CITIZEN SABATIER TURNS TRAITOR
The Rue Charonne in the neighborhood of the Chat Rouge was a busy
street. Its importance as a business quarter had been on the increase
for some years, yet in the adjoining back streets extreme poverty
existed and there were warrens of iniquity into which the law had feared
to penetrate too deeply. It was an old part of the city, too, built on
land once belonging to a monastery whose memory was still kept alive by
the names of mean streets and alleys into which byways respectable
citizens did not go. There were stories current of men who had ventured
and had never come forth again. With some of the inhabitants, it was
asserted, the attainment of an almost worthless trinket, or a single
coin, or even a garment, was considered cheap as the price of murder;
and so intricate were the streets, so honeycombed with secret
hiding-places known only to the initiated, that attempts to enforce
justice had almost invariably ended in failure. Naturally this squalid
neighborhood materially swelled the yelling crowds who, in the name of
patriotism, openly defied all law and order, and made outrage and murder
a national duty as they drank, and danced, and sang the "Ca-ira,"
flaunting their rags, sometimes even their nakedness.
Into the midst of such a crowd Richard Barrington had walked as he went
to the Chat Rouge; as bloodthirsty a mob as he could possibly have
encountered in all Paris, and the Rue Charonne had been turned into
Pandemonium when it was realized that the quarry had escaped. Houses
were forcibly entered, men and women insulted and ill-used, the Chat
Rouge was invaded and searched, the landlord barely escaping with his
life. The opportunity to drink without cost presently kept the mob busy,
however, and as the liquor took effect the work of searching was
abandoned for the night, but the next morning the crowd came together
again, and for days it was unsafe to go abroad in the Rue Charonne.
Of this quarter was Citizen Jacques Sabatier, never so criminal as many
of his fellows, perhaps, yet a dangerous man. He might pass along these
streets in safety, and since he had become a man of some importance, had
influence with this mob. Through him Raymond Latour could count upon the
support of those who dwelt in the purlieus of the Rue Charonne, but both
he and his henchman knew perfectly well that there were times when any
attempt to exert such influence would be useless. Sabatier, waiting by
the Chat Rouge, had heard the sudden cry, "An aristocrat! The American!"
yet he dared not have interfered openly to save Barrington. Had the
fugitive not turned suddenly into the archway where Sabatier waited, it
is certain that Sabatier would not have gone out to rescue him. The
chance to help him at little risk had offered itself, and he had taken
it.
As Richard Barrington rose to his feet in the straw, he was in pitch
darkness, but not alone. There was a quick movement beside him, and then
a voice whispering in his ear:
"A narrow escape. Give me your hand; I will lead you into a place of
greater safety."
Barrington had no idea who his deliverer was, but he thanked him and
took his hand. He was led along evil-smelling passages into which no ray
of light penetrated, but which were evidently familiar to his guide.
There were turnings, now to right, now to left, an opening and shutting
of doors, and finally entrance into a wider space where the air was
comparatively fresh.
"One moment and I will get a light."
The dim light from the lantern revealed a small chamber, square and
built of stone, the work of a past age. A barred grating high up in the
wall let in air, and possibly light in the daytime. A common chair and
table standing in the center, a bowl with a water can beside it in one
corner, and a heap of straw in another comprised the furniture. These
things Barrington noticed at once, and then recognized that the man who
set the lantern on the table was Jacques Sabatier.
"A prison," said Barrington.
"A place of refuge, citizen," was the answer. "Were you not here, you
would be decorating a lantern by this time."
"We meet in Paris under strange circumstances," said Barrington.
"Still we do meet. Did I not say at Trémont that every true patriot must
sooner or later meet Jacques Sabatier in Paris, though for that matter I
expected it to be in a wine shop and not here, underground."
"Where are we?"
"In a cell of the old monastery which once stood hard by the Rue
Charonne, which has served as a cellar at some time, but now for a long
while has been forgotten. Citizen Latour would have been here with
mademoiselle to meet you, but the mob in the neighborhood will keep them
away to-night. You must wait here, monsieur, it may be for some days."
"Mademoiselle is safe?"
"Quite safe in the care of Deputy Latour. I had the honor of helping him
to bring her out of the Abbaye prison."
