THE AMBITION OF RAYMOND LATOUR
The dawn came slowly creeping over Paris, cold and with a whip of gusty
rain in it. It stole in to touch the faces of many sleepers, innocent
sleepers, in hiding and in prison, who for a little while had forgotten
their fear and peril; brutal sleepers who for a little space lay
harmless, heavy with satisfied lust and wine. It stole into empty rooms,
rooms that should be occupied; into Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne
where two beds had not been slept in; into hovels in narrow byways of
the city to which men and women had not returned last night, but had
spent the sleeping hours, as befitted such patriots, in revelry and
songs and wine. It stole into a little room with cheap white curtains,
and looked upon a woman who had thrown herself half dressed on the bed
and had fallen asleep, tired out, exhausted. It crept into a room below
and touched the figure of a man seated by the table. A lamp stood near
him, but either he had turned it out, or it had burned out; an open book
was before him, but he had read little, and no knowledge of what he had
read remained. For hours he had sat there in darkness, but no sleep had
come to him. The night had been a long waking dream of things past, and
present, and the future a confusion of thoughts which could not be
reduced to any order. All the threads of a great scheme were in his
hands, yet he was uncertain how to use them to the best advantage. The
moment he had struggled for had come. This day, this dawn, was the
beginning of the future. How was he to make the best of it?
Presently he was conscious of feeling cold, and he made himself some
coffee, moving about his room quietly. He remembered the woman upstairs.
She was sleeping, surely. He had listened during the night and had not
heard her. He had held her in his arms, had carried her up the stairs
and placed her gently in a chair, leaving her in the care of the woman
from the baker's shop at the corner of the alley. She would wake
presently and he would see her. What should he say to her?
The coffee warmed Raymond Latour, but there was unusual excitement in
his movements. As the light increased he sat down and tried to read. It
was a volume of Plutarch's "Lives," a book which had done much to
influence many revolutionaries; but he could not read with any
understanding. To-day there was so much to be done, so many things to
think of. There were his own affairs, and they must take first place,
but in Paris the excitement would be at fever pitch to-day. Louis Capet
was to die, the voting had decided; but when? There was to be more
voting, and Raymond Latour must take his part in it. It was no wonder
that he could not read.
The hours had dragged through the night, yet when a knock came at his
door, it seemed to him that he had had little time to mature his plans,
that it was only a very little while since he had carried the woman up
the stairs. He opened the door quickly.
"The citizeness is awake and dressed. She is anxious to see you."
"What have you told her?"
"Only that the man who brought her last night would come and explain."
"I will go to her."
But Latour did not go immediately. He must have a few moments for
thought, and he paced his room excitedly, pausing more than once to look
at himself in a little mirror which hung upon the wall. His followers
would hardly have recognized in him the calm, calculating man with whom
they were accustomed to deal. It was with a great effort that he
steadied his nerves and went quietly up the stairs.
Jeanne rose from her chair as he entered, but Latour could not know how
her heart beat as the door opened. She looked at him steadily,
inquiringly, waiting for him to speak.
"Mademoiselle has slept, I trust?"
It seemed to Latour that he looked at her for a long time without
speaking, such a whirl of thoughts swept through his brain as he entered
the room and saw the woman standing there. He remembered the other woman
who had occupied this apartment until he had let her go two or three
days since. He had hated her for being there. This room had not been
fashioned with such infinite care for such a woman as Pauline Vaison,
but for this very woman who now stood before him. How strangely natural
it seemed that she should be there! This was the moment which had been
constantly in his dreams waking and sleeping.
"I do not know you," she said. "Why am I here? Indeed, where am I?"
"Mademoiselle, I have come to explain. It is a long explanation, and
you must bear with me a little."
"Tell me first, where is Monsieur Barrington?" said Jeanne.
"In safety. You have my word for it."
"Whose word?"
"You shall have the whole story, mademoiselle, and you shall presently
see Monsieur Barrington."
Jeanne sat down, and Raymond Latour moved to the window and stood there.
