Francois had a high opinion of himself. He said: "Perhaps. What next?"

"I need help. I will teach thee to fence and to shoot. Canst thou be

honest? I ask not if thou art."

"Can I? I do not know. I have never tried very long." Then he paused.

To fence like a gentleman, to handle a sword, had its temptations. "Try

me."

"Good! Canst thou be a Jacobin to-day and a Royalist to-morrow?"

"Why not?"

"The messieurs and their kind fence here in the morning; after our

breakfast come the Jacobins about two. I ask not thy politics."

"Why not?" said Francois, who was the frankest of men--"why not? I am

an aristocrat. I am at the top of my profession. I like naturally the

folks who are on top."

"France is like a ball now, no top, no bottom, rolling. Let us be

serious."

"_Dieu!_ that is difficult. I want to quit thieving. It doesn't pay at

present. I accept the citizen's offer. Does it include my dog?"

"Yes, indeed! Toto--a treasure! He will delight our pupils."

"Good! He must have a little sword and wear a white cockade till noon,

and then a tricolor."

"And will five francs a week suffice until thou art fit to teach? And

thy board and lodging--that goes without saying. After a while we will

talk again."

"'T is a fortune!" said Francois; and upon this agreement the pair fell

to chatting about the details of their future work.

"One moment," said Francois, as Gamel rose. "What are thy own politics?"

"I will tell thee when I can trust thee," said the fencing-master. "Now

they vary with the clock."

"I see. But I have told thee mine."

"Thou wert rash. I am not."

Francois laughed merrily, "Good night." He was happy to be at rest,

well fed, and with something to do which involved no risk. Gamel went

away, and Francois fell to talking to the poodle.

"Toto! Sit up, my sleepy friend! Attention! What dost thou think of M.

Achille Gamel?" The poodle had been taught when questioned to put his

head on one side, which gave him an air of intelligent consideration.

"Ah, thou dost think he is as long-legged as I! Any fool of a cur can

see that. What else?"

"He has great teeth--big--the better to eat thee, my dear! Curly hair,

like thine, and as black; a nose--of course he has a nose, Toto. Art

perplexed, little friend? Oh, that is it! I see. Thou art right. He

smiles; he never laughs. 'T is that bothered thee. Thou dost like him?

Yes. Thou art not sure? Nor I. We must laugh for two. The bones are

good here. That is past doubt. We will stay, and we will keep our eyes

open. And listen now, Toto. We are honest. Good! Dost thou

understand? No more purses, or out we go. No stealing of cutlets. Ah,

thou mayest lick thy chops in vain, bandit!"

A few days later Gamel began to fence with Francois, who liked it well.

He was strong, agile, and like his old friends the cats for quickness of

foot. Gamel was charmed.

"We must make no mistakes. The foil held lightly--so, so! If you grasp

it too strongly you will not feel the other's blade. That is better.

'T is the fingers direct the point. Thy hand a little higher--so, so!"

They fenced before the pupils came and in the intervals when none was on

hand. Francois was tireless.

It was June now, and Robespierre was the public prosecutor, with Petion

at his side. Gamel read aloud the announcement with a coldly stern

face. Francois heard it with indifference.

"_Tiens!_" he cried. "What matters it? _Dame!_" as he lunged at the

wall, "I do believe my arm is an inch longer." He was thinking, as he

tried over and over a new guard, of what a queer education he had had.

Gamel walked away into his own room. He was a man who often liked to be

alone. Apt to be monosyllabic with his pupils, he could at times become

seriously talkative at night over a pipe and a glass. Francois began to

like him, and to suspect that he in turn was liked--a matter not

indifferent to this poor devil, who had himself an undeveloped talent

for affection.

"_Mon ami_, Toto! Let us think. I might have been a priest. What an

escape! Or a great chorister. That is another matter. A thief, a

street-dog, a juggler, a _maitre d'escrime_. _Parbleu_! What next? We

are getting up in the world. My palm, little rascal? Thou wouldst read

it. Ah, bad dog, not I! Let us to bed; come along. It seems too good

to last."

*XII*

_In which Toto is seen to change his politics twice a day--the mornings

and the afternoons quarrel--In which Jean Pierre Andre Amar, "le

farouche," appears._

The fencing-master took great pains with his promising _debutant_, and

now at last thought he could trust him to give lessons. He gave him

much advice, full of good sense. He must dress simply, not in any

marked fashion. And here were the two cockades, and two for Toto, who

was fitted with a toy sword, and had been taught to howl horribly if

Francois said, "Citizen Capet," and to do the like if he cried,

"Aristocrat!"

Francois, gay and a little anxious, followed Gamel for the first time

during the lesson-hours into the _salle d'armes_. Toto came after them

in full rig, with a cap and a huge white cockade. A dozen gentlemen,

most of them young, were preparing to fence.

The poodle was greeted with "Bravo!" and strutted about on his hind legs

with evident enjoyment of the approval.

"Wait here," said Gamel to Francois. "I will by and by give thee a

chance." Francois had, of course, been constantly in the room when the

patrons were absent, and it was now familiar. It had been part of the

old hotel of some extinct nobleman, and was of unusual height, and quite

forty feet square, with tall windows at each end; a cushioned bench ran

around the walls, and above it hung wire masks, foils, sabers, and a

curious collection of the arms of past ages and barbarous tribes.

Chiefly remarkable were the many fine blades, Spanish or Eastern. At

the side of the hall, a doorway led into the shooting-gallery, a late

adjunct since the English use of the pistol had been brought into the

settlement of quarrels made savage by the angry politics of the day. On

one of the walls of the fencing-room was a large sign on which was

painted: "Achille Gamel, _ci-devant_ Maitre d'Armes, Regiment du Duc de

Rohan-Chabot. Lessons in the small sword, saber, and pistol." The word

"Duc" was chalked over, but was still easily to be made out.

Presently Gamel came to Francois in his shirt and breeches, foil in

hand. "This way, Francois." As they slowly crossed the room, Gamel

went on to say in a low tone of voice: "Don't be too eager. Take it all

as a matter of course. Don't be nervous. One must have had a serious

affair or two before one gets over the foil fever. Remember, you are

here to teach, not to triumph. There are few here you cannot touch, but

that is not business."

"I understand," said Francois.

"I will give you for your lesson the best blade in Paris. You can teach

him nothing. He is my foster-brother, the Marquis de Ste. Luce."

"Ste. Luce!"

"Yes; he is here often."

As they approached, the great gentleman came to meet them, separating

himself from the laughing group of younger men.

"_Ma foi!_" he exclaimed. "Is this your new blade, Gamel?" He caught

Francois's appealing eye, and showed no sign of having known the thief

until they were apart from the rest and had taken their foils. Then he

said quietly, "Does Gamel know?"

"Yes, monsieur. I saved his life in a row in the Cite, and he gives me

this chance."

"Good! I shall not betray you. But beware! You must keep faith, and

behave yourself."

"Monsieur may trust me."

"And you can fence?"

"A little, monsieur."

"Well, then, on guard!" The marquis was pleased to praise the new

teacher. "He has a supple wrist, and what a reach of arm!" At last he

went away to Gamel's room, where they were absent a half-hour. These

private talks, Francois observed later, were frequent, especially with

certain of the middle-aged gentlemen who took here their morning

exercise.

After this first introduction to business, Francois sat still when the

marquis had left him. By and by the gentleman came back, and saying a

word of encouragement to Francois, went away.

"Take M. de Lamerie, Francois," said Gamel; and turning to a gentleman

near by, added, "_A vous_, monsieur." Others began to select foils and

to fence in couples, so that soon the hall rang with the click, click of

meeting steel. Francois was clever enough to let his pupil get in a

touch now and then, and meanwhile kept him and those who looked on

delighted with his natural merriment. He was soon a favorite. The dog

was made to howl at a tricolored cockade, and proved a great success.

As to the fencing-lessons, Gamel was overjoyed, and as time ran on came

to trust and to like his thief, who began speedily to pick up the little

well-mannered ways and phrases he heard about him. He liked well to be

liked and to be praised for his skill, which week by week became

greater, until none except M. Gamel and the marquis were able to meet

him on equal terms. The master of arms was generous; the wages rose.

The clothes Francois now wore were better, and when Gamel asked him to

choose a rapier for wear in the street, which was not yet forbidden, the

poor thief felt that he was in the full sunlight of fortune.

The afternoons were less to his taste. If a new pupil arrived, the

cook, an old woman, let him in, and Gamel saw him in an anteroom and

settled terms and hours. The Jacobins came after two o'clock. Then the

room was unusually full. The poodle howled at the name of Louis Capet.

Tricolored cockades were everywhere. The talk was of war and the

frontier, the ways of speech were guarded, the manners not those of the

morning. These citizens were awkward, but terribly in earnest. The

pistol-gallery was much in favor; but at this deadly play Francois was

never an expert. He did not like it, and was pleased when the Vicomte

de Beausejour, a favored pupil, said: "'T is a coarse weapon, Francois.

Ah, well enough to enable bulldog English to settle their disputes over

a bone; but, _dame!_ quite unfit to be the arm of honor of gentlemen."

This uncertain property of honor seemed to Francois a too insecure kind

of investment. It was enough to have to take care of one's pocket; and

his being now well lined, Francois began to resent the possibility of

those sudden changes of ownership which under other conditions he had

looked upon as almost in the nature of things.

During this summer, and in the winter of '91 and '92, Gamel was at times

absent for days. Whenever he returned he was for a week after in his

monosyllabic mood. Francois, who was keenly alive to his present

advantages, and who saw how these absences interfered with their

business, began to exercise his easily excited inquisitiveness, and to

meditate on what was beneath Gamel's frequent fits of abstraction. His

own life had known disappointments, not always of his own making. He

dreaded new ones. The past of the Cite, Quatre Pattes, Despard, those

haunting eyes of the marquis's widowed daughter, the choristers, the

asylum, the mad street life--all the company of his uncertain days--were

gone. Now, of late, he began to have a feeling of uneasy belief that

things were once more about to change. Nor was the outer life of the

capital such as to promise tranquillity. A nation was about to become

insane. It was at this time like a man thus threatened: to-day it was

sane, to-morrow it might be reeling over the uncertain line which

separates the sound from the unsound. Had Francois been more interested

and more apprehensive, he was intelligent enough to have shared the

dismay with which many Frenchmen saw the growth of tumultuous misrule.

