"You may be right," he said; "the temptation has not yet come to me. The other idea that is in your mind is wrong. Mademoiselle St. Clair is not the woman I am interested in."
"Then we start on level ground," said Barrington, "the ground which was of your own suggesting--friendship. I do not believe my face is a telltale one, but would you feel confident that I would do you a service if I could?"
"Yes."
"Then, Monsieur Latour, what are you going to do to help me to save Mademoiselle St. Clair?"
"The question is not unexpected," said Latour, after a pause. "I might easily answer it with the bare statement that I could do nothing. It would be true enough, for, in one sense, I am powerless; my conscience would be clear because I should be acting up to my principles. But let us consider the question for a moment. You are acting for Citizen Lucien Bruslart."
"He does not know that I am here."
"I quite appreciate that you are not a man to trust any one implicitly on so short an acquaintance, but you know perfectly well that to rescue Mademoiselle St. Clair is to save her for Lucien Bruslart."
"And if it be so?"
"The enterprise does not much appeal to me," said Latour. "Let me be more explicit than I was yesterday. I know Bruslart, not the man only but the very soul of the man. It is black, monsieur, black as h.e.l.l.
Mademoiselle had far better look through the little window than trust such a man. The guillotine does its work quickly, but the misery of a woman who trusts Lucien Bruslart must be the affair of a lifetime."
"If she is saved, is it so certain that it will be for Citizen Bruslart?" Barrington asked.
CHAPTER XV
THE PRISONER OF THE ABBAYE
The week of waiting pa.s.sed slowly for Raymond Latour. He knew the risk he was running, but never for an instant was he tempted to turn from his purpose. His whole being was centered upon the enterprise; the saving of this woman was an essential thing, and every other consideration of country or self must give way to it. He was quite willing to sacrifice himself if necessary, but at the same time he intended to guard against such a necessity as much as possible. He worked with cunning and calculation, going over every point in his scheme and eliminating as far as possible every element of chance. The unlikely things which might happen were considered, and provided for. Only two persons had any part in the scheme, Jacques Sabatier and Mathon, the jailer; each had his own particular work in it, had received definite and minute instructions, yet neither of them knew the whole plot. Latour did not take them entirely into his confidence; he did not ask their advice, he only told them how to act.
The week was as any other week to Jacques Sabatier. Uplifted somewhat by Latour"s confidence in him, his swaggering gait was perhaps a little more p.r.o.nounced, but he was untouched by apprehension, not so much because he was a fearless man--like all swaggerers adverse circ.u.mstances would probably find him at heart a coward--but because he had implicit faith in Raymond Latour. The man he served was not only powerful and courageous; he was lucky, which counted for much. What he had set his heart upon that he obtained. It was a creed in which Sabatier had absolute faith, and the pa.s.sing week was merely an interval which must elapse before success.
Mathon the jailer had not this sublime faith, and his fearfulness was perhaps natural. As a jailer he was in close touch with facts and knew by experience how unstable in these days was any man"s power. A week had often served to change a master whose anger was dangerous into a prisoner whose name might at any moment be upon the list of those destined forthwith to feed the guillotine. He had not been brought so constantly in touch with Latour that he could appreciate him as a lucky man, and he contemplated his part in the enterprise with misgiving.
The plot was to be carried out on the second night upon which Mathon was on duty. This was the first precaution. Were he a party to mademoiselle"s escape it would be argued that he would have seized the first opportunity; that he had not done so would go some way to prove his innocence. On this evening, too, Mathon was particularly loud in his hatred of all prisoners, of one emigre prisoner in particular, and his manners were brutal. There would be many witnesses able to prove this.
In one small room at the end of a corridor he was particularly brutal.
He made the mere unlocking of the door a nerve-racking sound, and stamped in swearing under his breath. Three women drew back into a corner, trembling. They were women of a coa.r.s.e bourgeois type, their chief crime misfortune. They knew only imperfectly of what they were accused, why they were there, but they had few friends to spare a thought for them and expected each day to be their last. Sometimes they were afraid and tearful, at other times careless, loose, and blasphemous, despair making them unnatural, and in this mood it pleased them to curse their fellow prisoner, also a woman, and an aristocrat.
Mathon laughed as they shrank from him.
