THE TAVERN AT THE CHAT ROUGE
Terribly leaden-footed had this week of waiting been to Richard
Barrington. He had not seen Lucien Bruslart, although each afternoon he
had passed the wine shop with the sign of the three barrels. He had
nothing to occupy him, and for most of the day he remained within doors.
He shrank from witnessing the squalor and savagery which might at any
moment be met in the streets; he could not bear the sight or the sound
of those slowly rolling tumbrils carrying their wretched victims to the
guillotine, and he would not go in the direction of the Place de la
Revolution even when there was no yelling crowd there, when the scaffold
was untenanted and the great knife still. Another consideration kept him
indoors. His constant presence in the streets might serve to make his
face and figure familiar, and this would be a disadvantage if he were
presently to help Mademoiselle St. Clair to escape from Paris.
In the house of Monsieur Fargeau life ran a smooth and even course, if
not entirely ignorant of the revolution, at least having no personal
concern with it. The shouting mob did not penetrate into this quiet
corner of the city. Monsieur Fargeau knew nothing of politics, and was
ignorant of the very names of many of those members of the Convention
who were filling distant parts of Europe with horror and loathing. Some
people had lost their lives, he was aware of that; possibly they had
only met with their deserts, he did not know. The times were hard, but
he was prepared for a rainy day, and could afford to wait until business
improved again. To do the Marquis de Lafayette a service he had let
rooms to two Americans, who paid him well, who said pleasant things to
his wife and children when they met them on the stairs, and beyond this
he thought or cared little about them. He knew nothing of their reason
for being in Paris, and had no idea that he was harboring dangerous
characters. Both Barrington and Seth had been careful to leave and
return to their lodgings cautiously, and by a roundabout route, and were
convinced that if they were watched they had succeeded in baffling the
spies in discovering their hiding place. Barrington was therefore rather
startled one afternoon when, as he returned from his daily walk past the
wine shop, a man suddenly came from a doorway and spoke his name in a
low tone.
"It is Monsieur Barrington?"
"Yes."
"You may remember me, monsieur. I am a servant to Monsieur de
Lafayette."
"Yes, I thought I recognized your face. You have a message for me?"
"My master has left Paris, monsieur. There was a rumor that he was in
the city, and he was in danger of arrest. He has rejoined the army in
the North, but it may not be possible for him to stay there. If not, he
will ride across the Belgian frontier."
"It is bad news?" said Barrington.
"Yes, monsieur, and I was to say to you that you would do well to leave
Paris at the first opportunity. There is no place for an honest man
to-day in France. My master told me to say that."
This news added to Barrington's feeling of impotence, and was
depressing. Had his days been full of active danger it would not have
had such an effect upon him. Naturally disposed to see the silver lining
of every cloud, he was unable to detect it now. Instead, his mind was
full of questions. Was Bruslart honest? Was he leaving no stone unturned
to release Mademoiselle St. Clair? Had Raymond Latour lied to him? Was
this week of waiting merely a pretext in order that he might have time
to render the prisoner's acquittal absolutely impossible?"
"I'd trust this man Latour before I would Bruslart," Seth said, when
Barrington appealed to him, but in such a tone that he did not appear
really to trust either of them.
"And at the end of this week what are we to do if mademoiselle is still
a prisoner?"
"Master Richard, we're just men, ordinary men, and we cannot do the
impossible. We shall have done all that it is in our power to do, and a
ride toward the sea and a ship bound for Virginia would be the best
thing for us."
"You would leave a defenseless woman in the hands of her enemies?"
Barrington asked.
"It seems to me she must remain there whether we stay or go. I'm looking
at the matter as it is, and I see no opening for a romantic side to it,"
Seth answered. "You cannot do battle with a whole city, that would mean
death and nothing accomplished; you cannot go to these ruffians and
demand her release, that would mean death, yours and hers, in the
shortest time possible. No, unless this man Latour keeps his word, I
see naught for us but a return to Virginia as quickly as may be."
"You would never spend another night of sound sleep, Seth."
"I should, Master Richard. I should just forget this time as though it
had never been, wipe the marks of it off the slate. He's a wise man who
does that with some of the episodes of his life."
"I am a fool with a long memory," said Barrington.
"Ay, but you will grow older, Master Richard; and life is less romantic
as we grow older."