Indeed, the talk of the morning fencing-school should have taught him

alarm. But he had formerly lived the life of the hour, even of the

minute, and as long as he was well fed, housed, and clothed, his normal

good humor comfortably digested anxiety.

I should wrongly state a character of uncommon interest if I were to

give the impression of a man who had merely the constant hilarity of a

happy child. He was apt to laugh where others smiled; but, as he

matured, cheerful contentment was his usual mood, and with it, to the

last, the probability of such easily born laughter as radiated mirth

upon all who heard it, like a companionable fire diffusing its generous

warmth. He was at this time doing what he most fancied. The company

suited him. He liked the tranquil ways of these courteous gentlemen.

In a word, he was contented, and for a time lost all desire to seek

change or adventure. His satisfaction in the life made him more quiet

and perhaps more thoughtful. He had every reason to be cheerful, and

cheerfulness is the temperate zone of the mind.

At times, on Sundays, in the summer of '92, he wandered into the country

with Toto; but these holidays were rare. Now and then the habits of

years brought again the longing for excitement; with the meal-hours he

recovered his common sense, being a big fellow of sharp appetite and a

camel-like capacity for substantial food.

The feud between the cockades broke out at this time in duels, which it

became the fashion to drive to the Bois to see. Women of all classes

looked on and applauded, and few liked it if the affair failed to prove

grave. Francois found it entertaining. The duels were, in fact, many

in the years of grace '91 and '92.

The morning pupils wore their hair in curls, dressed in short clothes,

and defied the new-fashioned republican pantaloons, which were rising up

to the armpits and descending the legs. They carried sword-canes, or

sticks like the club of Hercules; a few still wore the sword. Brown and

gray wore the afternoon citizens, with long straight hair, short

waistcoats, and long and longer _culottes_ above large steel

shoe-buckles, all that were silver having been given to aid the funds of

a bankrupt government. The morning, which knew very well who came in

the later hours, abused the afternoon, and this portion of the day

returned those compliments in kind.

Now and then the morning had a little affair with the afternoon, for the

Terror was not yet. In cafes and theaters there were constant

outbreaks, and men on both sides eager enough to sustain opinion by the

sword or the pistol. When one of what Francois called "our little

domestic difficulties" was on hand, there was excitement and interest

among Royalists and Jacobins, with much advice given, and huge disgust

when monsieur was pinked by Citizen Chose of the Cordeliers or of the

Jacobin Club.

If the reverse obtained, and some gentleman of ancient name condescended

to run Citizen Chose through the lungs, there was great rejoicing before

noon and black looks after it. Here were a half-dozen affairs in a

month, for these were the first blades in France.

There were laws against the duel, but the law changed too fast for

obedience, and fashion, as usual, defied it. Hatred and contempt were

ready at every turn. Two abbes fought, and what was left of the great

ladies went to see and applaud.

This duel between morning and afternoon began to amuse Paris. But

pretty soon neither the master of arms nor his assistant was as well

pleased at the excessive attention thus drawn to the school of fencing.

Gamel disliked it for reasons which he did not set forth, and Francois

because he felt that his disturbing readiness to turn back to a life of

peril and discomfort was like enough to be reinforced by coming events.

He adored good living, yet could exist on crusts. He was intelligent,

yet did not like to be forced to think. An overmastering sense of the

ludicrous inclined him to take the world lightly. He liked ease, yet

delighted in adventure. He distrusted his own temperament. He had need

to do so. Excitement was in the air. The summer of '92 was unquiet,

and pupils were less numerous, so that Francois found time to wander.

The autumn brought no change in his life, but Gamel became more and more

self-absorbed, and neglected his pupils. The gentlemen who fenced in

the mornings began to disappear, and the new year of 1793 came in with

war without and tumult within distracted France.

For several days before the 21st of January, 1793, strange faces were

frequently seen in the morning hours, or more often late at night.

These passed into Gamel's room, and remained long. The marquis, more

thoughtful than usual, came and went daily. Early on the 20th, Gamel

told Francois that he should be absent until after the 21st, the day set

for the king to die. Francois asked no questions, and was not deeply

grieved to be left in the dark as to what was in contemplation. During

the previous week there had been sad faces in the morning hours. The

pupils were fewer; they were leaving Paris--and too many were leaving

France. The Jacobins, with whom Francois fenced in the latter part of

the day, were wildly triumphant. They missed Gamel when he was absent,

and asked awkward questions. It was plain enough to his assistant that

the master of this turbulent school was a Royalist _enrage_, as men then

said. The assistant was much of his mind, but he was also far more loyal

to one Francois than to the unfortunate king.

He was not surprised that at the hour of opening on the 21st no one

appeared. He sat thinking, and a little sorry for the humbled Louis

rumbling over the crowded streets to his doom. The prisons were already

becoming crowded; the richer bourgeoisie had become submissive. The

more able and aggressive Jacobins were about to seize the reins of power

from the sentimental Girondists.

"Let us think a little," said Francois to his friend and counselor Toto.

The poodle woke up, and sat attentive. "It is disagreeable to have to

think, _mon ami_; but there are our heads. Without a head one cannot

eat or enjoy a bone. Shall we go to the frontier, and be shot at, and

shoot? _Dame!_ a thousand bullets to one guillotine. We do not like

that. Let us change our opinions, Toto, join the clubs, and talk

liberty. Yes; that is thy opinion. Must we go back to the streets? 'T

is good nowadays to be obscure, and thou art becoming a public

character, Toto."

He read the gazette awhile, practised with the pistol, and taught the

dog a new trick. Still no one came, and the day wore on to noon. At

this hour the bell rang, and the poodle barked, as was his custom.

"Learn to hold thy tongue," said the master. The servant had gone, like

all Paris, to see a brave man die.

Francois opened the outer door. A strongly built man he had never

before seen entered, and, pushing by him, went without a word into the

great room beyond.

"Hallo, citizen! What dost thou want?" said Francois, following him.

"Art thou Citizen Gamel?"

Francois was not; and what could he do for the citizen?

The man for a moment made no reply, but glanced searchingly about the

hall, while the assistant looked him over as keenly. He was a personage

not easily to be forgotten.

"No one else here?" he asked.

"No one."

The questioner was a man not over thirty-five, of colossal make, and

with something about him which Toto resented. He began to bark, and

then, of a sudden, fled under a bench, and watched the newcomer.

His features were out of keeping with his height and breadth. The

Jacobin had small, restless eyes, a diminutive nose, perhaps broken, and

a large-lipped mouth, which, as he talked, was drawn to one side as

though from some loss of power on the other half of the face.

"I am Jean Pierre Andre Amar," he said, with an air of importance.

"Will the citizen be seated?"

He would not. He desired to see Citizen Gamel.

Francois regretted his absence on business. Amar, later known as _le

farouche_, desired to see the list of pupils, in order to select an

unoccupied morning hour. Unluckily, the master had the keys. The

citizen wished to fence, and could come in the morning only; he was busy

after that. Francois would mention his name; perhaps the hours of the

morning were full, but Citizen Gamel would no doubt arrange.

The man with the wandering mouth stood in thought, said he would return,

and then asked abruptly:

"Art thou his assistant?"

"Yes."

"And thy name?"

"Francois."

"Has Citizen Francois a _carte-civique_--a certificate of citizenship?"

Francois knew better than to refuse. "Fetch me the card, Toto. 'T is

on the chair in my room. _Va_--go!"

"Thou art careless, Citizen Francois."

Francois, on this, became short of speech. Toto ran back. "Give it to

the citizen."

Amar took it, saying: "It is correct. And so a dog is sent to fetch the

safeguard the people provide?"

[Illustration: "'AND SO A DOG IS SENT TO FETCH THE SAFEGUARD THE PEOPLE

PROVIDE?'"]

Francois laughed. "The citizen is particular. But here we are good

republicans, and have given our useful arms to the army, and think to go

soon ourselves. Shall I give the citizen a lesson?"

No; he would call again. The section wished the names of all who fenced

here. As the citizen reached the door, he said, turning:

"Thou art the man who used to laugh in the show. Robespierre told me of

what fortune was read on his palm. A great man. Take care of thy own

fortune. Thou art not of the club. It may be thou wilt laugh no more."

This while the distorted mouth went to left and came back, and the small

eyes winked and wandered. Francois thanked him. He would join the

club, the list should be ready, and so on.

When alone again, Francois began to reflect on what was likely to

happen. At any time, Amar might return with a guard. On the 23d, as

usual during this sad week, there were no morning pupils; and still

Gamel came not, and Francois had to manage the turbulent afternoon

pupils alone.

*XIII*

_Citizen Amar, meeting the marquis, is unlucky and vindictive._

A fear vast and oppressive was upon the great city. The white cockades

were gone. Francois burned all he could find. For a week no one came

to fence in the morning. The afternoons were full, and there was much

inquiry for Citizen Gamel. On the night of the 24th of this terrible

January, 1793, Francois went out. Paris was recovering, and, as usual,

forgetful, was eating and drinking and dancing, while all Europe was

ringing with the news of this murder of a good man too weak for a mighty

task.

When, later, Francois returned to the school of arms he smelt the odor

of a pipe. "Ah!" he cried, "Toto, he has come. 'T is none too soon."

Candles lighted dimly the large hall and the rooms beyond it. He heard

no sounds, and, suddenly becoming uneasy, hastened to enter the little

salon. It was empty, as were all the rooms. On the bedroom floor lay

scattered clothes. Scorched leaflets were fluttering like black crows

over the ashes of a dying fire. They were fragments of burnt paper. An

open desk was on the table, and everywhere were signs of haste.

Francois ran out to the kitchen, and called their only servant, a shrewd

old woman. She said: "I heard thee, citizen. I was coming to tell thee

that Citizen Gamel has gone."

"Gone! _Mon Dieu!_"

"He has paid me, and well; and here is a box for thee, Citizen Francois.

I hid it under the mattress. Oh, I have waited, but I am afraid."

