard by Lausanne, across the frontier."

"Lausanne! Switzerland!"

Before the man could give a word of further explanation there was a loud
knocking at the door of the inn which the landlord had closed for the
night, and when it was not opened immediately, angry curses and a threat
to break it down. The patient on the bed did not start, he was too
grievously hurt to do that, but his white face grew gray with fear.

"It is nothing, only a late traveler," said Barrington. "And, my good
fellow, I cannot go to--"

The man's eyes were closed. The sudden fear seemed to have robbed him of
consciousness. It was quite evident to Barrington that he could not be
made to understand just now that a journey to Beauvais was impossible.
He waited a few minutes to see if the man would rouse again, but he did
not, and seeing that an explanation must be put off until later, he went
out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. As he descended the
stairs the landlord tiptoed up to meet him.

"The men who were here to-day and cursed my wine," he whispered. "Two of
them have returned!"




CHAPTER II

A BINDING OATH


The return of these men, if indeed they were responsible for the
condition of the man upstairs, might augur further evil for him. They
had perchance returned along the road to make certain that their work
was complete, and, finding their victim gone, were now in search of him.
Exactly what reliance was to be placed on the word of the wounded man,
Barrington had not yet determined. He might be a contemptible spy, his
message might contain hidden information to the enemies of his country;
he was certainly carrying it to aristocrats who were safe across the
frontier, and he might fully deserve all the punishment which had been
meted out to him, but for the moment he was unable to raise a hand in
his own defense and his helplessness appealed to Barrington. These men
should not have their will of him if he could prevent it.

"Keep out of the way of being questioned," he whispered to the landlord,
as they went down the stairs. It was characteristic of Richard
Barrington that he had formed no plan when he entered the room. He
believed that actions must always be controlled by the circumstances of
the moment, that it was generally essential to see one's enemy before
deciding how to outwit him, a false theory perhaps, but, given a strong
personality, one which is often successful.

"Good evening, gentlemen! My friend and I are not the only late
travelers to-night."

The two men looked sharply at him. Their attention had been keenly,
though furtively, concentrated upon Seth, who sat in a corner,
apparently half asleep. In fact, having just noticed them, he had closed
his eyes as though he were too weary and worn out to talk.

Both men curtly acknowledged Barrington's greeting, hardly conscious of
the curtness maybe. They were of the people, their natural roughness
turned to a sort of insolent swagger by reason of the authority which
had been thrust upon them. They were armed, blatantly so, and displayed
the tri-colored cockade. In some society, at any rate, they were of
importance, and this stranger and the manner of his greeting puzzled
them. He spoke like an aristocrat, yet there was something unfamiliar
about him.

"Did you have to batter at the door before you could gain admittance?"
asked one. Of the two, he seemed to have the greater authority.

"No, we arrived before the door was closed."

"Closed doors are suspicious," the man returned with an oath. "This is
the day of open doors and freedom for all, citizen."

"Liberty, equality, and fraternity," Barrington answered. "It is a good
motto. One that men may well fight for."

"Do you fight for it?" asked the man, truculently.

"Not yet," said Barrington, very quietly and perfectly unmoved,
apparently seeing nothing unusual in the man's manner or his question,
but quite conscious that Seth had sleepily let his hand slip into his
pocket and kept it there.

"Late travelers on the road are also suspicious," said the man, stepping
a little nearer to Barrington.

"Indeed! Tell me, of what are you afraid? My friend and I are armed, as
I see you are. We may join forces against a common danger. Four resolute
men are not easily to be played with."

"Aristocrats find it convenient to travel at night, and tricked out just
as you are," he said. "I have taken part in stopping many of them."

"Doubtless an excellent and useful occupation," Barrington returned.

"And I have heard many of them talk like that," said the man, "an
attempt to throw dust into eyes far too sharp to be blinded by it. You
will tell me where you travel to and where from."

"Do you ask out of courteous curiosity, as meeting travelers may do, or
for some other reason?"

"You may think whichever pleases you."

"I am not making for the frontier, if that is what you want to know,"
laughed Barrington.

"I asked a question which it will be well for you to answer," said the
man, and it was evident that his companion was also on the alert.

"Have you authority to question me?" Barrington asked.

"Papers here," said the man, touching his coat, "and this." His hand
fell upon a pistol in his belt.

"Leave it there. It is the safest place."

Seth's hands had come from his pocket with a pistol in it. Barrington
still laughed.

"My friend seems as suspicious as you are. Let me end it, for truly I
expected to be drinking with you before this, instead of trying to find
a cause for quarrel. Your eyes must be sharp indeed if you can discover
an aristocrat in me. I was for freedom and the people before you had
struck a blow for the cause here in France. We are from the coast,
before that from America, and we journey to Paris to offer our services
to the Marquis de Lafayette."

Perhaps the man believed him, perhaps he did not, but the result of an
appeal to force was doubtful, and wine was an attraction. He held out
his hand with an air that the welcome of France was in the action. For
the present they could pose as friends, whatever might chance in the
future.

"Sieur Motier the Marquis is now called, but in America that name would
not appeal. We may drown our mistake in wine, the first but maybe not
the last time we shall drink together."

The landlord brought in the wine and departed without being questioned.

"Sieur Motier," said Barrington, reflectively. "News has traveled slowly
to us in Virginia, and things here have moved quickly. You can tell me
much. This meeting is a fortunate one for me."

Into weeks and months had been crowded the ordinary work of a long
period of time. After nearly three years of strenuous effort, the
Constituent Assembly had come to an end. With Mirabeau as its master
spirit, it had done much, some evil, but a great deal that was good. It
had suppressed torture, done away with secret letters, and lightened the
burden of many grievous taxes. Now, the one man who was able to deal
with the crisis if any man was, the aristocrat who had become the
darling of the rabble, the "little mother" of the fisher-wives, the hope
of even the King himself, was silent. Mirabeau was dead. In fear the
King had fled from Paris only to be stopped at Varennes and brought back
ignominiously to the capital. The Legislative Assembly took the place of
the Constituent Assembly, three parties in it struggling fiercely for
the mastery, one party, that high-seated crowd called the Mountain, red
republicans whose cry was ever "No King," growing stronger day by day.
Nations in arms were gathering on the frontiers of France, and the
savagery of the populace was let loose. The Tuileries had been stormed,
the Swiss Guard butchered, the royal family imprisoned in the Temple.
Quickly the Legislative Assembly had given way to a National Convention,
and the country was ripe for any and every atrocity the mind of man
could conceive.

The patriot, sitting opposite to Barrington and drinking wine at
intervals, told his tale with enthusiasm and with many comments of his
own. He was full of the tenets of the Jacobin and Cordelian Clubs. For
him the world, set spinning on a mad career when the Bastille fell, was
moving too slowly again. There had been a good beginning, truly
something had been done since, but why not make a good end of it?
Mirabeau, yes, he had done something, but the work had grown too large
for him. He had died in good time before the people had become tired of
him. France was for the people, and there must be death for all who
stood in the people's way, and a quick death, too.

"Blood must run more freely, there will be no good end without that," he
said; "the blood of all aristocrats, no matter what they promise, what
they pretend. From the beginning they were liars. France has no use for
them save to make carrion of."

"And whose power is sufficient for all this?" Barrington asked.

"To-day, no one's. To-morrow;--who shall say? Things go forward quickly
at times. A sudden wave might even raise me to power."

"Then the good ending," said Barrington.

The man caught no irony, he only heard the flattery.

"Then the blood flowing," he laughed; "so, as full in color and as
freely spilt," and he jerked the remains of the wine in his glass across
the room, staining the opposite wall.

"And if not at your word, perhaps at that of Monsieur de Lafayette,
Sieur Motier," Barrington suggested. He wanted the man to talk about the
Marquis.

"He is an aristocrat with sympathies which make no appeal to me. The
people have grown tired of him, too. I am honest, and fear no man, and I
say that Motier has long been at the crossroads. He is, or was, an
honest man, I hardly know which he is now, and even honest men must
suffer for the cause. You say you are his friend, whisper that warning
in his ear, if you see him; say you had it from Jacques Sabatier, he
will have heard of me."

"Certainly, I will tell him," said Barrington, wondering if such a man
as Lafayette could have heard of such a truculent scoundrel as this. "Is
he in Paris?"

"I know nothing of him. He was with the army in the North, but he may
have been recalled. He must obey like the rest of us. Do you ride with
us to Paris to-night?"

"No. Our horses need rest, but we shall meet there, I hope."

"A true patriot must needs meet Sabatier in Paris," and the man
swaggered out of the room, followed by his companion.

Barrington and Seth stood at the tavern door to watch their departure.
It was not advisable that they should be alone with the landlord and
have an opportunity of asking him questions.

The two men rode sharply through the village, but on the outskirts drew
rein.

"Had you sharp enough eyes to discover anything?" Sabatier asked,
turning to his companion.

"Nothing, except that one of them was too much like an aristocrat to
please me."

"He comes to Paris, and may be dealt with there. What of Bruslart's
messenger?"

"I saw no sign of him."

"Yet they journey from the coast and must have passed him on the road.
He was beyond moving of his own accord."

"Do you mean they helped him?"

"Some one has. We were fools to allow ourselves to be disturbed before
completing our work."

"Why did you not question the landlord or the men themselves?"

"Time enough for that," Sabatier answered. "Two men against two gives no
odds to depend upon. Ride on toward Paris and send me back a dozen
patriots, no matter where you find them. There are some in the
neighborhood who have tasted blood in burning a château, whisper that
there are aristocrats in Trémont. They shall find me by that farm
yonder, snatching an hour's sleep in the straw maybe. Then get you to
Villefort, where Mercier and Dubois are waiting. Bid them watch that
road. Possibly the messenger was not so helpless as we imagined."

Jacques Sabatier did not move until the sound of his comrade's horse
had died into silence, then he went toward the farm, tethered his horse,
and threw himself down on the straw in a dilapidated barn. Sleep must be
taken when it could be got. The days and nights were too full for
settled times of rest. In his little sphere he was a man of consequence,
not of such importance as he imagined, but, nevertheless, before his
fellows. He had been at the storming of the Bastille, that gave him
prestige; he had a truculent swagger which counted in these days,
especially if there had been no opportunity of being proved a coward.
Perchance Sabatier had never been put to the test. In a rabble it is
easy to shout loudly, yet be where the danger is least, and this
wide-mouthed patriot had much to say about himself.

His sleep was sound enough for the proverbial just man, sound and
dreamless, aided perhaps by a liberal allowance of wine. At daybreak he
was still slumbering, and the little crowd of men who presently found
him in the barn had some trouble in rousing him. He struggled to his
feet, his mind a blank for a moment.

"What is it? What do you want?" and for an instant there was a look in
his eyes strangely like fear.

"You sent for us," said one.

"Ah! I remember." Sabatier was himself again. "There's work for us in
the village yonder. Rats in a hole, comrades. We go to smoke them out."

A fierce undertone of approval was the answer.

So in the early morning there was once more a heavy battering at the
closed door of the tavern, and shouting to the landlord to open quickly.
He came shuffling down the stairs.

"It's over early for guests," he said sleepily, "but you're good men, I
see. Come in."

Then he caught sight of Sabatier and trembled a little. He was an old
man, and had been oppressed so long that he had become used to it. He
understood very little of what was going forward in the country.

"Where are the aristocrats?" hissed a dozen raucous voices.

"Those guests of yours," said Sabatier.

"They have gone--went soon after you left last night. It was a surprise,
but I had no power to stop them."

There was an angry movement toward the landlord.

"Wait," said Sabatier. "He is probably a liar. We shall see."

The men searched the house, some watching the doors lest the aristocrats
should make a dash for freedom. Certainly there was a guest here still,
but he made no effort to escape. At the top of the stairs was a
door--locked.

"The key," Sabatier demanded.

"I will fetch it," was the timid answer.

The locked door was suspicious. Two men ran hastily to watch the window
and prevent escape that way. And why delay for the key? Not a very
strong lock this, a blow from a man's heel could break it, did break it,
and the door crashed open, splitting itself from one of its hinges.

On the bed lay a man, half-dressed, his eyes wide open, fixed upon the
ceiling, his head bound with a cloth, blood-stained. Very sunken was the
head in the pillows, very thin looked the form stretched under the
coarse blanket. Sabatier touched him and then looked swiftly round the
room. A coat was thrown across a chair. He took this up, and there was a
cut in the lining of it, high up near the collar.

"Who did this?" he asked.

The landlord did not know.

"Who did it, I say!" and he struck him in the face with the back of his
hand, a heavy enough blow to send the old man to the wall.

"I do not know, sir, it's true I do not know," whined the landlord.
"They brought him here half dead; had found him on the road, they said.
He seemed to get better when one of them bound him up. When they came to
look at him after you had gone he was dead. I left them alone with him,
and in a few minutes they called me and said they must leave for Paris
at once."

Sabatier flung the coat aside with an oath.

"This is Citizen Latour's business," he said to his companions.

"And he's been helping aristocrats," said one man, pointing to the
landlord still leaning by the wall.

"What else?" said Sabatier, shortly, as he strode out of the room and
down the stairs.

A cry followed him, but he did not stop.

"Mercy! I know nothing."

A wilder cry, half drowned by savage curses and the sound of blows.
Still Sabatier paid no heed. He went into the room below, knocked the
neck off a wine bottle and poured the contents into a mug and drank,
smacking his lips.

A woman, half dressed, rushed down the stairs and into the street.

"Let her go," Sabatier cried, as a man was starting after her. "Maybe
she's not too old to find another husband."

Laughing, and cursing, the men came tumbling down the stairs, ripe for
deviltry; but for the moment here was wine to be had for the taking,
everything else could wait.

When later they left, a woman came rushing toward them.

"Let me in! Let me in!" she cried. "He's not dead."

"Out of it," said one, pushing her roughly aside so that she stumbled
and fell upon the road. "He's dead, or will be soon enough. Our work is
thorough, and this might be a château instead of a wine shop by the way
we've treated it. You watch a while. You'll understand," and he laughed
as he closed the door.

The poor soul may have understood his meaning, or she may not, as she
rocked herself to and fro in the roadway. The ribald songs of these
patriots, these apostles of freedom, had not died as they marched and
danced out of Trémont when there was a smell of burning in the air, and
first smoke, then flame burst from the tavern, quickly reducing it to a
heap of ashes. It was a strange grave for the charred remains of two men
who yesterday had been full of life. This was a time when things moved
apace and there was no prophesying from day to day.


Long since out of range of the smoke cloud rising in the morning sky,
Richard Barrington and Seth urged their horses along the road.

"Is this a wise journey?" Seth asked suddenly.

"I cannot tell."

"Paris might be safer."

"I promised to carry a message to a woman," Barrington answered. "The
man is dead; there remains my oath. Somewhere before us lies the Château
of Beauvais, and that is the way we go."




CHAPTER III

BEAUVAIS


There are few fairer spots in this world than Beauvais. He who has
dreamed of an earthly paradise and sought it out, might well rest here
contented, satisfied. It lies at the top of a long, ascending valley
which twists its way upward from the Swiss frontier into the hills, a
rough and weary road to travel, yet with a new vista of beauty at every
turn. Here are wooded slopes where a dryad might have her dwelling;
yonder some ragged giant towers toward heaven, his scarred rocky
shoulders capped with snow. Below, deep down from the road cut in the
hillside, undulate green pastures, the cattle so small at this distance
that they might be toys set there after a child's fancy; while a torrent
leaping joyously from ledge to ledge might be a babbling brook but for
the sound of its full music which comes upward on the still air, telling
of impetuous force and power. Here eternity seems to have an habitation,
and time to be a thing of naught. The changing seasons may come and go,
storm and tempest may spend their rage, and summer heat and winter frost
work their will, yet that rocky height shall still climb into cloudland,
and those green pastures shall flourish. Centuries ago, eyes long
blinded by the dust of death looked upon this fair scene and understood
something of its everlasting nature; centuries hence, other eyes shall
behold its beauty and still dream of a distant future. We are but
children of a day, brilliant ephemera flashing in a noontide sun; these
silent, watching hills have known generations of others like us, as
brilliant and as short-lived; shall know generations more, unborn as
yet, unthought of.

At the head of this valley, rising suddenly from a stretch of level
land, is a long hill lying like a wedge, its thin edge resting on the
plain. The sides, as they get higher, become more precipitous, but from
the thin edge there ascends a road about which houses cluster, irregular
and pointed roofs rising one above the other in strange confusion until
they are crowned at the summit by the château standing like their
protector to face and defy the world. To the right, dominating the whole
of this region, is the great double peak, snow-clad and often
cloud-bound, which seems to stand sentinel for the surrounding mountains
as the castle does to the valley; God's work and the work of man. He who
first built his castle there knew well that in might lay right, and
chose his place accordingly. Now houses stretch down to the level of the
plain, but it was not always so. Halfway through the village the road
passes through a gateway of solid stone, flanked by towers pierced for
defense, and the wall through which this gate gives entrance remains,
broken in places, lichen-covered, yet still eloquent of its former
strength and purpose. Within the gate the village widens into an open
square rising toward the château, and this square is surrounded by old
houses picturesque and with histories. Many a time Beauvais has stood
siege, its lord holding it against some neighbor stirred by pride or
love tragedy to deadly feud. In these ancient houses his retainers
lived, his only so long as he was strong enough to make himself feared,
fierce men gathered from all points of the compass, soldiers of fortune
holding their own lives and the lives of others cheaply. From such men,
brilliant in arms, have sprung descendants who have made their mark in a
politer epoch, men and women who have become courtiers, companions of
kings, leaders of men, pioneers of learning. Carved into these ancient
houses in Beauvais are crests and mottoes which are the pride of these
descendants now scattered over Europe. Such is the village of Beauvais,
asleep for many years, the home of peasants chiefly, mountaineers and
tenders of cattle, still with the fighting spirit in them, but dormant,
lacking the necessity. A fair place, but to the exile, only through a
veil does the fairest land reveal its beauty. Its sunlit hills, its
green pastures, the silver sheen of its streams, the blue of its sky, he
will see through a mist of regret, through tears perchance. No beauty
can do away with the fact that it is only a land of exile, to be endured
and made the best of for a while, never to be really loved. There is
coming an hour in which he may return home, and he is forever looking
forward, counting the days. The present must be lived, but reality lies
in the future.