So from Seth there was not much consolation to be had, only sound common
sense, which was not altogether palatable just now as Barrington counted
the days. Latour had been very indefinite. He had said a week, and on
waking one morning Barrington's first thought was that the week ended
to-morrow. It was a proof of his trust in Latour, half unconscious
though such trust might be, that he had not expected to hear anything
until the week had passed. He judged Latour by himself.
Seth went out in the morning as usual, looking as true and
uncompromising a patriot as any he was likely to encounter in the
street. He rather prided himself on the way he played his part, and wore
the tri-color cockade with an air of conviction. Grim of feature, he
looked like a man of blood, a disciple of rioting, and he had more than
once noticed that certain people who wished to pass unobserved shrank
from him, which pleased him greatly. Early in the afternoon he returned
hurriedly. It was so unlike him to come up the stairs hastily, two at a
time, that Barrington opened the door to meet him.
"Shut it, Master Richard," he said, as he entered the room.
"What has happened?"
"The unexpected. Mademoiselle escaped from the Abbaye Prison last
night."
"You are sure! You have seen Latour?"
"Sure! The news is all over Paris. The mob is furious. There are cries
for a general massacre of prisoners, as happened a little while since,
so that no others may escape. There is talk of a house-to-house search,
and there are more ruffians in the streets to-day than I have seen at
all."
"Is there any mention of Latour, any suspicion of him?"
"I heard none, but they talk of--"
"Bruslart!" ejaculated Barrington.
"No, of a scurvy devil of a royalist who helped mademoiselle into
Paris."
"Of me? By name?"
"I did not hear your name spoken, but it is you they mean. They are
looking in every direction for mademoiselle, but they are keeping their
eyes open for you, too. There'll be some who will remember seeing you at
the barrier the other day. Yours is a figure not easily to be forgotten.
Keep within doors, Master Richard, until it is safe for us to sneak
away."
"You know that is impossible."
"Mademoiselle has escaped," said Seth. "It is now your turn to seek
safety."
"With her escape my part commences," said Barrington, with a laugh that
had happiness in it. "It is for me to take her back to Beauvais or
elsewhere to safety."
"It is madness to think of it," said Seth. "To be in your company would
increase her danger. Think of her, Master Richard, think of her. Your
lust for romantic adventure makes you selfish. For days to come you are
a marked man. In the streets, at any moment, you may be recognized. Even
in this quiet corner of the city you are hardly safe. They'll trap you
if they can and only a miracle can prevent them."
"I have given a promise, Seth."
"Break it, if not for your own sake, for the woman's. You risk bringing
her to ruin. I came back here to-day more cautiously than I have ever
done. One moment of carelessness and you are lost. If this man Latour
must be seen, let me go to him. No one is likely to recognize me. No one
turns to look after me as I pass. I am insignificant, of no account. Let
me go."
"Seth, you have not told me everything," he said, suddenly. "There is
something you are keeping back. What is it?"
Seth was by the window looking down into the quiet street as though he
expected to see danger enter it at any moment.
"What is it?" Barrington repeated.
"I'd give half my remaining years if my conscience would bid me lie to
you," Seth answered, fiercely. "I've prayed, yes, I prayed as I hurried
through the streets that your mother's spirit might be allowed to
whisper to me and bid me deceive you."
"Come, Seth, tell me everything," and Barrington let his hand fall
affectionately on the man's shoulder. "Could conscience persuade you to
barter half your years, it would be but a device of the devil to lead us
into greater difficulty."
"I was recognized to-day. That swaggerer Sabatier touched me in the
street, and with a word of caution bid me walk beside him as though we
were boon companions. He was a messenger from Raymond Latour."
"Yes, what did he say?"
"He told me that mademoiselle had escaped, news I had heard already, and
he bid me tell you from Latour to go to-night, as soon as it began to
grow dusk, to the Rue Charonne, to a tavern there called the Chat Rouge.
You are to ask for the tavern keeper and say to him 'La vie est ici.' He
will understand and bring you to Latour and mademoiselle. Plans are laid
for your escape."
"Is that all, Seth?"
"And enough, surely. It comes from Sabatier, and we know something of
him. It is a trap baited too openly. You will not go, Master Richard."
"Not go! Why, this is the very kind of message I have waited for, but I
did not expect it until to-morrow."
"And I go with you."
Barrington was thoughtful for a moment.
"No. We will exercise every caution. Should escape from Paris seem
possible at once, I can send for you or tell you when and where to join
me; if I walk into a trap, you will still be at liberty to work for my
freedom."