Francois took the box and its key, and went to his room. The box

contained some five hundred francs in gold, and as much more in

assignats--the notes of the day, and really worth but little. In a

folded package were papers and a letter. It read thus:

"I am sorry to leave thee. A business affair has failed, and I go

westward. I risk this to warn thee to fly. For two days thou art safe,

but not longer. If a gentleman calls whom thou knowest, and asks for

_Monsieur_ Achille Gamel, tell him all. I inclose for thee a passport.

No matter how I got it. It is good. Use it soon. I divide with thee my

small store. Thou hast been honest; stay so. We may meet in better

times."

Francois laughed. "We must go, Toto. Well, it has a good side; thou

wilt get thinner." Then he read the passport. It described him well:

Jean Francois, juggler ("Good!"), returning to Normandy; affairs of

family; a father dying. "Good! Now I have one parent at least." It

was in due order. "Thou hast no papers, Toto; but thy black head is

secure."

At early morning on the 25th of January, he found a vender of

antiquities, and quickly sold him, for two hundred francs, the antique

arms in the fencing-room. He must remove them that coming night. Next

he sought a maker of articles for the jugglers who were still to be

found in every town; for neither at this time nor during the Terror did

the people cease to amuse themselves. Francois bought a set of gaily

tinted balls and the conjuring apparatus with which he was familiar.

Once again in his room, he packed his clothes in a knapsack and his

juggler's material in a bag that he could carry. A long cloak which his

master had left he set aside to take, and, thus prepared, felt that on

the whole he had better risk waiting until the dawn of the following day

before he set out on his wintry journey. The old woman had already fled

in alarm.

On the following morning, at 9 A.M., Francois went into the great hall

to secure pistols and the fine Spanish rapier which Gamel had given him.

Here he paused, and re-read the passport. A blank space had been left

for the insertion of the special locality to which the bearer might wish

to go in Normandy.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "that must do. I will go to Musillon. Perhaps I

shall find Despard. He will help me to recover that desirable papa."

He went back to Gamel's room, and carefully completed the passport by

inserting the name of the village Musillon.

After this he returned to the hall, talking to the poodle as he went.

"Toto, thou art uneasy," he said; "and I too, my friend. Remember to

howl no more at Jacobins. Thou art of the Left, a dog of the Left.

_Tiens!_ the bell." He caught up his rapier, and opened the door. A

powerful, broad-shouldered man entered. He was clad in gray, and wore

the red bonnet the extreme Jacobins affected, and which Robespierre so

much despised.

"Ah, no one here. That is well. I trust Gamel has gone."

"Ah!" exclaimed Francois to himself. "'T is my confounded marquis. Now

for ill luck."

"Is Monsieur Gamel at home? _Monsieur_ Achille Gamel?" He emphasized

the title.

Francois understood, with no great amazement, that this was the man of

whom Gamel's letter spoke. He replied, "This way, please, monsieur."

The gentleman followed without a word.

"Read this," said Francois; "and, pardon me, but read it quickly. My

head appears to me to be less securely attached to my body than common."

"_Dame_! You are as jolly as ever, my delightful thief."

"I beg that monsieur will read this letter, and at once. _Nom de ciel!_

there is no time to be lost." And still he laughed. "We are in a trap,

monsieur."

The marquis was not to be hurried; it was not his way. "St. Gris! you

can laugh. I envy you. In France men grin, for they must; but laughter

is dead. Ah!" and he fell to considering the letter. Then he folded it

deliberately. "Burn it," he said. "So; that is well; and now, my good

thief, I came to warn Gamel. He has wisely fled. Of course there was a

plot, and, as usual, it failed. You, who are not in it, are like enough

to pay other folks' debts. I have a certain mild interest in honest

rascality. You are a marked man. No cabbage of the field is more sure

of the knife. Go, and soon."

"I have heard from Gamel, monsieur. He assured me that I was safe here

for a day or two--I know not how he knew that."

"I do, but I scarcely share his confidence. Go soon."

"I shall go at dawn to-morrow."

"No; go to-day--this evening."

"I will. Monsieur will pardon me if I ask if madame, monsieur's

daughter, is well and safe? There are few who have been kind to me,

and--"

"My child is well," said the marquis, "and in Normandy; but if safe or

not, who can say, while these wolves destroy women and children? Safe!

I would give my soul to be sure of that." His face showed the transient

emotion he felt; and suddenly, as if annoyed at his own weakness, he

drew himself up and said abruptly: "Go--and go quickly! I shall leave

at once--"

At this moment the bell rang violently.

"The devil!" cried the marquis. "Go and see, and do not shut the inner

door; I must hear." With this he entered the pistol-gallery and waited.

Francois obeyed, and, with the sheathed rapier still in his hand,

crossed the hall. Again the bell rang.

"He is in a mischief of a hurry. No noise, Toto!"

As he opened the outer door, the man of the warped face broke in, and,

passing him at once, walked across the little reception-room and into

the great hall beyond. Again his height and massive build struck the

fencing-master.

"Where is Gamel, citizen?--and no lies to me! Where is Gamel, I say?"

"He has gone away. Why, I do not know. Will the citizen search his

rooms?"

"Search! Not I. I will call the municipals. What are those rooms over

there? And arms! Why have they not been sent to the committee for our

patriot children on the frontier?"

"Perhaps Citizen Amar would kindly inspect them, and then, if required,

we can send them. Many have been already sent. Behold, citizen, a

war-club of Ashantee, a matchlock, a headsman's sword. _Parbleu!_ the

guillotine is better."

"I see, citizen; I see. But now of Gamel. He was to be here to-day, I

hear. I will return presently with the officers; and, friend citizen,

it will be well for thee to assist, and heartily. This Gamel was in

some plot to save the Citizen Capet. Like master, like man. Have ready

the lists of those aristocrats who fence here in the morning. Thou

canst save thy head by making a clean breast of it. I shall return in

half an hour. Have everything ready."

At this the dreaded Jacobin, having looked over the arms and duly

impressed the fencing-master, moved toward the door of exit. Should

Amar leave the room, Francois felt that his own fate was certain. He had

been too much with Gamel. Less things every day cost the heads of men.

There was death or life in the next five minutes. Francois was not one

to hesitate. Preceding the Jacobin, he quietly set his back to the

door, and, locking it, put the key in his pocket. This action was so

dexterous and swift that for a moment the Jacobin did not perceive that

he was trapped. He was thinking if there was anything more to be said.

He looked up. "Well, open the door, citizen." As he spoke, the two

strangest faces in Paris were set over against each other. Here was

comedy, with long lean features, twinkling eyes above, and below the

good humor of a capacious mouth set between preposterous ears. And

there was tragedy, strong of jaw, long hair lying flat in black,

leech-like flakes on a too prominent brow, and small eyes, deep-set,

restless, threatening, seen like those of a wolf in cave shelters--a

face no man trusted, a face on which all expressions grew into

deformity; not a mere beast; a terribly intelligent bigot of the new

creed, colossal, alert, unsparing, fearless, full of vanity.

When the citizen commissioner said, "Open," Francois replied:

"Not just yet, citizen."

"What is this?" shouted Amar. "Open, I say, in the name of the law!"

"Not I." And Francois, with a quick motion, threw off the sheath of the

rapier. It fell with a great clatter on the far side of the room.

"Open, I say!"

At this moment Ste. Luce came across the hall.

"What the deuce is all this, Francois?"

Amar turned his square shoulders, and looked at the marquis.

"I presume thee, too, to be one of this rascal Gamel's band. If thou

dost think I, Pierre Amar, am afraid of thee, thou art going to find out

thy mistake. What is thy name?"

"Go to the devil!" cried the marquis. The Jacobin darted toward the

window; but Francois was too quick for him, and instantly had him by the

collar, the point of the rapier touching his back. "Move a step, and

thou art a dead man." The face, crooked with passion, half turned over

the shoulder.

"Misery! What a beauty! Didst thou think I valued my head so little as

to trust thee, scum of the devil's dish-water?" For some reason this

huge animal filled Francois with rage, and he poured out a flood of the

abusive slang of the Cite as the marquis came up.

"Drop that window-curtain!" said the thief. "And now, what to do,

monsieur?"

The captured man showed the utmost courage, and no small lack of wisdom.

"Dog of an aristocrat! I know thee. It was thou didst kill Jean

Coutier, last month. I saw thee, coward! We knew not thy name. Now we

shall take pay for that murder."

The marquis grew white to the eyes, with a certain twitching of the lips

to be seen as Francois again asked:

"What shall we do with him? Shall we tie him?"

"No; kill him. What! you will not? Give me your rapier. 'T is but one

wolf less."

Francois was more than unwilling. The intense hatred of the noble for

the Jacobin he did not share; indeed, he liked the man's fearlessness,

but, nevertheless, meant to provide for his own security. His

conscience, such as it was, refused to sanction cold-blooded murder.

"I cannot. Go away! I will take care of this rascal."

"There is no time to lose," said the marquis. "Kill the brute."

"Not I," said Francois.

"Thou art coward enough to kill a man in cold blood!" cried Amar. "This

is the fine honor you talk of. Better go. All thy kind are running;

but, soon or late, the guillotine will get thy hog-head, as it did thy

Jew-nosed king's."

"The face and the tongue are well matched," said Ste. Luce, quietly.

"It will take a good ten minutes to tie and gag him. You will not kill

him? Then give the fellow a blade, and--I will see to the rest. Are you

man enough to take my offer? Quick, now!"

"Try me. I am no weakling, like poor Coutier."

"Find him a blade, Francois. I will watch him. Be quick!" He took the

rapier, and stood by the motionless figure, whose uneasy eyes followed

the thief as he went and came again.

"The blades are of a length, Francois? Yes. Lock the door. Ah, it is

done. Good! Now, keep an eye on him, Francois. Take care of yourself

if he has the luck to kill me. However, that is unlikely. Ah, you have

a sword, Francois."

"The citizen talks a good deal," said Amar, trying his blade on the

floor.

"Yes," said the marquis, negligently untying his cravat. "It is so

rare, in these democratic days, that one has a chance to talk with one

of you gentlemen."