The Marquise de Rovère, brilliant, witty, proud as any woman in France,
daughter of ancestors famous during the time of the fourteenth and
fifteenth Louis, had in the long past a forbear who was lord of this
château of Beauvais. Since then there had been other lords with whom she
had nothing to do, but her grandfather having grown rich,
unscrupulously, it was said, bought Beauvais, restored it, added to it
and tried to forget that it had ever passed out of the hands of his
ancestors. In due time his granddaughter inherited it, and after that
terrible day at Versailles when the mob had stormed the palace, when
many of the nobility foresaw disaster and made haste to flee from it
into voluntary exile, what better place could the Marquise choose than
this château of Beauvais? Hither she had come with her niece Jeanne St.
Clair, and others had followed. In Paris the Marquise had been the
center of a brilliant coterie, she would still be a center in Beauvais
and the château should be open to every emigré of distinction.

So it came to pass that sleepy Beauvais had suddenly stretched itself
and aroused from slumber. The Marquise was rich, her niece a wealthy
heiress, much of both their fortunes not dependent upon French finance,
and a golden harvest fell upon the simple mountaineers and cattle
tenders. Every available room was at the disposal of master or lackey,
and the sleepy square was alive with men and women who had intrigued and
danced at Versailles, who had played pastoral games with Marie
Antoinette at the Trianon, whose names were famous. Idlers were many in
Beauvais, exiles awaiting the hour for return, for revenge upon the
rabble, yet doing nothing to forward the hour; but there were many
others, men who came and went full of news and endeavor. Beauvais was a
meeting place. There one might hear the latest rumors from Paris, learn
what help might be expected from Austria, from Prussia; and while news
was gathered and given there was brilliant entertainment at the château.

"We may make even exile bearable," the Marquise had said, and she did
her utmost to do so.

It was into this wideawake village of Beauvais that Richard Barrington
and Seth, weary and travel-stained, rode late one afternoon, and came to
a halt before the inn. They passed almost unnoticed, for strangers were
a common sight, often quaintly disguised to escape their enemies.

There was no room in the inn, nor did the good landlady, who still
seemed flurried with so much business to attend to, know where they
would get a lodging.

"Every house is a hotel these days, and I think every house is full,"
she said. "All the world has come to Beauvais for the masked ball at the
château."

"There are still holes to be found," said a man lounging by the door.
"My friend and I were in the same predicament, but we have found a
corner. I believe there is room of sorts still to be had in the house,
and if Monsieur permits, I shall have pleasure in taking him there."

"You are very good," said Barrington.

The stranger led the way across the square to an old house set back
between its neighbors, as though it were modest and shrinking from
observation, or desirous of keeping a secret. Its door was narrow and
down a step from the roadway; its windows small, like half-closed eyes.

"Monsieur must expect little and even then get less than he expects, and
pay dearly for it; but it is such a hole as this or a night in the
open."

"I am weary enough not to mind much where I sleep," said Barrington.

"Add it all to the account which the _canaille_ must some day pay,"
answered the man.

A stuffy little loft of a room, adjoining another loft occupied by their
guide and his friend, was all the space available, but it was better
than nothing, and Barrington quickly came to terms with the owner of the
house.

Monsieur le Comte, for so the proprietor addressed the man who had
guided them to the house, departed, hoping for their further
acquaintance presently, and offering them any help which it might be in
his power to afford.

"We find ourselves in a strange place, Master Richard," said Seth,
surveying the room.

"We may come to stranger ones before we see Virginia again," was the
answer.

"Ay, that's true; and there's not a certainty that we shall ever see
Virginia again," said Seth. "I took the precaution to say farewell to
all the old corners of Broadmead before I left."

"It's a fool's game to step too far into the future. A wise man never
buys his own coffin," laughed Barrington. "We are in luck."

"I'm glad you think so, Master Richard. I see plenty of danger, but
little luck. It was to help the people we came, and here we are at
Beauvais to serve an aristocrat. Our friends the people are not likely
to forgive us easily."

"There is a woman to help, Seth."

"I wonder how many excellent schemes a woman has brought to nothing."

"And that is why I say we are in luck," said Barrington, taking no
notice of the comment. "How are we to get audience with this woman? The
question has puzzled me upon the journey. We are met with the news that
there is to be a masked ball at the château. Could we have arrived at a
more opportune time?"

"You will go to the château?"

"Of course. I shall find some excuse and get a disguise that best fits
it. Every one in Beauvais must be able to give me some description by
which I may know Mademoiselle St. Clair. The rest will be easy."

"This faith of youth is very wonderful," said Seth.

"Not more remarkable than your forebodings," Barrington returned. "You
have not always been so quick to talk of danger."

"Maybe it's the different air. I prefer the breeze that comes off
Chesapeake Bay to that of these hills, and there's a devil of depression
in this cockloft, it seems to me."

"Come out of it, then. Hunger and thirst are at the bottom of your
croaking. We will go eat and drink and gather news."

"And at this ball, Master Richard, see that you think more of the
readiness of your arms than your grace in a dance."

Barrington laughed as he descended the narrow stairs, but he was not
heedless of his companion's warnings. He was fully alive to the danger
he was in, and if the truth must be told, was not particularly pleased
to find himself in Beauvais. He would far rather have been in Paris. The
romantic element in this unexpected adventure did not greatly appeal to
him. He had crossed the ocean to help an oppressed people; he was full
of enthusiasm for a cause, so much an enthusiast that the two braggart
representatives of the people with whom he had come in contact at
Trémont had in no way disillusioned him. Refuse must needs be cast on
the wave crests of a revolution; but there was also Lafayette. He was
the people's true representative, and Barrington longed to be at his
side to help him. He had promised to deliver a message, believing that
he was undertaking a comparatively small matter, and just when he
learned that a journey into Switzerland was involved, interruption had
come and the man had lost consciousness. Barrington had fully intended
to explain to the wounded man that such a journey was impossible. After
Sabatier and his companion had left the inn, he had gone upstairs for
this purpose, only to find the man dead. He had made a promise to a
dying man, and at all hazards that promise must be fulfilled. The sooner
it was done, the sooner he could journey to Paris; and their arrival in
Beauvais at the time of this masked ball was fortunate: there need be
little delay.

A little later Monsieur le Comte found them.

"We must needs celebrate your escape," he said. "This is my friend, like
myself an exile from Paris. You are also from Paris?"

"From outside Paris," Barrington answered. For the nonce he must pose as
an aristocrat, and wondered by what name he might best deceive them.
Seth, too, was a grave difficulty. He could show few marks of an
aristocrat.

The Frenchman's next words saved him all trouble, however.

"We do not ask too many questions in Beauvais, Monsieur. That we are
here proves that we do not uphold the people, and we need not too
closely inquire who our neighbor may be. We shall not all wish to
maintain the friendships made in exile when we return to France. Here's
to your safe arrival, Monsieur, and to our speedy return. The sentiment
is of the best vintage, though the wine may be inferior. I warrant the
cellars of the château will do better for us to-morrow night. You go to
the ball, Monsieur?"

"I am ill-provided for such an entertainment."

"As are many others," was the laughing answer, "since they were obliged
to leave so hurriedly that there was short time for packing. That need
not deter you, Monsieur, and if you have no opportunity of apprising the
Marquise of your arrival, I believe there are some so poor in their
exile that they would sell their invitation. We do things in Beauvais
that would shame us elsewhere."

"I must confess to not being personally acquainted with the Marquise,"
said Barrington.

"Say no more, Monsieur; you shall have an invitation in the morning. A
few louis will purchase it."

"You overwhelm me with courtesy," said Barrington.

"No, no; it is nothing. To-morrow evening I may have the opportunity of
presenting you to the Marquise."

"And to her niece?"

"Mademoiselle St. Clair? That is as Monsieur wills," he laughed.

"I do not understand your merriment."

"Pardon, Monsieur, but there are not many who crave presentation to
Mademoiselle. You have not heard of her?"

"Nothing but her name."

"Think, Monsieur, of a large woman with black hair and complexion more
swart than beautiful, with large hands that could clasp mine and hide
them, and feet flat and heavy; a figure that is no figure, all its lines
pressed from within out of place and which shakes as she walks; a voice
whose whisper is raucous. Then, Monsieur, conceive this woman unaware of
her defects, who simpers and attempts to use her dull eyes in
fascination. That is Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"Surely you exaggerate?"

"No, it is a fair picture," said the friend, "and yet she has admirers.
Her fortune is as large as her person."

Barrington laughed. There could be small romance in the love story which
fate had called him to assist, and certainly he would have small
difficulty in finding Mademoiselle St. Clair.

"I will not trespass on your courtesy for an introduction to her,
Monsieur," he said, "and since the wine is finished, you will pardon us
if we retire. We have traveled far and are weary."

Monsieur le Comte looked at his companion when they had gone, and
smiled.

"A new experience for Beauvais," he said; "a man who has not the honor
of knowing Madame la Marquise and has not heard of the charms of
Mademoiselle her niece."

"The picture you drew was a little too repulsive, I think."

"She will be masked," was the laughing answer. "He must have his
invitation as promised. It will cost a few louis, and we are none too
rich. We are dealers in this matter, and must have some profit for our
labor."

"Monsieur le Comte, you are a genius," laughed his companion.

An hour later, Monsieur le Comte knocked softly at the door of
Barrington's room.

There was no answer.

He knocked louder.

"Monsieur, I have the invitation."

Still there was no answer.

"Parbleu, they sleep like the dead," he murmured, and went back to his
companion.

Seth lay like a log--in deep, dreamless sleep. It would take far more
than a mere knocking at the door to wake him. Barrington, deaf to the
knocking, deeply asleep too, was restless, turning and tossing with
dreams--nightmares. He was falling over one of the precipices which they
had passed on their way to Beauvais. He was imprisoned, almost
suffocated, in a little room; the walls seemed to gradually close in
upon him and then suddenly to open; he was ill, surely, for men were
about him, looking into his face and muttering together. Again, he was
in a crowd, a dancing, noisy crowd, searching for a great woman who
shook as she walked. It was madness to seek her here, they were all
pigmies, and he turned away; another moment they were all big, all the
women had raven hair, large hands and feet; he would never be able to
find the woman he sought. Then this scene faded and there came others,
some horrible, all fantastic; and always there came, sooner or later, a
woman, ugly, repulsive, masterful. She fascinated him. He was conscious
of struggling to free himself. He could not. Something, some
irresistible power, forced him to speak to her, to love her, to love
while he tried to hate, and her great dull eyes looked at him, rewarding
him. He knew her, forever hereafter must be possessed by her. This
horrible woman, this Jeanne St. Clair, was his fate. Nightmare was his
long after the day had broken and men and women were abroad in Beauvais.




CHAPTER IV

MADEMOISELLE ST. CLAIR


Sharp hammering at the door, long continued, finally brought an end to
Barrington's nightmare hours and Seth's deep slumbers. The sun was
streaming in through the little window, revealing the dust and the
dilapidation of this lodging. Seth went to the door.

"Ma foi, I thought you had started on your last long journey," said the
proprietor of the house. "My knuckles are sore with knocking. Monsieur
le Comte bid me give you this card. You would understand and pay, he
said."

"How much?"

"Six louis. It was arranged, he said, and I gave him the money before he
went this morning."

"He has gone?" called Barrington from his bed.

"Madame la Marquise heard of his arrival, Monsieur, and sent to fetch
him to lodgings in the castle. You will doubtless meet him in Beauvais
during the day."

"Six louis for this card?" questioned Seth. "It is a long price."

"If you were not a stranger in Beauvais you would know that it was very
cheap," answered the proprietor.

"Pay it," said Barrington.

Seth did so with a grumble, and wondered how much the proprietor was
making out of the deal.

"We have fallen among thieves, Master Richard," he said as he shut the
door. "I shouldn't wonder if any one could slip into this ball without
payment of any sort. We've made a long night of it."

"Weariness and wine," answered Barrington. "The wine was strong, or this
mountain air added to the potency of its effects upon us."

"Maybe. I never slept so soundly since I was a youngster."

"And I never had such horrible dreams," said Barrington.

"I've been thinking, Master Richard, that there may be worse than
thieves in Beauvais," said Seth, after a pause. "We're rather like men
at sea without the knowledge of how to handle ropes and set sail--an
extra puff of wind, and we risk being overturned. There's something to
learn about the methods of these Frenchmen, especially when every man
sees a possible enemy in his neighbor. The gentlemen at Trémont did not
much please me, nor was I greatly taken with Monsieur le Comte."

"We shall have plenty of time to learn their methods, Seth."

"But in the meanwhile the puff of wind may come, Master Richard. I don't
like this masked ball."

"You may trust me to be careful."

"Your idea of precaution and mine may differ a little," Seth answered.
"You don't see danger so far ahead as I do."

"That may be in my favor," laughed Richard. "Be at ease, Seth; I shall
do nothing rash. Neither our blatant friend Sabatier, nor our courteous
acquaintance of last night, shall catch me sleeping. I do not trust men
very easily, nor women either, for that matter."

"Ay, Master Richard, it's a weight off my mind to know that this
Mademoiselle St. Clair has so little attraction about her. I've been
young myself and know the power of women. You've not been through that
fire yet."

"A strange thing at my age, Seth. I have thought that no woman is likely
to plague me much."

"Get well into your grave before you think that," was the answer. "I'm
no hater of women, far from it, and I know a man's never safe. Why, a
chit of twenty may make a fool of a veteran, and set his tired old heart
trying to beat like that of a lad just out of his school days. Only last
year there was a girl in Virginia sent me panting along this road of
folly, and I'm not sure it wasn't Providence which sent me with you to
France."

Beauvais presented a lively scene that day, but it was in vain that
Barrington kept a sharp lookout for Monsieur le Comte and his friend.
Many people came and went from the château, but they were not among
them. Barrington did not particularly want to meet them, but he realized
that circumstances might arise which would make them useful, and he
would have liked to find out what position they held among the other
exiles in Beauvais. A prominent one, surely, since the Marquise had
fetched them to lodgings in the château, and therefore it was possible
that Barrington's arrival had puzzled them. They might reasonably doubt
whether he had any right to pose as an aristocrat and an exile,
suspicion would certainly follow, and sharp eyes might be upon him at
the ball to-night. Even as a go-between in a love affair there might be
some danger for him, but was his mission only that?

When he left his lodgings that evening he had disguised himself as much
as possible. He wore a cloak which his acquaintances of last night had
not seen, he had procured a mask which hid as much of his face as
possible. He went armed, and fastened in the lining of his coat was the
little gold star he had taken from the dead man's coat. He fingered it
through the cloth to make sure that it was safe as he crossed the,
square and went toward the château. Seth may have been right, and the
six louis thrown away, for no one took any notice of Barrington as he
passed into the castle. Although he gave up his card of invitation, he
was convinced that with a little diplomacy and a bold front he could
have got in without one.

Exteriorly the castle retained much of its mediæval appearance, and
within the new had been cleverly and lovingly grafted onto the old.
There were still dungeons enclosed in these massive walls, chambers
wherein misery and pain had cried aloud to no effect. There were narrow
passages down which tortured men must once have been carried, or at the
end of which some oubliette opened to sudden destruction. Many horrible
things must be in the knowledge of this massive masonry. The great hall,
where men at arms, after a foray or raid upon some neighboring
stronghold, must have caroused times without number, making the roof
ring with their rude rejoicing, was alive to-night with men and women,
exiles forgetting their exile for a while or exchanging news which might
mean a speedy return to their homeland. All were masked, although it was
apparent that many had no difficulty in recognizing their neighbors
under the disguise, but although there were a few brilliant costumes
and occasional flashes of jewels, the general impression of dress was
sombre and makeshift. How could it be otherwise when the flight from
Paris, or from the provinces, had been so sudden, no preparation
possible?

At one side of the hall, the center of a little group, stood a
white-haired woman of commanding presence. Jewels flashed in her dress,
and there was laughter about her. Evidently this was the Marquise de
Rovère, and she was busy welcoming her guests. With some it was more
than a passing word of greeting, there was news to be imparted by one
lately in communication with Austria or Prussia, or perchance with
England; there was the latest news from Paris to be had from one who had
just escaped from his enemies; there was news, too, of friends who had
not been so fortunate, or who had willingly stayed to face the storm;
there were rumors which had been gathered from all sources to be
whispered. This château of Beauvais was a meeting place, a center for
much scheming; and for a while the hours must be made to pass as
pleasantly as possible.

These men and women were different from those he had come in contact
with, of a different world altogether; yet his youth responded to the
music and verve of it all. Because it was different, new and unfamiliar
to him, that was no proof that what he had known was right, and this was
wrong. His blood was pulsating, the atmosphere was exhilarating.
Pleasure flung him her gauge, why should he not pick it up? A woman was
beside him, dark eyes flashing through her mask, red lips wreathed into
a smile. The next moment reserve had broken down and he was dancing with
her, acquitting himself with sufficient grace to pass muster, and
almost as ready with his compliment as she was to receive it.

"We shall dance again, monsieur," she said presently, when another
partner carried her away.

