PART III

KING TERROR

A DAUGHTER OF THE GIRONDE

In a room on the second floor of a house in the Rue Favart in Paris--a

large room scantily and untidily furnished--a man sat reading by the

light of an oil lamp. The hour was late, the night a July night in the

year 1794--year two of the Republic. The house already slumbered round

him; the sounds of Paris rose to his ears softened by night and

distance. Intent on his work, he looked up from time to time to make a

note; or, drawing the lamp a little nearer he trimmed its wick and set

it back. When this happened, the light falling strongly on his face, and

bringing into relief its harsh lines and rugged features, showed him to

be a man past middle life, grey-haired, severe, almost forbidding of

aspect.

Peaceful as his occupation seemed, there was something in the air of the

room which suggested change, even danger. The floor was littered with

packing cases and with books piled together at random. On the low

bedstead lay a travelling cloak; on the table, by the reader's hand, lay

a pistol and beside it one of the huge sabres which were then in

fashion. Nor were these signs without meaning. The man reading on, wrapt

and unconscious, in his upper room, merely followed his bent. He read

and reasoned, though in the great city round him the terror of the

Revolution was at its height; though the rattle of the drum had scarcely

ceased with nightfall, and the last tumbril was even now being wheeled

back into its shed.

For men grow strangely callous. The danger which impends daily and every

day ceases to be feared. Achille Mirande had seen the chiefs of his

party fall round him. He had seen Petion and Barbaroux, Louvet and

Vergniaud die--the Girondins who had dreamed with him of a republic of

property, free and yet law-abiding. Nor had his experiences stopped

there. He had seen his foes perish also, the Hebertists first and later

the Dantonists. But for himself--death seemed to have passed him by.

Danger had become second nature; the very rumbling of the tumbrils

passing his house on the way to the guillotine had ceased to be anything

but annoying; until to-day, to avoid the interruption, he had left his

house in the Rue St. Honore and established himself in this empty flat

in the little Rue Favart.

By-and-by he laid down the book he was reading and fell into deep

meditation. As he sat thus, alone and silent in the silent room, a

sound, which a keener ear would have noticed before, attracted his

attention. Startled in a degree by it, he roused himself; he looked

round. "A rat, I suppose," he muttered. Yet he continued to peer with

suspicion into the corner whence the sound had come, and presently he

heard it again. The next instant he sprang to his feet; phantom-like a

door in the panelled wall at the back of the room--a door in the wall

where there should have been no door--was swinging, nay, had swung open.

While he glared at it, hardly believing his senses, a man appeared

standing in the dark aperture.

The man was young and of middle height. Dazzled by the light, and

suffering apparently from weakness, he paused, leaning for support

against the doorway. His eyes were bright, his sunken cheeks told of

fever or famine. His clothes stained and dusty, and his unkempt hair,

added to the wildness of his appearance. For a moment he and the owner

of the room glared at one another in speechless wonder. Then a name

sprang to the lips of each.

"Monsieur Mirande!" the younger man muttered.

"De Bercy!" exclaimed the other.

The stranger said no more, but shaking with agitation walked to a chair

and sat down. Mirande, his face rigid with passion, stood in silence and

watched him do it. Then the Republican found his voice.

"You villain!" he cried, advancing a step, his manner menacing. "Was it

not enough that you stole into my house and robbed me of my daughter?

Was it not enough that you led her to forfeit her life in your plots and

then left her to die? Was not this enough, that you now come and insult

me by your presence?"

The young man raised his hand in deprecation, but seemed unable to

reply. Mirande, gazing pitilessly at him, presently read his silence

aright, and an expression of cruel joy altered his features.

"I understand," he said grimly. "I see all now. You have been in hiding

here. To be sure, your name has been on the list of suspects these three

months. And you all the time have been starving like a rat behind the

panels! Well, you shall have food and wine. You shall eat, you shall

drink. I would not for the world have you cheat the guillotine."

He went to a cupboard as he spoke, and, taking from it bread and wine,

he placed them before the other. The young man made a slight gesture, as

though he would have refused them; but his pale face flushed with desire

negatived the action, the momentary resistance of his pride gave way,

and he ate and drank, sparingly, yet with the craving of a man

half-famished.

"I have not tasted food for three days," he murmured presently, looking

up with a glance of apology. The wine had already done its work. He

looked a different man. His hand was steady, his cheeks wore a more

healthy colour. "M. Chareloi hid me here," he went on, "but a week ago I

heard a disturbance in the house, and coming out when all was quiet I

found it empty and locked. I fear he was arrested."

"He was guillotined five days ago," the Girondin replied with brutal

frankness.

"Why? For what?" the young man exclaimed.

"As a suspect," Mirande answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Bercy had partly risen from his chair. He sat down again, stunned.

"Things move quickly nowadays," Mirande continued, with a ferocious

smile. "To the Luxembourg, thence to the Conciergerie, thence to the

Place de la Revolution is a journey of three days at most; and the path

is well trodden. You will find yourself in good company, M. de Bercy."

"You will give me up?"

"Ay!" the Republican answered hoarsely. He had risen, and stood facing

his antagonist, his hands on the table, his face flushed and swollen.

"Ay, though you were my own son! What have you not done to me? You crept

like a snake into my house, and robbed me of my daughter!"

"I made her my wife!" the Vicomte answered, with calm pride.

"Ay, and then? After that act of mighty condescension you led her to

take part in your vile plot, and when she was discovered and arrested,

you left her to pay the penalty. You left her to die alone rather than

risk one hair of your miserable head!"

The young man sprang to his feet in sudden ungovernable excitement. "It

is false!" he cried. "False!"

"It is true!" Mirande retorted, striking the table so violently that the

room rang again and the flame of the lamp leapt up and for an instant

dyed the two angry faces with a lurid gleam.

"I say it is false!" the Vicomte replied sternly. "On the contrary,

being at Rheims when I heard that Corinne was arrested, I took horse on

the instant. I rode for Paris as a man rides for life. I was anxious to

give myself up in her place if I could save her in no other way. But at

Meaux, M. Mirande, I met your agent----"

"And went back to Rheims again and into hiding," the other continued,

with a bitter sneer, "after sending me, her father, the shameful message

that your duty to your race forbade the last of the Bercys to die for a

merchant's daughter."

"I sent that message, do you say? I? I?" the young man cried.

"Yes, you! Who else? You--sent it after hearing from me that if you

would surrender, the Committee of Safety would suffer her to escape! So

much my services had wrung from them--in vain. What? Do you deny that

you met my agent at night in the yard of the Three Kings at Meaux, M. le

Vicomte?"

"I met him," the young man answered firmly, though his frame was a-shake

with excitement. "But I did not send that message by him! Nor did he

give me such a message as you state. On the contrary, he told me that I

was too late, that my wife had suffered two days before; and that you

bade me save myself, if I could."

"Ay, she suffered," Mirande answered ironically. "But it was four days

later. And for the rest you tell me nothing but lies, and clumsy ones."

"What I tell you," the Vicomte rejoined, with a solemnity which at last

enforced the other's attention, "is as true as that I loved my wife and

would have died to save her. I swear it!"

M. Mirande passed his hand over his brow, and stood for a moment gazing

at his son-in-law. There was a new expression, an expression almost of

fear, in his eyes.

"Should you know the messenger again?" he asked at last.

"I do not think I should," the Vicomte answered. "He inquired for me by

the name upon which we had agreed. We were together for a few minutes

only, and the night was dark, the only light a distant lanthorn."