"Bah!" cried the Jacobin, "we shall see presently." As he spoke, he

laid his sword on a chair and began to strip. As he took off his coat

and waistcoat, he folded them with care, and laid them neatly on a

bench.

The marquis also stripped to his waistcoat, but it was with more haste.

He threw his coat to Francois, and took his place in the middle of the

room, where he waited until his slower antagonist, in shirt and

breeches, came forward to meet him. Both believed it to be a duel to

the death, but neither face showed to Francois any sign of anxiety. The

Jacobin said:

"The light is in thine eyes, citizen. If we were to move so as to

engage across the room--"

"It is of no moment," returned the marquis. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Francois saw no better method of disposing of an awkward business.

Nevertheless, he was uncomfortable. "What if this devil should kill the

marquis?" He cried, "On guard, messieurs!" and stepped aside.

The marquis saluted with grave courtesy; but the Jacobin, obeying the

fashion of the schools of fence, went through the formula of appearing

to draw the sword, and certain other conventional motions supposed to be

exacted by etiquette. The marquis smiled as Amar led off in this

ceremonious fashion. These preliminaries of the _salle d'armes_ were

usually omitted or curtailed in serious combats. The seigneur, amused,

and following Amar's lead, went through the whole performance.

Meanwhile Francois looked the two men over, and was not ill pleased.

This heavy fellow should prove no match for a practised duelist like

Ste. Luce. He was soon undeceived.

Both men were plainly enough masters of their weapon, and for at least

two minutes there was no advantage. Then Ste. Luce was touched in the

left shoulder, and a distorted grimace of satisfaction ran over the face

of the Jacobin. The marquis became more careful, and a minute or two

later Francois saw with pleasure that Amar was breathing a trifle hard.

He had half a mind to cry: "Wait! wait! He is feeling the strain." He

held his peace, and, with Toto, looked on in silence. The marquis knew

his business well, and noted the quickening chest movements of his

adversary. He began to smile, and to make a series of inconceivably

quick lunges. Now and then the point of either blade struck fair on the

convex steel shell-like guard which protected the hand. When this

chanced, a clear, sweet note as of a bell rang through the great hall.

The Jacobin held his own, and Francois, despite his anxiety, saw with

the satisfaction of a master how lightly each rapier lay in the grasp of

the duelist, and how dexterously the fingers alone were used to guide

the blades.

Of a sudden the strange face was jerked as it were to left, and a savage

lunge in tierce came perilously near to ending the affair. Ste. Luce

threw himself back with the quickness of a boy. The point barely

touched him. "St. Gris!" he called out gaily. "That was well meant.

Now take care!"

"By St. Denis! 't is a master," muttered Francois. The marquis seemed of

a sudden to have let loose a reserve of unlooked-for power. He was here

and there about the massive and by no means unready bulk of Amar, swift

and beautifully graceful.

Then of a sudden the marquis's blade went out as quick as lightning, and

just at the limit of a nearly futile thrust caught Amar over the right

eye. "_Dame_! I missed those lanterns of hell!"

The Jacobin brushed away the blood which, running down his face, made

his right eye useless for the time.

The marquis fell back, and dropped his point. "The deuce! The man

cannot see. Tie a handkerchief around his head."

The Jacobin was not sorry to have time to breathe.

"Thou art more than fair, citizen," said Amar, getting his breath.

"Thanks," returned the marquis, coldly. "Make haste, Francois."

Francois took up a lace handkerchief which lay beside Ste. Luce's coat

on the seat where he had cast his clothes. While Francois bound the

handkerchief around the head so as to stop the flow of blood, Amar

turned to his foe.

"Citizen," said the Jacobin, "thou hast been a gallant man in this

matter. My life was thine to take. Let it end here. Thou art a brave

man and a good blade."

Ste. Luce looked at him with an expression of amused curiosity.

"What else?"

"I will not have thee pursued--on my honor."

"Tie it firmly, Francois. You have just heard, my Francois, of the last

Parisian novelty--a Jacobin's honor! Be so good as to hurry, Francois."

Had the stern Jacobin felt some sudden impulse of pity or respect? In

all his after days he was unsparing, and certainly it was not fear which

now moved him.

"As pleases thee," he said simply. Ste. Luce made no answer. Again

their blades met. And now the marquis changed his game, facing his foe

steadily, while Francois gazed in admiration. Ste. Luce's rapier was

like a lizard's movements for quickness. Twice he touched the man's

chest, and by degrees drove him back, panting, until he was against the

door. Suddenly, seeming to recover strength, the Jacobin lunged in

quarte, and would have caught the marquis fair in the breast-bone had he

not thrown himself backward as he felt the prick. Instantly he struck

the blade aside with his open left hand, and, as it went by his left

side, drove his rapier savagely through Amar's right lung and into the

panel of the door. It was over. Not ten minutes had passed.

"_Dame!_" he cried, withdrawing his rapier, and retreating a pace or

two. "He was worth fighting."

The Jacobin's face moved convulsively. He coughed, spattering blood

about him. His right arm moved in quick jerks. His sword dropped, and

stuck upright in the floor, quivering.

"Dog of an aristocrat!" he cried. His distorted face twitched; he

staggered to left, to right, and at last tumbled in a heap, a massive

figure, of a sudden inert and harmless.

[Illustration: "HE STAGGERED TO LEFT, TO RIGHT, AND AT LAST TUMBLED IN A

HEAP."]

The marquis stood still and looked down at his foe.

"What the deuce to do with him?" said Francois.

"Take his head, and drag him into your room. We can talk then."

"Will monsieur take his feet?"

"What! _I_ touch the dog? No, not I."

Francois did not like it; but making no reply, he dragged the Jacobin's

helpless bulk after him, and, once in his room, pulled the mattress off

the bed, and without roughness drew the man upon it.

Amar opened his eyes, and tried to speak. He could not; the flow of

blood choked him. He shook his fist at Ste. Luce.

"Cursed brute," cried Francois, "be still! He will begin to howl

presently. The sons of Satan are immortal."

"We must gag him, Francois."

"But he will die; he will choke. See how he breathes--how hard."

"_Diable!_ it is he or I. Would he spare me, do you think? Don't talk

nonsense. Do as I tell you."

Francois took up a towel. As he approached, Amar looked up at him.

There was no plea in his savage face.

"Go on. What the deuce are you waiting for?" said Ste. Luce.

"I cannot do it," said Francois. "End it yourself."

"What! I? Strangle a dog! I! _Dame_! Let us go. What a fool you

are!"

"Better go singly, then," said the thief. He had no mind to increase

his own risks by the dangerous society of the nobleman.

Amar was silent. The handkerchief had fallen from his head, but the

wound bled no longer.

"What shall I do with the handkerchief, monsieur?"

"Do? Burn it. Faugh!" Francois cast it on the still glowing embers.

"Now my clothes and my cloak," said Ste. Luce; "and do not lose any time

over that animal."

He washed off the little blood on his clothes, and dressed in haste,

saying: "Lucky that his point struck on my breast-bone. 'T is of no

moment. The fellow has left me a remembrance. I am sorry I did not

have the luck to kill him. Good-by, Francois. May we meet in better

days." He was gone.

Francois locked the door after him, and went back to his room. He sat

down on the floor beside the mattress.

"Now listen, Master Amar. Canst thou hear me? Ah, yes. Well, I have

saved thy life. Oh, thou wilt get well,--more 's the pity!--and do some

mischief yet. Now if I should kill thee I would be pretty safe. If I

go away, and send thee a doctor, I am a lost man. What is that thou art

saying? Ah!" and he leaned down to hear the broken whisper. "So thou

wilt have my head chopped off. Thou art less afraid than I would be,

were I thee. What shall we do, Toto?" and he laughed; somehow the

situation had for him its humorous side.

"I can't murder a man," he said. "If ever I kill a man, I trust it may

be one who hath not thy eyes and thy one-sided grin. To be haunted by a

ghost like thee! The deuce! Not I! _Sac a papier_! I will take my

chance." He sat down, and wrote a short note to a surgeon on the

farther side of Paris, one whom he knew to have been much commended to

his pupils by Gamel.

"My unforgiving friend," he said, "I shall lock thee in. Thou art too

weak to move, and to try will cause thee to bleed. This note will get

thee a surgeon in about six hours. I must leave thee. Be quiet, and be

good. Here is a flask of _eau-de-vie_. Art still of a mind to give thy

preserver to the guillotine?" The grim head nodded as the red froth

leaked out over the lips. "'Yes, yes,' thou sayest. Thou art in a fine

state of penitence. I hope we have seen the last of each other. One

more chance. Promise me not to be my enemy. I will trust thee. Come,

now."

But the Jacobin was past speech. As Francois knelt beside him, he

beckoned feebly.

"What is it?" As he bent lower, a grim smile went over the one movable

side of Amar's face, and, raising a feeble hand, he drew it across

Francois's neck.

"_Mon Dieu!_" cried he, recoiling, "thou art ripe for hell. Adieu, my

unforgiving friend; and as thou hast no God, _au diable_, and may St.

Satan look after thee--for love of thy looks. Come, doggie!" He put

his pistols in the back of his belt, set his rapier in the belt-catch,

threw his cloak over all, and picked up his bag and knapsack. He took

one last look at Amar, and saying, "By-by, my angel," left him, locking

both doors as he went out.

Francois passed into the street, followed by the black poodle. In the

Rue St. Honore he paid the boy of a butcher with whom Gamel dealt to

take his note when the midday meal should be over. And thus having

eased his conscience and regulated the business of life, he set out to

put between him and the Jacobin as many miles as his long legs could

cover.

*XIV*

_Francois escapes from Paris and goes in search of a father. He meets a

man who has a wart on his nose, and who because of this is unlucky._

He had been fortunate. Not more than an hour and a quarter had gone by

since Amar's entrance, and the mid-hour of breakfast had probably

secured them from intrusion of foe or friend. Francois, who knew Paris

as few men did, strode on through narrow streets and the dimly lighted

passages which afforded opportunity to avoid the busier haunts of men.