"Until then I shall count the moments," Barrington answered, and it was
perhaps this suggestion of the future which brought to his mind the real
reason for his presence there.

A large woman, with raven hair, and of such a figure that it shook when
she walked; among the dancers there were many who might pass for large
women, the hair of one or two might be considered raven, but there was
not one who completed the full description he had had of Mademoiselle
St. Clair. Certainly she was not among those who stood near the
Marquise, and Barrington went from vantage point to vantage point in
search of her. Neither could he discover Monsieur le Comte or his
friend. Lodged in the château, they had possibly obtained richer
garments, and would be difficult to identify. The fulfillment of his
mission was not to be so easy as he had imagined.

He had been watching from a corner near the entrance to the ballroom,
partially concealed by a little knot of people who were standing before
him. He could have overheard their conversation, but he was not
listening. He was wondering how he could find mademoiselle. There was
surely some other apartment where guests were, for his eyes were keen,
and he had certainly not seen her yet.

"Monsieur does not dance?"

Barrington turned quickly. The little crowd which had stood in front of
him had gone, and near him was a woman. It was difficult to know whether
her words were a statement of fact, question or invitation.

"I have danced, mademoiselle."

"And are now waiting for some one?"

"No. If mademoiselle will honor me I--"

"I also have danced many times, monsieur, and am inclined to rest a
little."

Barrington looked at her, and a pair of violet eyes met his glance
through her mask, deep, almost unfathomable eyes, difficult to read and
filled with the light that lures men on to strange and wonderful things.
Her auburn hair had brown and darker shadows in it, the color one may
see in a distant wood in late autumn when the sun touches it; her
transparent skin was delicately tinted, such a tint as may be seen in
rare china. Her small, well-shaped mouth seemed made for smiles, yet
there was a line of firmness in it suggestive of determination. There
was a cadence in her voice, a musical rise and fall which held an
appeal. The lines of her figure were graceful, there was youth and vigor
in every movement, and without being above the medium height, the pose
of her head on her shapely shoulders gave her a certain air of
stateliness, natural and becoming to her it seemed. She was a woman
designed for happiness and laughter, Barrington thought, and he felt she
was not happy. He wondered if there were not tears in those violet eyes,
and he had a sudden longing to behold her without a mask. It would have
been easy for her to make him again forget his mission, and why he was
in the château of Beauvais. Youth recognized youth, and that indefinite
longing which is a part of youth seemed to enfold them for an instant.
Perhaps the woman felt it as much as he did, for she broke the silence
rather abruptly.

"I have noticed that monsieur has not entered much into the gayety."

Barrington was on his guard in a moment. He could not afford to be
questioned too closely.

"I am greatly honored by mademoiselle's notice."

"That is nothing," she returned as though the implied compliment
displeased her. "It seemed to me you were a stranger in Beauvais, and
strangers here may have sad memories behind them."

"They do their best to forget, mademoiselle," he answered. The laughter
of a woman as she passed, dancing, gave point to the assertion. "It is
wonderful. I cannot understand it."

"Better laugh and live than die weeping," she said. "Those who live
shall live to repay."

"And perchance some good shall come out of the evil."

She looked at him quickly.

"In Beauvais it is somewhat dangerous to be a philosopher, monsieur. We
cling to one idea which by brutal force has been driven into our
souls--revenge. It is not safe to preach anything short of that, we have
suffered too much."

"There was not such a deep meaning in my words," he said.

"Still, the warning may not be out of place," and she turned to leave
him.

"Before I go, mademoiselle, you may help me. Can you tell me where I
shall find Mademoiselle St. Clair?"

[Illustration: "Can you tell me where I shall find Mademoiselle St.
Clair?"]

"You know her?"

"Only by the description I have had of her."

"I wonder almost it was not sufficient to help you," and a smile played
at the corners of her mouth.

"Indeed, mademoiselle, I marvel at it, too, for I assure you the
description was most complete," laughed Barrington.

"From whom did you have it?"

"Pardon me if I am reticent on that point. It was given in confidence."

"You pique my curiosity."

"But you know her, mademoiselle?"

"Oh, yes."

"Cannot you guess how a man might describe her, with a desire perhaps to
be a little witty at her expense, and inclined to exaggerate?"

"Indeed, I cannot. Have you some message for her which I may deliver?"

"Again pardon, but I must speak to the lady myself."

"So far I can help you. If you will follow me, not too closely lest we
cause comment, I will bring you to her. I am supposing that you wish to
see her alone, that what you have to tell her is a secret."

"It is a secret, mademoiselle."

"Follow me, then. And monsieur will do well to note if any one shows
interest in our movements. We did not leave all intrigue and scandal
behind us."

It was easy to follow her. She was a woman apart from all the other
women about him, Barrington thought. Although he had only seen her
masked he would know her again, he believed, no matter in how crowded a
world of women he might meet her, no matter how long a time should pass
before such a meeting. Obeying her, he glanced swiftly to right and left
as he went. Eyes certainly turned to look after the woman, once or twice
indeed she stopped to speak a few words to some friend, but Barrington
could not discover that any one took the slightest notice of him.

A few paces separating them they crossed the great hall, and she
leisurely passed into the corridor without. When Barrington stepped
slowly into the corridor, he found that she had quickened her pace, and
at the end of it she had paused a moment that he might see which way she
turned. He followed more quickly, and found her in a small vestibule,
part of the old château. A lamp was hanging from the corner of a wall,
and on an oak settle were two or three lanterns with candles in them,
such as a servant carries to guide his master or mistress on a dark
night.

"Will monsieur light one from the lamp," she said hurriedly.

"I am to wait here while you fetch mademoiselle?" he asked. "Truly this
is a secret place for delivering a message."

"Not too secret," she answered. "I am Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"You!"

The exclamation was a whispered one. A confusion of thoughts was in his
brain. Already almost unconsciously he had laid the foundations of a
dream fabric, and these were destroyed suddenly, burying him for a
moment in the collapse.

"May I see monsieur unmasked?" she said.

Mechanically he removed the mask, and she looked into his face
earnestly. She gave no sign whether she expected to recognize him, but
it would seem that his face satisfied her, for she undid her mask and
stood before him. She was a woman, and beauty must ever be the keenest
weapon in woman's armory; there was a little glad triumph in her heart
as she realized that this man bowed before her beauty. Barrington was
startled that a mask could hide so much.

"Monsieur has been somewhat misled, it would seem, by his friend who
was witty at my expense and inclined to exaggerate."

"I have been deceived, and I shall punish him for the lie," Barrington
answered.

"I am at a loss to understand the deceit," she answered. "You have a
message for me. I may find some explanation in it."

"Upon the roadside as I--" Barrington began, and then stopped.
"Mademoiselle, forgive me, but such deceit makes a man suspicious. I was
told to seek Mademoiselle St. Clair in a fat, ugly, simpering woman, and
I find her in--in you. How can I be certain that you are Mademoiselle
St. Clair?"

"I see your difficulty. Your doubt does not anger me. Let me think. Will
it help you if I speak the name Lucien?"

"It seems convincing. Heaven grant, mademoiselle, that you are as
honorable as you are beautiful. I must needs believe so and trust you.
To you I can prove that I am an honest messenger," and Barrington tore
from the lining of his coat a tiny packet of tissue paper. "I have to
give you this little golden star, your gift to Lucien."

She took the packet with quick, trembling fingers, turned to the table,
and by the light of the lantern unfolded the paper. With a little clink
the star fell upon the table.

"This? This?" she said, starting back and pointing at it.

Barrington made a step forward at her sudden question, and then stood
still, staring at the token.

It was no star of gold which lay in the circle of the lantern light, but
a common thing of iron, roughly made, rusted and worthless.




CHAPTER V

THE WOOD END


Richard Barrington knew that he had fallen into some trap, the exact
nature of it and the danger he could not know. After a pause, a long
pause it seemed to Jeanne St. Clair, long enough for a villain to
fashion a lying tale, he turned to her.

"It seems, mademoiselle, that I have been robbed as well as deceived."

"In spite of that," she said, pointing to the iron token, "I am inclined
to listen to the message."

"Mademoiselle, I regret that I ever undertook to carry it. I had other
business in hand, but an oath to a dead man was binding."

"A dead man? Lucien?"

"I know nothing of Lucien. For all I know he may already be making merry
at my discomfiture. The dead man was one Rouzet, or so he told me, and
he called himself your servant."

"He was Lucien's servant, a faithful one," she answered.

"At least he was faithful in some one's service since he died in it, and
I can honor him for that even though he deceived me."

"You have told me so much you must tell me more," she said, a persuasive
tone in her voice.

She must hear the story. Whether this man were honest or not she must
make him speak. Whatever plot was on foot she must know it. To some one
surely Lucien had given the gold star. Much must depend on her receiving
the message he had sent with it.

"You must tell me," she repeated.

"And knowing far more than I do you may laugh at me for a simple
gentleman easily fooled. Still, he is something of a hero who can stand
being laughed at. Many years ago I had that from a countryman of yours,
the Marquis de Lafayette. I was on my way to visit him in Paris, when
this mission was thrust upon me."

Concisely but in every detail Barrington told her what had happened at
Trémont, and explained how he had become acquainted with Monsieur le
Comte at Beauvais. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that he had
come to France to place himself at the disposal of Monsieur de
Lafayette. If there were any risk in telling this woman so, he was
rather relieved to have real danger to face instead of lying and
intrigue; the one he might meet successfully, but he was no adept in
battling with the other.

"You took the star from Rouzet's coat after he was dead you say, are you
sure it was a gold star you took?"

"I made certain by looking at it."

"And you can thoroughly trust your servant?"

"As myself, mademoiselle."

"You have not told me your name," she said.

"Richard Barrington," he answered, and then he laughed a little. "Why I
trust you, I do not know. I may be putting it into your power to do me a
great deal of harm."

"If I have the power, I shall not use it," she answered.

There was a moment coming when she would have to decide whether these
words constituted a promise given without reservation, or whether the
promise were contingent on his being honest, as now she believed him to
be.

"For that I thank you," he returned.

"And you have my thanks for coming to Beauvais. That you have been
robbed only makes it clearer how bitter Lucien's enemies are. Have you
any plan, Monsieur Barrington, by which I could reach Paris in safety?"

The question set his thoughts rushing into a new channel. He felt
suddenly responsible for her, knew that to prevent her going even into
the shadow of harm he was prepared to face any danger. It was not her
beauty which influenced him, a moment ago he had been ready to despise
it if she were a deceitful woman; something more subtle than her beauty
appealed to him, herself, the revelation of herself which was in her
question.

"It is impossible for you to go to Paris, mademoiselle. The crowd of
refugees in this château is proof enough that the danger is too great.
How any man, no matter what his need may be, could ask you to put
yourself in such jeopardy, I cannot understand."

"Yet you undertook to bring the message to Beauvais. Was it in your mind
to advise that no notice should be taken of it?"

"Indeed, mademoiselle, I thought of little beyond fulfilling the oath I
had taken, and to go my way again as quickly as possible."

"The answer to the message must rest with me, Monsieur Barrington," she
said, quietly. "It was not by my own will that I left Paris. I am not
afraid to return. Will you help me?"

"Mademoiselle, I----"

"Please, Monsieur Barrington. It means life or death, perchance, to the
man I love."

"Curse him for asking you to face such a danger."

"Hush, you cannot understand," she said, putting her hand upon his arm.
"I know Lucien. From Beauvais you will journey to Paris. Will you let me
go with you?"

"No. I will not help you to your destruction. I will carry whatever
message you will to this man, but I will not do more."

"Then take this message: Jeanne St. Clair is on her way to Paris; she
asked my escort, but since I would not give it she has found another.
Tell him that, Monsieur Barrington."

"Have you no fear, mademoiselle?"

"For myself--none."

"Very well, I will try and see you safely into Paris. You will go most
easily as a woman of the people, one who has some aristocrat enemy on
whom she wishes to be avenged. Do you think you can play such a part?"

"I will do as you bid me."

"Hide your hair, mademoiselle; wear some hideous cloak which may do
something to spoil your beauty. If you will go, I may be a safer escort
than any other. I claim friendship with Monsieur de Lafayette, so I am
for the people. Even if we cause suspicion they will hardly prevent our
going to Paris. Your return----"

"We need not arrange for that now, monsieur. When will you start?"

"As soon as possible."

"To-morrow at dawn," she answered. "At the foot of the road leading up
to Beauvais, you will see to your left a wood which ends abruptly as it
approaches the valley down which we must go to the frontier. I have
papers that shall help me to pass. I have always known that I should
have to return to Paris. Amongst the trees at the end of the wood I will
come to you to-morrow--at dawn."

"I and my servant will await you there, mademoiselle. At least two men
shall do their utmost to protect you."

He picked up her mask which had fallen to the floor.

"Will you fasten it for me?" she said.

It was rather clumsily done. His fingers trembled a little as they
touched her hair. He was very close to her; her personality, the faint
perfume about her, took fast hold of him. What manner of man could this
Lucien be who had won the love of such a woman as this?

He put on his own mask, and then taking up the lantern followed her back
along the narrow stone passage. As she came to the corridor she stopped.

"Let me go alone," she said. "To-night we will not meet again. To-morrow
at dawn."

Barrington did not return to the ballroom, but after lingering in the
great hall for a few minutes with a view of deceiving any one who might
be watching his movements, he left the château. So far he had fulfilled
his oath, but he had discharged it only to accept a much greater
responsibility. To-morrow he would be riding towards Paris, the cavalier
of a beautiful aristocrat. The position must be full of danger for him;
truly it was thrust upon him against his will, yet there was an
elasticity in his step as he went back to his lodgings which suggested
compensations in the position. By a strange chain of circumstances,
Jeanne St. Clair had come into his life; there was something added to
the mere fact of living, whether of joy or pain he could not determine,
but he was very sure that his outlook upon life could never be quite the
same again. For good or ill this woman must influence him to some
extent, she could never pass out of his life again, leaving him as he
was before. There was a fresh wind blowing across the square of
Beauvais, yet it was powerless to disperse the subtle perfume which
lingered about him, which was an enfolding atmosphere, which must remain
with him always. He told his tale to Seth in a short, direct manner,
emphasizing no single point in it. The star had been stolen, when or how
he did not attempt to guess. Monsieur le Comte had grossly deceived
them, his purpose time would show. The woman was as far removed from his
description as pole is from pole. He had delivered his message, but
circumstances decreed that they could not return alone.

Seth listened to his young master, and made no comment until the tale
was ended.

"She is a beautiful woman, then."

"Yes, I think that would be the world's opinion. It is not her beauty
which has influenced me."

"Still, the future might have had less difficulty in it if a man had
quarrelled with you to-night instead of a woman pleaded," Seth answered.

"True enough, but one cannot choose the difficulties he will face. We
must take them as they come, and console ourselves with the reflection
that there is a good purpose somewhere behind them."

"For all that, Master Richard, there are some who overburden themselves
with difficulties which do not concern them. It will be pleasant
traveling with a pretty woman, but I fancy trouble is likely to ride in
our company, too. They mostly go together, women and trouble; and the
prettier the women are, the greater the trouble, that's my experience.
There's just one question in my mind: on which side are we ranged--with
the people or with the aristocrats?"

"With the people. Once this woman is in Paris, I----"

Seth looked at him, waiting for the completion of the sentence. It
remained unfinished.

"A wise pause, Master Richard. Who can tell what may happen in Paris?
Indeed, we may never reach Paris. At dawn, you said. That gives little
time for rest. In these hills the sun gets up early."

Dim twilight was on all the plain, darkness in the wood, when Richard
Barrington and Seth tied their horses to a tree and awaited the coming
of Jeanne St. Clair at the wood end. Ever the first to catch the fire
from the upcoming day, the summits of the great double mountain which
dominated the country blushed a faint rose color which each instant
glowed brighter and clearer, and then peak after peak was caught by the
same rose flush, and light, like a gracious benediction, fell slowly
into valley and gorge, while myriad shades of color pulsated into new
life in earth and sky. The two men watched this magic beauty of the dawn
in silence. So wondrous was it, so majestic, so far beyond the schemes
and thoughts of insignificant man, that it was almost impossible not to
see in it some portent, something of promise or warning. Even Seth,
practical and farseeing as he was, forgot the actualities of life for a
little space, while Richard's dreams took flight into that upper world
of rosy flame and forgot the deep valleys, dark with difficulty and
danger. This new day which was being born was perfect, with a beauty his
eyes had never seen before; the woman he waited for was perfect, too, a
revelation. She and the dawn filled his soul. They were more real than
anything past, present, or to come, and his being sang a Te Deum of
thanksgiving.

"She should be here," he said, turning to Seth and speaking in a hushed
voice without knowing that he did so.

Seth laid his hand sharply upon his arm, and pointed through the trees
to the road which came down to the plain from Beauvais. Four men were
approaching, walking quickly and talking together. They came straight
towards the end of the wood as men having a purpose.

"Quick! The horses!" said Barrington. "Draw back farther into the wood
and let them pass."

Holding their horses, and hidden among the trees, they watched the men
come to the spot where they had been a moment or two before. Here they
stopped, looked round on every side and listened.

"They are looking for us," Seth whispered. "It may be the lady cannot
come and has sent them to tell us so."

"Four of them!" Barrington said.

He did not move. These men were not lackeys, they were gentlemen.
Barrington wondered whether they had chosen this secluded spot to settle
some private quarrel of last night's making.

"Scented danger and gone," said one.

Another shook his head and stared into the depths of the wood before
him with such a keen pair of eyes that Barrington believed he must be
seen.

"Not a man to run from danger," he said, "unless mademoiselle were
strangely deceived."

