They rode far that day, and after a few hours" rest, journeyed through part of the night. The spirits of the fugitives rose as Paris was left farther behind them, yet they were destined to be many days on the journey, and to encounter dangers. Although they traveled as officers of the Convention, Sabatier was careful to avoid the towns, and even villages, as much as possible. If the suspicion of only one patriot were aroused, their journey might end in disaster. Jeanne St. Clair rode as a man, looked a man, but she looked very young for such work as they were supposed to be engaged in, and there was a soft light in her eyes sometimes which might set a keen observer wondering. Then, too, there might be pursuit upon the road behind them. Some swift messenger, keeping the direct road, which they could not always do, might pa.s.s them, and carry a warning before them. There were many dangers, many possibilities.
One dawn--they had ridden through the greater part of the night--a climb which the horses took at walking pace brought them to the top of a down. The world seemed stretched out before them in the light of the new day.
"That way lies Bordeaux," said Sabatier, reining in his horse, and pointing to the left. "Below us is the mouth of the Gironde, yonder the open sea."
"Our journey is nearly at an end, then," said Jeanne.
"I trust so. A day or two"s delay, perhaps; I cannot tell."
Toward evening they were lodged at an inn close to the sh.o.r.e, a deserted spot where they were unlikely to be disturbed.
"After dark, Monsieur Barrington, I propose to leave you, and take your man with me," said Sabatier. "I must get into communication with the vessel that should be lying farther up the river. Your man will be able to help me to explain, and guarantee my statement. You are not likely to be disturbed here, but should any one come, say boldly that you are watching for two refugees who are expected here hoping to be taken off by a boat. Order them to leave you to fulfill your duties. Here are papers which prove you to be Citizen Roche. Watch for the boat, and be ready."
"Shall we not see you again?"
"No."
"Then, thank you, Citizen Sabatier, for what you have done," said Barrington. "We owe you much and have nothing but words to pay the debt."
"Monsieur, I told you once I had a liking for you; it was true."
"Is there no more danger?" said Jeanne.
"None, I think, mademoiselle. It is most improbable that your escape has been discovered. Citizen Latour is powerful in Paris and in the Convention. You have been under his care from the first. I am but the lieutenant of a great man of whom the world will hear much in the days to come. As he rises to greater heights, so may I."
"Will you carry back a message to him?" said Barrington. "Say that with full hearts we thank him for all he has done for us."
"And tell him," said Jeanne, "tell him from me that there is one woman in the world who will always pray for him."
Prayer and Jacques Sabatier had little in common; prayer was a thing to laugh at, so much at least had the Revolution done for France and old superst.i.tions; but he did not laugh now. "He shall have the message," he said, holding Jeanne"s hand for a moment, and then suddenly bending down and touching it with his lips. "He shall certainly have both your messages," he went on loudly; and, with a swaggering gait, as though he were ashamed of his momentary weakness, he pa.s.sed out of the room reluctantly followed by Seth, who was apprehensive at having to leave his master again.
The night fell and pa.s.sed. Dawn came and the stronger light of morning, a morning of sunshine and blue sky. The sunlight touched the white sails of a vessel, and a boat, with its oars flashing, came quickly toward the sh.o.r.e where a man and a maid waited hand in hand.
Jacques Sabatier rode back toward Paris. From high ground he looked and saw a white sail far out to sea, then he rode on. But the message he carried was never to be delivered.
Citizen Latour, feared in Paris, powerful in the Convention, greater than Robespierre so some had declared, was a traitor. Justice demanded quick punishment, and the mob, more powerful than Justice, clamored for it. There was proof enough against him; a score of witnesses if necessary. Why hear them all? There was no need for a long trial, and what advocate would have courage sufficient to speak for this prisoner?
Raymond Latour faced his enemies alone, his face still set, full of purpose. No man uttered a word in his favor, no single expression of pity met him. Justice might be tempered with mercy if the prisoner would say where this emigre and this American were to be found. The prisoner did not know. A storm of howls and hisses met the answer, barely silenced by the ringing of the president"s bell. Had the prisoner anything to say in his defense? A great silence, unbroken even by the prisoner himself. He had been eloquent for Lucien Bruslart, for himself he had nothing to say. Again a storm of hisses; heads thrust forward, hands flung out that would tear him in pieces could they reach him.
Uproar and confusion, a yelled demand for condemnation. Nothing else was possible.
Still with set face, with firm purpose, Raymond Latour waited in the Conciergerie. No friend would come to see him, he knew that. Some of those he had made use of and trusted were not in Paris, some had already proved his enemies, and none dared show sympathy even if they would. He was alone, quite alone, without a single friend.
This day his name was not in the list, nor the next. He wondered a little at the delay, but waited patiently, knowing that there was no uncertainty about the end.
"Raymond Latour."
It was the first on the list to-day. Without a word he walked into the dark pa.s.sage, noticing none of the others who waited there, some pale and afraid, some as though they were starting upon a journey of pleasure.
"One, two, three tumbrils! The guillotine was hungry this morning.
Raymond Latour was in the last tumbril.
"I was promised life--I told all I knew--there is a mistake. Ask! Let me wait until to-morrow--for G.o.d"s sake let me wait until to-morrow!"
Latour looked at the frightened wretch who was literally thrown into the tumbril after him, but the expression on his face did not change; he did not speak.
The man continued to cry out until the tumbrils started, then with a wail of despair he fell on his knees, shaking in every limb, chattering to himself, whether oaths or prayers who shall say?
The tumbrils moved forward slowly.
The wretch upon his knees seemed to realize suddenly that he was not alone. He looked up into the face of the man beside him. Then rose slowly and touched him.
"Latour."
There was no answer, no turning of the head even.
"Latour. So this is how we meet at last."
There were crowds in the streets, yelling crowds. He spoke clearly so that the man might hear him, but there was no answer.
"Raymond Latour--Latour--this is how we meet, both d.a.m.ned and betrayed for the sake of a woman."
No words answered him, but Latour turned and looked full into the eyes of Lucien Bruslart.
The tumbrils went forward slowly, a yelling mob on every side.
"Lucien! Lucien! Look at me!"
It was a woman"s cry, shrill, sounding above the uproar.
Shaking with fear, yet perhaps with a glimmer of hope still in his heart, Bruslart looked. There was a woman held high above the crowd, supported and steadied by strong men"s arms.
"I said you should see me laugh. Look, Lucien! I laugh at you."
"It is a mistake. Save me, Pauline, save me!"
"I laugh, Lucien," and a shriek of laughter, mad, riotous, fiendish, cut like a sharp knife through all that yelling confusion.
With a cry of rage, despair, and terror, Bruslart sank trembling in a heap to the floor of the tumbril. Latour did not move. He had not turned to look at Pauline Vaison. The thought of another woman was in his soul.
Was she safe?
There was a pause, the crowd was so dense at this corner; then the tumbril moved on again. The corner was turned. Straight before him looked Raymond Latour, over the mult.i.tude of heads, over the waving arms and red caps, straight before him across the Place de la Revolution to the guillotine, to the blue sky, sunlit, against which it rose--and beyond.
EPILOGUE