The barriers were carelessly guarded, and he passed unmolested into the

country. Once outside of the city, he took the highroad to Evreux, down

the Seine, simply because the passport of Jean Francois, juggler,

pointed to Normandy as his destination. Naturally a man of forethinking

sense, he had assumed that the village whence came Despard should be the

home of that father who was ill. He knew from his former partner enough

of the village to answer questions. It lay westward of Evreux. France

was then less full of spies and less suspicious than it became in the

Terror; and until he arrived at a small town on the north bank of the

Seine, not far from Poissy, he had no trouble. He saw no couriers. The

post went only once a week. He was safe, and, to tell the truth, merry

and well pleased again to wander. His money was sewed in his garments.

He wore his rapier under his cloak, but with it he carried the

conjurer's thin, supple blade, which, when he feigned to swallow it, a

spring caused to coil into the large basket-hilt. His pistols were

strapped behind him, and on his back he carried his knapsack and small

bag of juggling apparatus. Thus, clad in sober gray, with the tricolor

on his red cap and a like decoration on the poodle's collar, he was

surely a quaint enough figure. Long, well built, and wiry, laughing

large between his two wing-like ears, he held his way along the highroad

on the bank of the winding Seine.

He avoided towns and people, camped in the woods, juggled and told

fortunes at farm-houses for a dinner, and, as I have said, had no

trouble until he came at midday to the hamlet of Ile Rouge. Here, being

tired, and Toto footsore, he thought he might venture to halt and sleep

at the inn.

It was a little gray French town in the noonday quiet, scarce a soul in

sight, and a warmer sun than January usually affords on street and

steaming roof-tiles. Hostile dogs, appearing, seemed to consider Toto a

Royalist. Francois tucked him under his arm, and carelessly entered the

stone-paved tap-room of the "Hen with Two Heads." He repented too late.

The room was half full. One of the many commissioners who afterward

swarmed through France was engaged with the mayor of the commune.

Francois, putting on an air of humility, sought out the innkeeper, and

asked meekly to have a room. As he did so, a fat man in the red bonnet

of the Jacobins called out from the table where he sat, "Come here!"

Francois said, "Yes, citizen," and stood at the table where this

truculent person was seated.

He was sharply questioned, and his papers and baggage were overhauled

with small ceremony, while, apparently at his ease, he liberally

distributed smiles and the kindly glances of large blue eyes. At last

he was asked why he carried a sword; it was against the law. He made

answer that he carried two tools of his trade--would the citizen see?

And when he had swallowed two feet of his juggler's blade, to the wonder

of the audience, nothing further was said of the rapier. At last,

seeing that the commissioner still hesitated, he told, with great show

of frankness, whither he was going, and named Despard as one who would

answer for him. The mention of this name seemed to annoy the

questioner, who said Despard was a busy fellow, and was stirring up the

citizens at Musillon. He, Gregoire, was on his way to see after him.

He should like to make the acquaintance of that sick father, and, after

all, Francois might be an _emigre_. He must wait, and go with the

commissioner to Musillon.

Francois smiled his best; and, when the citizen commissioner had done

with business, might he amuse him with a little juggling? Citizen

Gregoire would see; let him sit yonder and wait. After a few minutes

the great man's breakfast was set before him; the room was cleared, and

the citizen ate, while Francois looked him over.

[Illustration: "HE HELD HIS WAY ALONG THE HIGHROAD."]

Gregoire was a short, stout man with long hair, a face round, red,

chubby, and made expressionless by a button-nose, which was decorated

with a large rugose wart. The meal being over, he went out, leaving a

soldier at the door, and taking no kind of note of his prisoner.

Francois sat still. He was patient, but the afternoon was long. At

dusk Citizen Gregoire reappeared, and, as Francois noted, was a little

more amiable by reason of the vinous hospitality of the mayor. He sat

down, and ordered dinner. When it came, Francois said tranquilly:

"Citizen Commissioner Gregoire, wouldst thou kindly consider the state

of my stomach? Swallowing of swords sharpens the appetite."

The commissioner looked up from his meal. He was in the good-humored

stage of drunkenness.

"Come and eat," he said, laughing.

"He hath the benevolence of the bottle," thought Francois. "Let us

amuse him."

The commissioner took off his red bonnet, poured out a glass of wine,

looked at a paper or two in his hand-bag, and set it on a seat near by,

while the juggler humbly accepted the proffered place. Then the poodle

was made to howl at the name of Citizen Capet, and to bark joyously at

the mention of Jacobins. Francois told stories, played tricks, and drank

freely. The commissioner drank yet more freely. Francois proposed to

make a punch,--a juggler's punch,--and did make a drink of uncommon

vigor. About nine the commissioner began to nod, and Francois, who had

been closely studying his face, presently saw him drop into a deep

slumber. The open bag looked tempting. He swiftly slipped a dexterous

hand into its contents, and feeling a wallet of coin, transferred it to

his own pocket. The temptation had been great, the yielding to it

imprudent; but there was no one else about, except the careless guard

outside the door. Francois concluded to replace the wallet; but at this

moment the great Gregoire of the committee woke up. "That was funny," he

said. "I did not quite catch the end of it."

"No," said Francois; "the citizen slept a little."

Gregoire became angry.

"I--I asleep? I am on duty. I never sleep on duty." The citizen was

very drunk. He got up, and, staggering, set a foot on Toto's tail. The

poodle yelped, and the Jacobin kicked him. "_Sacree bete!_" The

poodle, unaccustomed to outrage, retorted by a nip at a fat calf. Then

the great man asserted himself.

"Hallo, there! Curse you and your dog! Landlord! landlord!" The host

came in haste, and two soldiers. "Got a safe place? Lock up this

sc-scoundrel, and k-kill his dog!" The landlord kindly suggested a

disused wine-cellar. "Now, no delay. I'm Gregoire. Lock him up!"

Having disposed of the juggler, the citizen contrived to get out of the

room and to bed with loss of dignity and balance.

A few minutes sufficed to set Francois in a chilly cellar, the poodle at

his heels; for no one took seriously the order to kill Toto. Of the two

soldiers, one, who was young and much amused, brought an old blanket,

and a lantern with a lighted candle set within it. Yes, the prisoner

could have his knapsack and bag--there were no orders; but he must give

up his sword. It was so dark that when Francois promptly surrendered

his juggler's blade it seemed to satisfy the soldiers; for who could

dream that a man would carry two swords? With a laugh and a jest,

Francois bade them to wake him early. He called to the young recruit,

as they were leaving, that he would like to have a bottle of wine, and

gave him sufficient small change to insure also a bottle for these

good-humored jailers.

They took the whole affair as somewhat of a practical joke. All would

be well in the morning. When Gregoire was drunk he arrested everybody.

The young soldier would fetch the wine in an hour. Good night.

Francois was alone and with leisure to consider the situation.

"Attention, Toto!" he said. This putting of thought into an outspoken

soliloquy, with the judicial silence of the poodle to aid him, was

probably a real assistance; for to think aloud formulates conditions and

conclusions in a way useful to one untrained to reason. To read one's

own mind, and to hear one's own mind, are very different things.

"Toto," he said, "we are in a bad way. Why didst thou bite that fat

beast's calf? It did thee no good, thou ill-tempered brute. 'T is not

good diet; a pound of it would make thee drunk. I shall have to whip

thee, little beast of an aristocrat, if thou dost take to nipping the

calves of the republic."

Toto well knew that he was being scolded. He leaped up and licked the

thief's face.

"Down, Citizen Toto! Where are thy manners? I like better Citizen

Gregoire drunk than Citizen Gregoire sober. How about my poor papa?

Oh, but I was an ass to name Despard. Didst thou observe that the

commissioner's eyebrows meet? And, Toto, he has a great wart on his

nose. 'T is a man will fetch ill luck. I knew a thief had a wart on

his nose, and he was broken on the wheel at Rouen. Besides, there was

the wallet. Toto, attention! Thou dost wander. It is all the doings

of that _sacre_ marquis. _A bas les aristocrates_! Let us inspect a

little." Upon this he pried about every corner, tried the heavy oaken

door, still gaily talking, and at last sat on an empty cask and

considered the grated window and the limited landscape dimly visible

between its four iron rods. The end of a woodpile, about four feet

away, was all that he could see. This woodpile set him to thinking.

An hour later the young recruit returned with the wine. "I came to see

if thou wert safe," he said. "Like as not Gregoire will forget all about

thee to-morrow. Wine hath a short memory."

Francois laughed. "_Le bon Dieu_ grant it. I can tell fortunes, but

not my own." And should he tell the citizen soldier's fortune? With

much laughter it was told, and the gifts of fateful time were showered

on the soldier's future in opulent abundance. He would be with the army

on the frontier soon. He would marry--_dame!_--a woman rich in looks

and lands. He would be a general one day. And this, oddly enough, came

true; for he became a general of division, and was killed the morning

after at Eylau. Seeing that this young man had agreeable fashions, the

thief ventured to express his thanks.

"Monsieur--" he began.

"Take care! _Mon Dieu!_ thou must not say that; 'citizen,' please. The

messieurs are as dead as the saints, and the devil, and the _bon Dieu_,

and the rest."

As he did not seem displeased, Francois said:

"Oh, thou art no Jacobin. Hast a _De_ to thy name?"

This recruit's manners appeared to Francois a good deal like those of

the young nobles whom he had taught to fence.

"What I was is of no moment," replied the young fellow. "The _De's_ are

as dead as the saints. I am a soldier. But, pardon me, the citizen may

be as frank as suits his appetite for peril. I have had my bellyful."

"Frank? _Dame!_ why not? Up-stairs I was a Jacobin; down here I am a

Royalist. I was an aide in Gamel's fencing-school, and, _pardie!_ I

came away. Thou canst do me a little service."

"Can I help thee, and not hurt myself? We--my people--are grown scarce

of late. I am the last; I take no risks."

"There will be none. Bring me a little steel fork and a good long bit

of twine."

"A fork! What for?" He had a lad's curiosity.

"To eat with."

"But there is nothing to eat."

"Quite true. But it assists one's imagination; and, after all, there

may be to-morrow, and to eat with decency a fork is needed. A citizen

may use his bare paws, but a monsieur may not use the fingers of

equality. Thou wilt observe how the thought of these tools of luxury

reminds one of messieurs and the like."

