ENEMIES OR FRIENDS
To the individual, his affairs, petty though they be, are often of more
moment than those greater doings which have a whole world for stage and
are destined to throw an echo far down the corridors of Time. Most of us
live in a narrow little world, a very mean little world often, and are
never able to mount up a step or two to see how exceedingly mean and
narrow it is. Yet, for all this, the workings of the greater world do
affect us, though we may be unconscious of the fact; our little affairs
are influenced in greater or less degree, as the rippled circles from a
stone's cast spread to the shores of the pond.
Balked greed and craven fear tore at Legrand's very soul when he
returned to the cockloft in the Faubourg St. Antoine and found it empty.
After all he was not to handle the money. He felt like an honest man who
has been cheated, so far was he able to deceive himself. Bruslart had
outwitted him, would perhaps succeed in leaving Paris, and a terrible
lust to get equal with him seized upon the doctor. The chance words of
two men talking in the street told him the truth, and then fear took the
place of greed. There was no knowing what Bruslart might say. The
temper of the Convention was uncertain. He might be arrested too, or
perchance plundered of his gains. For a few moments he was doubtful
whether it would be safe to go home, and then, driven by that desperate
desire to know the worst which so often makes a coward seem courageous,
he hastened in the direction of the Rue Charonne, and was in his study
when the officers of the Convention arrived to remove Jeanne St. Clair.
Legrand had communicated with the authorities, but somewhat vaguely. He
declared that it was evident that he had been deceived, that the
ci-devant aristocrat ought never to have been placed under his care, but
he had not definitely stated an opinion that the American, Richard
Barrington, was responsible. It was difficult for Legrand to make a
straightforward statement at any time, and that he had not done so on
this occasion might prove useful now that Lucien Bruslart was arrested.
He was therefore prepared to wriggle out of his awkward position.
Mademoiselle had managed to get out of his house, how he could not tell,
but she could not have left Paris. An immediate and diligent search must
result in her capture.
Strange to say the awkward questions were not asked, nor was an
immediate search instituted. For the moment, at any rate, Jeanne St.
Clair was of small account, another name was in everybody's mouth,
another personality was forced into tragic prominence, and the hundreds
of deputies on whose word so much depended had no time or inclination to
think of any one else.
Wednesday and Thursday, which were marked days for Jeanne St. Clair,
were stupendous days for Paris, for France, for the world. The fate of
Louis Capet, once king, was sealed in them. He must die. By the vote of
the deputies this was decided. His crime? Who shall say. Chiefly perhaps
that he was born to be a king, and lived, a weak king, in a strenuous
time. And yet the business was not at an end. Some would have an appeal
made to the people, a proposition easily overruled; some would have
delay, and that was not so easily settled. There must be more voting. So
on this Saturday and Sunday the deputies were busy, and Paris vibrated
with excitement. Raymond Latour now voted for delay, as before he had
voted against the death sentence, firm to his conviction that the head
of a king was not necessary to the safety of France. Patriots hissed at
him and at many others. Robespierre noted the set of his face and
thought of the future; others noted that set face and thought of the
future, too. Was Raymond Latour as strong a man as some declared? Was he
safest as a friend or as an enemy? Once more the votes were counted.
Louis Capet must die, that fact remained unaltered, but there was added
something more to the sentence, he must die within twenty-four hours. It
was a merciful addition perchance, though not so intended; the shorter
the time, the less the suffering. Patriotic Paris flung its red cap into
the air, rejoicing greatly. Less than twenty-four hours to wait for the
greatest amusement that had yet been vouchsafed to the mob. There was no
time to sleep, no reason in sleep. Armed men would keep the streets
to-morrow, but there would be vantage places to be struggled for and
kept through long hours of waiting--yet not so long after all. Monday
morning came quickly--ten o'clock--one carriage and its guard. The last
ride of a king! The bitter mockery of fate sounded to-day for the Deep
Purple of an empire--and France laughed. Revenge, too, perchance
smiled, for the passage of that lone coach left its trail of dead and
wounded. Slowly he mounted into view of his people, and a heart here and
there may have pitied him. He would speak. Surely in this last hour he
may say a word; the words of a man at such a moment, be he king or
peasant, may perchance have a strange meaning and appeal in them; and
also they may be dangerous. Yes, he will speak. He is innocent, that
much was heard, and then another spoke, a word of command, and there was
the loud rolling of the drums. Nothing could be heard above the beating
of those drums. It was difficult even to see through the forest of
bayonets which surrounded the scaffold. It looked like a moment's
struggle between executioners and hand-tied victim, an unequal contest.
Still the drums--then the sound of the heavy falling knife. Then
silence, and Samson, chief priest of the guillotine, holding the head
high, at arm's length, that all may see it and know that tyranny is at
an end, that France is free. Patriotism, armed and otherwise, went mad
with delight. This was a gala day! Sing, dance, drink in it! Such a day
was never known in Paris before!
[Illustration: Paris flung its red cap in the air and France laughed.]