"Would he know you, do you think?"

"I cannot say."

M. Mirande shrugged his shoulders, and strode half a dozen times up and

down the room, his face dark with thought, with suspicion, with

uncertainty. At length he stopped before his son-in-law.

"Listen to me," he said, meeting and striving to read the young man's

eyes. "It is possible that what you say is true and that you are not the

coward I have thought you. In that case you shall have justice at my

hands. Before I give you up to the Committee of Safety, who will deal

shortly with you, I will resolve the doubt. Until I find the means to

solve it, you may stay here."

"Indeed?" cried the young man proudly. "But what if I am not willing to

be beholden to you?"

"Then you have your alternative!" Mirande answered coolly. "Come with me

to the nearest Guard House, and I will inform against you. After all, it

will be the shortest way. It was only that being a citizen, and not a

_ci-devant_, I wished to do justice--even to you."

The young man hesitated. He had spoken truly when he suggested that he

was unwilling to be beholden to Mirande. But the alternative meant

certain death.

"I will stop," he said, after a pause, shrugging his shoulders as he

accepted the strange offer made him. "Why should I not? It is your agent

who has lied, not I."

"We shall see," replied the other, without emotion. "There is one thing,

however, I must name to you. I know that you are a gallant among the

ladies, M, de Bercy. My daughter Claire, who was at the seminary when

you visited me before, is now at home. You will kindly restrict your

intercourse with her to the most formal limits. Unfortunately," he

continued, with a strange bitterness in his tone, "she is like her

sister, and the same arts that won the one, may win the other from the

path of duty."

"For shame, sir!" the young noble answered, his eyes sparkling with

indignation. "You insult, not me, but your dead daughter! Do you think

that I loved her for her fortune alone? Or that her very image,

untenanted by her soul, would satisfy me?"

"They were singularly alike," Mirande muttered with a grim shrug. "God

knows! At any rate you are warned."

The young man shot at him an angry glance, but said no more; and

Mirande, seeming to be satisfied that his condition was accepted,

dropped the subject and proceeded to show his guest where he might

sleep; for the latter felt a natural reluctance to return to his narrow

prison behind the wainscot. In a few minutes the light was extinguished

and the two men, thus strangely brought together again, lay a few feet

from one another; the mind of each turning in the stillness of the

night, to the link which had bound them, nay, which still bound them in

a forced and uncongenial union.

The Vicomte was aware that his host ran a certain risk in sheltering

him. The supremacy which Robespierre had won at this time, and the

desperate lengths to which he had gone, exposed all who were not of his

immediate following to a jealousy that had already hurried to the

guillotine the chiefs of half a dozen sections of the Republican party.

Mirande, as one of the few surviving Girondins and as a man still

possessing friends and influence was peculiarly obnoxious to suspicion.

The slightest accusation, the word of a servant, the hint of a rival,

would suffice to despatch him also along the path which so many trod

daily.

The Vicomte, therefore, on rising in the morning, proposed to withdraw

to his hiding-place. M. Mirande, however, a little to his guest's

surprise, would not hear of this; observing curtly that he could trust

his household, and that a change of name was all that safety required.

The younger man, whose anxiety was not on his own account only, would

have argued the point; but his host cut short the matter by opening the

door, and ushering the Vicomte, almost before the young man was aware,

into another room--a room, large and scantily furnished, but in other

respects in striking contrast to that which he had left. Here the tall,

narrow windows, three in number, were open; the sunlight poured in

through half-closed jalousies and fell in bars on the shining parquet,

and on a little table daintily laid for the morning meal and gay with

flowers. In the cooler and darker parts of the room stood high-backed

chairs littered with a dozen articles which spoke of a woman's presence;

here a fan and silk hood, there a half-mended glove. As the young man's

eyes fell on these, and he drank in the airy brightness and even luxury

of the room, he felt a strange pang of regret and misery. Such things

were no longer for him. Such prettinesses no longer formed part of his

life. And then he turned, and in an instant forgot his unhappiness and

his loss in the sight of a young girl who, seated a little aside, had

risen at his entrance and now stood facing him, her back to the light.

He had been warned; yet he stood thunderstruck, breathless, staring. His

eyes grew large, his jaw fell, the room for a moment went round with

him. The likeness of the woman before him to his dead wife was so

strong, so complete, so astonishing, that involuntarily, not knowing

what he did, he held out his hands.

"Corinne!" he muttered, his voice full of tears. "Corinne!"

The girl, who but for the ravages of ill-health would have been very

beautiful, did not answer; nevertheless she seemed scarcely less

affected by his sudden appearance and his strange address. She swayed on

her feet, and had she not grasped a chair would have fallen. A burning

flush for an instant lit up her wan cheek, to disappear at the first

sound of her father's voice. He had followed Bercy into the room, and

his tone was sharp with reproof and warning.

"Citizen Perrot," he said sternly, "this is my daughter Claire. Here is

your place. Be seated, if you please."

The Vicomte mechanically did as he was told without looking where he

sat. His hands shook, his brain was on fire. He had eyes only for the

girl; who was so wondrously, so completely, like his wife. She had taken

her seat with some timidity at the other side of the table, and if she

no longer betrayed the same emotion, her eyes were downcast, the colour

fluttered in her cheeks. It was in vain that Mirande shot angry glances

at her--and at him. The young man stared as one enchanted, seeing only

the white-robed figure seated between himself and the sunlight, that,

shining through her dark hair, found golden threads in it, and crowned

the face he knew so well with an aureole of brightness.

Gradually the spell fell from him. For as he looked, the girl's face

changed and hardened and grew older; grew sharper and whiter; and he

discerned the difference between Claire and Corinne. Corinne had never

looked at him, or at any one, after that fashion. With a sigh, yet with

eyes that often and involuntarily returned to the lode-star, he

recovered himself; and he made, or pretended to make, a meal. His

appetite, however, was gone, and he was thankful when his host rose and

put an end to the constrained sitting.

"You will excuse me," the Republican said, drawing out his watch and

looking at it. "I should be at M. Carnot's at this hour. These rooms,

however, are at your disposal, my friend; and if you want books, my

daughter will direct you where to find them. But--caution, remember!"

And with that, to the Vicomte's astonishment, M. Mirande departed,

leaving the two together. For a moment the young man sat, troubled and

perplexed, gazing at the floor. He had intercepted the glance of warning

which his host on leaving had aimed at his daughter; and with the

knowledge that he was suspected, with the brutally frank exhortation

addressed to himself fresh in his mind, to be left alone with the girl

surprised him beyond measure.

Presently he stole a look at her. She had passed to one of the windows,

and, having seated herself, was employed upon some needle-work. Her

attitude, the lines of her figure, the pose of her head, presented the

same abnormal maddening resemblance to his wife; and slowly, as if

fascinated, he moved nearer to her.

"Pardon me," he said at last, speaking almost in a whisper. "You are

very like your sister, mademoiselle."

She glanced quickly at him, her face wearing the hard, sharp look that

had slowly grown upon it. But she gave him no other answer.

He felt that he ought to leave her, but the spell was upon him and he

lingered.

"You have been ill, I fear," he said, after a long silence.

"Monsieur is right," she answered briefly. "The times are such that few

of us escape. Those are perhaps most happy," and as she paused on the

word she looked up at him, "who die with their beliefs unshattered,

before discovering the clay feet of their idols."

He started.