The lad--he was hardly over twenty--laughed merrily. "Thou art a

delightful companion. Gamel--thou didst say Gamel?"

"I did, monsieur. Gamel that was the master of arms in the Rue St.

Honore."

"My poor brother used to fence there. By St. Denis! thou must be

Francois!"

"I am."

"Then thou shalt have the tool of luxury. But, good heavens! take care.

Thou hast a tongue which--well, I have learned to bridle mine."

"My tongue never got me into trouble; like my legs, it is long, and,

like them, it has got me out of a good many scrapes. I thank thee for

the warning. One knows whom to talk to. I can be silent. Oh, you may

laugh. I did not speak for a day after I first saw that juggler's tool,

the guillotine, in the sun on the Place de la Revolution. _Dieu!_

behold there is a man that talks and laughs; and, presto, pass! there is

eternal silence."

"_Ame de St. Denis!_ thou art not gay," cried the soldier.

"_Tete de St. Denis_ were better. He was a fellow for these times--a

saint that could carry his head under his arm when it was chopped off."

The young recruit laughed, but more uneasily. Not to laugh in some

fashion was among the impossibilities of life when this face-quake of

mirth broke out between those wing-like ears.

He would fetch the tools, and, in fact, did so in a few minutes. Then

he bade Francois good night, and went away. As soon as he had gone,

Francois retired to a corner with his lantern to inspect the wallet.

There were three louis, a few sous, and no more. The risk was large,

the profit small. In an inner pocket was a thin, folded paper. When

opened it seemed to be a letter in due form, dated a month before, but

never sent. It was addressed to Citizen de la Vicomterie of the Great

Committee. Francois whistled. It was a furious attack on Robespierre

and Couthon, and an effort to sum up the strength which an assault on

the great leaders would command in the Convention--a rash document for

those days. Clearly the writer, whose full signature of Pierre Gregoire

was appended, had wisely hesitated to send it.

"It seems to have been forgotten. Was he drunk, Toto? Surely now we

must get out and away. 'T is a letter of death; 't is a passport worth

many louis, Toto." He pulled off a shoe, folded the paper neatly, and

pulling up a tongue of leather on the inside sole, placed the letter

underneath, and put on the shoe again. He took the louis, threw the

wallet under a cask, and waited.

When the house was still he set to work. He had found behind a barrel a

long staff used to measure the height of wine in casks. On the end of

this he tied securely, crosswise, the steel fork, and then began to

inspect the thin rods of the window, which were but ill fitted to guard

a man of resources.

"Art still too fat?" he said, as he lifted Toto and managed to squeeze

him between the bars. After that he began to fish with his stick and

fork for a small log which had fallen from the woodpile and was just a

foot or two out of reach. Twice he had it, and twice it broke loose,

but now Toto understood, and, seizing the log, dragged it nearer. At

last Francois had the prize. The rest was easy. He set the log between

the thin bars, and threw on this lever all the power of one of the

strongest men in Paris. In place of breaking, the iron rod bent and

drew out of its sockets. A second proved as easy, and at last the

window-space was free. It seemed large enough. He concluded to leave

his bag; but the knapsack he set outside, and also his weapons and the

conjuring-balls. Next he stripped off most of his clothes, and laid

these too on the far side of the window. Finally his legs were through,

and his hips. But when it came to the shoulders he was in trouble. It

seemed impossible. He felt the poor poodle pulling at his foot, and had

hard work to restrain his laughter. "_Dame!_ would I grin at _Mere

Guillotine_? Who knows? How to shrink?" He wriggled; he emptied his

chest of air; he turned on his side; and, leaving some rags and a good

bit of skin on the way, he was at last outside. Here, having reclothed

himself, he broke up the wine-measurer and threw the fork over the wall.

In a few minutes he was on the highway, and running lightly at the top

of his speed. At dawn he found a farm-house which seemed to be

deserted--no rare thing in those days. He got in at a window, and

stayed for two days, without other food than the crusts he had carried

from the cellar. The night after, weak and hungry, he walked till dawn;

and being now a good ten leagues from that terrible commissioner, he

ventured to buy a good dinner and to get himself set over the Seine.

Somewhat reassured, he asked the way to Evreux, and, for once in his

life perplexed and thoughtful, went along without a word to Toto.

He had been three weeks on the way, owing to his need to hide or to make

wide circuits in order to avoid the larger towns. It was now the

February of northern France, and there was sometimes a little snow, but

more often a drizzling rain. He had suffered much from cold; but as he

strode along, with a mind more at ease, he took pleasure in the

sunshine. A night wind from the north had dried the roads. It was

calm, cold in the shadows, deliriously warm on the sun-lit length of

yellow highway. He had lost time,--quite too much,--but he still hoped

to reach Musillon before that man with the wart arrived. If so, he

would see Despard, warn him as to Gregoire, and, with this claim, and

their old partnership, on which he counted less, he might get his

passport altered, and lose himself somewhere. If he had to remain in

the town, he must see, or be presumed to have seen, that sick father,

and must be promptly adopted if by cruel circumstances he became unable

to journey far enough from Paris to feel secure. The distorted face of

Amar haunted him--the man who, to save his own life, would not even make

believe to forgive. He had no power within him to explain a man like

Amar; and because the Jacobin was to him incomprehensible, he was more

than humanly terrible. What possessed that devil of a marquis to turn

up! And was he now at his chateau? And why had Achille Gamel set down

Normandy in the passport? And why had he himself been fool enough to

fill up the vacant place for the name of his destination with that of

the only small town he could recall in that locality? He had been in

haste, and now a net seemed to be gathering about him. He must go

thither, or take perilous chances. He was moving toward a fateful hour.

"Toto," he said, "let us laugh; for I like not the face of to-morrow."

*XV*

_How Francois finds Despard and has a lesson in politics, and of what

came of it._

At evening he ventured to enter an inn at Soluce. A good bed and ample

diet restored his courage; but he learned that the citizen with a wart,

and an escort of a dozen soldiers, had passed the day before, on their

way to Bvreux. Would he remain there, this friendly commissioner? No

one knew. Evreux was Jacobin to the core. Then he thought of the

marquis; it was well to be informed.

Yes; the Citizen Ste. Luce lived beyond Musillon.

The citizen juggler declared that he had once been in his service, but

now that all men were equal, he could not lower the dignity of an

equalized nation by serving him longer. He learned that the chateau of

the marquis had not suffered, nor he, as he was never known to be

absent, and no one molested him. This did not surprise Francois. In

the South, at an earlier date, the peasants had burned hundreds of

chateaux, but these riots had been mercilessly put down. The Jacobins

meant to have peace in France, and at cost of blood, if that was

requisite. To have peace at home was essential to the success of

national defense on the frontier. In many parts of France, throughout

the whole of the Terror, very many large land-owners were undisturbed.

In fact, the Terror, and its precedent punishments, fell with strange

irregularity on the provinces. The Dukes de Bethune-Charost, de Luynes,

de Nivernais, and others who had not been active in politics, remained

unhurt on their estates. For the _emigres_ was reserved a bitter hatred.

Nor can we wonder at this result of the vast exodus which took place

from '89 to '91--"_l'emigration joyeuse_," as it was called by those who

carried off means enough to live gay lives in Brussels while their

country was in the convulsions of great social and political change.

Francois made haste to leave at dawn, and by nightfall was close to the

town of Musillon. He found a wood road, and was soon deep in one of the

marquis's forests. In a quiet glade among rocks he put his effects in

security, and, charging Toto to guard them, set out to inspect the town.

The poodle did not like it. He ran back and forth, whining.

"Oh, stop that!" cried Francois. "Go back! Dost thou hear?"

Toto lay down, and set himself to secure what comfort the situation

afforded.

Meanwhile Francois took to the main road until close to the village, and

then left it for the fields, cautiously nearing the town, a small place

of some twelve hundred souls. A monotonous double line of scattered

one-story stone houses lay along the highway. Avoiding the village,

Francois moved past and around the red-roofed Norman farm-houses which

lay off from the main highway. Mounds of earth set around the houses

walled in an orchard and an inclosure of many acres, so that, seen from

the exterior, they had the appearance of being fortified. The lights

were out, and Francois saw no one. Now and then a sentinel dog barked

as the wanderer went by the gateways, in wonder at this unusual style of

fence. At last he turned again toward the road.

The town was quiet. It was after nine at night. Having purposely

lingered thus long, Francois approached the back of the inn, and became

sure that it was empty of guests. A little beyond it was the village

church, and as this was lighted, he approached it with care. The

crosses of the burial-ground were gone. He stumbled over graves, and at

last, standing on a tomb, got a fair glimpse of the interior of the

church, for many of its windows were broken. It was full of people, and

the murmur of noisy debate came to his ears. He felt that he must learn

what was going on. With this in view, he kept under the deep shadow of

the wall, and soon saw that the outer porch was crowded with men and

women, listening through the open door. Favored by the darkness, he got

unobserved into this mass of deeply occupied people, and was able at

last to catch a little of what was going on. Yes; this was the club of

Jacobins which his partner Despard had been sent to organize, one of the

hundreds which soon conquered and led opinion all through the provinces.

He caught the usual denunciation of _emigres_ and of the _ci-devant_

aristocrats. He had heard it all before; it did not help him.

Very soon an elderly man in peasant dress arose near the door. He spoke

of something which they had considered as well to be done soon. He

thought it better to wait until Citizen Commissioner Gregoire arrived.

To arrest a _ci-devant_ aristocrat like Ste. Luce was of course proper;

but the people were excited, and might do mischief, and they knew that

the Great Committee did not approve of riots. France must have rest.

These outbreaks had ended elsewhere in the deaths of hundreds of

peasants. He bade them wait, and, in fact, spoke with rare good sense.

He was roughly interrupted. His speech was received with laughter and

contemptuous cries, and, to Francois's amazement, there was Despard on

his feet, not twenty feet away. His old partner was somber-looking and

red-eyed, but seemed to have lost his shyness of speech. He broke out

into violent invectives, charging the previous speaker with indifference

to the good of France. This man was no doubt a traitor. He had been in

the service of the _ci-devant_. He had advised the people to wait.