The remark decided Barrington's course of action. He stepped forward
followed by Seth, who tied up the horses again and then took up a
position behind his master.

"Are you seeking me, gentlemen?"

"If your name be Monsieur Barrington," the man with the keen eyes
answered.

"It is."

The four men bowed low and Barrington did the same.

"My companion thought we were too late," said the spokesman, "but I had
a different opinion. We are four gentlemen devoted to Mademoiselle St.
Clair, and she has charged us with a commission."

"You are very welcome unless you bring bad news," said Barrington.

"For you it may be," was the answer with a smile. "Mademoiselle will not
need you to escort her to Paris."

Barrington had not sought such an honor. Until the moment he had
fastened her mask, touching her hair and touched by her personality, he
would rather have been without the honor; now he was disappointed,
angry. She had found another escort and despised him. She was as other
women, unreliable, changeable, inconstant.

"You bring some proof that mademoiselle has entrusted you with this
message."

"This," was the answer, and the man held up the little iron star.

"I am not greatly grieved to be relieved of such a responsibility,
gentlemen," said Barrington, with a short laugh. "Perhaps you will tell
mademoiselle so."

"Pardon, but monsieur hardly understands. For some purpose monsieur came
to Beauvais with an attempt to deceive mademoiselle with this little
iron trinket. It is not possible to let such a thing pass, and it is
most undesirable that monsieur should be allowed to have the opportunity
of again practicing such deceit. Mademoiselle listened to him, feigned
to be satisfied with his explanation, in fact, met deceit with deceit.
My opinion was that half a dozen lackeys should be sent to chastise
monsieur, but mademoiselle decided otherwise. You were too good to die
by a lackey's hand, she declared, therefore, monsieur, we are here."

"Four gentlemen for six lackeys!" laughed Barrington. "It is a strange
computation of values."

"The methods are different," was the answer. "I think we do you too much
honor, but mademoiselle has willed it. We have already arranged our
order of precedence, and monsieur has the pleasure of first crossing
swords with me. If his skill is greater than mine, then he will have the
pleasure of meeting these other gentlemen. You have my word for
honorable treatment, but it is necessary that the fight is to the
death."

"And my servant here?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. Seth was beneath his consideration.

"There would have been fewer words with the lackeys' method, I presume,"
said Barrington. "I am not inclined to fight a duel."

"Monsieur is a little afraid."

"As you will."

"Afraid as well as being a liar and deceiver of women?"

"As much one as the other," Barrington answered carelessly.

"Then, monsieur, I am afraid we shall have to employ lackeys' methods."

"Now we come to level ground and understand each other," said
Barrington. "There is no quarrel between us which a duel may settle. You
are four men bound together to take my life if you can, but you shall
not have the chance of taking it with a semblance of honesty by calling
it a duel. You attack two travellers; if you can, rob them of what you
will."

"That's better, Master Richard, I'm a poor hand at understanding jargon
of this kind, but I have an idea of how to deal with thieves and
murderers."

"Be careful, Seth," Barrington whispered.

The attack was immediate and sharp, without ceremony, and determined.
Misunderstanding Barrington's attitude they were perhaps a little
careless, believing him a coward at heart. Their methods, too, were
rather those of the duelist than the fighter, and this gave Barrington
and Seth some advantage. The keen-eyed man was as ready with his sword
as with his tongue. He had been confident of saving his companions from
soiling their blades had Richard consented to cross swords with him, and
he advanced upon his enemy to bring the battle to a speedy conclusion.
He even waved his companions aside, and it was with him Barrington had
first to deal. Their blades were the first to speak, and in a moment the
Frenchman knew that he had no mean swordsman to do with.

"This would have been keen pleasure had you been a gentleman," he said.

Barrington did not answer. He was armed for real warfare, his weapon
was heavier than his opponent's and he took advantage of the fact. This
was fighting, not dueling; and he beat the weapon down, snapping the
blade near the hilt. The next moment the other Frenchman had engaged him
fiercely.

With Seth there was even greater advantage. He was a servant and a
lackey, and the punctilious gentlemen opposed to him were not inclined
to cross swords with him. They looked to see him show fear, the very
last thing in the world he was likely to do. Seth's arm was long and his
method of fighting more or less his own, the most unceremonious,
possibly, that these gentlemen had ever had to do with. Deeply cut in
the wrist one man dropped his sword. In a moment Seth's foot was upon
it, and as he turned to meet his other adversary he had taken a pistol
from his pocket.

The Frenchman uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Seth laughed.

"If not the sword point, a bullet; either will serve," he said.

Then Seth was conscious of two things, one a certainty, the other
imagination perhaps. Across his enemy's shoulder he caught sight of the
road which led up to Beauvais, and down it came two men running towards
the wood. After all, their opponents were to be six instead of four.
This was certain. His master was separated from him by a few paces, and
it seemed to Seth that he was being hard pressed. At any rate, if it
were not so, the two men running towards them must turn the scale.
Feigning a vigorous onslaught upon his opponent, who was already
somewhat disconcerted, Seth deliberately fired at the man fighting his
master, who fell backwards with a cry.

"Seth!" Richard exclaimed.

"Look! there are two more running to the attack. This is a time to waive
ceremony and be gone. To horse, Master Richard!"

The keen-eyed man, who had been powerless being without a sword, now
caught up the weapon which the fallen man had dropped.

"There's another pistol shot if you move," cried Seth, with one foot in
the stirrup.

It is doubtful whether the threat would have stopped him, but the two
men suddenly running towards him through the trees did. He knew them and
they were not expected.

Barrington and Seth seized the opportunity, and putting spurs to their
horses were riding towards the head of the valley which led down to the
frontier. They broke into a gallop as soon as they reached the road, and
for some time neither of them spoke.

"Had we waited the whole of Beauvais would have been upon us. All's fair
in war."

"And in love, they say," Barrington added.

A low growl expressed Seth's opinion on this point.

"Right, Seth, right," was the bitter answer. "I have had my lesson, and
enough of women for a lifetime. You have your wish. We ride alone to
Paris."

The two men who entered the wood as Barrington and Seth rode out of it
were lackeys, and ran to their master.

"Monsieur! Monsieur!"

"What is it?" he asked with an angry oath.

"Monsieur, there is some mistake. Mademoiselle St. Clair left Beauvais
last night before the dance was over at the château."




CHAPTER VI

TWO PRODUCTS OF THE REVOLUTION


In the Rue Valette, a street of long memory, down which many students
had passed dreaming, Calvin not least among them, there was a baker's
shop at the corner of an alley. Students still walked the streets, and
others, dreaming too, after a fashion, but not much of books. In these
days there were other things to dream of. Life moved quickly, crowdedly,
down the Rue Valette, and this baker's shop had gathered more than one
crowd about it in recent days. Life and such a shop Were linked
together, linked, too, with government. Give us bread, was one of the
earliest cries in the Revolution. Is not bread, the baker's shop, the
real center of all revolutions?

Behind this shop, entered by the alley, was a narrow courtyard, not too
clean a depository for rubbish and broken articles, for refuse as well,
which on hot days sent contamination into the air. A doorway, narrow and
seldom closed, gave directly on to a stairway, and on the first landing,
straight in front of the stairs, was a door always closed, usually
locked, yet at a knock it would be immediately opened. Behind it two
rooms adjoined, their windows looking into the court. The furniture was
sparse and common, the walls were bare, no more than a worn rug was upon
the floor, but on a hanging shelf there were books, and paper and pens
were on a table pushed against the wall near the window. The lodging of
a poor student, a descendant, and little altered, of generations of
students' lodgings known in this city of Paris since it had first been
recognized as the chief seat of learning in Europe.

The student himself sat at the table, a book opened before him. He was
leaning back in his chair, thoughtfully, his mind partly fixed on what
he had been reading, partly on other matters. He was not only a student,
but a man of affairs besides. For most men the affairs would have closed
the books permanently, they were sufficient, full enough of ambition and
prospect, to do so, but Raymond Latour was not as other men. Life was a
long business, not limited by the fiery upheaval which was shaking the
foundations of social order. There was the afterwards, when the
excitement would be burned out, when the loud orators and mad
enthusiasts should find no occupation because none wished to hear them
talk. The sudden tide sweeping them into prominence for a moment would
assuredly destroy many and leave others stranded and useless, but for a
few there was the realization of ambition. Those few must have power to
grapple with their surroundings, brains to hold fast to the high
position upon which the tide wave must fling them. Of these Raymond
Latour would be. The determination was expressed in every feature, in
the steel gray eyes, in the firm set mouth, in the square and powerful
build of the man. Nature had given him inches above his fellows, muscles
which made them courteous to him; and study had given him the power to
use men. His ability was recognized and appreciated, his companions had
thrust him into prominence, at the first somewhat against his will, but
carried on the crest of the wave of popularity one easily becomes
ambitious. He was of the Jacobins Club, almost as constant an attendant
there as Robespierre himself, holding opinions that were not to be
shaken. He was not of those who had thought the Jacobins slow and had
massed themselves, with Danton and the Club of the Cordeliers, nor was
he with the milder Lafayette and the Feuillants Club; he was no blind
follower of any party, yet he was trusted without being thoroughly
understood. It was difficult to decide which held the higher place with
him, his country or his own interests. He could not have answered the
question himself as he leaned back in his chair, a flood of thoughts
rushing through his brain, one thought more prominent than the rest,
destined perchance to absorb all others.

There were footsteps on the stairs without, and a knocking at the door.
The visitor had swaggered up the Rue Valette, conscious that some turned
to look at him as a man to be feared and respected, yet his manner
changed as he passed through the alley, the swagger lessened with each
step he mounted, and when Latour opened the door to him, the visitor was
full of respect, almost cringing respect. Here was a strange caricature
of equality!

"Welcome, Sabatier, I was thinking of you. What news?"

"The best. She has come. To-night she is a league from Paris at the
tavern of the Lion d'Or on the Soisy road."

"Good news, indeed," Latour answered, and a flush came into his face as
he turned away from his visitor as though to hide some weakness in his
character. "How was it accomplished?"

"By Mercier turning first thief, then aristocrat, and playing each part
so well that it seems to me he is now doubtful which he is. I have only
just returned from the Lion d'Or."

"You saw her?"

"No, citizen. She is still in ignorance of her destination in Paris."

"She comes here to-morrow," said Latour, sharply, and his steel gray
eyes were suddenly fixed on Sabatier as though they went straight to his
soul with the penetration of a shoemaker's awl. "She is to be delivered
to me, and you and the others had best forget that you have been engaged
on any private mission."

"It is easy to serve Citizen Latour," Sabatier said.

"Spoken as a brother," was the answer. "It is advantageous to serve him
as it would be dangerous to play him false, eh? Sabatier, my friend,
most of us have some private revenge locked away in our hearts, the lack
of opportunity alone prevents our satisfying it. In these times there is
much opportunity, it is that alone which makes us seem more vindictive
than men in more peaceable circumstances. Forget that you have helped me
to mine, do not ask what form that revenge is to take. I may some day
help you to yours and be as secret and reticent."

"I shall not forget the promise," Sabatier returned, and it was easy to
see that he was pleased with the confidence placed in him.

"First thing in the morning get to the inn and tell Mercier and Dubois
to bring her here. She must be made to understand that her safety
depends upon it. They need tell her nothing more."

Sabatier had his hand upon the door to depart when Latour stopped him.

"What about the man who was robbed, this aristocrat you found at
Trémont?"

"Safe in Beauvais, citizen, where he is likely to remain. I put fear
into him at Trémont and he ran."

"He may come to Paris."

"Then he is easily dealt with," Sabatier answered, and went out.

He was a friend of Citizen Latour, a trusted friend; his swagger was
greater than ever as he went down the Rue Valette.

Half an hour later Raymond Latour passed along the street, avoiding
publicity rather than courting it. He walked quickly until he came to
the Rue St. Honoré, when his pace slackened a little and he grew more
thoughtful. His whole scheme was complete, and he reviewed every point
of it to make certain there was no flaw in it. He became suddenly
conscious of a man walking in front of him, one of many in the street
yet distinct from them all. He was slight, so slight that he seemed
tall, walked delicately, something feminine about him, a weak man,
perhaps, whom strong men would despise; yet heads were turned to look
after him, and a second glance found something definite and determined
in the delicate walk, something feline. He went forward noticing none,
straight forward, men of bigger bulk stepping out of his path. Latour,
whose thoughts were of self just now, not of country, went more slowly
still. He had no desire to overtake this man although he knew him well,
and dawdled until he saw him enter a cabinet-maker's shop. All Paris
knew that here Maximilian Robespierre had his lodging.

Latour quickened his pace and entered a house at the corner of a side
street. Yes, his master, the Citizen Bruslart was in, was the answer to
his inquiry, and the suspicion of a smile touched Latour's face at the
man's hesitation. After waiting a few moments he was announced, and
smiled again a little as he entered a room on the first floor, it was so
unlike his own, even as the occupant was unlike him.

"You favor me by this visit," said Bruslart, rising to welcome his
guest.

"You have not yet heard the reason of it."

If Latour expected his host to show any sign of anxiety he was
disappointed, and it was the man's nature to respect courage even in an
enemy. He hardly counted Bruslart as such, outwardly indeed they were
friends. Had Lucien Bruslart been a coward he would hardly have occupied
such an apartment as this and surrounded himself with so much luxury.
There was danger in luxury, yet it was a part of the man, fitted him,
was essential to him. He called himself citizen, sought the society of
patriots, talked as loudly as any. He had talked to such purpose that,
arrested and imprisoned as a dangerous aristocrat, he had been released
and welcomed as a true son of Paris. For all this, he was an aristocrat
to his finger tips, hated the very atmosphere of a true patriot, and
washed their touch from his hands with disgust. His own interests were
his paramount concern, he was clever enough to deceive friends and foes
as it suited him; even Latour was doubtful how to place him. He was a
handsome man, and had found that count for something even in
Revolutionary Paris; he was a determined man, with wit, and that art of
appearing to hide nothing. An aristocrat! By the misfortune of birth
that was all. A patriot! It was a safe profession. Luxury! Why not?

"Is my country in need of my services?"

"Always; but this happens to be a private matter," Latour answered.
"You have been in the Conciergerie, citizen."

"It is not very long since I was released," was the answer.

"Fear touched you in the Conciergerie."

"Narrow walls and uncertainty are unpleasant. You will know what I mean
if you should ever be as unfortunate as I was."

"And a servant, fearful for your safety, fled to your friends for help.
Is that so?"

"I have heard it since my release. He is a faithful fellow, and acted on
his own initiative."

"Entirely?" asked Latour.

"Entirely. Let me be fair to him. I do not fear danger, citizen, but I
have eyes to see its existence. It exists for honest men as well as
others, and I have said to Rouzet, that was his name, 'If harm should
come to me try and carry news to those who still love me in spite of the
fact that I have turned patriot,' I even gave him a little gold trinket
that it might be known his news was true."

"Since your release have you sent another messenger to prevent
Mademoiselle St. Clair from coming to Paris?"

"She is coming to Paris!" Bruslart exclaimed, half rising.

"Have you taken any steps to prevent her doing so?" asked Latour.

"Do you suppose I would have called her here on my account? She is not a
patriot. She would come to her death."

"That might be a way in which you could serve your country; a decoy to
attract lovers and friends."

"Are you serious? Is this the meaning of your visit?"

"What is your answer to it?"

"Rather the guillotine, citizen. Is the answer short and definite
enough?"

"Short enough and well spoken," said Latour, with a smile. "You will
rejoice to hear that your messenger never reached mademoiselle."

For an instant Bruslart seemed surprised, but it was impossible to tell
whether it was at the failure or at the fact that his visitor knew so
much.

"If you can assure me this is true, I shall rejoice," he said. "I have
been imprudent. It did not occur to me that she might come to Paris."

"A woman who loves will do much."

"If she loves. Women sometimes deceive themselves and us. But tell me
how you are able to bring me this news."

"You were an aristocrat, citizen, therefore suspected and watched. Your
servants were watched, too, and this man's movements were noted. He was
followed out of Paris. He was caught upon the road and questioned. Some
patriots have rough manners, as you know, and your servant was faithful,
perchance showed fight. All I know for certain is that he is dead."

"Poor Rouzet," said Bruslart, covering his face with his hands for a
moment. "Poor Rouzet, I believe his family has been attached to ours for
some generations."

"And were more faithful than their masters, doubtless. No, citizen, the
words do not refer to you, you are no longer an aristocrat," Latour went
on quickly. "Still, a word of friendly advice, you talk too much like
one. I understand, but the people are ignorant."

"Thank you for your advice. I must be myself whatever else I am."

"As a patriot it would be well to think no more of mademoiselle," Latour
went on. "Such love is unnatural the people will affirm. Are there not
women in Paris as beautiful? Find one to love and there will be proof of
your patriotism."

"You take much interest in me," said Bruslart.

"Is there not a kind of friendship between us?" was the reply. "Were I
Lucien Bruslart, I should leave Paris. I know a man who would do
something to help him."

Bruslart looked at him steadily for a moment. "Again I thank you," he
said quietly, "but, my friend, you are not the only man who is competent
to prophesy in what direction things may turn. You have set yourself a
goal to win, so have I. It would almost seem that you expect our aims to
clash."

"Diable! Is that all you can see in good advice," said Latour. "I
thought your wit went deeper."

"Need we quarrel?" said Bruslart.

"No; let us laugh at each other. In our different ways, doubtless, we
shall both be satisfied."

Latour did not often laugh, but he laughed now as he turned to the door.
The curtains over the archway leading to an inner room swayed outwards
with the draught as he opened the door, and then seemed to draw back
suddenly, as Latour said good-by, still laughing. The door was closed,
the footsteps went quickly down the stairs, the curtains hung straight
for a little space. Then they parted sharply, and a woman, holding them
on either side of her, stood between them.




