THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
There had been no fresh news to tell at the barrier on the Versailles
Road, nor at other barriers, until late that night, yet Paris was
excited all day. The storm was destined to develop quickly into a
cyclone. Where was Latour? What secret plotting against the people had
he been engaged in that he should come forward to defend such a man as
Lucien Bruslart? One put the question to Robespierre himself; the answer
was a look and a whisper which meant much. There was the suggestion that
the deputy was a traitor. There seemed no other answer to the question,
and inquiry must be made. Who was the woman who had cried out that
Deputy Latour might himself be in love with the emigré? She was a good
patriot surely, and she was not difficult to find, for she thrust
herself into prominence. Yes, she was the woman who had denounced Lucien
Bruslart. Why? It was a long story, and she did not intend that the
deputy's eloquence should save Bruslart. He had been her lover, but what
was love when the country was in danger? She had been a prisoner in the
Abbaye, taken there in mistake for an aristocrat. She had been rescued.
This man Raymond Latour had rescued her. Might it not be that he loved
the aristocrat? The mob made her a heroine and plied her with questions
which she answered. Scores remembered how she had been arrested,
remembered her journey through the streets. She was believed to be an
aristocrat then, Jeanne St. Clair; now she was known for Pauline Vaison,
as good a patriot as there was in Paris, and as handsome a woman, too.
She was a queen to-day. Certainly there must be more inquiry, and at
once.
The jailer Mathon was found in a wine shop, being off duty, and he was
somewhat muddled with wine fumes though it was still early in the
afternoon. At first he could not remember anything, but fear presently
cleared his wits. Yes, a woman had escaped from the Abbaye, but he had
been held blameless. His papers were in order. The authorities had been
satisfied. Had he recognized the officers who had taken the prisoner
away? That was the point. Was one of them Deputy Latour? No; and yet,
now it was suggested to him, there had been something strangely familiar
about one of the men. It might have been Deputy Latour. This was good
evidence, and Mathon, the jailer, was suffered to go back to his wine.
But there was further inquiry still, more subtle questioning. Lucien
Bruslart was condemned to die; to-morrow, a week hence, no one knew yet
when it would be, but certain it was that one day soon his name would be
in the list; then the last ride and the end. He was in despair one
moment, mad for revenge the next. Latour had come at his bidding to
defend him, not for his sake but for his own, and he had failed. He
could ruin Latour probably, why should he not do so? For one instant the
good that is in every man, deep buried though it be, struggled to the
surface and he shrank back from the thought, yet again revenge filled
his soul, and there came the lust to drag others down with him, Latour,
Jeanne, Pauline, and this cursed American. He hated them all. Why should
they live if he was to die?
Why should he die? Perhaps there would be no need. It was a subtle
suggestion in his ears, no fancy whispering to him, but a real voice. A
man in authority had entered his prison to talk to him. True, Citizen
Bruslart had been condemned, and justly, for he had not acted as a true
patriot should, but mercy was always possible. His prison doors might
yet open again if he would tell the whole truth. There were many
questions asked; many answers given; true answers some of them, but all
fashioned to save Lucien Bruslart from the guillotine, no matter who
else they might send to it. Yes, that was all he knew; was it enough to
save him? Patience. He must wait a little. It seemed enough. So there
was hope in the mean little soul of Lucien Bruslart, even though the
prison doors were still closed upon him.
With the gathering night came a cyclone. Against Pauline Vaison there
could be no accusation, no matter what the prisoner Bruslart had said,
she was the darling of the mob; but for the others, the deputy, the
aristocrat, and the American, there could be no mercy. Somewhere in
Paris the American was hiding, he would be found presently. Latour had
slunk away that day, many had seen him go; it was a pity he had not been
stopped then, the hunt for him must begin at once. As for the woman,
this emigré, they knew where she was. Pauline Vaison had suggested the
place, so had the prisoner Bruslart. Forward, citizens! Here are the
officers who will arrest her; patriots may well go with them and
rejoice. There will be no mistake this time.
Dancing, singing, filling the roadway and making the night hideous, the
mob passed along the Rue Valette, fought and struggled through the
narrow passage by the little baker's shop, and burst into the courtyard
beyond. The officers went up the stairs, straight on to the second
floor, and as many of the crowd as could squeeze up the stairway,
followed them. The door was locked.
"Open, in the name of the Nation!"
Neither the loud knocking, nor the command, brought any answer.
"Burst it open!" came a roar of voices.
It was a poor, common door, and splintered inwards almost at the first
blow. A rush of feet crossed the threshold, officers, and dirty men and
women, marking the floor, kicking aside rug and strip of carpet. A
dainty apartment, white paint, white curtains over the windows and the
bed, prints hanging on the walls, a faint fragrance in the air. She was
here not long since. See the woman's things upon the table! There were
her clothes upon the bed, a coarse dress; but these other garments! Look
at them, citizens! Here's lace and fine linen! One hag, twisting her
bony fingers into a garment, rent it in pieces, while a second, wrapping
another garment round her dirty rags, began to dance to an accompaniment
of ribald laughter. The aristocrat was here, and not long ago, but she
had gone! The curtains were torn from the windows and from the bed,
soiled in a moment and trampled on; the prints were wrenched from the
walls; the bottles on the toilet table were hurled to the floor and
broken; the furniture was shattered. The nest which had been so
carefully prepared was quickly a heap of ruins.
With curses and blasphemy the crowd hurled itself down the stairs to
the floor below. Here lived Deputy Latour, who had slunk into hiding.
There may be papers in his room; if not, they can break it up as they
have done the room above. Burst open this door too.
The officers knocked loudly. "Open, in the name of the Nation!"
It was a loud summons, no answer expected, yet at once the lock shot
back and Raymond Latour stood in the doorway.
"What do you want with me, citizens?"
He had been waiting for the summons, was ready for it. His hands had
tightened a little as he heard the wreckage of the room above. He knew
that the woman was no longer there, he knew that with his capture they
would forget all about her for a little while. The hours to-night would
be precious to her. Two men loved her, and Richard Barrington was not
the only man who was willing to die for her. So he faced the crowd upon
the stairs which, after one yell of triumph, had fallen silent. This man
had always been feared. No one knew his power for certain. He was feared
now as he stood, calm and erect, in the doorway.
"What do you want, citizens, with Raymond Latour?"
Still a moment more of silence; then a fiendish yell, earsplitting,
filling the whole house hideously, repeated by the crowd in the
courtyard, finding an echo far down the Rue Valette.
"Latour is taken! We've got that devil Latour!"
They brought him out of the house, bareheaded and with no heavy coat to
shield him from the bitter night, just as they had found him. The
officers, with naked sabres, were close to him as they crossed the
courtyard, and went through the passage to the street. They were afraid
that the crowd might attack the prisoner. A woman, old and wrinkled,
looking out from the baker's shop, shrank back behind the little counter
that she might not be noticed. The mob danced and sang, but no one
attempted to touch Latour. They were still afraid of him, he walked so
erect, with so set a face, with so stern a purpose. He was the one
silent figure in this pandemonium.
"The man who would have saved Louis Capet!" cried one, pointing at him.
Latour heeded not.
"The lover of an aristocrat!" cried another.
No one noticed it, but a smile was on Latour's face. This was his real
offense, that he loved. The face of the woman seemed to shine down upon
him out of the darkness of the night. All the past was in his brain; his
love, his ambition, his schemes which had ended in this hour of ruin and
failure. Yet still the smile was upon his lips, and there was a strange
light in his eyes. Was it failure after all? This end was for her sake,
the supreme sacrifice. What more can a man do than lay down his life for
love?