"Mademoiselle!" he cried almost fiercely, carried away by an intensely

painful thought. "My wife! Your sister? Answer me, answer me quickly, I

beg of you. They did not--they did not tell her that I--that I

refused----"

"That monsieur declined to save her?" Mademoiselle Claire answered

slowly, her great dark eyes looking into vacancy--into the depths of

gloomy memories. "Yes, they did. A woman, perhaps, would not have done

it; would not have borne to do it. But men are cruel--cruel! And after

all it helped her to die, you understand. It made it more easy."

He walked to the other end of the room, his face hidden in his hands.

And there his frame began to be racked by deep sobs. He tried to summon

up his pride, his courage, his manliness; but in vain. The thought that

the woman who had loved and trusted him, his young wife--his young wife

of a few months only--had died believing him a coward and an ingrate was

too bitter! Too bitter, the conviction that, mistaken as her belief was,

it could never be altered! Never be altered! She would never know!

A light touch on his arm recalled him to himself. He turned and found

Mademoiselle Claire at his elbow holding a glass of wine towards him.

Her lips were compressed, but her face wore a delicate flush, and her

eyes were changed and softened.

"Drink," she muttered hurriedly. "You are still weak; you have eaten

nothing."

He controlled himself by an effort and took the wine; and the girl,

moving away quickly, brought from the table a roll and, without again

meeting his eyes, laid it on a chair beside him. She was in the act of

regaining her place by the window, when the door opened somewhat

abruptly, and the young Vicomte, scarcely master of himself, turned and

discovered a man standing on the threshold.

The stranger stared at him and he at the stranger, while Mademoiselle

Claire, with eyes which on a sudden became keen and intent, seemed to

forget herself in gazing on both. The new-comer was taller than the

Vicomte and of about the same age; a thin, lithe man, with restless eyes

and dark, tumbled hair. He scanned the Vicomte with at least as much

disfavour as the latter, taken by surprise, spent on him; and he was the

first to speak.

"I thought that you were alone, mademoiselle," he said, frowning as he

advanced into the room and looked about him suspiciously.

"This is a friend of my father's," she answered, "He is staying with us,

M. Baudouin."

The explanation did not seem to improve matters in the young man's eyes.

He frowned still more gloomily.

"Monsieur is from the country?" he asked.

"No," the Vicomte answered. "I have been in Paris some months."

The stranger looked darkly down, toying with a book which lay at the

edge of the table. The girl waited awhile and then--

"Did you bring a message from my father?" she asked, a slight tinge of

impatience and hauteur in her manner.

"No, mademoiselle, I have not seen him this morning," he answered. And

his sullenness matched her impatience.

"Had you not better follow him then?" she said, with sharpness. "He is

at M. Carnot's. He may need you."

For a moment it was plain that M. Baudouin hesitated, but in the end he

made up his mind to obey, and bowing with exaggerated respect he left

the room.

The Vicomte thought that he could not do better than follow the other's

example, and he too withdrew. Crossing the lobby to the room which

communicated with his hiding-place he threw himself into a chair and

gave himself up to the most melancholy reflections. The singular

resemblance which Mademoiselle Claire bore to his wife must alone have

sufficed to fill him with vain longings and poignant regrets; but these

were now rendered a thousand times more bitter by the knowledge, so

cruelly conveyed to him, that his wife had died believing him a

heartless and faithless coward.

The return of M. Mirande later in the day, if it did not dispel these

gloomy thoughts, compelled him at any rate to conceal them. The evening

meal passed much as the morning one had passed; the host uttering a few

formal phrases, while the other two sat for the most part silent. The

Vicomte could not avert his eyes from his sister-in-law; and though he

no longer felt the violent emotions which her face had at first awakened

in him, he sat sad and unhappy. Her pale features reminded him of the

dead past: and at once tortured him with regret, and tantalized him with

the simulacrum of that which had been his. He could have cursed the

Heaven that had formed two beings so much alike.

In this way a week passed by, and little by little a vague discomfort

and restlessness began to characterize the attitude of his mind towards

her. He felt himself at once attracted by her beauty--as what man of his

years would not?--and repelled by the likeness that made of the feeling

a sacrilege. Meantime, whether he would or no, they were left

together--much together. M. Mirande went abroad each day and seemed

intent on public affairs. Each day, indeed, his look grew a trifle more

austere, and the shade on his brow grew deeper; but though it was

evident that the situation out-of-doors was growing more strained, the

storms which were agitating Paris and desolating so many homes affected

the little household in no other way. The Vicomte kept necessarily

within, spending most of his time in reading. Mademoiselle Claire also

went seldom abroad; and it followed that during the long July days when

the sunshine flooded the second floor, in the early mornings when the

sparrows perched on the open jalousies and twittered gaily, or in the

grey evenings, when the night fell slowly, they met from time to

time--met not infrequently. On such occasions the Vicomte noticed that

Baudouin was never far distant. The secretary, as a rule, put in an

appearance before the conversation had lasted ten minutes.

Bercy began to suspect the cause of this, and one day he happened upon a

discovery. He was sitting in M. Mirande's room, when the sound of a

raised voice made him lay down his book and listen. The voice seemed to

come from the parlour. Once he was assured of this, and that the

speaker, whose anger was apparent, was not Mirande, he took his steps.

He stole out upon the lobby, and found the parlour door as he had

suspected slightly ajar. Any scruples he might have entertained were

dispelled by the certainty that the speaker was Baudouin and that the

person whom he was addressing in harsh and vehement tones, was

Mademoiselle Claire. The Vicomte drew himself up behind the door and

listened.

"What would I have?" were the first words he caught. "Little enough,

heaven knows! Little enough! What have I ever asked except to be allowed

to serve? To gratify your least caprice. To be at your beck and call. To

fetch and carry while another basked in your smiles. That is all I asked

in the old days and I ask no more now. I am content to serve and wait

and hope. But I will have--no stranger come between us. Not again! Not

again!"

"You do not understand, M. Baudouin," the girl answered hurriedly.

"Do I not?" he cried. "Perhaps I did not understand last time. But this

time I do. I do! It had been well for you had I known more then!"

"Spare me," she said faintly, overcome apparently by some hidden meaning

in his words.

"That you may amuse yourself with this stranger?" he retorted. "No, I

have given way enough. It had been better, as I say, if I had not,

mademoiselle."

The stress he laid on the last word was unintelligible to the hidden

listener, who knew only that it veiled an insult and drew nearer to the

door. The girl remained silent and Baudouin presuming on this continued

in a tone still more aggressive, "Times are changed, mademoiselle,

changed in the last month. You, living out of the world, are ignorant of

what is passing, and your father is being left as completely behind.

Unless I make a mistake, in a little time you will need other and

stronger protection than his."

"Not while he lives," the girl answered, in a low tone.

Baudouin laughed. "The pitcher goes often to the well, but it is broken

at last," he said drily. "I would have you understand that, since you

may stand in need of my help, you would do well not to try me too far."

"M. Baudouin," the girl said abruptly--and her tone was changed, and the

listener, though he could not see her, could picture the challenge of

her startled eyes--"you have never spoken to me in this way before. You

have changed."

"So are the times. Those who were servants are now masters!"

"You will never be mine," the girl said firmly.

"We shall see!" he answered.

