THE PRISONER OF THE ABBAYE
The week of waiting passed 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 pronounced, but he was untouched by apprehension, not so much
because he was a fearless man--like all swaggerers adverse
circumstances 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 passing 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 emigré 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 coarse 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 emigré, 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 emigré duly inserted, the
genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the
document. 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 emigré."
Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.
"It is down this passage," 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 lust 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?
The man beside the driver was silent, and sat in a somewhat bent
attitude as though he were desirous of attracting no attention, yet his
eyes were keen as the coach went forward at a jogging pace, and if any
passer-by seemed to show any interest in the conveyance he was quick to
note the fact.
"Take the next turning to the left," he said suddenly.
"That is not the way," returned the driver.
"It's my way. We might fall in with a crowd."
"But--"
"To the left," said the man. "I will direct you."
The coach turned into the street indicated, and afterward round this
corner and that at the bidding of the man on the box until the driver
was utterly confused.
"I'm lost, citizen," he said; "and what's more I believe you are, too."
"You'll see directly. Sharp round to the right here."
The driver turned.
"Why, it's as I said, you've lost yourself. This is a blind alley."
Indeed it was, a narrow lane between high walls, a place where refuse
collected and was allowed to remain undisturbed, a place upon which
looked no prying window and which echoed to no footfall.
The driver had turned to jeer at his companion when he found himself
seized in a grip there was no fighting against. He tried to call out,
but succeeded in giving only a whispered respiration, and then a heavy
blow robbed him of his senses.
The coach door opened. The man inside got out quickly and helped the
woman to descend.
"Keep silent, mademoiselle; it is all arranged," he whispered, and in a
few moments he had divested himself of his coat and hat, of everything
which marked him as an officer of the Convention, and even of the shaggy
hair which hung about his eyes and neck, and threw all this disguise
into the coach. He was another man altogether. "Come; we must walk. The
worst danger is past."
The man who had sat on the box was bending over the coachman. He said
nothing, did not even look up as the two went swiftly down the alley.
When they had gone he, too, divested himself of everything that proved
him an officer of the Convention and of the wig which had concealed his
identity. These he put into the coach. Then he lifted the unconscious
driver from the ground and put him into the coach also, closing the door
upon him. The horse had not attempted to move. He was a tired, worn-out
beast, glad to rest when and where he could. He was unlikely to move
until his master roused to make him, and the dawn might be no longer
young when that happened, unless some stray pedestrian should chance
down that deserted way.
For an hour that evening Raymond Latour plied his friends and fellow
patriots with wine. So glorious an hour seemed of long duration. In case
of accident there would be a score of good witnesses to swear that their
friend the deputy had been drinking with them all the evening. Under the
influence of wine and loud patriotism the flight of time is of no
account.
It was close on midnight when Latour entered the alley by the baker's
shop in the Rue Valette, walking slowly. Seated at the top of the stairs
he found Sabatier.
"Yes, and asleep probably," said Sabatier, answering the question in his
eyes.
"It was well done," said Latour. "Come to me early to-morrow. This man
Barrington may be suspected and must be warned."
"And Bruslart?"
"Yes, to-morrow we must think of him, too. Good night, citizen."
Sabatier went down the stairs, and Latour entered his room.
Midnight! Was she yet asleep? Sabatier had told her nothing except that
she was safe, and that the man who had planned her rescue would come to
her and explain everything. She would think it was Lucien Bruslart. Who
would be so likely to run such risk for her sake? Only one other man
might occur to her, the man who had already done so much to help
her--Richard Barrington. Would she be likely to sleep easily to-night?
No. Surely she was wide awake, waiting and watching.
Raymond Latour went quietly up the next flight of stairs to the room
above his own which he had furnished and made ready with such infinite
trouble. She was not so safe in these rooms as she would have been had
he succeeded in bringing her there in the first instance, straight from
the Lion d'Or as he had intended. Bruslart could not have suspected him
then as he must certainly do now; but Bruslart could only work in
secret, he dare not speak openly, and Barrington was powerless. To-night
Latour would say little. He would look upon her for a moment, be assured
that she had everything for her comfort, proclaim himself only as one of
those who had had a part in her rescue, and receive some thanks. This
would be enough for to-night.
The key was in the lock on the outside of the door. Latour knocked
before turning it.
"Mademoiselle."
"Come in."
The answer was faint. She was in the inner room. Even when told to
enter, Latour hesitated. This was a crisis in his life, fully understood
and appreciated. Here was the accomplishment of something he had labored
for; it was natural to hesitate. Then he turned the key and went in.
The room was in darkness, but the light of a candle came from the inner
room, and the next moment the door opened wide and a woman stood there,
a beautiful woman, dark in hair and eyes, with figure as lissom as a
young animal, poised just now half expectantly, half in fear.
A sharp exclamation came from Latour's lips as he leaned forward to
look at her.
"Monsieur, I--" and then a flush of anger came into her face. "Am I
still to be insulted?"
"In the devil's name, woman, who are you?"
Latour had crossed the space between them in a hasty stride or two, and
his fingers were tightly round the woman's wrist.
"What right--"
"Who are you? Answer."
For a moment longer she was defiant, even made a feeble struggle to free
herself, but the man's eyes were upon her and she was compelled to look
into them. Anger blazed in them, anger was in every line of his set
face. She had seen this man before, knew he was Raymond Latour, knew his
power, and she was afraid.
"I am Pauline Vaison," she said in a low tone.