"Disappointed again," he said. "You are not called to-night. You will have another pleasant dream about it. Perhaps to-morrow your turn will come. It"s time. This fine apartment is wanted for better people."
Then he turned and walked towards the fourth prisoner. If she were afraid she succeeded in hiding the fact. She was standing by the window and she did not move.
"As for you, your time is short," said the jailer, and then coming quite close to her he dropped his voice. "Listen, and don"t show astonishment.
You will be released probably. When the time comes, ask no questions, don"t speak, do as you are told." Then he swore loudly again and, jingling his keys, went out and locked the door.
He swore partly to keep his own courage at the proper pitch, for the dismal corridors of the Abbaye were depressing to-night. Approaching footsteps startled Mathon, and the sudden salutation of a comrade turned him pale. The night was oppressive, yet he found it cold enough to make him shiver.
Presently there came heavy footsteps, and two of those dreaded officers of the Convention, men whose hours were occupied in spreading terror and in feeding the guillotine, stood before him.
"Jailer Mathon?"
"Yes."
"You have in your charge an emigre, Jeanne St. Clair. She is to be removed forthwith to the Conciergerie. There is the order."
Mathon took up a lantern and by the dim light read the paper handed to him. It was all in order, the full name of the emigre duly inserted, the genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the doc.u.ment. The jailer looked from the paper into the face of the man who had handed it to him.
"Do they set over prisoners fools who cannot read?" asked the man.
"No; the paper is in order," Mathon answered.
"Obey it then. Fetch out the emigre."
Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.
"It is down this pa.s.sage," and his keys jingled. His fingers trembled a little as the men followed him. A few yards from the door the men halted.
"Bring her quickly. We have other work to do to-night more important than this."
Mathon unlocked the door and entered the room.
"Jeanne St. Clair, your turn has come."
The woman moved slowly.
"Quickly," said Mathon. "Your head"s still in its place. Wrap the hood of your cloak well round it. There"s no need to feel cold before the time. Don"t speak," he added in a whisper.
They went out together, Mathon locking the door again.
"This is the prisoner."
The officers without a word placed themselves on either side of her, and they went quickly along the corridor leaving the jailer alone, one hand holding his keys, the other pressed to his pocket to make sure that the order he had obeyed still rested there.
A _berlin_ stood in the little square before the prison, the driver half asleep. He had no imagination, this driver, and this square was to him as any other in Paris. Yet on another night, not long since, how different it had been! Then a mob filled it, filled it to overflowing, a mob mad with l.u.s.t of blood and murder, armed with sabers, pikes and hatchets, any weapon that came to hand. Within the prison sat a sudden jury, a mockery of Justice; without stood Fate. A brief questioning, the veriest caricature of a trial, and prisoners were escorted to the doors, but no farther. The rest of the journey they must go alone. A lane opened before them, all must traverse it, old and young, man or woman.
It was a short journey, and amid frenzied shrieks they fell under the sabers and the pikes. There was no mercy, only red death and horror.
Rain had fallen in Paris since then, yet surely there must still be blood in the gutters of this square. The driver could not tell where he had been that night, not here certainly, but wherever it was he was minding his own business. He had enough to do to live from day to day, and had no use for a long memory. He had carried people, men and women, from one prison to another before this, and took no special interest in this job. The revolution mattered little to him if he could get sufficient for his wants. He had a room high up in the Faubourg St.
Antoine, with a wife and child in it, and cared little what heads fell daily in the Place de la Revolution. He woke from his reverie at the sound of footsteps. A woman was helped into the coach quickly, a man following her and closing the door sharply behind him. A second man climbed to the box beside the driver.
"To the Conciergerie," he said.
The woman in the coach did not speak, but leaned back in the corner. The man was also silent until they had driven away from the square.
"Listen to me, mademoiselle," he said presently. "We are driving in the direction of the Conciergerie, but the way will be altered in a few minutes. My comrade will arrange that. Keep your cloak well round you and do not speak. You and I will have to walk presently to a safe retreat already prepared. You must do exactly as you are told or we may fail. Your escape may be discovered at any moment."
The woman did not answer. She had no idea who her companion was, had perhaps a doubt in her mind concerning him, but she determined to obey; indeed, what else could she do?