Were they not the rulers? The Jacobin clubs would see to this rat of a

commissioner; let him come. Then, leaping on a chair, he began to

contrast the luxury in which Ste. Luce lived with the meager life of the

peasant. He talked of the great noble's younger life, of his debauchery

and hardness. All knew what he meant. Not he alone had suffered. How

many of the children men liked to call their own were of noble blood?

His fluent passion, his ease of speech, his apparent freedom from his

usual mood of fear, astonished Francois. At last Despard became more

excited, raved wildly, grew incoherent, paused, burst into horrors of

blasphemous allusion, and, utterly exhausted, reeled, and dropped into

his chair, amid wild applauding cries and a dozen vain efforts of

speakers eager to be heard. As if satisfied, the crowd waited no longer

to listen, and issued out in just the mood Despard had desired to

create. Francois stepped aside, unnoticed. Among the last, surrounded

by a gesticulating group, came Despard, silent, exhausted, his head bent

down. A voice cried out: "To-night! Let us do it to-night!" Despard

said slowly: "No, not to-night. He is not there--he is not there.

Perhaps to-morrow; we shall see. I must have rest--rest."

"Is he mad?" thought Francois. "_Diable_! How he hates him! Why is he

not afraid?" He had once heard the choir-master tell of a feeble, timid

nun who had killed two people; and this man, he supposed, might be, like

her, crazed. No matter; he must use him. The crowd dispersed, and,

following Despard at a distance, Francois saw him enter the house of the

village priest, who had long since said his last prayer in the garden of

the Carmelites.

For an hour, and until all was still, Francois walked to and fro behind

the house. Suddenly a door opened and closed. Francois moved around

the house. He saw Despard go out on the road. After looking about him,

the Jacobin walked swiftly away, and was soon past the farthest houses.

"_Dame!_" said Francois, "let us go after him. What can he mean? It

becomes amusing." Moving with care in the shadows at the side of the

road, he followed Despard, who walked down the middle of the highway,

now and then stopping short and cracking his finger-joints, as he used

to do when worried, or clasping his hands over the back of his neck.

The thief smiled as he went. He was again the savage of the streets,

with all his keen wits in play, and vaguely aware of pleasure in the use

of his training. He looked about him, or stole noiselessly from one

depth of gloom to another across some less shadowed place. He put out

with care one long leg and then the other tentatively, like great

feelers, and yet got over the ground with speed, as was required, for

Despard walked at a rate which was unusual. The great ears of his

pursuer were on guard. Once, when Despard stopped of a sudden, Francois

was near enough to hear him crack his knuckles as he pulled at them. As

Pierre stood, he threw up a hand as it were in the eager gesture of a

speech, or in silent, custom-born attestation of some mentally recorded

vow. Then he went onward, silent, and was for a moment lost to view in

the aisles of the forest into which he turned. Francois moved faster,

dimly seeing him again. The Jacobin hurried on. The man who followed

him was smiling in the darkness, and was feeding curiosity with the keen

satisfaction he felt in a chase which was not without a purpose.

Despard seemed to know the great forest well. It soon became more open.

He came to a low garden wall, and, climbing it, was heard to tumble on

the farther side with a crash of breaking earthenware. He had come down

on a pile of garden pots. The thief reflected for a moment that his

partner must have lost the agility of his former business, and himself

approached the wall with care. Moving to one side, he dropped to the

ground, as quiet as a prowling cat.

There was no moon, but the night was clear, and over against the

star-lit space he saw the silhouette of a vast chateau--angles, gables,

turrets with vanes. The man whom he hunted moved across the garden,

through rose-hedges, under trees, as if reckless as to being heard.

Once he fell, but got up without even an exclamation; and so on and on

in stumbling haste until he stood upon the broad terrace in front of the

building.

Francois was for a little while at leisure to look about him. Despard,

with a sudden movement, strode to the foot of the broad steps which led

up to the lofty doorway of the chateau. Here again he stayed

motionless. Francois, now used to the partial obscurity of the night,

took quick note of the white gleam of vases, of a fountain's monotonous

murmur, of statues, dim gray blurs seen against the dark wood-spaces

beyond; the great size of the house he saw, and that three or four

windows showed lights within.

What was Despard about to do? Francois waited. Then he heard now and

then, rising and falling, the faint notes of a violoncello. At this

moment he saw that Pierre was gesticulating, and at last caught sound of

speech. He was too far away to be clearly seen or distinctly heard.

Francois sat down, took off his shoes, tied them over his neck, and went

down on all fours. It was one of his old tricks to amuse thus the

children gathered before the show-booth. He could become a bear or an

elephant, and knew how to simulate the walk of beasts. Now he

approached Despard on his hands and feet, and, seen in the partial

gloom, would have seemed a queer-looking animal. A closely clipped row

of box lay between them and bordered the broad roadway leading to the

portal.

His approach was noiseless. Even if it had not been, it is unlikely

that Despard would have noticed it. The quadruped knelt, and set his

eyes to see and his ears to hear, being now only six feet away. His own

fate was deeply involved. He cared little for the marquis, but up out

of the dark of memory came the tender sweetness of the face of the

widowed daughter. No word of her brief pleading was forgotten by this

man who craved regard, affection, respect, consideration--all that he

had not. It was only a flash of thought, and again he was intently

receptive.

Despard stood, shaking his arms wildly, looking here and there, up and

down. At last he spoke, and so loud that Francois watched him, amazed

at his unnatural lack of caution.

"To-morrow I, Pierre Despard, shall be master. I shall no more be

afraid. I shall see thee tremble on the tumbrel. I shall see thee

shudder at the knife."

Francois had an uncontrollable shiver, predictive, sympathetic. Could

he trust this creature? There was no help for it. He recalled with a

smile one of the Crab's proverbs: "Monsieur Must is a man to trust."

She had many and vile sayings; this was one of the few that were not

swine-wisdom.

As the man went on speaking, his hands threatened the silent house or

snatched at some unseen thing. He stood again moveless for a moment, and

then threw out his hands as if in appeal, and called aloud: "Renee!

Renee! art thou here? Oh, could he not have spared thee to me--to me,

who had so little? And he had so much! Oh, for the name he should have

spared thee! For the shame--the shame. Renee, his own child's name. My

Renee is dead, and his--his Renee lives; but not long--not long."

"_Dieu!_" murmured Francois. "Let him have the man. _Dame_! I should

have killed him long ago."

Pierre was raving, and was only at times to be understood. He seemed to

be seeing this lost Renee, and was now rational and again incoherent or

foolishly vague.

Francois hesitated; but at this moment a window on the second floor was

cast open, and a man, who may have heard Despard, showed himself.

Francois looked up, and saw a slight figure framed in the window-space

clear against the light behind him.

Despard cried out in tones of terror: "The marquis! the marquis!" and,

turning, fled down the terrace and along the avenue.

"Queer, that," muttered Francois. "He is afraid. I must have him." He

put on his shoes in haste, and with great strides pursued the retreating

figure, hearing, as he ran, the servant crying from the window, "Who

goes there?"

A hundred yards away from the house, Despard, terrified at the nearing

steps, turned into a side alley, and at last tore through a thicket to

the left.

In an instant Francois had him by the collar. The captured man screamed

like a child in a panic of alarm, while Francois shook him as a terrier

shakes a rat.

"_Mille tonnerres!_ idiot, keep quiet! Don't kick; it is no use. Thou

wilt have the whole house after thee. 'T is I--Francois. Keep quiet!

Look at me--Francois. Dost not hear?" At last he was quieted.

"What scared thee, _mon ami_?"

"I saw him--I saw the marquis! I saw him!"

"Monsieur--the marquis? He is thrice that fellow's size."

They were now seated on the ground, Despard panting, and darting quick

glances to right and left like a frightened animal.

"Come, Pierre, tell me what all this means. Art gone clean out of thy

wits?"

"Why dost thou ask? Thou dost know well enough. I have waited--waited.

Now I have him."

"_Dame_! Thou? Thou wilt never face him. Thou art afraid."

"I am now. I shall not be to-morrow night. There will be hundreds. I

shall look! I shall see!"

"For Heaven's sake," cried Francois, "talk a little sense. A man who

fears a mouse to talk of killing this terrible fellow!"

"The law will kill him, not I. The law--the knife."

"Stuff! A certain commissioner, Gregoire, is after thee, and, worse,

after me. He hath a wart on his nose. I ran away to avoid those cursed

Jacobins. Passport all right--name of Jean Francois. Mind thee! My

father is old and failing. Thou wilt have to find me a papa. Gregoire

has--he has doubts, this Gregoire. So have I. When I told him you were

my friend, he shut me up in a cellar, and that I liked not. I was a

fool to run away; but, _mon Dieu!_ there was my errand--to see that poor

father--all set out on my passport, and the man with the wart

inquisitive. I had to get here and find my papa."

Another man's difficulties took off Pierre's mind from his own. He was

clear enough now, and asked questions, some hard to answer, but all

reasonable.

Francois related his story. The fencing-master had fallen under

suspicion and run away. He, Francois, likewise suspected, had got a

passport from a Jacobin fencing-pupil, and come hither to fall on the

neck of his dear friend Pierre. It was neat, and hung together well.

It had many omissions, and as a whole lacked the fundamental quality of

truth, but it answered. When a man's head is set to save his head, it

may not always be desirable to be accurate.

Pierre reflected; then he cried out suddenly: "This Gregoire! That for

him! Let him take care. Art thou still a Royalist?"

Francois was a Jacobin of the best, unjustly suspected. He was eager to

know what deviltry was in Pierre's mind as to this marquis; and there,

too, was the daughter. If he meant to stir these peasants to riot in

order to gratify himself and his well-justified hatred, that might sadly

influence Francois's fate. The central power in Paris was merciless to

lawless violence which did not aid its own purposes.

Francois talked on and on slackly, getting time to think. Pierre's

speech had troubled him. He was puzzled as he saw more distinctly the

nature of the man whom he was forced to trust. He did not analyze him.

He merely apprehended and distrusted one who was to-day a shrinking

coward and to-morrow a man to be feared less for what he might do than

for what he might lead others to do when himself remote from sources of

immediate physical fear. Francois did not--could not--fully know that

he was now putting himself in the power of one who was the victim of

increasing attacks of melancholy, with intervals of excitement during

which the victim was eagerly homicidal, and possessed for a time the

recklessness and the cunning of the partly insane.