CHAPTER VII

A JEALOUS WOMAN


The archway archway into the inner room was behind Bruslart, but he did
not turn as the curtains parted. He knew the woman was hidden in that
room, she had gone there when Latour was announced; he knew that she
must have overheard the conversation, that she would ask questions, but
for the moment he was absorbed in Latour's news. That Rouzet had failed
to reach Beauvais was a disaster he had not reckoned upon.

"Lucien!"

"My direct and opinionated friend has gone, Pauline, you may come out of
hiding."

Still for a moment the woman stood there grasping the curtains, as
though she would will the man to turn and look at her. She was angry,
the flash in her eyes Was evidence of the fact, yet she was not
unconscious of the picture she made at that moment. A woman is seldom
angry enough to forget her beauty. Beautiful she certainly was, or
Lucien Bruslart would have taken little interest in her. Beauty was as
necessary to him as luxury, and in this case was even more dangerous.
Here was another proof that he was no coward, or he would surely not
have placed himself in the hands of Pauline Vaison. She was dark, her
figure rather full, voluptuous yet perfect in contour. Her movements
were quick, virile, full of life, seductive yet passionate. She was a
beautiful young animal, her graces all unstudied, nature's gifts, a
dangerous animal if roused, love concealing sharp claws ready to tear in
pieces if love were spurned. Her personality might have raised her to
power in the dissolute Court of the fifteenth Louis, even in this Paris
of revolution she might play a part.

Letting the curtains fall together she came and faced Lucien, who looked
at her and smiled.

"I heard all he said. I listened."

"Interesting, wasn't it?" Lucien answered. "It is a marvel to me how
fast news travels, and how important unimportant things become. I
shouldn't Wonder if he knows exactly what I have eaten to-day."

"Paris knows something of Latour," she answered. "He is not a man to
waste his time over trifles."

"It certainly appears that he considers me of some consequence since he
troubled to visit me."

"And you lied to him."

"My dear Pauline, you are imaginative. Kiss me. You are a delightful
creature. I never spend an hour in your company but I discover some new
grace in you."

Her kisses were not to be had when she was angry.

"You lied to him and you have deceived me," she said, still standing
before him, her body erect, her hands clinched.

"It is not always advisable to speak the exact truth, you know that well
enough, Pauline; but I have not deceived you. Does a man deceive the
woman he really loves?"

"The lie and the deceit are one," she returned. "You sent for this other
woman, this Mademoiselle St. Clair. It was not your servant's plan.
Latour was a fool to believe you."

"Was he? My dear, wise Pauline, his point of view and yours are not the
same. You are jealous, whereas he--"

"I stop at nothing when I am jealous," she said. "The sooner you
discover that phase in my character the better for you, Lucien."

"I discovered that after I had known you ten minutes," laughed Lucien,
"and I am not afraid. Shall I tell you why? I have not deceived you, nor
have I any intention of doing so. This Latour is too inquisitive, and
inquisitiveness is always asking for a lie. Latour got it and is quite
satisfied. Mademoiselle Pauline Vaison is a woman, a woman in love, and
just because she is so, is suspicious. All women in love are. So I have
not told her all my plans. To complete them it was necessary to get
Mademoiselle St. Clair to Paris, so I sent for her."

"You are in love with her. You--"

"She is rich," Bruslart answered. "Her fortune is in her own hands.
Wait, Pauline. Had I wanted to marry her, what was to prevent my
crossing the frontier when so many of my friends and acquaintances did?
But I am in love with her fortune. If I am to make myself felt in Paris,
if I am to do what I have set my heart to accomplish, money I must have.
True, I am not penniless like some of our ragged patriotic comrades,
but, believe me, power will eventually rest with the man who can scatter
the most gold to the people. That man I am scheming to be."

"Therefore you would marry this woman," said Pauline.

"Therefore I would obtain part of her fortune."

"That is what I say; you would marry her."

"No, I had not thought of that," said Bruslart, carelessly.

"How, then, can you obtain it?"

"Once she is in Paris, there are many plans to choose from. I have not
yet decided which one to take; but certainly it will not be marriage.
She, too, is a woman in love, and such a woman will do much for a man. A
few marks of a pen and I am rich, free to work towards my end, free to
help Mademoiselle St. Clair to return to Beauvais. You say you heard all
that Latour told me?"

"Everything."

"Then you heard his advice concerning marriage. Find a woman in Paris,
as beautiful, more beautiful than this emigré aristocrat, a woman who is
a patriot, a true daughter of France, marry her, prove yourself and see
how the shouting crowds will welcome you. Latour might have known this
part of my scheme, so aptly did he describe it. I have found the woman,"
and he stretched out his hand to her.

"Lucien!"

She let him draw her down beside him, his caress was returned with
interest.

"Together, you and I are going to climb, Pauline. For me a high place in
the government of France, not the short authority of a day; brains and
money shall tell their tale. Citizen Bruslart shall be listened to and
obeyed. Citizeness Bruslart shall become the rage of all Paris. Listen,
Pauline. I have cast in my lot with the people, but I have something
which the people have not, a line of ancestors who have ruled over those
about them. Revolution always ends in a strong individual, who often
proves a harder master than the one the revolution has torn from his
place. I would be that man. Two things are necessary, money and you."

"And your messenger has failed to reach mademoiselle," she whispered.

"Another messenger may be found," he said, quietly. "Besides, it is just
possible that Latour was lying, too."

"Perhaps you are right;" and then she jumped up excitedly, "I believe
you are right. What then? Other men may be scheming for her wealth as
well as you."

"And others besides Latour have spies in the city," Bruslart answered.

"You are wonderful, Lucien, wonderful, and I love you."

She threw herself into his arms with an abandon which, like all her
other actions, was natural to her; and while he held her, proud of his
conquest, not all Lucien's thoughts were of love. Could Pauline Vaison
have looked into his soul, could she have seen the network of scheming
which was in his mind, the chaotic character of many of these plans,
crossing and contradicting one another, a caricature, as it were, of a
man's whole existence in which good and evil join issue and rage and
struggle for the mastery, even then she would not have understood. She
might have found that one end was aimed at more constantly than any
other--self, yet in the schemes of most men self plays the most
prominent part, and is not always sordid and altogether despicable. She
would not have understood her lover; he did not understand himself. He
was a product of the Revolution, as were thousands of others walking the
Paris streets, or busy with villainies in country places; character was
complex by force of circumstances, which, under other conditions, might
have been simple and straightforward. With some a certain
straightforwardness remained, not always directed to wrong ends. It was
so in Lucien Bruslart. It was not easy for him to be a scoundrel, and
self was not always master. Even with Pauline Vaison in his arms he
thought of Jeanne St. Clair, and shuddered at the way he had spoken of
her to this woman. What would happen if Jeanne came to Paris? For a
moment the horrible possibilities seemed to paralyze every nerve and
thought. He spoke no word, he did not cease his caressing, yet the woman
suddenly released herself as though his train of thought exerted a
subtle influence over her, and stood before him again, not angrily, yet
with a look in her eyes which was a warning. So an animal looks when
danger may be at hand.

"If you were to deceive me," she said, in a low voice, almost in a
whisper, the sound of a hiss in it.

"Deceive you?"

It was not easily said, but a question only half comprehended, as when
one is recalled from a reverie suddenly, or awakes from a dream at a
touch.

"To deceive me would be hell for both of us, for all of us," said the
woman.

He tried to laugh at her, but he could not even bring a smile to his
lips at that moment.

Pauline caught his hand and pulled him to the window, opened it, and
pointed.

"There. You know what I mean," she said.

The roar of Paris floated up to them, the daily toil, the noise of it,
its bartering, its going and coming. Men and women must live, even in a
revolution, and to live, work. Underneath it all there was something
unnatural, a murmur, a growl, the sound of an undertone, secret, cruel,
deadly; yet the woman's pointing finger was all Lucien was conscious of
just now.

"You know what I mean," she repeated.

He shook his head slightly, dubiously, for he partly guessed. In that
direction was the Place de la Revolution.

"If this other woman should take my place, if you lied to me, I would
have my revenge. It would be easy. She is an aristocrat. One word from
me, and do you think you could save her? Yonder stands the guillotine,"
and she made a downward sweep of the arm. "It falls like that. You
couldn't save her."

Lucien stood looking straight before him out of the window. Pauline
still held his hand. She waited for him to speak, and when he did not,
she shook his hand.

"Do you hear what I say?"

"Yes" and then?"

"Then, Lucien, I should have no rival. You would be mine. If not, if you
turned from me for what I had done--God! That would be awful, but I
would never forgive, never. I would speak again. I would tell them many
things. Nothing should stop me. You should die too. That is how I love.
Lucien, Lucien, never make me jealous like that."

She kissed his hand passionately, then held it close to her breast. He
could feel her heart beat quickly with her excitement.

"That would put an end to all my scheming, wouldn't it?" he said,
drawing her back and closing the window. "Perhaps Latour would thank
you."

"I wasn't thinking of Latour," and she clung to him and kissed him on
the lips.

Into Lucien's complex thought Latour had come, not unnaturally, since
this conversation. This exhibition of latent jealousy was the outcome of
his visit. Without formulating any definite idea, he felt in a vague way
that Latour's career was in some way bound up with his own. There was
something in common between them, each had an interest for the other and
in his concerns. Lucien did not understand why, but Latour might have
found an answer to the question as he went back to the Rue Valette.

He was not sure whether Bruslart had spoken the truth, he did not much
care, yet he felt a twinge of conscience. It troubled him because he had
not much difficulty in salving his conscience as a rule. It was
generally easy to make the ends justify the means. He had taken no
notice of the swaying curtains as he left Bruslart. He never guessed
that a woman stood behind them. There might have been no prick of
conscience had he known of Pauline Vaison.

He entered the baker's shop in the Rue Valette. Behind the little
counter, on which were a few loaves and pieces of bread, an old woman
sat knitting.

"Will you give me the key of those rooms? I want to see that everything
is prepared."

The old woman fumbled in her pocket and gave him the key without a word.

"She comes to-morrow," said Latour. "You will not fail to do as I have
asked and look after her well."

"Never fear; she shall be a pretty bird in a pretty cage."

Latour paused as he reached the door. "She is a dear friend, no more nor
less than that, and this is a nest, not a cage. Do you understand?"

The old woman nodded quickly, and when he had gone, chuckled. She had
lived long in the world, knew men well, and the ways of them with women.
There might be some things about Citizen Latour which set him apart
from his fellows, but all men were the same concerning women.

Latour crossed the courtyard and went quickly up the stairs to the
second floor. The rooms here corresponded with his own below, yet how
different they were. Everything was fresh and dainty. Cheap, but pretty,
curtains hung before the windows and about the alcove where the bed was.
The furnishing was sufficient, not rich, yet showing taste in the
choice; two or three inexpensive prints adorned the walls, and on the
toilet table were candlesticks, a china tray, and some cut-glass
bottles. The boards were polished, and here and there was a rug or strip
of carpet; the paint was fresh and white--white was the color note
throughout. Here was the greatest luxury possible to a shallow pocket,
very different from Bruslart's room, yet with a character of its own.
Latour had chosen everything in it with much thought and care. He had
spent hours arranging and rearranging until his sense of the beautiful
was satisfied. Now he altered the position of a rug, and touched a
curtain by the bed to make it fall in more graceful folds. Then he sat
down to survey his work as a whole.

Still there was the prick of conscience, not very sharp, indeed, and
becoming less persistent as he argued with himself. The Raymond Latour
of to-day was a different man from the old Raymond Latour, the poor
student, the nobody. Was he not mounting the ladder rung by rung, higher
and higher every day? He had been listened to in the Legislative
Assembly, applauded; he was a man of mark in the Convention. He was
still poor, and his ambition was not towards wealth. The road lay
straight before him; it led to fame, he meant it also to lead to love.
Give him love, and these little white rooms were all the kingdom he
asked to reign in. Love, the only love that had ever touched him. He
remembered its first coming. A restive horse, a young girl in a carriage
and in danger. It was nothing to seize the horse, hold it, and quiet it;
he had flushed and stammered when the girl had thanked him, all
unconsciously casting the spell of her great beauty over him. Never
again had he spoken to her. He was only a poor student, the child of
simple folk in the country dead long ago; she was of noble birth, her
home a palace, her beauty toasted at Versailles He saw her often,
waiting to see her pass, and each day he thought of her, setting her on
the high altar of his devotion. He knew that his must always be a silent
worship, that she could never know it. Then suddenly had come the
change, the tide of revolution. The people were the masters. He was of
the people, of growing importance among them. The impossible became the
possible. He had education, power he would have. Strong men have made
their appeal to women, the world over, in every age. Why should not this
woman love him? The very stars seemed to have fought for him. She would
be here to-morrow, here in Paris, in danger; here, in these rooms, with
no man so able to protect her as himself. He had spoken among his
fellows and won applause, could he not speak to just one woman in the
world and win love?

"This is a nest, not a cage," he murmured. "To-morrow, I shall speak
with her to-morrow."

It must have been almost at this same moment that Pauline Vaison flung
open the window and Lucien Bruslart looked in the direction of her
pointing finger toward the Place de la Revolution.




CHAPTER VIII

ON THE SOISY ROAD


The Lion d'Or on the Soisy Road was well known to travelers. Here the
last change of horses on the journey to Paris was usually made, or, as
was often the case, a halt for the night and arrangement made for an
early departure next morning. In these days it was no place of call for
those who would leave the capital secretly. Patriots were inclined to
congregate about the Lion d'Or and to ask awkward questions. Even in
fustian garments nobility hides with difficulty from keen and suspicious
eyes. For those traveling towards Paris, however, there was not such
close scrutiny. If they were enemies of the state, Paris would deal with
them. There were lynx-eyed men at the city barriers, and a multitude of
spies in every street.

To-day three travelers had halted at the Lion d'Or, travel-stained,
horses weary, going no farther until to-morrow. One of the three was a
woman, a peasant woman wearing the tri-color cockade, who was needed in
Paris to give evidence against an aristocrat. That was good news, and
better still, her fellow-travelers were undoubtedly true patriots and
had the will and the wherewithal to pay for wine. There was no need to
trouble the woman with questions. She might be left alone to gloat over
her revenge, while patriots made merry over their drinking.

She was alone, in a poor room for a guest, one of the poorest in the
inn, but good enough for a peasant woman. Her companions had shown her
the advisability of choosing this room rather than another. She would be
undisturbed here after her frugal meal, except by her companions
perchance, and she had thrown back her rough cloak, showing fustian
garments beneath, yet she was a strange peasant woman surely. Hands and
face were stained a little, as though from exposure to sun and weather,
but underneath the skin was smooth. Exposure had cut no lines in the
face, labor had not hardened the hands. At the inn door her form had
seemed a little bent, but alone in this room she stood straight as an
arrow.

One of her companions entered presently. Citizen Mercier he called
himself; a hateful name handle, he explained, but necessary for their
safety. He wore the tri-color, too, and plumed himself that he passed
for as good a patriot as any. He closed the door carefully.

"So far we have managed well, mademoiselle. I have found a friend here
who will ride into Paris and bring us word in the morning how we can
most safely enter the city. We must be a little patient."

"Did he know anything of Lucien Bruslart?"

"I did not ask. It was difficult to get a moment to whisper to each
other. And I will not stay with you. It would not be wise to take too
much interest in a peasant woman," and he smiled and shrugged his
shoulders.

Jeanne St. Clair continued to stare at the door after he had gone. Her
thoughts followed him as he went down the stairs to join his companions
and take his share of the wine. Lucien had chosen a strange messenger, a
friend Monsieur Mercier had called himself, yet Jeanne had never known
him nor heard of him before. He puzzled her. Loneliness, and the
circumstances in which she was placed, naturally made her thoughtful,
and it was easy to be suspicious. Truly, Monsieur Mercier had proved
himself a friend, full of ideas, full of resource, for danger had
threatened them more than once upon the long and tedious journey from
Beauvais. They had been obliged to halt at strange taverns, and there
had been many delays. Now they were within a few miles of Paris--of
Lucien. Yes, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, and yet, had
it been possible, she would sooner have called another man friend, a man
who was her enemy. How, easily she had believed him! Richard Barrington.
She spoke the name aloud, but not easily, trying to say it exactly as he
had done, and the deliberation which she gave to each syllable made the
name sound pleasant. She had not thought him a scoundrel when he
fastened her mask for her. She had been most easily deceived, taken in
by an absurd story.

The truth had come quickly. Richard Barrington could hardly have left
the château when a man whispered Lucien's name in Jeanne's ear. She did
not trouble to take this man into the chamber in the round tower, but
she led him aside where he could talk without fear of being overheard.
This was some trick, but she must hear what he had to say, her safety
to-morrow might depend upon it.

Monsieur Mercier introduced himself as a friend of Lucien's, and quickly
told his story. Lucien was in danger, grave danger, and mademoiselle
ought to know. For her Paris did not hold such danger as it did for
most aristocrats; it was well known that she had been good to the poor;
she would certainly be able to help Lucien. Mademoiselle knew Rouzet,
Lucien's servant; he had started for Beauvais taking with him a little
gold star which mademoiselle had given to Lucien. Not an hour afterwards
it was discovered that there were others, enemies, anxious to get
mademoiselle to Paris. Rouzet had been followed. Mercier, with a friend,
had immediately ridden after him, only, alas! to find him dead upon the
roadside and the star gone. They continued their journey toward
Beauvais, with only one clew to the scoundrel who had murdered and
robbed the faithful Rouzet. He was not a Frenchman. Even now Mercier did
not know his name, but he and his friend had distanced the foreigner and
his companion on the road and arrived first in Beauvais. Lodgings were
scarce owing to the ball, and Mercier had waited for the villains, had
taken them to a lodging next his own, nothing more than adjoining
cocklofts, but with this advantage, that part of the woodwork dividing
them could be easily removed. An invitation to wine (carefully drugged)
had followed, and during the night the golden star was retrieved from
the lining of the thief's coat; and lest he should discover the loss too
soon, and so hamper any plan which it was advisable to make, a rough-cut
iron star was left in its place. Here was the gold trinket, and glancing
round to make certain no one was watching, Mercier had put it into her
open hand.