"We shall see!" cried an unexpected voice--that of the Vicomte, who

could bear it no longer. His eyes stern, his colour high, he flung the

door wide and entered. The secretary, startled, stepped back a pace. The

girl, who had been standing close to the door, turned, and seeing who it

was, uttered a low cry of thankfulness; in her relief she even stretched

out her hands as if she would grasp the new-comer's arm. The next

instant she drew back, a strange expression in her eyes.

"Now, sir," the young Vicomte continued, harshly, "you have to deal with

a man, and not with a woman whom you can terrify. I have overheard all,

and I warn you that on his return I shall repeat it word for word to M.

Mirande, who will know how to deal with you."

He expected that the threat would produce its effect, and that the

secretary taken in the act would resume his normal demeanour. But

Baudouin, his first surprise over, merely smiled. "Who are you, I

wonder," he replied grimly. "One in the Tallien-Barrere-Carnot

conspiracy, that's afoot, I suppose. If so, I need not----"

"You need suppose nothing!" the Vicomte retorted fiercely. "But leave

the room without words, you dog!"

"Thank you," said the secretary, smiling contemptuously. "But I would

have you remember that a living dog is better than a dead lion."

With that--and with little show of embarrassment or dismay--he went

out. As the door closed behind him a singular constraint fell upon the

two who were left. The Vicomte, with a grave face, paused by the table,

and stood listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps. The girl,

who had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, kept her face averted.

The Vicomte looked at her doubtfully--looked at her more than once.

"Mademoiselle," he ventured at last, his voice low and agitated, "I am

afraid he--I am afraid he means mischief."

"I fear so," she whispered without turning.

"Will you--shall I speak to your father?"

"It may be better," she answered--to the same tone.

He looked at her long at that, but she did not move; and with a gesture

as of farewell he turned and went softly away. Safe in his own room,

with the door shut, he stood in the middle of the floor thinking;

thinking not of the secretary nor of the danger with which Baudouin's

enmity threatened the house, but of the strange look which the girl's

face had worn on his first appearance at her side, the look of relief

and thankfulness which he had surprised in her eyes, the impulse of

confidence which had made her move towards him! He recalled them all,

and his brow grew hot, his hand trembled. He felt at once terror and

shame. When he heard M. Mirande's step on the stairs, he gave himself no

time for thought, but went hurriedly out on the lobby and called him

into the room. "M. Mirande," he said, "I have something to tell you. I

have two things to tell you."

The Republican looked at him, his inscrutable eyes betraying no

surprise. "What are they?" he asked, his tone almost phlegmatic.

"The man Baudouin has been here, addressing himself so rudely to your

daughter that I felt myself obliged to--to interfere."

"That is unlucky."

"It may be that he has your confidence," the young Vicomte continued,

"but, from the way in which he spoke of you, I doubt if you have his. He

seemed to me--a dangerous man, M. Baudouin."

"Did he use threats?" the Republican asked, a slight shade of anxiety in

his tone.

The Vicomte nodded.

"Did he mention any names?" M. Mirande continued, looking sharply at his

watch.

"Yes. Those of Carnot, Barrere--and I think, Tallien."

"Ah!" For a moment M. Mirande's impulse seemed to be to leave the room;

to leave it hurriedly, to go back perhaps whence he had come. But he

thought better of it, and after a pause he continued, "Had you not

something else to tell me?"

"I had," the young man answered, betraying, by his agitation, that he

had now come to the real purpose for which he had sought the interview.

"I wish to leave, M. Mirande. I wish to leave your house at once. I do

not know," he continued hurriedly, before the elder man could utter the

dry retort which was on his lips, "whether you had it in your mind to

try me by leaving me with your daughter, or whether I have only my own

weakness to thank. But I must go. I am ashamed of myself, I hate myself

for it; but I cannot be with her and not feel what I ought not to feel.

Understand me," the young man continued, his cheeks pale; "it is not by

reason of any charm of hers, but because she is so like--so like my

wife--because she seems a dozen times a day to be my wife, that my

memory is unfaithful to Corinne--that I dare not remain here another

day!"

He stopped abruptly. M. Mirande coughed.

"This is a strange confession," he said, after a long pause. "You have

said nothing to Claire?"

"Heaven forbid!"

"Then say nothing!" the Republican replied with curt decision. "As for

leaving this place to-day, it is impossible. A crisis is at hand; this

house is watched. You would be recognized and arrested before you passed

ten yards from the door. Moreover," he went on, seeming to ponder deeply

as he spoke, "if you are right about Baudouin--and I doubt now whether I

have been Wise to trust him--I see great and immediate danger before

me. Therefore, if you would not desert the sinking ship, you must

remain."

"I dare not," the young man muttered, shaking his head.

"What?" the old Girondin answered, his voice swelling, his eyes growing

bright. "You a noble, and you dare not? You a noble, and you cannot

govern yourself? Consider, M. le Vicomte! A few days may see me traverse

the road so many traverse every day; the road of the guillotine. Then my

daughter will be alone, defenceless, unprotected. I ask you--for I have

no one else to whom I can turn--to be her brother and her guardian. Do

you refuse?"

"You no longer distrust me?" the Vicomte muttered, his cheek hot.

"When you came to me a week ago," Mirande answered, "I did not foresee

this crisis, nor the present danger. If I had, I might have received you

differently. But, see you, what if this be the way in which I would try

you?" he continued with energy. "What if this be the atonement heaven

has assigned to you? In that case, do you accept, or do you refuse?"

"I accept," the Vicomte answered solemnly, carried away by the other's

burst of feeling. "I accept the charge."

M. Mirande smiled, but only for a moment. Quickly the light died out of

his face, leaving it stern and austere. His brow grew dark, and turning

with a sigh to his table, he signed to his companion to leave him, and

was presently immersed in figures and calculations.

The young man retired; on his side full of doubt and amazement, yet

lifted by the other's appeal to a higher level of will and purpose.

Confidence begets honour. Frankly as he had gone to the Girondin with

his confession, so frankly had the other received it. Now he felt that

it behoved him to deserve confidence. Henceforth Claire must be his

sister. But he knew that merely to call her sister was not all. He knew

enough of his own weakness to recognize the necessity of shunning

temptation, and during the next three days he was careful to avoid

conversation with the girl; who on her part seemed to observe nothing,

but went to and fro about her household duties.

And yet she did not go about them as usual, a keen observer would have

said. A subtle change had come over her. Alone in her room she sang to

herself low crooning songs of happiness. Her eyes, so carefully lowered

in the parlour, shone with a tender brightness, when no one saw them.

Her cheek had grown fuller, her colour stronger, her whole being

radiant. If she still went delicately when other's eyes were upon her,

it was rather in sympathy with the heavy air of fear and expectation

which pervaded the house, which pervaded the city, than in obedience to

her natural impulses.

On the third evening, M. Mirande, who had been abroad all day, came home

rather later than usual. The Vicomte and Claire were sitting in separate

rooms, but something ominous in the sound of his footstep as he mounted

the stairs, drew them both to the lobby to receive him. The evening

light, shining through the window behind them, fell full upon his face

and exaggerated its cold and grey severity. They waited for him in

silence, and he did not see them until he set his foot on the last step.

Then he pointed to his room, and, "Go in there, my children," he said

gravely.

The young man started. The girl blushed and trembled. They both obeyed.

M. Mirande's next act was equally surprising. Following them into the

room he proceeded to lock and bolt the door behind him; and then passing

quickly to the window he looked out. For a moment they stood behind him

in silence. After a pause the Vicomte spoke.

"What is it?" he said.

