A couple of hours later, when the two children had had their dinner and
had settled down to play in the garden, and father been cosily tucked up
for his afternoon sleep, Lucile called her brother Etienne to her. The
boy had not spoken to her since that terrible time spent in the presence
of those two awful men. He had eaten no dinner, only sat glowering,
staring straight out before him, from time to time throwing a look of
burning reproach upon his sister. Now, when she called to him, he tried
to run away, was halfway up the stairs before she could seize hold of
him.
"Etienne, mon petit!" she implored, as her arms closed around his
shrinking figure.
"Let me go, Lucile!" the boy pleaded obstinately.
"Mon petit, listen to me!" she pleaded. "All is not lost, if you will
stand by me."
"All is lost, Lucile!" Etienne cried, striving to keep back a flood of
passionate tears. "Honour is lost. Your treachery has disgraced us all.
If M. le Marquis and M. le Vicomte are brought to the guillotine, their
blood will be upon our heads."
"Upon mine alone, my little Etienne," she said sadly. "But God alone can
judge me. It was a terrible alternative: M. le Marquis, or you and
Valentine and little Josephine and poor father, who is so helpless! But
don't let us talk of it. All is not lost, I am sure. The last time that
I spoke with M. le Marquis--it was in February, do you remember?--he was
full of hope, and oh! so kind. Well, he told me then that if ever I or
any of us here were in such grave trouble that we did not know where to
turn, one of us was to put on our very oldest clothes, look as like a
bare-footed beggar as we could, and then go to Paris to a place called
the Cabaret de la Liberte in the Rue Christine. There we were to ask for
the citizen Rateau, and we were to tell him all our troubles, whatever
they might be. Well! we are in such trouble now, mon petit, that we
don't know where to turn. Put on thy very oldest clothes, little one,
and run bare-footed into Paris, find the citizen Rateau and tell him
just what has happened: the letter which they have forced me to write,
the threats which they held over me if I did not write it--everything.
Dost hear?"
Already the boy's eyes were glowing. The thought that he individually
could do something to retrieve the awful shame of his sister's treachery
spurred him to activity. It needed no persuasion on Lucile's part to
induce him to go. She made him put on some old clothes and stuffed a
piece of bread and cheese into his breeches pocket.
It was close upon a couple of leagues to Paris, but that run was one of
the happiest which Etienne had ever made. And he did it bare-footed,
too, feeling neither fatigue nor soreness, despite the hardness of the
road after a two weeks' drought, which had turned mud into hard cakes
and ruts into fissures which tore the lad's feet till they bled.
He did not reach the Cabaret de la Liberte till nightfall, and when he
got there he hardly dared to enter. The filth, the squalor, the hoarse
voices which rose from that cellar-like place below the level of the
street, repelled the country-bred lad. Were it not for the desperate
urgency of his errand he never would have dared to enter. As it was, the
fumes of alcohol and steaming, dirty clothes nearly choked him, and he
could scarce stammer the name of "citizen Rateau" when a gruff voice
presently demanded his purpose.
He realised now how tired he was and how hungry. He had not thought to
pause in order to consume the small provision of bread and cheese
wherewith thoughtful Lucile had provided him. Now he was ready to faint
when a loud guffaw, which echoed from one end of the horrible place to
the other, greeted his timid request.
"Citizen Rateau!" the same gruff voice called out hilariously. "Why,
there he is! Here, citizen! there's a blooming aristo to see you."
Etienne turned his weary eyes to the corner which was being indicated to
him. There he saw a huge creature sprawling across a bench, with long,
powerful limbs stretched out before him. Citizen Rateau was clothed,
rather than dressed, in a soiled shirt, ragged breeches and tattered
stockings, with shoes down at heel and faded crimson cap. His face
looked congested and sunken about the eyes; he appeared to be asleep,
for stertorous breathing came at intervals from between his parted lips,
whilst every now and then a racking cough seemed to tear at his broad
chest.
Etienne gave him one look, shuddering with horror, despite himself, at
the aspect of this bloated wretch from whom salvation was to come. The
whole place seemed to him hideous and loathsome in the extreme. What it
all meant he could not understand; all that he knew was that this seemed
like another hideous trap into which he and Lucile had fallen, and that
he must fly from it--fly at all costs, before he betrayed M. le Marquis
still further to these drink-sodden brutes. Another moment, and he
feared that he might faint. The din of a bibulous song rang in his ears,
the reek of alcohol turned him giddy and sick. He had only just enough
strength to turn and totter back into the open. There his senses reeled,
the lights in the houses opposite began to dance wildly before his eyes,
after which he remembered nothing more.