Seth knew from past experience that all argument was useless, and
listened attentively to his master's instructions.
"If you do not see me, or hear from me within three days, you must act
as you think best, Seth. Whatever my danger I shall have absolute
confidence in you. Mademoiselle once in safety, you shall have your
desire; we will ride toward the sea and a homeward-bound ship."
Twilight was gathering over Paris when Richard Barrington left the house
of Monsieur Fargeau and went in the direction of the Rue Charonne. The
wine shops were full to overflowing; small crowds were at street
corners, filthy men and women ripe for any outrage. The names of
unpopular deputies were freely and loudly cursed; the most unlikely
revolutionists were openly accused of having sympathy with aristocrats.
Some ragged miscreant, whose only popularity rested on some recent
brutality, was declared capable of governing better than most of the
present deputies, and the mob was more out of hand than it had been for
weeks. At the call of some loud-mouthed patriot, or on the instigation
of some screaming virago, a small body of dancing, swearing patriots
would move away bent on mischief which would probably end in bloodshed.
A street, more or less tranquil the moment before, would suddenly become
a miniature battlefield, an opinion dividing patriots into factions
which began to fight savagely. Anything might happen to-night, another
prison might be stormed as the Bastille was, another tenth of August
insurrection, another horror equalling the September massacres, anything
was possible. Only a leader a little bolder than the rest was wanting,
and all attempt at law and order would be trampled to nothing in a
moment by a myriad of feet.
Barrington proceeded carefully with watchful eyes, yet boldly enough not
to draw attention to himself. If a street was in possession of the mob
he avoided it, nor did he pass in the light which came from noisy wine
shops, but he did not make the mistake of avoiding those who approached
him. His route to the Rue Charonne was therefore a circuitous one, but
he came presently to a street which led directly into it, which seemed
quieter than many he had passed through, and he took it.
He had traversed three-parts of its length in safety when from two side
streets crowds came simultaneously. To hurry might raise suspicion, to
turn back most certainly would; so Barrington kept on, not increasing
his pace, but with his eyes and ears keenly alive. His steady pace
exactly brought him into the midst of those who were at the heads of
these two crowds, and he was ready to receive and return any salutation
or coarse pleasantry which might be offered to him, when he found
himself carried in a rush to one side of the street. Between these two
crowds there was some quarrel, possibly no more than an hour old, and
men and women flew at one another in a fury. Being at the edge of the
fight Barrington had no great difficulty in extricating himself, and no
need to defend himself beyond an arm flung out to avoid the blow from a
stick. So fully were they engaged in their fight that they were unlikely
to take much notice of him, and he was congratulating himself on his
escape when one out of the many faces about him suddenly seemed to stand
out distinct from all the rest. Barrington did not know the face, had
never seen the man before that he was aware of, but it fascinated him.
He was obliged to stare back into the eyes fixed upon him, and knew
instinctively that he was in peril.
"An aristocrat!"
The exclamation burst out like the report of a pistol.
"The American!"
The noise of the fight sank in a kind of sob as the roar of a breaking
wave sinks with an angry swish back into silence; and as there is a
pause before the next wave is flung upward to break and roar, so was
there a pause now. Then came the yell of fury, faction quarrel
forgotten. They were all of one mind in a moment.
"An aristocrat! The American! The American!"
In the moment of pause Barrington had thrust aside a man who seemed to
bar his way, and had started to run. He was a score of yards to the
good; with fortune on his side he would turn into the Rue Charonne well
ahead of all but two of his pursuers; an open doorway, an alley, some
hiding-place might present itself. Escape was not probable, but there
was a chance, that bare chance which keeps the courage steady.
[Illustration: Escape was not probable, but there was a chance.]
As he rushed into the Rue Charonne, the yelling chorus behind him, a new
difficulty faced him. Just before him was the Chat Rouge, the one place
in all Paris that must not attract the attention of the mob to-night. An
archway was beside him and he turned into it.
"The American! The American!"
The bloodhounds were in the street. Would they miss this archway? It was
unlikely.
"Quick!" said a voice in his ear as he was dragged back against the
wall. "There is straw below. Jump!"
The crowd was rushing past the archway, but some stopped to examine it
as Barrington jumped down, falling on his hands and knees onto a bed of
straw.
"The American!"
"This way. He must have gone this way!"
The babel of voices was loud for a moment, then something silenced it,
and there was the swift sound of a bolt shot home carefully.