"The order for my arrest was signed an hour ago," the Girondin answered,

his eyes still glued to the window. "You are both included in it. Ah!

here they are!"

"Who?" the Vicomte asked with energy.

"Baudouin and three officers. However, the door is shut. It is strong,

and will gain us a few minutes."

"To what end?" The Vicomte spoke coldly. Mirande's conduct took him by

surprise, for resistance to arrest was rare during the Revolution. Such

men as Mirande, courageous, bigoted, devoted to an ideal, made a

point--unless they resorted to suicide--of submitting calmly to destiny

and the law.

The Girondin, however, had decided otherwise. Nor did he seem to be

aware of his companion's disapproval. He did not answer, but continued

to look out long after the tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs had

drawn his daughter to his side. There was a loud summons without, "In

the name of the law!" but the three remained silent, standing close

together, the girl's white, scared face glimmering in the increasing

darkness of the room. The Vicomte a foot from her, could almost hear the

dull beating of her heart.

"Can nothing be done?" he muttered.

"We can do nothing but wait and be silent," the Republican answered

calmly. "They know we are here, but if we do not answer, they may pause

awhile before they attack the door. And every moment--is a moment

gained."

The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders, but acquiesced; and some minutes

elapsed--minutes which seemed hours to more than one of the

three--before the locksmith for whom the Commissary had sent, assailed

the door, and the almost empty house rang with the harsh sounds of his

hammer.

Crash! The door was open at last, letting into the room a flood of

light, and with the light three men who entered with levelled arms. The

foremost, an officer girt with a huge tricolour scarf, stopped abruptly,

his jaw dropping ludicrously as his eyes fell on the placid group before

him. "Citizen Achille Mirande?" he said interrogatively. "Yes? I am

empowered to arrest you in the name of the Committee of Safety; you,

your daughter also present I think--and a guest. This I presume is the

person?"

"It is," Mirande answered quietly. "Perhaps you will permit me to show

you where my papers are. They may be needed?"

"They will be needed," the Commissary replied, re-arranging his scarf,

which had been pulled awry. "You may certainly collect them under

surveillance."

"I can save M. Mirande the trouble," remarked a mocking voice in the

background. "I think I can lay my hand on any paper that may be

required."

"I do not doubt it, Baudouin," the Girondin answered placidly. "I take

it that I have to thank you for this?"

There was shame as well as triumph in the secretary's eyes as he came

forward. "You cannot say I did not warn you," he said, avoiding the look

of scorn which Claire--who stood by her father's side, her hand in

his--shot at him. "But you would go your way."

"And you, yours!" Mirande retorted. "An old way--Judas's. But hark you,

my friend! You seem to be prospering now. You have kicked down the

ladder by which you have risen. Yet it is in my power to wound you. See

you, do you know who this is?" and he pointed to the Vicomte who, with

his arms folded, was gazing haughtily at the Commissary and his

followers.

"A conspirator against the safety of the Republic--that is all I know,"

Baudouin answered sullenly.

"Possibly," said Mirande. "But not the less for that my son-in-law!"

"The Vicomte de Bercy!" Baudouin almost shouted. "It is false. I heard

of him but yesterday--at Nantes."

"You heard wrongly then!" Mirande answered with a cold sneer. "This is

the man whom you met at Meaux, and of whom you lied to me, saying--that

you might divide him effectually from my daughter--that he refused to

surrender himself to save her."

"It was true--what I told you," the secretary muttered, gazing at Bercy

with hatred.

"It was false!" cried the Girondin sternly. "Do I need evidence? I have

it. Whom shall I believe, you, who have betrayed me to-day, or he who

remained by my side in danger?"

"He could not escape," Baudouin said abruptly. His face was pale, the

perspiration stood on his brow. His jealous eyes glared askance at the

girl's face. Mirande had said rightly. He had yet the power to wound

this traitor.

"He did not attempt it," the Girondin answered. "And besides, I have

tried him as gold in the fire! Look you at this. Bercy!" As the name

rang through the room the speaker turned to the Vicomte and took his

hand, "My friend, I have deceived you. My daughter did not die. I

procured her pardon by the use of such influence as I possessed at that

time. But having done that, deluded by this villain's tale, I forced her

to renounce you and to take her maiden name."

For an instant there was silence in the room.

"She did not die?" the young man muttered, his eyes dilating. Then,

before an answer could be given, he plucked his hand from Mirande's

grasp and seizing him by the shoulder shook him to and fro.

"Where is she?" he cried hoarsely. "Speak, man, what have you done with

her? Where is she?"

"She is behind you."

Bercy turned. Claire was behind him. "Claire?" he cried. "Claire?"

The girl stood, her eyes slightly downcast, her arms hanging by her

sides. And then at the sound of the name uttered a second time, she

looked up, her eyes swimming with love and tears. "No, Corinne!" she

said simply. And then, in a voice which pierced the traitor's bosom as

with a sword, she continued, "Honore, my husband! Forgive me! Forgive

me that I distrusted you! That I disowned you!"

He did not answer, but he opened his arms and took her into them and

held her there; while the father went to the window--perhaps to hide his

emotion, and the Commissary lifted up his hands in admiration genuine

and French of this moving scene. As for Baudouin, he bit his nails, his

face white with rage.

He cursed the delay. He would have cursed the police, had he dared, and

had not the tricolour scarf awed him. "Bah!" he exclaimed at last in

venomous tones, "a fine piece of play-acting, M. Mirande! And our

friends here have indulgently given you time for it. But it is over, and

the sequel will be less pleasant, I fear. He laughs best who laughs

last."

"That is true," Mirande answered soberly; and for an instant from his

place at the window, he looked into the room.

"In three days you will sneeze into the sack, my friends," Baudouin

continued with savage mockery. "Your married bliss, M. le Vicomte, will

last but a short time, I fear. As for mademoiselle, Sanson will prove

but a rough coiffeur, I doubt."

"Silence!" the Girondin cried; and his tone was strangely altered, his

voice vibrated strangely through the room. "Silence, you hound!" he

continued, turning from the window and walking into the middle of the

chamber, his figure drawn to its full height, his hand outstretched. "Be

still, and tremble for your own head. The warrant you bring is signed by

Maximilien Robespierre?"

"The Incorruptible," murmured the Commissary. And saluted.

"Corruptible or Incorruptible," Mirande rejoined, with a sneer, "he is

fallen! He is fallen! Within the last ten minutes he has been arrested

and lodged in the Tuileries!"

"You rave!" cried the officer. While Bercy and Corinne cast dazed

glances about them, and the other men stared in stupid wonder.

"I do not rave!" the Girondin answered, standing in the middle of the

room, the master of the situation. "I tell but the fact. Mark the three

lighted candles in yonder upper window. They are a signal that

Robespierre is arrested. Go, if you doubt me, and ask. Or--you need not.

Listen, listen!" With a gesture of command, he raised his hand, and all

stood silent. For an instant there seemed equal silence in the streets

below; but gradually as they listened there grew out of this silence a

distant hollow murmur, as of a great sea swelling higher and louder with

each moment. The face of more than one in the room lost its colour.

"The Faubourgs are rising," muttered the Commissary uneasily. "There is

something amiss."

"On the contrary," answered the Girondin quietly, "there is nothing

amiss, but things are in a fair way to be set straight. If you will

take my advice you will tear up that warrant, my friend. To-morrow it

will be more dangerous to you than to me. The Terror of these days is

over," he continued solemnly. "For those who have profited by it the

reckoning remains!"