"I must begin in the middle of my story," he said, "it is easier for me,
and you will understand better. On the day of your arrival in Paris, I
met Monsieur Barrington. He was watching a coach which contained a
prisoner who was being escorted by a crowd of patriots to the Abbaye
prison. The sight was new to him; I believe that, single-handed, he
would have made an attempt at a rescue, had I not touched his arm. I
knew who he was, and that he had helped you into Paris. A little later
it was said that you had been arrested in the house of Lucien Bruslart,
and Monsieur Barrington came to me. We both concluded that you were the
prisoner in that coach. I believed Barrington to be an honest man, and I
rescued the prisoner from the Abbaye, and brought her here, only to find
that she was one Pauline Vaison, a woman Bruslart was to marry.
Bruslart, however, had made no effort to save her. He had apparently
sacrificed her to help you, and Barrington had helped him."
"It might appear so, monsieur, but such was not the case," said Jeanne.
"My opinion of Monsieur Barrington is at present in the balance," said
Latour; "Lucien Bruslart I know to be a scoundrel. The release of
Pauline Vaison naturally frightened Bruslart, who has gone into hiding
and is not to be found. Barrington is not a coward, and it was easy to
secure him. I saved him from the mob, but I kept him a prisoner. I
challenged him with his treachery to me, and he denied it, yet
immediately I let him go and had him watched, he straightway found you
at the house of Dr. Legrand in the Rue Charonne. Watching him and his
servant it was discovered that you were to be rescued from Legrand's
house, with the result that you are here."
"In the hands of Monsieur Raymond Latour," said Jeanne, quietly.
"Yes, mademoiselle, though I am surprised that you know me. Monsieur
Barrington is also in my hands."
"Most of this story I already know from Monsieur Barrington," she
returned. "If you will believe my word, I can show you that he was not
in Lucien Bruslart's confidence at all, that Lucien Bruslart from the
first deceived him. If you know anything of me, you must realize that it
is not easy to speak of Monsieur Bruslart in this way."
"I know all about you, mademoiselle," Latour answered slowly.
"And hate me. I have heard of Raymond Latour as a hater of aristocrats.
I cannot understand, therefore, why you undertook my rescue from
prison."
"Because you do not know all about me," he said "It is true I am a
republican, a hater of aristocrats. Mademoiselle, you have been good to
the poor in Paris, you are one of the few who have cared anything for
them. Had you not fled, had you not become an emigré, I believe you
could have walked the streets of the city in perfect safety. If for a
moment you will put aside your class prejudice, you must know that the
people have the right with them. They have been ground down, trampled on
for generations, now they have struggled to freedom. If they push that
freedom to excess, can you honestly be astonished? They are but
retaliating for the load of cruelty which has been pressed upon them."
"Monsieur, I am no politician. Many dear friends of mine have been
foully murdered. I look for no better fate for myself."
"I was rather trying to explain my position," said Latour.
"You do not explain your peculiar interest in me."
"You hardly give me time, mademoiselle," he returned with a faint smile.
"Still, you can appreciate that my sympathies are with the people. That
is not the entire truth, however. I had ambition, and the revolution was
my opportunity. A strong man might grasp power, and I would be that
strong man."
"Are there not many others in the Convention with similar ambition?"
"I think not. Whatever power I might obtain was not for my own glory,
but was to be laid at the feet of a woman. Mademoiselle does not
remember, perhaps, a certain day some three or four years since, when
the horses attached to her coach took fright and ran away. They might
have been stopped by the coachman, but they appeared to have got the
better of him. It seemed to a man standing there, a poor student, that
the occupant of that coach was in danger. He rushed forward, and with
some difficulty stopped the horses."
"I remember it perfectly," said Jeanne.
"Mademoiselle, that poor student had in that hour seen a vision from
heaven, a woman so beautiful, so far beyond all other women, that he
worshiped her. He wandered the streets of Paris only to catch a glimpse
of her. He enthroned her on the altar of his soul, and bowed down to
her. It was a hopeless passion, yet its hopelessness had no power to
kill it, rather it grew each day, took stronger possession of his dreams
each night, until, reaching forward, he conceived the possibility of
winning what his soul desired. That poor student was Raymond Latour. You
see, mademoiselle, when you think of me as a red republican, you hardly
do me full justice."
Jeanne did not answer. What possible answer was there to such a
confession as this?
"Deputy Latour became a power," he went on quietly. "Many things became
possible. Mademoiselle had a lover, Lucien Bruslart, a villain, a liar
to her and his country. Raymond Latour, with all his faults, was a
better man than he, more honest, more worthy a woman's regard, no matter
who that woman might be."