It was no wonder that Jeanne was forgotten, that Dr. Legrand was not
called upon to answer awkward questions. It was not remarkable that the
alleys and byways of Paris were deserted for the wider streets and
places where patriots could rejoice together, and that many who were in
hiding should be free for a day or two from the alarms which almost
hourly beset them.
Richard Barrington had remained untroubled for many hours. As he fought
in the empty house, struggling against a crowd which seemed to press in
upon him from every side, and out of which looked familiar faces, his
brain had played him a trick he thought he was fleeing from his enemies,
jumping into darkness for safety. There had followed a period of total
unconsciousness, set in the midst of a continuous dream as it were, for
he seemed to realize at once without any break that he had fallen upon a
bed of straw and could safely lie there to rest his tired limbs. There
was no recollection of Legrand's asylum, or of the night escape over the
roofs, but presently there came a conviction that he ought to be with
Jeanne. It seemed to him that he tried to get out of the straw but was
unable to do so. It had so twined about his body and limbs that he was
bound by it as if with ropes. He must rest a little longer until he had
more strength to break his bonds. Then again, faces looked at him, faces
he ought to know, yet could not remember. There were low voices about
him. He was thirsty, and in his struggles to free himself from the
straw, chance guided his hand to a cup. Cool liquid was in it, water or
wine, he could not tell which, but he drank eagerly and lay still again
for a long time. Presently his strength was certainly returning, for
without any great effort he drew his hands free from the binding straw
and raised himself. A faint light was about him, showing stone walls, a
narrow room, in a corner of which he was lying. On the floor beside him
was a cup, a wine bottle, and a piece of bread. He picked up the bread
and almost mechanically bit a piece out of it. He found that he was
hungry. There was wine in the bottle and he drank. The straw no longer
bound him, and he rose slowly to his feet and stared about him. Then,
like waters suddenly breaking down a dam and flowing again into their
old channel, memory reasserted itself and his brain grew clear. He
recollected the empty house, the sudden movement on the stars, the
fight, Jeanne standing behind him in the corner. What had happened?
Where was she? Where was Seth? He knew where he was. The chair and
table, the bowl and water can, the straw bed, the stone walls and the
high grating--he was again in that buried cell of the old monastery.
"My head is heavy," he said aloud. "I must have been hurt and been
delirious. For how long, I wonder?"
He began to move slowly about the cell. It was daylight, whether morning
or afternoon he could not tell. He was not meant to die yet, or the wine
and the bread would not be there, yet why was he in this place instead
of an ordinary prison? His limbs were stiff, his head ached, it was
difficult to think clearly. He could not detach reality from dreams.
What had happened in that empty house? Where was Jeanne? He threw
himself upon the straw bed again, intending to lie there and try to
solve the problem, but he fell asleep.
He was roused suddenly. A man was bending over him, had probably touched
him. It was Raymond Latour. For a moment or two Barrington was uncertain
whether this was a dream or reality.
"So you're awake at last," said Latour.
Barrington rose slowly to his feet, and then sat down in the chair by
the table.
"What day is it?"
"Monday--Monday afternoon."
Barrington appeared to make a calculation.
"Monday!" he said. "Then I have been here--"
"Since early on Saturday morning," said Latour. "You were knocked about
a bit in that empty house, and you've been in a more or less unconscious
condition ever since. Have you your wits now? I have something important
to say to you."
"Then you know about that empty house?"
"Yes."
"You arranged the--"
"Your capture--yes."
Barrington rose to his feet quickly, but stumbled a little as he did so.
"Now you must settle with me," he said.
"You're not strong enough yet," said Latour, easily catching the arm
which aimed a feeble blow at him. "Mademoiselle St. Clair is safe. She
is not in prison. Your man is safe. You, too, are safe for the present.
You had better listen to all I have to say."
Barrington sat down again, frowning at his impotence. He had not
realized how weak he was.
"I let you out of this place believing you a liar, and had you watched,"
said Latour. "I still believed you a liar when I found that you knew
mademoiselle was in Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne. Your man was
watched too, and his preparations in that empty house understood. You
know the result. I have it from mademoiselle's own lips that you are not
a liar, that you are not in league with Lucien Bruslart, and I believe
her."
"Where is she?"
"Safe in my keeping."
Barrington did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, "She is the
aristocrat in whom you are interested?"
"Yes."
"Then it is you who have lied?"
"I deceived you, yes. Be a man, Barrington; look at this thing with the
eyes of a man. What reason was there that I should trust you with such a
secret? I had set myself a goal to win, why should I jeopardize my
chances? Bruslart was the man she loved, not you."
"They say all is fair in love," said Barrington. "Go on, Latour, go on.
I suppose you have come to bargain with me. My arm may be weak, but my
head grows clearer every minute."
"I want you to fulfill your promise. You owe me something. You said you
would do your utmost to help me with the woman I loved. I know now that
I could have no more powerful advocate."
"I cannot admit the debt," was the answer. "What do I owe you?"
"Your life once, perhaps twice, and again now. It is mine to save or
destroy. A word from me and you change this place for a prison and the
guillotine."
"I set no value on my life," Barrington answered.