M. Mirande was right. Abruptly as this narration ends, the Terror, so

famous in history, came to its end; and many a life held worthless a few

minutes before was saved. For twenty-four hours indeed the fate of

Robespierre and indirectly of our friends hung in the balance, all men

trembling and watching what would happen and who would prevail. Then he

fell, and the cruelty of his rule recoiled on his associates. What

became of Baudouin is not known for certain, though one tale alleges

that he was met and murdered by a company of Royalists near Nantes, and

another, that he was guillotined under another name with Fouquier

Tinville and his gang. Enough that he disappeared unmarked and

unregretted, along with many others of the baser and more obscure

adventurers of the time.

Of Bercy and Corinne, re-wedded under circumstances so strange and so

abnormal, we know only that their descendants, well versed in this

tradition of the family, still flourish on the Loire, and often and

often tell this tale under the walnut-trees on summer evenings. Nor are

there wanting to-day both a Corinne and a Claire.

IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!

On the moorland above the old grey village of Carhaix, in

Finistere--Finistere, the most westerly province of Brittany--stands a

cottage, built, as all the cottages in that country are, of rough-hewn

stones. It is a poor, rude place to-day, but it wore an aspect still

more rude and primitive a hundred years ago--on an August day in the

year 1793, when a man issued from the low doorway, and, shading his eyes

from the noonday sun, gazed long and fixedly in the direction of a

narrow rift which a few score paces away breaks the monotony of the

upland level. The man was tall and thin and unkempt, and his features,

which expressed a mixture of cunning and simplicity, matched his figure.

He gazed a while in silence, but at length he uttered a grunt of

satisfaction as the figure of a woman rose gradually into sight. She

came slowly towards him in a stooping posture, dragging behind her a

great load of straw, which completely hid the little sledge on which it

rested, and which was attached to her waist by a rope of twisted hay.

The figure of a woman--rather of a girl. As she drew nearer it could be

seen that her cheeks, though brown and sunburned, were as smooth as a

child's. She seemed to be still in her teens. Her head was bare, and her

short petticoats, of some coarse stuff, left visible bare feet thrust

into wooden shoes. She advanced with her head bent, and her shoulders

strained forward, her face dull and patient. Once, and once only, when

the man's eyes left her for a moment, she shot at him a look of scared

apprehension; and later, when she came abreast of him, her breath coming

and going with her exertions, he might have seen, had he looked closely,

that her strong brown limbs were trembling under her.

But the man noticed nothing in his impatience, and only chid her for her

slowness. "Where have you been dawdling, lazy-bones?" he cried.

She murmured, without halting, that the sun was hot.

"Sun hot!" he retorted. "Jeanne is lazy, that is it! _Mon Dieu_, that I

should have married a wife who is tired by noon! I had better have left

you to that never-do-well Pierre Bounat. But I have news for you, my

girl."

He lounged after her as he spoke, his low cunning face--the face of the

worst kind of French peasant--flickering with cruel pleasure, as he saw

how she winced at the name he had mentioned. She made him no answer,

however. Instead, she drew her load with increased vehemence towards one

of the two doors which led into the building. "Well, well, I will tell

you presently," he called after her. "Be quick and come to dinner."

He entered himself by the other door. The house was divided into two

chambers by a breast-high partition of wood. The one room served for

kitchen; the other, now half full of straw, was barn and granary,

fowl-house and dove-cote, all in one. "Be quick!" he called to her.

Standing in the house-room, he could see her head as she proceeded to

unload the straw.

After a few minutes she came in, her shoes clattering on the floor. The

perspiration stood in great beads on her forehead, and showed how little

she had deserved his reproach. She took her seat silently, avoiding his

eyes with some care; but he thought nothing of this. It was no new

thing. It pleased him, if anything.

He liked to be feared. "Well, my Jeanne," he said, in his gibing tone,

"are you longing for my news?"

The hand she extended towards the pitcher of cider, that, with black

bread and onions, made up their meal, shook a little; but she answered

simply, "If you please, Michel."

"Well, the Girondins have got the worst of it, my girl, and are flying

all over the country. That is the news. Your Pierre is among them, I

don't doubt, if he has not been killed already. I wish he would come

this way."

"Why?" she asked; and as she spoke looked up at last, a flash of light

in her grey eyes.

"Why?" he repeated, grinning across the table at her, "because he would

be worth five crowns to me. There is five crowns, I am told, on the head

of every Girondin who has been in arms, my girl. Five crowns! It is not

every day we can earn five crowns!"

The French Revolution, it will be understood, was at its height. The

more moderate and constitutional Republicans--the Girondins, as they

were called--worsted in Paris by the Jacobins and the mob, had lately

tried to raise the provinces against the capital, and to this end had

drawn together at Caen, near the border of Brittany. They had been

defeated, however, and the Jacobins, in this month of August, were

preparing to take a fearful vengeance at once on them and on the

Royalists. The Reign of Terror had begun. Even to such a boor as this,

sitting over his black bread, in his remote hovel, the Revolution had

come home, and, in common with many a thousand others, he wondered what

he could make of it.

The girl did not answer, even by the look of contempt to which he had

become accustomed, and for which he hated her, and for which he beat

her; and he repeated, "Five crowns! Ah, it is money, that is! _Mon

Dieu!_" Then, with a sudden exclamation, he sprang up. "What is that?"

he cried.

He had been sitting with his back to the barn, but he turned, as he

spoke, so as to face it. Something had startled him--a movement, a

rustling in the straw behind him. "What is that?" he asked again, his

hand on the table, his face lowering and watchful.

The girl had risen also; and, as the last word passed his lips, sprang

by him with a low cry, and aimed a frantic blow with her stool at

something he could not see, something low, on the floor.

"What is it?" he asked, recoiling.

"A rat!" she answered, breathless. And she aimed another blow at it.

"Where?" he asked sharply. "Where is it?" He snatched up his stool, too,

and at that moment a rat darted out of the straw, ran nimbly between his

legs, and plunged into a hole by the door. He flung the wooden stool

after it; but in vain. "It was a rat!" he said, as if until then he had

doubted it.

"Thank God!" she muttered. She was shaking all over.

He stared at her in stupid wonder. What did she mean? What had come to

her? "Have you had a sunstroke my girl?" he said suspiciously.

Her nut-brown face was a shade less brown than usual, but she met his

eyes boldly. "No," she said, "I am all right." And she added an

explanation that for the moment satisfied him. But he did not sit down

again, and when she went out he went out also. And though, as she

retired slowly to the rye fields and her work, she repeatedly looked

back at him, it was always to find his eyes fixed upon her. When this

had happened half a dozen times, a thought struck him. "How now?" he

muttered. "The rat ran out of the straw! Why?"

Nevertheless he continued to gaze after her, with a cunning look upon

his features, until she disappeared over the edge of the rift. Then he

crept back to the door of the barn, and stole in, exchanging the

sunlight for the cool darkness of the raftered building, across which a

dozen rays of light were shooting, laden with dancing motes. A pace or

two from the door he stood stock still until he had regained the use of

his eyes; then he began to peer round him. In a moment, far sooner than

he expected, he found what he sought. Half upon, and half hidden by, the

straw in the furthest corner, lay a young man, in the deep sleep of

utter exhaustion. His face, which bore traces of more than common

beauty, was white and pinched; his hair hung dank about his forehead.