He paused for a moment, but still she found no words to answer him.
"This Bruslart for some purpose of his own sent for mademoiselle to come
to Paris. I discovered that he had done so. It was an opportunity to
show you what sort of a man he was whom you loved. I should have balked
his intention and brought you here, had it not been for the bungling of
those who served me, and the courage of this man Barrington who has
played Bruslart's game for him."
"Unwittingly," said Jeanne. "I grant that Lucien Bruslart is not a
worthy man; you must not class the other with him." In a few words
Jeanne told him how she had written the letter, how Richard Barrington
came to know where she was hidden.
"Is it not a further proof against Bruslart? And to me there is still no
actual proof of Barrington's honor," Latour went on quickly, as though
he were afraid something would happen to prevent his speaking. "Listen,
mademoiselle, this room was prepared for you long before you came, a
safe retreat. Would any one think of seeking an aristocrat close to a
hater of aristocrats? I have thought of everything, planned everything.
The power I have I lay at your feet, now, at this moment. At your word I
will become anything you wish. Without you, without the hope of you,
nothing is of value to me. With you, there is nothing in the world
impossible. France is not the only land. Paris is not the world. There
are fairer places on God's earth where men and women may live at peace.
I have papers which shall make it easy for us to pass the barriers,
which shall bring us safely to the sea. I worship you, words can tell
you nothing of that worship, you shall learn it day by day, hour by
hour, you shall guide me as you will. You--"
"Monsieur, monsieur! what are you saying? How can I answer such
madness?"
"By coming with me, gift for gift, love for love. Somewhere I will so
labor that my wife shall know the depth of my reverence, the greatness
of my love."
"I have no answer, monsieur, for such folly."
"Not yet, but you will have. A man does not play for such stakes as I
have played for, win them, and then throw them away."
"If I understand your folly rightly, you have not won. I could
pity--were there not a tone of threatening in your voice. To love you
is, and always will be, impossible."
"Has mademoiselle considered all that such a decision means?"
"I know nothing worse that you can do than denounce me to the
Convention," said Jeanne, standing up, and looking straight into his
eyes. "I expect nothing less and have no fear. You will have the
satisfaction of knowing that you have sent another innocent person to
the guillotine."
"There is another mademoiselle might wish to save. I have said Monsieur
Barrington is in my hands."
"I have never seen fear in Richard Barrington. I do not think he would
be afraid of the guillotine."
"You love him," said Latour, sharply.
"Yes;" and then she went on passionately, "Have you revolutionaries not
yet learned that death is but a passing evil, and that there are men and
women who do not fear death? I love Richard Barrington; his death or
mine cannot alter that, and do you suppose I would purchase life by a
promise to you or any other man in the world?"
"Yet he shall plead my cause for me. For himself he may not be a coward,
but for the woman he loves he will be. He would rather see you in my
arms than send you to the guillotine."
"Monsieur, the decision rests wholly with me. Richard Barrington has
already risked his life for me; if necessary, he will give it for me,
and he would rather see me dead than give any promise to a man I
despise. You cannot understand such men."
"Mademoiselle, I too, risked my life in bringing out of the Abbaye
prison the woman I believed was you."
"For that I thank you," she said quickly. "It is strange to me that the
same man can stoop to threaten me now."
"You will understand if you think of all I have told you," said Latour,
moving to the door. "You are safe for a little while. Your lover shall
plead for me. He is a man, and will know what a man's love is."
Jeanne turned to the window. There was nothing more to be said.
Latour went slowly down to his room. All his excitement had vanished. He
was calm and calculating again, a man in a dangerous mood; yet Jeanne's
words were still in his ears. "I love Richard Barrington; his death or
mine cannot alter that." What had he expected from this interview? He
hardly knew. He had declared that his game was won, but it was not the
game he had schemed to play. It was to have been his love against Lucien
Bruslart's. To plead that would have been easy, and surely the woman
must have listened, yes, and recognized the true from the false. This
cursed American had altered the game; still, he was a man, a man of his
word. He had promised to plead for him. He should do it.
Raymond Latour passed out presently into the Rue Valette and went in the
direction of the Tuileries. There was public business he must do. Paris
was clamorous and dangerous. The mob cried out to Deputy Latour as he
passed, telling him how to vote, but he took no notice, never even
turning his head. He was not thinking of a king, but of the woman he
loved.