This tale must be the truth. She had made no mention of Barrington, how
could this man know of the iron cross unless his tale were true? Richard
Barrington had declared he knew nothing of Lucien, but Mercier knew
everything about him and much about her, too. She would not believe him
until she had questioned him closely. As Mercier frankly answered her,
she understood with how improbable a tale Barrington had deceived her.
Mercier was quick with advice. He knew that Madame la Marquise had no
great affection for his friend Lucien. This other man might discover the
trick played upon him and frustrate them. A hundred things might prevent
mademoiselle from leaving the château if she delayed. To-night Beauvais
was crowded, it would be easy for her to go, and Jeanne had consented to
start in an hour.

She was proud, a daughter of a proud race. The nobility were suffering
many things at the hands of the people. This fellow Barrington should be
punished. Retaliation was justifiable. There was not a man in the
château of Beauvais who would not stand her champion. She sought out the
Vicomte de Montbard, told him that this foreigner had come to her with a
lying message from friends of hers in Paris. She had met deceit with
deceit, and at dawn he was to wait for her at the wood end.

"Mademoiselle, lackeys shall beat the life out of him," was the answer.

"No, not that way. Go to him yourself, challenge him. If underneath his
villainy there are concealed the instincts of a gentleman, let him have
the chance of dying like one. But go with one or two others, prepared
for treachery. He may be a scoundrel to the very core of his heart."

"Believe me, mademoiselle, you treat him far too courteously."

"Monsieur le Vicomte, he has touched me as an equal. I believed him to
be a man of honor. Let him so far profit by my mistake, and be punished
as I suggest."

"You shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. To-morrow I will do myself the honor
of visiting you to tell you how he met his punishment--his death."

It was not boastfully said. The Vicomte was one of the most accomplished
swordsmen in France.

Within an hour Jeanne St. Clair had left Beauvais.

All this came back to her most vividly as she sat alone in that upper
room of the Lion d'Or. In what manner had Richard Barrington taken his
punishment? She despised him for his mean deceit; by her direction he
had been punished; yet with the knowledge that he was a scoundrel came
the conviction that he was a brave man. The scene in that round chamber
took shape again. It was curious how completely she remembered his
attitude, his words, his manner, his looks; and not these only, but also
the something new in her life, the awakening of an interest that she had
never before experienced. It was not his mission which aroused it, it
was not the man himself; it was only that, coincident with his coming,
some secret chamber of her soul had been unlocked, and in it were stored
new, dreams, new thoughts, new ambitions. They were added to the old,
not given in exchange for them, but they had helped her to appreciate
the man's position when he found the star was iron instead of gold, they
had helped her to believe his tale. Her short interview with this man
had suddenly widened her view of life, the horizon of her existence had
expanded into a wider circle; this expansion remained, although the man
had deceived her. In spite of that deceit there was something in this
Richard Barrington to admire, and she was glad she had demanded that
his punishment should be administered by gentlemen, not by lackeys.
Certainly he was not a coward, and no doubt he had met his death as a
brave man should. This train of thought was repeated over and over
again, and always there came a moment when out of vacancy the man's face
seemed to turn to her and their eyes met. She had not the power to look
away. There was something he would compel her to understand, yet for a
long while she could not. Then suddenly she knew. This surely was a
vision. The spirit of the dead man had come to her. Why? Jeanne muttered
a prayer, and with the prayer came a question: had she been justified in
sending this man to his death?

When the vision finally passed from her she could not tell; whether she
had fallen asleep in her chair she could not tell; but coming to full
consciousness that she was alone in a mean room of a tavern on the Soisy
road, the question still hammered in her brain as though it would force
an answer from her. Was it only her loneliness and the shadows creeping
into the room which brought doubts crowding into her mind? This friend
of Lucien's, this Monsieur Mercier, what real guarantee had she of his
honesty? He had brought her the gold star. It seemed a sufficient
answer, but doubts are subtle and have many arguments. Why should she
believe his story rather than Barrington's? Might not Mercier have been
the thief? They were within a few miles of Paris. They had arrived at
the Lion d'Or early in the day, why had they not pressed on to Paris?
Their safety demanded patience, Mercier had said. Was this true? Was
this the real reason for the delay?

The shadows increased, even the corners of this narrow room grew dim
and dark. There was the sound of distant laughter, loud, coarse,
raucous, many voices talking together, a shouted oath the only word
distinguishable. Was this place, crowded with so-called patriots, safer
for her than Paris? She started to her feet, suddenly urged to action.
What was Monsieur Mercier doing?

She crossed the room and opened her door quietly. The passage without
was dark save for a blur of light at the end where the top of the
staircase was. Walking on tiptoe, she went toward this light. She would
at least make an effort to discover how her companions were engaged.

From the top of the stairs she could see nothing, nor was it a safe
place, for the light fell on her there. She crept down the stairs which
were in darkness until she could see into the room from which the noise
came. Even when bending down and looking through the banisters she could
only see a part of the room. There were more visitors than chairs and
benches, some sat on casks standing on end, and by way of applause at
some witty sally or coarse joke, pounded the casks with their heels
until the din was almost deafening. At a table upon which were many
bottles, one or two of them broken, sat Monsieur Mercier and his comrade
Dubois, both in the first stages of intoxication when men are pleased to
have secrets and grow boastful.

"There's going to be good news for you, citizens," Mercier hiccoughed.
"I've done great things, and this good fellow has helped me."

Dubois smiled stupidly.

"Tell me, is there any more room in the prisons, or are they filled up
with cursed aristocrats?"

Jeanne held her breath. Was Mercier playing a part for her greater
security? How well he played it!

"There'll be room for you and your friends," laughed a man, "or they'll
make room by cutting off a few heads. It's very easy."

"There's more demand for heads than supply," growled another. "There's
some calling themselves patriots that might be spared, I say."

Drumming heels greeted this opinion.

"Very like," Mercier answered. "Shouldn't wonder if I could throw this
bottle and hit one or two at this moment, but I'm thinking of emigrés."

A savage growl was the answer.

"They're safe over the frontier, aren't they?" laughed Mercier. "They
won't bring their heads to Paris to pleasure Madame Guillotine, will
they? No," cried Mercier, clasping a bottle by the neck and striking the
table with it so that it smashed and the red wine ran like blood. "No,
they think they're safer where they are. The only way is to fetch them
back. Lie to them, cheat them until we get them in France. Then--"

He slapped his hands onto the table, into the spilled wine, then held
them up and laughed as the drops fell from his finger ends. His meaning
was clear.

"Bring them back, Citizen Mercier, and you'll be the first man in
Paris," said one.

"That's what I am doing. I've been to Beauvais, playing the aristocrat,
and doing it so well that one cursed head is already being carried to
Paris by its owner, and others will follow."

Jeanne crouched on the stairs, holding her breath.

"Long live Mercier!" came the cry.

There was an instant's silence, then a thud as a man jumped from a
cask, overturning it as he did so.

"The woman upstairs! The peasant woman! There are plenty of heads in
Paris. Why not to-night, here, outside the Lion d'Or? Madame Guillotine
is not the only method for aristocrats."

There was a shout of acclamation, a sudden rush to the room door. A man
staggering with the drink in him, fell upon the threshold, bringing two
or three companions down with him.

"Stop!" Mercier cried, suddenly sober, it seemed. "She's a peasant, my
witness against an aristocrat. I'll shoot the first man who goes to
her."

This was dangerous acting surely.

Jeanne had started back as the rush was made. Should she make an attempt
to reach the inn door and flee into the night, or rush to her room and
lock herself in? Her room, it was safer. They would fight among
themselves, whether she was to be disturbed or not. Locked in her room
she would at least have a moment for thought. The decision came too
late. She had not seen any one reach the stairs, but even as she turned
a man was beside her--touching her.




CHAPTER IX

THE MAN ON THE STAIRS


For those wishing to leave Paris in a hurry, the Lion d'Or was a
dangerous place of call. The inn and its vigilant frequenters had
achieved a name in these days. An orator, waxing enthusiastic on
patriotism, had made mention of its doings in the Convention, and in
villages remote from the capital they were talked of. The King and Queen
would never have got as far as Varennes, it was said, had they been
obliged to travel by the Soisy road.

For travelers going toward Paris there was less danger, aristocrats did
not often make that journey. Monsieur Mercier appeared to have thought
there was no danger at all, and halted for the night, but there were
travelers on the road behind him who were more cautious. They made a
wide detour by devious bypaths, and came at length to a lane which
joined the Soisy road between the Lion d'Or and Paris. They had taken
care to avoid other travelers as far as possible, and even now the sound
of a horse upon the main road made them draw into the shelter of some
trees and wait. Through the trees, only a few paces up the lane, they
had a good view of the horseman as he came.

"Look, Seth!"

"Our swaggering friend of Trémont," was the answer. "There has been
devil's work along this road perchance."

"Sabatier," murmured Barrington.

There was no doubt of it. He passed them at no greater distance than a
stone's throw, and he was a man too marked in features to be mistaken.
He went his way, unconscious of their presence, to carry his good news
to the Rue Valette in Paris.

"There's something in that man's face which tells me that I shall
quarrel with him some day," said Seth. "I can't help feeling that I
shall live to see him a corpse."

"We must wait a little," said Barrington. "We must not run the risk of
overtaking him."

It was in no way a reply to or a comment on Seth's remark, but rather
the outcome of the recollection that Sabatier had said that all true
patriots must needs meet with him in Paris. Naturally, Sabatier was
closely associated in Barrington's mind with his self-imposed mission to
Beauvais, and his unexpected presence here on the Soisy road set him
speculating once more on the whole circumstances of his adventure. He
had had enough of women to last him a lifetime, he had declared to Seth,
and he meant it. Seth had smiled. His companion was not the first man
who had said the same thing, and yet before half the year was out had
been sighing for another woman's favor. Richard Barrington might hold to
his conviction longer than that, but there are many half years in a
lifetime, and the indefinite variety of women gave few men the chance of
escape. For the present, Seth never doubted that his master had had his
lesson, and was glad. There were periods in a man's life into which a
woman should not enter, either in reality or in thought; they were but
drags on the turning wheels of circumstance. This was such a period, and
Seth let a great load of anxiety slip from him as the distance between
them and Beauvais increased. Barrington's silence as they rode did not
undeceive him; his master was not a man who talked for the sake of
talking, yet from the moment they had driven spurs into their horses and
dashed from the wood end, Barrington had hardly ceased to speculate on
his adventure. A man does not easily forget a woman who has come to him
as a revelation even though she deceive him. The sight of Sabatier,
therefore, did not recall Jeanne St. Clair to his mind, she had hardly
been absent from his thoughts for a moment, but set him speculating in
another direction.

"How far do you suppose this inn, the Lion d'Or, is along the road
yonder?" he asked suddenly.

"Not a mile," was the answer.

Barrington nodded thoughtfully. Seth's opinion agreed with his own.

"Sabatier, no doubt, came from there," he said after a pause.

"Probably. We were wise to miss it. It would not have been convenient to
enter Paris in his company."

There was another pause of some duration.

"Has he been out hunting, stopping aristocrats?"

It was hardly a question, rather a speculation unconsciously put into
words.

Seth shrugged his shoulders.

"It does not concern us. They may fully merit the hunting and deserve
whatever fate they meet with. I am not in love with the patriots I have
encountered, nor do I like the aristocrats I have seen any better. For
my part I would as lief sail back to Virginia and let them fight out
their own quarrel. A dog of breed has no cause to interfere in a fight
between curs."

"I wonder whether we have passed mademoiselle and her escort upon the
road," said Barrington.

"What's in your mind, Master Richard?" asked Seth, sharply.

"I have thought it strange that we did not overtake them."

"Better horses, or better knowledge of the country would account for
that."

"Yes, but she may be at the Lion d'Or at this moment, and in the hands
of men like Sabatier."

There was no need for Seth to ask questions. The burden of anxiety which
had slipped from him was suddenly at his feet again and he took it up
reluctantly. Barrington understood.

"I cannot go on leaving her in such hands," he said. "Think what it may
mean. We know something of Sabatier."

Seth nodded, but with no encouragement. Had he known more of Jacques
Sabatier, could he have seen the heap of ashes which had once been the
inn at Trémont and known what was hidden beneath them, his attitude
would have been different.

"There may be much to excuse her for not believing in me," Barrington
went on. "We know only a little of the story. We may have been the
bearers of a lying message. With her knowledge of facts, every word I
uttered may only have convicted me of greater villainy. We have hardly
been just, Seth."

"I can find no excuse for her sending us to the wood."

"I can, Seth. Such a scoundrel as she may have thought me was not fit to
live. More than her own safety was at stake."

"Well, Master Richard?"

"I am going to the Lion d'Or."

Seth moved his shoulders, it was not a shrug, but as though he would get
the burden he carried into as easy a position as possible.

"We are hardly likely to meet with such good luck a second time. We
escaped from the wood end, but"

"There is no trap set for us this time," Barrington said. "She may be in
no need of help, in that case we ride on to Paris, and she will be none
the wiser. The plan is simple. We stay here till dark. I shall go back
on foot, you will wait for me here with the horses. An hour should
suffice. If she is in danger I must do what I can to help her. It is
impossible to say what action I shall take, but wait here for me, Seth,
all night. If I do not return by the morning, ride into Paris, inquire
for Monsieur de Lafayette, and tell him what has happened."

"Let me come with you, Master Richard. We could tether the horses here.
It is most unlikely they would be found."

"One man may go unnoticed where two could not," Barrington returned.
"You must remain here, Seth."

There was a point beyond which Seth never ventured to argue, not quickly
reached, as a rule, for Richard valued his companion's opinion and was
ready to listen, but on this occasion it came almost at once. Seth
looked into his face, saw the fixed purpose in his eyes and the sudden
set of the determined mouth, and said no more. They talked presently of
other things, but not a word of the business in hand until it was dark,
and Barrington suddenly rose from the Stump of a tree on which he was
seated.

"You quite understand, Seth."

"Yes. I shall let the sun get well up before I start for Paris."

"I hope we shall start together," said Richard, holding out his hand.

"Good fortune," said Seth, as their hands were grasped for a moment.
Then Richard passed into the lane and turned along the Soisy road in the
direction of the Lion d'Or.

The inn and its outbuildings stood back from the road, and isolated. The
village was beyond it, hidden by a turn in the road. Two or three wooden
tables stood on the space before the door, used no doubt on balmy summer
evenings, but deserted to-night. The sound of laughter and much talking
came to Richard as he approached, and he stood for a moment under a tree
by the roadside to look at the front of the building, at the windows
through which the sound of merrymaking came, and at the windows above
which showed no light. Crossing the road, he found a gap in the hedge
and went round to look at the back of the house. There was a garden,
mostly of vegetables and not ill kept, a low, wooden fence, broken down
in one place, enclosing it from the field in which he stood. A dim light
came from two windows on the ground floor, but above every window was
dark. If Mademoiselle St. Clair were there she must be without lamp or
candle, or the windows must be closely shuttered. He took careful note
of the back of the house and how the road lay in regard to it, for there
was no knowing what difficulties the next few minutes might bring. Then
he went back to the front of the house, and approaching quietly, looked
in at the window across which the curtains were only partially drawn. He
was prepared for any eventuality, and his hand in the pocket of his
coat held his pistol, but he was startled at what he saw. Facing him sat
Monsieur le Comte and his friend. These men had probably robbed him of
the gold star, Seth was of the same opinion; certainly they had done
their utmost to prevent his finding mademoiselle at the ball. Were they
aristocrats? If so, they were playing with fire among this crowd of
savage-looking patriots.

Monsieur le Comte was drunk, or feigning to be, and Barrington saw him
take up the wine bottle and smash it on the table, and heard him declare
that the only way to get the emigrés into their power was to lie to them
and cheat them. He stayed to hear no more. Surely this man's presence
there, and his words, meant that he had lied to some purpose, meant that
Mademoiselle St. Clair was in the inn. Her danger was great, for there
was no doubt about the savage temper of the crowd in that room.

The door stood open, there was no one in the entrance, and Barrington
slipped in.

"The woman upstairs! The peasant woman!" These were the words that
greeted him. Horrible in their suggestion, they were a guide to him. He
was upon the dark staircase when the rush from the room came, and the
man fell upon the threshold. He drew back to the wall lest he should be
seen, and touched some one. In a moment, for his own safety, he had
grasped the arm beside him and then, as he realized that it was a woman
he held, put his hand quickly over her mouth to prevent her crying out.
He could not see her clearly, close as she was to him, but touch brought
conviction.

"For your life, silence!" he whispered.

Mercier's threat to shoot the first man who attempted to go to the
woman upstairs had its effect, no one was inclined to run the risk, yet
several remained about the doorway instead of going back to their wine.
Barrington quickly calculated all the chances. To leave by the inn door
without being seen was impossible; another way must be found, and there
was not a moment to lose. Directly the wine fumes overpowered the man
who, for an instant, dominated the situation, these bloodthirsty
wretches would certainly rush upon their prey. The intention was visible
in their sullen faces.