"And what are Citizen Latour's plans for getting her out of Paris?"
"He is making them, but they change from day to day as the circumstances
change. At the first opportunity he will come to you."
"I must wait with what patience I can," said Barrington.
"And remain as quiet as you can," said Sabatier. "The crowd will be
hunting for you for some time, and a noise might attract them."
"I shall not court death; I have a good deal to live for," said
Barrington.
"Then, monsieur, I will leave you. Citizen Latour will be distressed
until he knows you are safe."
Richard Barrington's patience was destined to be sufficiently tried. It
was a poor, miserable caricature of daylight which found its way through
the barred grating, and for three days Sabatier visited him every
morning with the same news that the crowds parading the Rue Charonne
made it impossible for Latour to come.
"Is it necessary to lock me in?" Barrington asked.
"It is not to prevent your going out, monsieur, but to insure that your
enemies do not come in."
"I feel like a prisoner."
"Better that than falling into the hands of the mob."
On the fourth day Sabatier brought a message from Latour. Barrington's
servant Seth had been to him inquiring about his master. Naturally,
perhaps, he was not inclined to believe Latour's word that he was safe,
and unless he had some definite proof might ruin everything by making
inquiries in other directions.
"Will you write a letter to your servant, monsieur, telling him to wait
until he has further instructions from you?"
"Might he not come to me here?"
"For the present that would be too dangerous," Sabatier answered. "I
come and go, monsieur, because I was bred in this quarter of the city.
The mob claims me as a part of it, and truly I am, except in this
business. I began by simply obeying Citizen Latour, for my own benefit,
I make no secret of it; now I am also interested in Monsieur
Barrington."
The letter to Seth was written and given to Sabatier to deliver. Two
more weary days of waiting passed, and then late one afternoon Raymond
Latour came.
Barrington welcomed him, both hands held out to him.
"It was bravely done," he exclaimed. "You must have run great risk in
getting her from the Abbaye prison."
"Yes, great risk. I have come to talk to you about it."
Latour ignored the outstretched hands. He stood in front of Barrington
with folded arms. There was something amiss.
"What has happened?" Barrington asked.
"The usual thing when an honest man trusts a liar; the honest man has
been deceived."
"You speak of--"
"Of one Richard Barrington, a liar I was fool enough to trust. Oh, this
is no time for fighting," Latour went on quickly, as sudden anger
stiffened Barrington's figure, and gave a dangerous fire to his eyes.
"You will be wise to hear me out. This was a place of safety, it is a
prison, and a word from me will send you to the guillotine as surely as
we are standing face to face at this moment."
"First prove me a liar; afterward threaten me if you will," Barrington
returned.
Latour regarded him in silence for a few moments and then said slowly:
"Tell me, where is Jeanne St. Clair?"
"Jeanne! She has gone?" cried Barrington. "Sabatier said she was with
you, that she--"
"It is well done, monsieur; I am no longer a fool or I might be
convinced, might still be deceived."
"For Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean," and Barrington spoke
hoarsely.
"If it pleases you to keep up the deception, let me put facts plainly,"
said Latour. "You admit the risk I ran in securing an escape from the
Abbaye Prison; you know that the risk was run to no purpose. It was well
planned, it was successful, but the woman rescued was not Mademoiselle
St. Clair."
"You made a mistake?"
"There was no mistake. The woman was Pauline Vaison, a woman Lucien
Bruslart has promised to marry. The mob found her in his apartment, took
her for the aristocrat, and carried her to prison in the place of
mademoiselle. You are Bruslart's friend and accomplice. I ask you again,
where is Jeanne St. Clair?"
It never occurred to Richard Barrington that Latour might be deceiving
him, and for the moment he had no thought how he could best convince
Latour that he was innocent of any deception. He was utterly overwhelmed
by the news. Deep down in his heart he had never really trusted Lucien
Bruslart, and all this time Jeanne had been in his hands. Bruslart then
had lied from the first, had imposed upon him his feigned grief, and all
the time he had been perfecting some foul plot. What had become of
Jeanne? The horrible possibilities unnerved him, took the heart out of
him. He was as a man who when brought face to face with peril is afraid,
who shrinks back and would fly if he could. Latour knew nothing of the
thoughts rushing through Barrington's brain, he only saw a man with the
courage suddenly gone out of him; he put his own construction upon his
manner and laughed.