"Jeanne St. Clair's life is in my hands, too," said Latour, slowly. "You
would do something to save her?"
"Anything in the world. Save her, Latour, and though you send me to the
gallows I will bless you."
Latour bit his lip a little. He wanted to hate this man who had come
between him and his desires. He was convinced that he had done so,
convinced that but for this American, Jeanne St. Clair would have
listened to him. His worth against Bruslart's infamy must have appealed
to her, had this man not come into her world.
"I know the truth," he said slowly, "I have had it from mademoiselle
herself. I spoke of my love, as a man must speak when the whole passion
of his life is let loose. She could never love me, she said. Why?
Because she loves you. I have threatened her to no purpose. I threatened
to sacrifice you unless she consented. It was of no avail. She swore
that you did not fear death, that you would willingly die for her."
"She spoke only the truth," said Barrington.
"Yet you can save her," Latour returned. "You are the only man who can.
You shall go to her and plead with her for me. For her sake I will
desert France, go anywhere, do anything she wills. She must be mine or,
for God's sake, do not make me even whisper the alternative."
"Be honest. Let me know the alternative."
"She shall die. There you have it. You may make your choice."
"And I thought you loved her," said Barrington, slowly.
"I cannot bandy phrases with you," Latour answered passionately. "You
are a man as I am, there is something in us that is alike, I think.
Debate such questions with yourself and you will find an answer."
"I have said that I am willing to die for her," answered Barrington.
"Go a step further than that," returned Latour. "Help another man to
possess her."
"You are not prepared to make that sacrifice," said Barrington. "She
must be yours or she must die. I thought Raymond Latour was too good a
man for such villainy."
"Phrases! phrases! I want none of them. I want your help, the help you
promised. I fulfilled my part of the bargain, although it was not
mademoiselle I rescued; I expect you to fulfill yours."
"In this thing she must choose, Latour. My love is such that to make her
happy I would willingly sacrifice myself were it to die for her, or
harder still, live out my life away from her, forgotten by her. If it is
only the thought of me which holds her back from what may bring her
peace and satisfaction, I will pass out of her life and she shall never
know the great sorrow at my heart. I will not hold her to any promise
she has made to me. She shall be free to choose, and I will not let a
hard thought of her enter my soul."
While Barrington was speaking, Latour had paced the cell slowly. Now he
stopped on the other side of the little table.
"You will do no more?"
"There is nothing more I can do."
"You have thought of the consequences. You have considered my influence,
the power I have to save or to kill you?"
"No, I haven't thought much of that. It doesn't seem to matter."
"You laugh at me."
"That is unworthy of you," Barrington answered. "We are two men in a
tight place, and such men do not laugh at each other. Once you said
that, should we prove to be enemies, it might help us to remember that
we had clasped hands over our wine. Well, is not this the hour to
remember it?"
"One has to forget many things," said Latour.
"True; and we come to a point when we understand how trivial are many of
these things we thought most important," said Barrington. "We are at the
mercy of the world's storms, and we shall surely travel ways we never
set out to travel. I came to France, Latour, burning to fight for an
oppressed people, burning to do something in this land like the Marquis
de Lafayette had done in America. His career there fired my youthful
ambition. I have done nothing. I come to this hour, facing you across
this little table--two men, enemies, yet for all that liking each other
a little, kindred somehow, and strangely bound together in that we both
love the same woman."
Latour was silent for a few moments, the past, the present, and the
future, mingled in his brain in strange confusion.
"Would you see her again?" he asked suddenly.
Barrington did not answer at once. "Let her decide," he said slowly.
"There would be heaven in such a meeting, but there would be hell, too."
"There are tears in your eyes," said Latour.
"Are there?" asked Barrington, simply. "Well, why not?"
Latour turned away quickly. "I will think whether you can see her
again," he said. "It may be difficult. You are weak, I will tell them to
bring you food. You have seen Citizen Mercier, he is looking after you
here. If you are to see mademoiselle, he will tell you. You must do as
he suggests. She shall decide; I promise that."
He went toward the door, then came back again.
"If you see her will you speak of me?" he asked.
"We can hardly help doing so."
"She would believe you if you told her something of my love, of what I
have done."
"I will set life and death before her, Latour, and leave her free to
choose."
Latour moved again to the door and again came back.
"Men who love as we do must be enemies, still the enmity may be free
from malice. Other conditions might well have made us friends. Will you
grasp hands once more, Barrington?"
Across the little table their hands met, and were clasped firmly for a
moment as the two men looked into each other's eyes. Then Latour went
out quickly, locking the door behind him.
An hour later he went slowly up the stairs to his rooms. Jacques
Sabatier was waiting for him.
"Bad news, citizen," said Sabatier.
Latour opened his door, and they entered.
"It should be bad news indeed if one may judge by your face," he said.
"Citizen Bruslart was arrested on Saturday. He is in the Conciergerie.
He demands that you see him to-night. He knows that mademoiselle has
escaped from the Rue Charonne, and he makes a shrewd guess where she is
hidden. You must see him, citizen; he is dangerous."