"Come," said Francois, at last; "you must hide me until you can find me

that papa, or until Citizen Gregoire has come and gone. I like him

not."

"Nor I," said Pierre. "But let him take care; I am not a man to be

played with."

Francois said he should think not, but that if he meditated an attack on

that miserable _ci-devant_ yonder, it were better to wait until Gregoire

had come and gone.

This caution seemed to awaken suspicion. Pierre turned, and caught

Francois's arm. "Thou art a spy--a spy of the Convention!"

"Thou must be more fond of a joke than was once thy way. Nonsense! I

could go back and warn the marquis. That would serve the republic, and

well, too; for, by Heaven! if thou art of a mind to burn houses,

Robespierre will shorten thee by a head in no time."

"Who talks of burning houses? Am I a fool? I--Despard?"

"No, indeed. Thou--" Francois needed the man's help, and felt that he

was risking his own safety. He must at least seem to trust him. "Dost

thou mean to arrest Ste. Luce?"

"I do."

"But when?"

"Oh, in a day or two; no hurry."

Francois knew that he was hearing a lie. "Good," he said. "But I

advise thee against violence."

"There will be none. I control these people. Thou shouldst see; thou

shouldst hear me speak."

"Let us go," said Francois, and they returned to the village without a

word on either side. The hamlet was quiet. At the priest's door

Francois said: "Wait for me. I must fetch my bundle and Toto. I left

them in the wood." Pierre would wait. In an hour his ex-partner came

back, and before he could knock was admitted by the anxious Jacobin.

When they were within the house, he told Francois that he lived alone.

An old woman cooked for him, and came in the morning and went away at

dusk. He, Francois, should have the garret; and, this being settled,

they carried thither cold meats, bread, cheese, wine, and water, so as

to provision the thief for a few days. There would be time to talk

later. Francois asked a single question, saying frankly that he had

heard Pierre speak to his club. Certainly he had power over the people.

What was it he had meant to do, and when? Despard hesitated. Then the

cunning of a crumbling mind came to his aid, and he replied lightly:

"We shall wait till Gregoire has gone. I told thee so already. Thy

advice was good. I do not know. We shall see--we shall see." The door

closed after him. The man, descending the stair, paused of a sudden,

the prey of suspicion. Why did Francois come hither? Was he a spy of

the marquis--of the Convention? He feared Francois. To one in his

state of mind little obstacles seem large, great obstacles small. He

must watch him. He was in his power.

The man left within the room was not less suspicious. He hung a cover

over the single window, locked the door, and lay down, with Toto at his

feet, and at his side his rapier and pistols. He slept a tranquil

sleep. Most of the next day he sat at the window, watching through a

slit in the curtain the street below him. People came and went; groups

gathered about the desecrated church; there was much excitement, but he

could hear nothing. At dusk he saw a number of men, some with sticks

and pikes, come toward the priest's house. Owing to his position, he

lost sight of them as they came nearer, but from the noise below he

presumed them to have entered. He was, for many reasons, indisposed to

remain uninformed. He waited. The noise increased. Pierre had not come

to visit him, as he had said he would; and where was that much-desired

father? He laughed. "Ah, Toto, one must needs be his own papa." He

had gone about all day in his stocking-feet to avoid being overheard.

Now he bade Toto be quiet, and, opening the door, went cautiously down

the stone stairway. It was quite dark. On the last landing he stood,

intently listening. The hallway below was full of men, and evidently

the two rooms on the ground floor were as crowded. He overheard

Despard's voice, angry and strenuous. The words he could not catch, but

the comments of those in the wide hall were enough. The commissioner

was coming, and would interfere. Despard was right. The marquis was

about to fly, to emigrate. He must be arrested. They poured out,

shouting, tumultuous, to join the excited mob in the street.

Francois went quickly up the stair. He cared little for the marquis,

but he cared much for the pale lady whose face was stamped in his

memory. Moreover, all this ruin and threatened bloodshed were not to

his mind. A day's reflection had enabled him to conclude that, between

Gregoire and Despard, the situation was perilous, and that he had better

disappear from the scene. Meanwhile he would warn the marquis, and then

go his way.

He put on his shoes, took his bundle, his arms, and Toto, and, with his

cloak on his shoulder, slipped quietly down-stairs. The house was

empty. He went out the back way unseen, observing that the church was

lighted, and seeing a confused mass of noisy peasants about the door.

*XVI*

_How Francois warns the Marquis de Ste. Luce, and of the battle on the

staircase between the old day and the new._

It was now close to nine, and again a bright, cold, starry night. A

long circuit brought him to the highroad. A mile away he struck into a

broad avenue, and, never pausing, pushed on. His sense of locality was

acute and like that of an animal. Once or twice he was sure that he

heard dull noises behind him when the sharp night wind blew from the

village.'

"Ah, Toto," he murmured, "keep thou close to heel. This is our greatest

adventure. I would we were out of it. Ah, the chateau!" He ran across

the flowerbeds, and with long leaps up the steps, and sounded a strong

summons on the knocker of the great door. A servant opened it. "Where

is the marquis?" What the man said he did not wait to hear. The lofty

hall was dark, but the principal staircase was lighted faintly from

above. Without a word, Francois hurried past the servant and up the

stairs. From the broad landing he saw beyond him a lighted

drawing-room, and heard the notes of a violoncello. There was the

woman, pale and beautiful, in black, her face upturned, the boy holding

before her a sheet of music. The human richness of the cello's tones

sounded through the great chamber. Where had he seen the like? Ah,

that picture in the vestry of Notre Dame--the face of St. Cecilia! He

had a moment of intense joy at having come. Till then he had doubted if

it were wise. As he stood, the marquis came toward him quickly from the

side of the room, and two gentlemen left a card-table and started up.

Francois went in at once, meeting the marquis within the room. The

music ceased; the woman cried, "_Mon Dieu!_" Every one stared at this

strange figure.

"What is it, my man? _Venire St. Gris!_ 't is my thief! This way," and

he led him aside into a little room, while the rest, silent and

troubled, looked after them.

"Monsieur, to waste no words, these cursed peasants are on their way to

do here what mischief the devil knows. It is you they want. There is a

fool, one Despard, who leads them. But, _Dieu!_ there is small time to

think."

Francois, breathless, panting, stood looking about him, now as always

observant, and curious as to this wonderful room and this impassive

gentleman. Toto, as well blown as his master, recognizing the value of

a soft rug, dropped, head on legs, meaning to have at least the minute's

luxury and rest.

The marquis stood still in thought a moment. "I am greatly obliged to

you; and this is twice--twice. I expected trouble, but not so soon.

Come this way."

Francois followed. Toto kept one eye on him, and slept with the other.

As they reentered the great salon, the two gentlemen and Mme. Renee, all

visibly agitated, came to meet them. "What is it?" they asked. The

marquis forestalled further inquiry.

"My daughter, our kindly peasants will be here in an hour--no, half an

hour, or less. Resistance is useless. To fly is to confess the need to

fly; it is not to my taste. You gentlemen are better out of this. Go

at once--at once!"

"Yes, go!" said madame. "You cannot help us, and can only make bad

worse."

They wasted no time, and few words passed. The little drama played

itself quickly.

"Adieu, madame!" Madame courtesied. The boy walked over and stood by

his grandfather. He looked up at his clear-cut face, with its cold

smile, and then at the backs of the retiring gentlemen. He had a boy's

sense of these being deserters. They were gone in hot haste.

Mme. Renee came nearer. "We thank you--I thank you"; and she put out

her hand. Francois took it awkwardly. A touch of the hand of this

high-bred, saintly lady, _grande dame_ and true woman, singularly

disturbed the man. The tremor of a strange emotion ran over him. He

let fall the soft hand, and drew himself up to the full of his unusual

height, saying: "It is little--very little."

"And now you must go," she said; "and at once."

"Of course--of course," said Ste. Luce. "Out the back way. Victor will

show you." There were no further thanks. All such common men had

served the great noble; it seemed of the nature of things. But the woman

said:

"God protect you! God will know to thank you. I cannot fitly. Go--go!"

"I do not mean to go," said Francois. "Hark! it is too late." He knew

not then, or ever, why he stayed. The boy looked up at him. Here was

another kind of man, and not a gentleman, either. Why did he not go?

An old majordomo came with uncertain steps of nervous haste, crying:

"The servants are gone, monsieur! The people are coming up the avenue!

_Mon Dieu!_"

"Indeed! Now be off with you, Master Thief."

"No." His head said, "Go"; his heart said, "Stay."

"By St. Denis, but you are a fool!"

Francois muttered that he had been that always, and then felt the hand

of the boy touch his own. He called: "Toto! Toto! We will stay." And

the dog, at ease in all society, selected a yet softer rug.

The marquis troubled himself no further as to Francois. He went out of

the room, and was back in a minute, while the uproar increased, and Mme.

Renee, at the window, pleaded with the thief, urging him to fly, or

cried: "They are coming! Oh, a crowd--a mob--with torches and arms!

The saints protect us! Why will you not go? Oh, _mon pere_--father!

thou hast thy rapier. What canst thou against hundreds--hundreds?"

The marquis smiled. "_Costume de rigueur_, my dear. There will be no

bloodshed, my child."

"And they will all run," cried the boy. "And if grandpapa has to

surrender, he must give up his sword. When my papa was taken in

America, he had to--"

"Hush!" said the mother. The lad was singularly outside of the tragic

shadows of the hour.

Francois all this while stood near the window, his cloak cast back, his

queer, smile-lit face intent now on the mob without, now on the woman,

the boy, the man. "_Dame!_" he muttered. "We are in dangerously high

society." He set his knapsack aside, cast off his cloak, loosened his

rapier in its sheath, looked to the priming of his pistols, and waited

to see what would happen when this yelling thing out yonder should burst

into action.

"They must have made mad haste, madame."

"They are on the terrace. Mother of Heaven!" cried the woman. "They

wait! A man is speaking to them. They have torches. Some go--some go

to right around the house." A stone splintered the window-glass, and

she fell back. "Wretches!"