His clothes were in rags; and his feet, bound up with pieces torn at

random from his blouse, were raw and bleeding. For a short time Michel

Tellier bent over him, noting these things with glistening eyes. Then

the peasant stole out again. "It is five crowns!" he muttered, blinking

in the sunlight. "Ha, ha! Five crowns!"

He looked round him cautiously, but could see no sign of his wife; and

after hesitating and pondering a minute or two, he took the path for

Carhaix, his native astuteness leading him to saunter at a slow pace

after his ordinary fashion. When he was gone the moorland about the

cottage lay still and deserted. Thrice, at intervals, the girl dragged

home her load of straw, but on each occasion she seemed to linger in the

barn no longer than was necessary. Michel's absence, though it was

unlooked-for, raised no suspicion in her breast, for he would frequently

go down to the village to spend the afternoon. The sun sank lower, and

the shadow of the great monolith, which, on the crest of the highest

point of the moor, at a distance of a mile, rose gaunt and black against

a roseate sky, grew longer and longer; and then, as twilight fell, the

two coming home met a few paces from the cottage. He asked some

questions about the work she had been doing, and she answered briefly.

Then, silent and uncommunicative, they went in together. The girl set

the bread and cider on the table, and going to the great black pot which

had been simmering all day upon the fire, poured some broth into two

pitchers. It did not escape Michel's frugal eye that she was careful to

leave a little broth in the bottom of the pot; and the fact induced a

new feeling in him--anger. When his wife invited him by a sign to the

meal, he went instead to the door, and fastened it. Then he moved to the

corner and picked up the wood-chopper, and armed with this he came back

to his seat.

The girl watched his movements first with surprise, then with secret

terror. The twilight was come, the cottage was almost dark, and she was

alone with him; or, if not alone, yet with no one near who could help

her. Nevertheless she met his grin of triumph bravely. "What is this?"

she said. "Why do you want that?"

"For the rat," he answered grimly, his eyes on hers.

Her heart sank. "The rat?" she echoed.

"Ay!"

"Why not--your stool?" she strove to murmur.

"Not for this rat," he answered cunningly. "It might not do, my girl.

Oh, I know what is to do," he continued, fingering the edge of the axe.

"I have been down to the village, and seen the mayor, and he is coming

up to fetch him." He nodded towards the partition, and she knew that her

secret was known.

"It is Pierre," she said, trembling violently, and turning first crimson

and then a dull sallow hue.

"I know it, Jeanne. It was excellent of you! Excellent! It is long since

you have done such a day's work."

"You will not give him up?" she gasped.

"My faith, I shall!" he answered, affecting, and perhaps really feeling,

wonder at her simplicity. "He is five crowns, my girl! You do not

understand. He is worth five crowns and the risk nothing at all."

If he had been angry, if he had shown anything of the fury of the

suspicious husband, if he had been about to do this out of jealousy or

revenge or passion she would have quailed before him, though she had

done him no wrong, save the wrong of mercy and pity. But his spirit was

too mean for the great passions; he felt only the mean and sordid

impulses, which to a woman are the most hateful. And instead of

quailing, she looked at him with flashing eyes. "I shall warn him," she

said.

"It will not help him," he answered, sitting still, and feeling anew the

edge of the hatchet with his fingers.

"It will help him," she retorted. "He shall go. He shall escape before

they come." She rose impetuously from her seat.

"I have locked the door!"

"Give me the key!" she panted. "Give me the key, I say!" She stood

before him, her trembling hands outstretched, her figure drawn to its

full height. Her look was such that he rose and retreated behind the

table, still retaining the hatchet in his grasp.

"Stand back!" he said sullenly. "You may awaken him, if you please, my

girl. It will not avail him. Do you not understand, fool, that he is

worth five crowns? Five crowns? And listen! It is too late now. They are

here!"

A blow fell on the door as he spoke, and he stepped towards it. But at

that, seeing the last chance leaving her, despair moved her, she threw

herself upon him; for a moment she wrestled with him like a wild-cat,

but in the end he prevailed; he flung her off, and, brandishing his

weapon in her face, kept her at bay. "You vixen!" he cried, retreating

to the door, with a pale cheek and his eyes still on her, for he was an

arrant coward. "You deserve to go to prison with him, you jade! I will

have you in the stocks for this! I'll have you jailed!"

She leaned against the wall where he had flung her, her white despairing

face seeming to shine in the darkness of the wretched room. Meanwhile

the continuous murmur of men's voices outside the door could be heard

mingled with the clatter of weapons; the summons for admission was

repeated, and again repeated, as if those without had no mind to be kept

waiting long.

"Patience! patience! I am opening!" he cried. Still keeping his face to

her, he unlocked the door and called on the men to enter. "He is in the

straw, M. le Maire!" he said, in a tone of triumph, his eyes still on

his wife. "Cursed Girondin! He will give you no trouble, I will answer

it! But first give me my five crowns, M. le Maire. My five crowns!"

He felt, craven as he was, so much fear of his wife that he did not turn

to see the men enter, and he was taken by surprise when a voice at his

elbow--a voice he did not know--answered, "Five crowns, my friend? For

what, may I ask?"

In his eagerness and greed he suspected nothing, but that on some

pretext or other they were trying to filch from him his dues. "For what?

For the Girondin!" he answered rapidly. Then at last he did turn and

found that half a dozen men had entered, that more were entering. But to

his astonishment, they were all strangers--men with stern, gloomy faces,

and armed to the teeth. There was something so formidable, indeed, in

their appearance that he stepped back, and his voice faltered as he

added: "But where is the mayor, gentlemen? I do not see him."

No one answered, but in silence the last of the men--they were eleven in

all--entered and bolted the door behind him. Michel Tellier peered at

them in the gloom with growing alarm, nay, with growing terror. In

return the tallest of the strangers, he who had entered first and seemed

to command the others, looked round him keenly. And it was he who at

length broke the silence. "So you have a Girondin here, have you?" he

said, his voice curiously sweet and sonorous.

"I was to have five crowns for him," Michel muttered dubiously.

"Oh!" and then, "Petion," the spokesman continued to one of his

companions, "can you kindle a light? It strikes me that we have hit upon

a dark place."

The man addressed took something from his pouch. For a moment there was

silence, broken only by the sharp sound of the flint striking the steel.

Then a slow-growing glare lit up the dark interior, and disclosed the

group of cloaked strangers standing about the door, the light gleaming

back from their trailing sabres and great horse-pistols. Michel

trembled. He had never seen such men as these. True, they were wet and

travel-stained, and had the air of those who spend their nights in

ditches and under haystacks. But their pale, stern faces were set in

indomitable resolve. Their eyes glowed with a steady fire, and they trod

the mud floor as kings tread. Their leader was a man of majestic height

and stern beauty, and in his eyes alone there seemed to lurk a spark of

lighter fire, as if his spirit still rose above the task which had

sobered his companions. Michel noted all this in fear and bewilderment;

noted the white head yet the vigorous bearing of the man who had struck

the light; noted even the manner in which the light died away in the dim

recesses of the barn.

"And this Girondin--is he in hiding here?" the tall man asked.

"That is so," Michel answered. "But I had nothing to do with hiding him,

citizen. It was my wife hid him in the straw there."

"And you gave notice of his presence to the authorities?" the stranger

continued, raising his hand to repress some movement among his

followers.

"Certainly, or you would not be here," replied Michel, better satisfied

with himself.

The answer struck him, prostrated him, with an awful terror. "That does

not follow," the tall man rejoined coolly, "for we, we, also, are

Girondins!"