"It is always unpleasant when the time comes to pay for such deceit," he
said.
"I swear to you"
"Spare yourself. I have asked you a question. I want it answered."
"I don't know where she is. I wish to Heaven I did."
"It suits my purpose to give you time to think better of your answer,"
said Latour. "You shall even buy your miserable life by telling the
truth. When you tell me where Mademoiselle St. Clair is, you shall leave
this prison, not before. I will even do something to get you safely out
of Paris and to the seacoast."
"I tell you I do not know. Find Bruslart, ask him."
"I have you safe, that is enough; and I would advise you to come to my
terms quickly. There is no escape except through me. Your letter has
silenced your servant, and his patience is likely to outlast mine. Tell
the truth quickly, Monsieur Barrington; it will be safer."
Latour turned to the door, but Barrington sprang toward him and caught
him by the arm.
"Are you mad? Think of her; she is in Bruslart's hands."
Latour wrenched himself free, and as he turned sharply there was a
pistol in his hand.
"Stand where you are! I would shoot you like a dog rather than let you
escape."
"The devil take you for a fool!" exclaimed Barrington. "I thought I had
a man to deal with!" and he turned his back upon Latour, who went out of
the room, locking the door after him.
Barrington's anger was quickly absorbed in the realization of the utter
hopelessness of his position. Latour had trapped him. When he sent him
the appointment to come to the Chat Rouge, he must have known what he
had told him to-day; he had deliberately said nothing until after Seth's
anxiety had been quieted; and his jailer, Jacques Sabatier, was a party
to the deceit. Latour had it firmly fixed in his mind that he was in
league with Bruslart, and it seemed that nothing short of a miracle
would drive this idea out of his mind. Barrington could conceive no way
in which he could convince him, and the thought that all this while
Jeanne was in peril almost drove him mad. Could he escape? For the first
time since he had entered it he examined his stone cellar carefully. It
was a very grave for security.
When Sabatier visited him next morning, his manner gave Barrington an
idea. Sabatier entered more carefully than he was wont to do, his hand
upon a pistol thrust into his tri-color sash. It was evident he feared
attack. His greeting was friendly, however; he showed a keen interest in
the prisoner, and gave him odds and ends of news which were of little
importance.
"Any message for Citizen Latour?" he asked as he was leaving.
"Tell him he is a fool."
Why should Barrington not attack and overpower his jailer? It might be
useless, perhaps others were watching in the passage without, ready to
rush in at the slightest sound; still, it would be something attempted.
He had succeeded in silencing the man at the Lion d'Or that night, why
should he not succeed again?
The next morning Sabatier came before his time, Barrington was not ready
to take him unawares. Again he asked the same question, and Barrington
gave him a similar answer.
"Tell Latour he is a fool."
"I will. He may end by believing it. I may have news for you to-morrow."
There was meaning in the words, a suggestion that the news might be good
news. Barrington decided to give his jailer a chance of telling it.
Sabatier came at the usual hour.
"Do you bring news?" Barrington asked.
"Citizen Latour remains a fool. I mean it. I do not believe you know
where mademoiselle is."
"Then you will help me?"
"Monsieur, I try every day to persuade Deputy Latour that he is
mistaken."
"We must try another way, Sabatier."
"I will, if monsieur will agree to what I say. I have to think of
myself, and Citizen Latour is a dangerous man to thwart. For a day or
two longer I will try and persuade him; if I fail I will do my best to
help you to escape, but you must be patient or you put my neck under the
knife. Do you agree?"
"Agree! I must. I have no choice."
"Your servant Seth might help me; where shall I find him?"
"My good friend, how can I tell? Paris is a large place," was the prompt
answer. Barrington was not going to speak of Monsieur Fargeau. His house
might presently prove the only safe retreat for him in the city.
"It is a pity, but I shall manage alone," Sabatier answered. "Am I to
give the usual answer to Citizen Latour?"
"Yes. Can any answer be better than the truth?"
Had a miracle happened? Was this man honestly meaning to help him, or
had he seen that the prisoner intended to attack him and chosen this way
of protecting himself? Barrington could not tell. He could only wait and
see.