"You know me, will you trust me?" he whispered. He still held her arm,
his hand was still over her mouth.

She nodded her head.

"Go up, quietly," he said, releasing her.

Jeanne knew him. Few moments had passed since her arm had been gripped
in the darkness, but she had lived a long time in them, and exactly when
she realized who it was who touched her she did not know. It never
occurred to her to think it strange that he should be alive. She did not
ask herself whether she really trusted him. At least, he was different
from those men below, and she obeyed him.

"Is there another staircase?" he asked when they were in the passage
above.

"I do not know."

"There must be," he said, as though their dire necessity would compel
one. "Walk close behind me and tread lightly."

Comparative silence had reigned, only the uneasy shuffling of feet and
the chink of a glass, now the noise of voices broke out again, angry
voices, raised in argument and quarrel. Each moment Barrington expected
a rush up the stairs. If it came, what could he do?

He remembered the position of the windows through which a dim light had
shown in the rear of the house. The kitchen was probably there. If
another staircase existed it would be in the direction of the kitchen.
He turned along a passage to the left, his hand stretched out before
him, lest he should stumble in the darkness. The noise below was
deadened here.

"Might we not climb from a window?" Jeanne whispered.

He had thought of it. He tried to remember whether a tree or roof of an
outbuilding against any of the windows made this means of escape
possible. He felt sure such a way did not exist. He might have dropped
from one of the windows in safety, but the woman could not do so. He had
not answered her question when there was a new sound close beside them,
a heavy tread.

"Stand close to the wall," he said. "Keep near, and whatever happens do
not speak."

Some one was coming up stairs which were close to them, and in the dark.
Barrington strained his ears to locate the position. If they were not
seen escape was possible.

A thin, straight line of light was suddenly drawn perpendicularly, just
in front of him, and then a door was opened. A man, one of the inn
servants, carrying a candle, stepped into the passage. The light fell
directly on the figures standing by the wall. The man was startled. So
sudden an encounter was unusual, and in these days the unusual was
dangerous. Only a fraction of time was necessary to bring him to this
conclusion, but in it, Barrington had also reached a conclusion equally
definite. As the man opened his mouth to call out, his throat was seized
in a viselike grip and only the ghost of a sound gurgled and was lost.
The candle fell to the floor. The noise of its fall seemed horribly
loud.

"Stamp out the light," Barrington said in a low tone.

Jeanne did so, obeying him promptly.

The man was a child in Barrington's hands. His efforts to unloose the
gripping fingers at his throat were feeble and futile. He was borne
backward and downward to the floor, a knee was upon his chest, bending
and cracking his bones, and then came oblivion.

"Come," said Barrington.

She was close behind him and they went down the narrow stairs which had
a bend in them. There was a door at the bottom which was open, a light
beyond.

Pistol in hand, Barrington stepped quickly into the kitchen. It was
empty. There was a door between the windows, and the next moment they
were in the garden. He took the woman's hand, guiding her to the broken
place in the wooden fence. There he paused, looking back and listening.
There was no sound of an alarm yet, no cries to suggest that the fiends
had rushed up the stairs to wreak their savagery on a defenseless woman.
For a moment Barrington contemplated taking a horse from the stable, but
he dared not run the risk of the delay. Chance must bring them the means
of entering Paris in safety.

"We must run, mademoiselle. My servant is waiting for me."

She gathered her skirts about her.

"Give me your hand again--it will help you."

So they ran across the fields, making for the road and the clump of
trees in the lane where Seth waited.




CHAPTER X

THE SAFETY OF MADEMOISELLE


The two men had sat for a long while facing each other, one doing all
the talking, the other listening eagerly.

"Early this morning we turned the horses loose in a field and reached
the barrier on foot," said Barrington. "We came in with the crowd, two
abusive men quarreling with a market woman over some petty transaction
regarding vegetables. I assure you, Monsieur de Lafayette, I never used
such coarse language to a woman before in all my life. She played her
part excellently. They laughed at us at the barrier, and we entered
still quarreling. The rest was easy."

So he finished his long story, which had begun with his personal affairs
in Virginia, and ended with the account of mademoiselle's flight from
the Lion d'Or on the Soisy road.

Lafayette had listened without interrupting the narrative, now he rose
slowly, and, crossing the room, looked down into the street.

"Is it possible that, in spite of your protestations, you are not
pleased to see me?" Barrington asked, after a pause.

"Yes and no, an enigmatical answer, but the only true one I can give,"
said Lafayette, turning to his companion and putting both hands upon his
shoulders. "The face is still the face of the boy I knew, and of whom I
have thought often; there is exactly that courage and daring in you
which I then perceived would one day assert themselves. Richard
Barrington has grown into just the kind of man I expected, and on that
account I am delighted to see him. But there is no place for him in
France, there is no work for an honorable volunteer; besides which, he
has already managed to slip into a very maelstrom of danger, and for
that reason I am sorry he has come."

"I find the Marquis de Lafayette much altered when I hear him speak in
such a tone of despair."

Lafayette smiled, and gently pushed Richard into a chair.

"That I do not despair easily, as a rule, may convince you that I am not
troubled without reason. The country is in the hands of fanatics, there
is no foreseeing what the end may be. On every side of us are enemies,
but we are our own worse foes. We are split into factions, fighting and
disputing with one another; the very worst of us are gaining the
predominant power, and those who have honestly striven to bring good out
of evil have been driven to the wall and are struggling for their
lives."

"Yet you say my sword is useless."

"As useless as the wooden toy weapon of a boy," was the answer. "To-day
I am of no account. At any moment I am likely to be seized by some of
the very men who have been my supporters, some trumped up charge
preferred against me, and then--then forty-eight hours or less may
suffice to close the account."

"You are in immediate danger?" asked Barrington.

"A condition I share with nearly every honest man in France. It is not
known that I am in Paris. I am supposed to be with the army. I came
secretly, having affairs to settle in case of the worst happening. I may
find it necessary to cross the frontier, as so many others have done,
and after the part I have played am not likely to find much welcome."

"You know, monsieur, that I would do anything to help you."

"My dear Richard, I know that; but you must not overburden yourself. By
bringing mademoiselle here you have not brought her into a place of
safety. You should have persuaded her to stay in Beauvais."

"I did my best."

"And for the moment you have saved her. That is something. Now set your
fertile brain to work, Richard, and scheme how to get her back to
Beauvais again."

"But Bruslart--"

Lafayette silenced him with a look, as the door opened and Jeanne
entered. She had washed the stains from her face, and changed her
attire. Both men rose, and Lafayette placed a chair for her.

"You have braved so much, mademoiselle, that one does not fear to speak
the truth to you," said the Marquis. "I have been explaining to Monsieur
Barrington that this house is no safe refuge for you. Things have
changed rapidly since you left Paris."

"I know. We have not been without news at Beauvais," said Jeanne.

"I would to God you had never been persuaded to leave so safe a retreat.
I am aware, mademoiselle, that you dislike me. You would call me a
renegade from my order. It is true. I had dreams of a reformed, a
regenerated France; my strivings toward these dreams have ended in
failure."

"I think I can refrain from disliking a man who has the courage of his
opinions," said Jeanne, quietly. "Had I had my own way I should not have
fled from Paris. We were too easily alarmed, and our fear placed a
weapon in the hands of our enemies."

"At least, mademoiselle, accept the position now. The weapon is in the
hands of the people, and they are using it. Those who would have held
them in check are powerless. Be advised. Let me, with the help of my
friend here, do my best to get you safely back to Beauvais. After last
night's adventure, you will be looked for high and low. While the hunt
in the city is keen, it may be easy to slip out unobserved. Every moment
we delay the difficulty increases."

"Has not Monsieur Barrington informed you of my purpose in coming to
Paris?"

"He has."

"Do you imagine I shall go without fulfilling that purpose? Monsieur de
Lafayette, I thank you for your advice, which I know is honestly given.
I thank you for having me here, even for so short a time, for I know the
risks you run. I have many friends in Paris. Will you help me to reach
one of them?"

"What friends?"

"Monsieur Normand."

"He has been in the Conciergerie some weeks, mademoiselle."

"Madame de Lentville, then."

"Also in prison," answered Lafayette. "She was caught in her endeavor to
leave Paris less than a week ago."

"Monsieur Bersac," said Jeanne, but not speaking so readily.

"In heaven, mademoiselle. The dwellers in the suburbs beyond the Seine
remembered that he once called them idlers, accused them of thriving on
other men's industry. The people have a long memory."

"They killed him?"

"At the door of his own house. There is a lantern over it."

There was silence for some moments. The color, faded from Jeanne's face,
and the tears came into her eyes. She forced them back with a great
effort.

"There is the Vicomte de Morlieux," she said, suddenly.

"Alas, mademoiselle, only last night he was the center of a yelling mob
which passed beneath these windows bearing him to the Temple. He is
accused, I believe, of assisting the King's flight, and with showing
courage when the Tuileries was attacked. Surely you understand your
danger?"

Barrington had looked from one to the other as they spoke, admiring the
woman's courage, wondering if it were necessary for Monsieur le Marquis
to give her such precise information. He knew she was courageous, but
was it wise to try her so severely as this?

"You have said the people remember," Jeanne said slowly; "they will
recollect, then, that I have done something for the poor. I never
thought to boast of my charity, but I will make capital out of it."

"Unfortunately, the people do not remember good works so easily,"
Lafayette answered. "Believe me, such faith is only grasping at a
straw."

"My faith is strong. I shall find a lodging in Paris. I have been a
market woman already; if necessary, I can sink to a lower level. Of my
own will I shall not leave Paris again until I have contrived to set
Lucien Bruslart free."

"He is not a prisoner, mademoiselle. I have already sent for him."

"Is that safe?" asked Barrington, quickly. "For you, I mean?"

"I think so. At any rate, it was necessary."

"Do you say he is not a prisoner?" said Jeanne.

"He may be here at any moment," said Lafayette.

"Have we been deceived?" Barrington exclaimed.

"I cannot tell," Lafayette answered. "It is true that Monsieur Bruslart
was in the Conciergerie, but he speedily convinced the authorities that
a mistake had been made. I believe he is considered a thorough patriot
now."

Jeanne looked at Barrington, who met her gaze unflinchingly.

"I have told you all I know," he said quietly, answering the question in
her eyes.

There was a silence which was broken by the heavy opening and closing of
the street door.

"Doubtless that is Monsieur Bruslart," said Lafayette. "You would wish
to be alone with him, mademoiselle, so we will leave you for a little
while. I can only hope that his advice will support mine. You may count
on me to do all I can to secure your safety."

Barrington made no promise as he followed the Marquis from the room, but
his eyes met Jeanne's again for a moment. A curious and sudden
conviction came to her that she had at least one friend in Paris, who
was able and willing to help her. She was encouraged and strengthened.
For an instant she seemed to feel the grasp of his hand as she had done
when she ran beside him last night.

Lucien Bruslart's brain had worked busily since the message reached him.
He was glad Pauline had not been with him to hear it. She was such a
jealous little termagant. He entered the room the moment after Lafayette
and Barrington had left it by another door.

"Jeanne!"

"You sent for me, Lucien. I have come."

He bent his head, and taking her hand raised it to his lips. At that
moment he had no thought for Pauline. Yet he felt there was something
lacking in Jeanne's greeting. He would make her understand directly.

"How good of you!" he murmured. "Tell me of your journey. Last night,
strangely enough, I heard of you, and since then have been in a fever of
unrest."

"You heard of me! At the Lion d'Or?"

"Were you there? No, that is not what I heard. It was a strange place to
lodge you in. Tell me everything."

"Tell me first why you sent for me," she answered. "It is not so very
long since I left Paris; yet, in some way, you have grown unfamiliar."

"It is this perhaps," and he laughed as he touched the tri-color which
he wore. "You are unfamiliar too. We are both masquerading."

He told her the history of his imprisonment and of his release; he
laughed as he explained that his safety lay in appearing to be a good
patriot, and grew serious as he told her with lowered voice that, under
this deceit, he was working night and day for the King, the imprisoned
nobility, and for the emigrés.

"I was in danger, Jeanne, grave danger, but I did not send for you. Do
you imagine I would have brought you into peril on any pretext?"

"You promised to send for me if you were in danger. It was a compact."

"One that any man would feel himself justified in breaking. Rouzet,
poor fellow, acted without my knowledge. He was from the first very
fearful for my safety, and to ease his mind I showed him the trinket and
told him of our compact. Directly I was arrested and taken to the
Conciergerie he must have planned to come to Beauvais."

"But how did the trinket come into his possession? I thought you always
wore it."

"I did, but in such a hurry were they to arrest me that they came while
I was yet in bed. I had to dress with two men watching me, and I left
the gold star in a drawer."

"And Rouzet found it?"

"How else could he have started to ride to Beauvais with it?" said
Lucien. "Truly, Jeanne, you seem as hard to convince as if you were
really a market woman suspecting every purchaser of trying to get the
better of her in a bargain."

"Forgive me, but I have come through such a maze of deceit that full
belief is difficult," she answered. "Have you no friend named Mercier?"

"Half the ragged fellows passing in the street might claim friendship
with me, so well do I play the part of patriot; but I am not conscious
of having a friend of that name."

"There is such a man, and his knowledge of you is intimate. He brought
me the gold star."

"Tell me the whole story, Jeanne. I may find a clew in it."

He listened to the tale, asking no questions. There was excitement in
his face as she recounted her adventure at the Lion d'Or and her rescue
by Barrington. It was simply told, yet dramatically, and Lucien's face
flushed and paled. This beautiful woman had passed through this terrible
experience because she loved him.

"They shall pay for it," he said, between his closed teeth, it was the
only thought in his mind at the moment--"they shall pay, by Heaven! they
shall."

His earnestness pleased her. This was the Lucien she knew.

"What was it you heard of me last night?" she asked.

"I was told that Rouzet had been watched and followed, that he had been
killed on the high road, and the star stolen; that no message could
possibly have reached you at Beauvais. It is evident there are others
who have plotted to bring you into danger."

"And succeeded," she answered.

"You must be placed in safety without delay, Jeanne. These scoundrels
will follow you hot-footed to Paris."

"Monsieur de Lafayette has advised me to return to Beauvais."

"Excellent advice, but impossible. A little while ago his name might
have been a safeguard, but his day is over. He clings too persistently
to a rock which the rising tide is covering. I have another plan. Tell
me, is this man Barrington to be trusted?"

"Trusted!"

She spoke so quickly and certainly that Lucien started. He was inclined
to resent such a tone used in the defense of another man.

"There is a wealth of eloquence in the word as you utter it, Jeanne."

"It is only his courage which has made this meeting possible," she said
quietly.

"Many a man who is not to be trusted is full of courage," Lucien
returned. "One gets skeptical in these days, and I have your safety to
think of. You must let me form my own judgment of this man when I see
him."

"I hear them coming now."

The Marquis and Barrington entered.

"I was surprised to hear you were in Paris, monsieur," said Bruslart to
Lafayette.

"I am here, a private affair. I trust monsieur will forget he has seen
me. Under the circumstances it seemed necessary to let you know that
mademoiselle was here."

"I am greatly in your debt. You may certainly count on my
forgetfulness."

"And you must pardon this interruption," said Lafayette, "but I am
fearful of delay. Doubtless you agree with me, Monsieur Bruslart, that
it would be best for mademoiselle to leave Paris at once."

"Yes, if such a thing were possible," Bruslart answered. "As I have told
mademoiselle, her presence here is not of my contriving. Fearing for my
safety, my servant started for Beauvais. He is dead, poor fellow, but he
has unwillingly played into the hands of others. For some days at least
I believe it would be most dangerous for mademoiselle to attempt to
leave Paris. I have a safer plan. A friend I can trust implicitly will
hide her for the time being. A couple of hours will suffice to make
arrangements."

"I doubt whether this house is safe even for that two hours," answered
Lafayette. "If there is a suspicion how mademoiselle was rescued, and it
is hardly possible there should not be, my house is certain to be
searched. My friend Barrington has mentioned my name since his arrival
in France."

"I propose to take mademoiselle with me," Lucien answered. "She will be
safe at my lodging until I have arranged with my friend."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Monsieur de Lafayette, do you think I would run the risk unless I were
certain?"

"Your interest in mademoiselle is well known, Monsieur Bruslart, and we
know that patriots do not always trust each other."

"Have you any other plan?" Bruslart asked.

"I should try and get out of Paris at once," Lafayette answered.

"And my services are at your disposal, monsieur," said Barrington.

"I thank you," Lucien returned, "not only for your proffered help, but
for all you have done for this lady. Jeanne, which will you do: attempt
to leave Paris or take my advice?"

"I am in your hands, Lucien," she said.

"Then we will go at once. There is a back entrance to this house, I
believe, Monsieur de Lafayette. We will go that way if you will allow
us. We are safest on foot, I think."

"I will show you the way," answered the Marquis.

"For the moment, Monsieur Barrington, I cannot use your services," said
Bruslart; "but I may be only too glad to do so presently. Naturally you
will be anxious to know that mademoiselle is in safety. Will you do me
the honor to call upon me to-night?"

"The honor will be mine," Barrington answered.

"Come, Jeanne. Will you show us the way, monsieur?"

Lafayette went to the door, and Jeanne crossed the room to Barrington.

"I have no words to thank you," she said. "For what I did at Beauvais I
humbly ask your pardon."

"I am always at your service, mademoiselle. Please believe this and use
me in your need."

She was gone, and Barrington was alone, staring at the doorway through
which she had passed. A tangle of thoughts was in his brain, one loose
end uppermost. He had not moved when Lafayette returned.

