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.