"Is that man honest?" asked Barrington. It was the loose end in the
tangle which prompted the question.

"Yes, surely. She is the woman he loves."

"Only God knows the villainy of some men."

Lafayette laid his hand on his arm.

"Friend Richard, can it be that he is not the only man who loves her?"

"She is a woman, and in Paris."

"Ah, yes, enough truly to cause any man anxiety," answered Lafayette.
"Now I am going to send a trusted servant with you to find you a secure
lodging. This house is no safe place for you either. I would we were
looking out across Chesapeake Bay together."




CHAPTER XI

"WAY FOR THE CURSED ARISTOCRAT!"


There were quiet streets in Paris down which noisy patriots seldom
passed, houses into which the angry roar of revolution only came like a
far-off echo. There were men and women who had no part in the upheaval,
who had nothing to do either with the rabble or the nobility, who went
about their business as they had always done, lamenting the hard times
perchance, yet hoping for better. Some may have realized that in their
indifference lay their safety, but to others such indifference came
naturally; their own immediate affairs were all that concerned them. The
rabble took no notice of them, they were too insignificant for the
nobility to attempt to influence, and they criticised neither the doings
of the Convention, nor the guillotine's work, knowing little of either.

In such a street, with a man named Fargeau, a tailor by trade,
Barrington and Seth found a lodging. Fargeau had had the Marquis de
Lafayette for a customer, and the money of this American, who could
hardly have much interest in what was happening in Paris, would be
useful.

"I cannot tell how long I may be in Paris," said Lafayette, at parting.
"One must not prophesy about to-morrow. At present the neighborhood of
my apartment must be dangerous to you. If chance brings me power again
you know I shall think of you before any other."

"My duty seems to lie straight before me," Barrington returned.

"Yes, I understand, and if you are in trouble send for me if you can.
You may depend on my doing all that a man can do. Count the cost of all
your actions, for the price may be heavy. I have been full of advice
this morning, let me advise you. To some in Paris you are a marked man,
remember, so keep quiet for a while, and on the first opportunity get
back to Virginia."

"You will not ask me to promise to act on your advice," Barrington
returned with a smile.

"No," and then Lafayette looked earnestly into his face. "No, I do not
expect you to act upon it. For most of us some woman is a curse or a
blessing, and the utmost a man can do is to satisfy himself which she
is. If she is worthy, I would not call that man friend who was not ready
to risk all for her. God grant we both win through to more peaceful
days."

Early in the afternoon Barrington went out, leaving Seth in the lodging.
Seth suggested that he should be allowed to go with him.

"You must be free to work should I be caught and unable to act for
myself," was the answer. "After to-night I shall be able to make more
definite plans. Under certain circumstances there will be nothing to
prevent us setting out upon our return journey to Virginia. Believe me,
Seth, I have not yet fallen in love with Paris."

Seth watched him go, knowing that his resolution was not to be shaken,
realizing, too, that there was reason in his argument.

"I couldn't understand any one being in love with Paris," he said to
himself; "but there's a woman has Master Richard in her net. Love is a
disease, the later caught, the worse it is. I wonder what his mother
would have thought of this lady from Beauvais. And she doesn't care a
handful of Indian corn for Master Richard as far as I can see; only
makes use of him to get to another man. Falling in love with a woman of
that kind seems a waste of good energy to me, but it's wonderful how
many men have done it."

Richard Barrington had no intention of running into unnecessary danger.
This man Mercier had no proof that he had helped Mademoiselle St. Clair
to escape from the Lion d'Or. Paris was a big place, and he might never
chance upon Jacques Sabatier. He had no intention of making any further
use of Lafayette's name for the present, since it was evident that he
might involve his friend in difficulty if he did. He was a Virginian
gentleman in Paris privately. He was content to remain unknown if they
would let him. If they grew inquisitive, his nationality should be in
his favor, and the fact that he had come to offer his sword on the side
of the people would be his safety. If he had made a few enemies by
thwarting private plans, he had surely the power of making a thousand
friends. So far his scheme was complete, but he was not thinking of it
as he made his way toward the more central part of the city, taking care
to appear as little of a stranger as possible. Was Lucien Bruslart to be
trusted? This was the question he asked himself over and over again,
finding no satisfactory answer. The reason which lay behind such a
question could not be ignored. Any helpless woman would have appealed
to him, he told himself, but the whole truth refused to be confined in
such an argument. Jeanne St. Clair meant something more to him than
this, but in this direction he refused to question himself further,
except to condemn himself. Was he not viewing Lucien Bruslart through
smoked glasses as it were?--an easy fault under the circumstances.
Jeanne loved this man. No greater proof was needed than her journey to
Paris for his sake. Barrington had done her a service for which he had
been amply thanked. To-night Bruslart would inform him that Jeanne was
safe, and thank him again for what he had done. There was an end of the
business; and since his enthusiasm to help the people had somewhat
evaporated--Jeanne's influence again, doubtless--why should he not
return home? France held no place for him. It would be better not to see
Jeanne again, more honorable, easier for him.

At a corner he stopped. Others had done the same. Coming up the street
was a ragged, shouting mob. There were some armed with pikes who had
made a vain attempt to keep the march orderly; others, flourishing
sticks, danced and sang as they came; others, barely clad, ran to and
fro like men half drunk, yelling ribald insults now at those who passed
by, now at the world at large. Women with draggled skirts and dirty and
disordered hair were in the crowd, shrieking joyous profanity, striking
and fighting one another in their mad excitement. There were children,
too, almost naked girls and boys, as ready with oath and obscenity as
their elders, fair young faces and forms, some of them, debauched out of
all that was childlike. Every fetid alley and filthy court near which
this procession had passed had vomited its scum to swell the crowd. In
the center of it rocked and swayed a coach. Hands were plenty to help
the frightened horses, hands to push, hands to grip the spokes and make
the wheels turn faster. The driver had no driving to do, so roared a
song. The inmate of the coach might be dumb with fear, half dead with
it, yet if he shrieked with terror, the cry of no single throat could
rise above all this babel of sound.

"Way! Way for the cursed aristocrat!"

Children and women ran past Barrington shouting. One woman touched him
with a long-nailed, dirty, scraggy hand.

"An aristocrat, citizen. Another head for La Guillotine," she cried, and
then danced a step or two, laughing.

Barrington stood on tiptoe endeavoring to see the miserable passenger of
the coach, but in vain. The men with pikes surrounded the vehicle, or
the poor wretch's journey might have ended at the first lamp.

"It's a woman," said some one near him.

"Ay! a cursed aristocrat!" shouted a boy who heard. "Get in and ride
with her," and the urchin sped onwards, shouting horrible suggestions.

"A woman!" Barrington muttered, and his frame stiffened as a man's will
do when he thinks of action.

"Don't be a fool," said a voice in his ear, and a hand was laid upon his
arm.

He turned to face a man who looked at him fixedly, continued to look at
him until the crowd had passed, and others who had stopped to watch the
procession had passed on about their business.

"You would have thrown your life away had I not stopped you," said the
stranger.

"Perhaps. I hardly know."

"Yet it is not so rare a sight."

"At least I have not grown used to it," Barrington answered.

"That is difficult," said the man. "I have seen more of it than you, but
I have learned to hide my feelings. The first time I was like you. Even
now I clinch my teeth and remain inactive with difficulty. This tends to
make us conspicuous, citizen. We must be either victims or executioners
to be in the fashion. Some of us have friends, perhaps, who may easily
chance to be victims."

"True."

"I have," said the man. "It is pleasant to meet one who has a kindred
interest."

"I cannot claim so much as that," said Barrington.

"That sudden stiffening of yours told its tale," and the man smiled a
little. "Had I not been convinced I hardly dared have said so much."

"Doubtless there was some danger," laughed Barrington, "but at least I
am not a spy or an informer. The thought of a woman in such a crowd hurt
me, citizen."

"Some time we might be of service to each other," the man returned. "It
is good to have a friend one can trust in these days. Unless I am much
mistaken, I can be of service to you. My way is the same as yours if you
will allow it. There is a shop yonder where the wine is good and where,
until that shouting crowd comes home again, we shall attract no notice."

How could this man be of service to him? For a moment he hesitated,
scenting danger, but the next he had turned to walk with his new
companion. He looked honest and might tell him something of value.

They entered the wine shop which was empty, and were served.

"Have you a toast, monsieur?"

"To the safety of that woman," said Barrington.

"I drink it. To the safety of a woman."

Barrington did not notice the slight difference in the toast; the words
were hurriedly spoken and in a low tone.

"Do you know, monsieur, that only this morning an emigré returned to
Paris disguised as a market woman?"

"What folly!" Barrington said. "Does she chance to be the friend you are
interested in?"

"My friend is an emigré, therefore I am a little sorry for this one,"
was the answer. "I hear that careful search is being made for her. Such
a search can hardly fail to be successful."

"She may have good friends."

"She has, I understand. One, at least, the man who helped her into
Paris."

"He had better have helped her to keep out of it," Barrington returned,
"and yet, she may have come with some high purpose and he has served her
cleverly. Is it dangerous to drink to his good health, monsieur? for I
like a man who is a man even though he be my enemy."

"There is no danger, I think," and the man drank. "She has another
friend, too, one Lucien Bruslart."

"I have heard of him," said Barrington, quickly, "but surely he is of
the people. I think I have heard him praised as an honest patriot."

"He is, yet he was an aristocrat."

"You speak as though you had little faith in him."

"No, no, you judge too hastily. I am of the people, yet, as you may
have gathered, not wholly with the people. I take it that such is
monsieur's position, too. Personally, I have not much faith in an
aristocrat turned patriot, that is all."

"Nor I, monsieur; still, I know nothing of this Monsieur Bruslart, so
can venture no opinion."

"You are a stranger in Paris?"

"Yes."

"Pardon, monsieur, I am not inquisitive. I only wish to prove myself
friendly. Paris is somewhat dangerous for strangers."

"Even for those who take no interest in one side or the other?" asked
Barrington.

"Most assuredly, for such men are likely to be on private business, and
private business smacks of secrecy, and those who govern dislike all
secrets except their own."

"I am not afraid. It is a habit rather than a virtue."

"I saw your fearlessness. It impressed me," the man answered, earnestly.
"I saw also that others had noted you as well. It would perhaps be wise
to remember that besides hunting for the woman who has come back to
Paris, they are hunting for the man who helped her so successfully.
Perhaps some of the men who were at the barriers this morning may
remember him."

"What more probable?" said Barrington. "It may be that this man was not
such a friend to the woman as we have imagined. He may have had sinister
designs in bringing her into Paris."

The man put down his glass rather sharply. The idea evidently produced
some effect upon him.

"I cannot believe that," he said.

"I do not like to think so," Barrington returned.

For a few moments they looked squarely into each other's faces. Then the
man laid his hand upon the table, palm uppermost.

"Ah! It is certain we are kindred spirits, monsieur. We may have our own
secrets, our interests may perhaps have points of antagonism, but we are
both fearless. You are a man after my own heart. Will you take my hand?"

Barrington grasped his hand across the little table.

"Should we ever be enemies, let us remember this wine shop and this hand
clasp. The recollection may help us both. For you there is danger,
coming perhaps from the very quarter where you least expect it. I may be
useful to you then. In the Rue Valette there is a baker's shop; if you
inquire there for one, Raymond Latour, you shall find a welcome," and
before Barrington could make any answer, he passed out into the street.

The man knew him, that was evident, knew that he had helped mademoiselle
into Paris. Was he a friend or an enemy? He had warned him of danger,
and his parting words had had something of the nature of a compact in
them. What could bind this man to him in any way unless the emigré he
was interested in was Mademoiselle St. Clair? Surely that was where the
truth lay. To this man Latour she stood for something.

Barrington remained in the wine shop for some little time, carefully
examining every point of his adventure. Certainly his movements would be
watched; certainly this Raymond Latour might be useful to him. When he
went into the street presently he looked carelessly to right and left,
wondering which of the people in sight was bent on following him.

"Whatever their reward is to be they shall do something to earn it," he
murmured, smiling, and turning into a side street he did his best to
escape watchful eyes.

At the hour appointed he was at Monsieur Bruslart's door. The servant
asked him several questions before he admitted that his master was in.
Monsieur Bruslart was cautious. Was it possible that mademoiselle was
still in the house? If Barrington forgot her danger for a moment as he
thought of the delight it would be to him to see her again, was he very
blameworthy?

The servant announced him.

Pale, dishevelled, trembling with excitement, Bruslart met him. A
nervous hand gripped his arm.

"Monsieur' Barrington, you--"

"What is it? In Heaven's name what is it?"

"While I was gone, they came. Look at the room, still dirty with them,
still reeking of them. They took her. Jeanne is a prisoner, and I--I am
almost mad."

Barrington gasped as a man who receives a heavy blow. His hand fell on a
chair-back to steady himself. He saw nothing but that filthy crowd, and
that coach swaying in the midst of it. Jeanne was the woman within, and
he had made no effort to save her.




CHAPTER XII

CITIZEN BRUSLART


The two men stared at each other with unseeing eyes, neither conscious,
it would seem, of the other's presence. The circumstances called for
prompt action, for swift decision, for keen and subtle energy, yet they
were silent, helpless, looking into vacancy, and seeing visions.

Suddenly Lucien sat down and let his head fall upon his arms thrown out
across the table, a personification of despair which might take the
heart out of any observer. The action served, however, to bring.
Barrington back into the present, to conserve his energies, to make him
a man of action again. His frame stiffened, much as it had done that
afternoon when the crowd with the coach in its midst had passed him.
Then came the memory of the restraining hand laid on his arm. It
acquired a new significance.

"Tell me the whole story," he said. "There is no time to lose."

"I was a fool. Lafayette was right. I ought never to have brought her
here," wailed Bruslart, utter despair in his voice; and then, after a
moment's pause, he went on with desperate energy as though he had a
difficult confession to make and must tell it in a rush of words, or be
afraid to tell it at all. "It took me more than two hours to arrange
with my friend. He was out when I got there and I had to wait, then he
was a long time discussing the best means of securing mademoiselle's
safety, and how she could most easily be taken to his house unseen.
Nearer four hours had passed than two when I returned to find Jeanne
gone."

"Your friend had fooled you, keeping you out of the way."

"No, no. He did not know where Jeanne was. Some one must have seen her,
recognized her when you came in at the barrier this morning perchance,
followed her and betrayed her. They did not come asking for her,
searching for her, but knowing that she was here. When the door was
opened they rushed in, thrusting my servant aside, asking no questions.
The reek of them is still in the room. What shall I do?"

Bruslart let his head again fall on his outstretched arms and sobs shook
him. Such grief in a man is difficult to witness and remain unmoved, yet
no expression of pity came into Barrington's face. He was a man of a
different fiber altogether; his emotions were seldom shown, and deep
though they really were, he passed for a hard man. Even in anger he was
calm, calculating, a set face masking the truth; and in such a crisis as
this, after the first staggering blow of it, his whole force was
concentrated on action. Misery for what had happened was so much energy
wasted, there was something to do and every faculty became focused upon
the best means of doing it.

Barrington went to the table and laid his hand firmly on Bruslart's
shoulder.

"This is no time for grieving over what cannot be undone; our business
is to act. Let me understand the position, for I swear to you that I am
ready to do all that a man can do. Since mademoiselle was taken in your
house you are in danger, I suppose. They will remember that you are an
aristocrat, too, and easily forget that you wear the outward signs of a
patriot."

"Mademoiselle seems to have thought of that, and let them believe that
she had rushed to my house for safety without my knowledge."

"It was like her," said Barrington. "She will be brave, no matter how
sorely she is tried. To-day, monsieur, I saw a coach surrounded by a
yelling crowd. It was a new sight to me and I stood to see it pass. It
contained an aristocrat, a woman, they said, but I could not see the
prisoner. The time corresponds; it may have been Mademoiselle St.
Clair."

"Ah! If you had only known!"

"Indeed, monsieur, the fact that the prisoner was a woman, made me
foolish enough to think of rushing into that filthy crowd single handed;
had I imagined it was mademoiselle I certainly should have done so. And
what could I have done, one man against a multitude? I should have been
killed, and mademoiselle might have been torn to pieces by the fiends
who surrounded her. They were in the mood for such work. Fortunately, a
man beside me, seeing the intention in my face, laid a restraining hand
upon me."

"Was he a friend?" Bruslart asked.

"Indeed, I think he proved himself one though he was a stranger. His
name was Latour, he told me."

Barrington mentioned the name with set purpose. Over the wine the
stranger had certainly expressed distrust of Lucien Bruslart, an
aristocrat turned patriot. The question of Bruslart's honesty had been
in Barrington's mind all day. It would be worth noting what effect the
name had upon his companion.

"Latour? Raymond Latour?" said Bruslart, starting to his feet, more
alert than he had yet been since Barrington had entered the room.

"The same. What do you know of him?"

"No more than all Paris knows, monsieur, but it is enough. He is a red
republican, a leading man among the Jacobins, hand in glove with all who
hate aristocrats. We need look no further for Jeanne's betrayer."

"I am not so certain of his hatred against all aristocrats," said
Barrington, slowly.

"He has a tongue that would persuade the devil himself to believe in
him," said Bruslart.

"And I do not think he knew who was in the coach," Barrington went on.
"I have a reason for saying so, and I may find out the truth presently."

"You are a stranger in Paris, you cannot hope to be a match for Raymond
Latour."

"At least there is work for me to do in this matter, and I shall not run
needlessly into danger. Freedom is precious to us both, monsieur, at the
present time, since we must use it to help mademoiselle. You pose as a
leader of the people, therefore some authority you must have; tell me,
what power have you to open the door of mademoiselle's prison?"

"Alas, none."

"Think, t

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