"You are? You?"

"Without doubt," the other answered, with majestic simplicity; "or there

are no such persons. This is Petion of Paris, and this citizen Buzot.

Have you heard of Louvet? There he stands. For me, I am Barbaroux."

Michel's tongue remained glued to the roof of his mouth. He could not

utter a word. But another could. On the far side of the barrier a

rustling was heard, and while all turned to look--but with what

different feelings--the pale face of the youth over whom Michel had bent

in the afternoon appeared above the partition. A smile of joyful

recognition effaced for the time the lines of exhaustion. The young man,

clinging for support to the planks, uttered a cry of thankfulness. "It

is you! It is really you! You are safe!" he exclaimed. Love beamed in

his eyes.

"We are safe, all of us, Pierre," Barbaroux answered. "And now"--he

turned to Michel Tellier with thunder in his voice--"know that this man

whom you would have betrayed is our guide, whom we lost last night.

Speak, then, in your defence, if you can. Say what you have to say why

justice should not be done upon you, miserable caitiff, who would have

sold a man's life, as you would sell a sheep's, for a few pieces of

silver!"

The wretched peasant's knees trembled under him; the perspiration stood

upon his brow. He heard the voice as the voice of a judge or an

executioner. He looked in the stern eyes of the Girondins, and read only

anger, doom, vengeance. Then he caught in the silence the sound of his

wife weeping, for at Pierre's appearance she had broken into wild

sobbing; and on that he spoke out of the base instincts of his heart.

"He was her lover," he muttered. "I swear it, citizens."

"He lies!" the man at the barrier cried, his face transfigured with

rage. "I loved her once, it is true, but it was before her old father

sold her to this Judas. For what he would have you believe now, my

friends, it is false. I, too, swear it."

A murmur of execration broke from the group of Girondins. Barbaroux

repressed it by a gesture. "What do you say of this man?" he asked,

turning to them, his tone deep and solemn.

"He is not fit to live!" they answered with one voice.

The poor coward screamed as he heard the words, and, flinging himself on

the ground, he embraced Barbaroux's knees in a paroxysm of terror. But

the judge did not look at him. Barbaroux turned, instead, to Pierre

Bounat. "What do you say of him?" he asked.

"He is not fit to live," the young man answered solemnly, his breath

coming quick and fast.

"And you?" Barbaroux continued, turning and looking with eyes of fire at

the wife. And his voice was still more solemn.

A moment before she had ceased to weep, and had stood up listening and

gazing, awe and wonder in her face. Barbaroux had to repeat his question

before she answered. Then she said, "He is not fit to die."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the entreaties, the

prayers, of the wretch on the floor. At last Barbaroux spoke. "She has

said rightly," he pronounced. "He shall live. They have put us out of

the law and set a price on our heads; but we will keep the law. He shall

live. Yet, hark you," the great orator continued, in tones which Michel

never forgot, "if a whisper escape you as to our presence here, or as to

our names, or if you wrong your wife from this time forth by word or

deed, the life she has saved shall pay for it.

"Remember!" he added, shaking Michel to and fro with a finger, "the arm

of Barbaroux of Marseilles is long, and though I be a hundred leagues

away, I shall know and I shall punish. So, beware! Now rise, and live!"

The miserable man cowered back to the wall, frightened to the core of

his heart. The Girondins conferred a while in whispers, two of their

number assisting Pierre to cross the barrier. Suddenly on their talk

there broke--and Michel trembled anew as he heard it--a loud knocking at

the door. All started and stood listening and waiting. A voice cried:

"Open! open! in the name of the law!"

"We have lingered too long," Barbaroux muttered. "I should have thought

of this. It is the Mayor of Carhaix come to apprehend our friend."

Again the Girondins conferred together. At last, seeming to arrive at a

conclusion, they ranged themselves on either side of the door, and one

of their number opened it. A short, stout man, girt with a tricolour

sash, and wearing a huge sword, entered with an air of authority.

Blinded by the gush of light he saw, at his first entrance, nothing out

of the common; he was followed by four men armed with muskets.

Their appearance produced an extraordinary effect on Michel Tellier. As

they crossed the threshold one by one, the peasant leaned forward, his

face flushed, his eyes gleaming; and he counted them. They were only

five. And the others were twelve. He fell back, and from that moment his

belief in the Girondins' power was clinched.

"In the name of the law!" the mayor panted. He was a little out of

breath. "Why did you not----" Then he stopped abruptly, his mouth

remaining open. He found himself surrounded by a group of grim, silent

mutes, with arms in their hands; and in a twinkling it flashed into his

mind that these were the eleven chiefs of the Girondins, whom he had

been warned to keep watch for, and to take. He had come to catch a

pigeon and had caught a crow. He turned pale and his eyes dropped. "Who

are--who are these gentlemen?" he stammered, in a tone suddenly and

ludicrously fallen.

"Some volunteers of Quimper, returning home," replied Barbaroux, with

ironical smoothness.

"You have your papers, citizens?" the mayor asked, mechanically; and he

took a step backwards towards the door, and looked over his shoulder.

"Here they are!" said Petion rudely, thrusting a packet into his hands.

"They are in order."

The mayor took them, and longing only to see the outside of the door,

pretended to look through them, his little heart going pit-a-pat within

him. "They seem to be in order," he assented, feebly. "I need not

trouble you further, citizens. I came here under a misapprehension, I

find, and I wish you a good journey."

He knew, as he backed out, that he was cutting a poor figure. And he

would fain have made a more dignified retreat. But before these men,

fugitives and outlaws as they were, he felt, though he was Mayor of

Carhaix, almost as small a man as did Michel Tellier. These were the men

of the Revolution, nay, they were the Revolution. They had bearded

Capet, they had shattered the regime of centuries, they had pulled down

kings. There was Barbaroux, who had grappled with Marat; and Petion, the

Mayor of the Bastille. The little Mayor of Carhaix knew greatness when

he saw it. He turned tail, and hurried back to his fireside, his

body-guard not a whit behind him in their desire to be gone.

Five minutes later the men he feared and envied came out also, and went

their way, passing in single file into the darkness which brooded over

the great monolith; beginning, brave hearts, another of the few stages

which still lay between them and the guillotine. Then in the cottage

there remained only Michel and Jeanne. She sat by the dying embers,

silent, and lost in thought. He leaned against the wall, his eyes roving

ceaselessly, but always when his gaze met hers it fell. Barbaroux had

conquered him. It was not until Jeanne had risen to close the door, and

he was alone, that he wrung his hands, and muttered: "Five crowns! Five

crowns gone and wasted!"

THE END

* * * * *

UNDER THE RED ROBE.

A ROMANCE.

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF," ETC.

With 12 Full-page Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. 12mo, Linen

Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

"Mr. Weyman is a brave writer, who imagines fine things and describes

them splendidly. There is something to interest a healthy mind on every

page of his new Story. Its interest never flags, for his resource is

rich, and it is, moreover, the kind of a story that one cannot plainly

see the end of from Chapter I.... the story reveals a knowledge of

French character and French landscape that was surely never acquired at

second hand. The beginning is wonderfully interesting."--NEW YORK TIMES.

"As perfect a novel of the new school of fiction as 'Ivanhoe' or 'Henry

Esmond' was of theirs. Each later story has shown a marked advance in

strength and treatment, and in the last Mr. Weyman ... demonstrates that

he has no superior among living novelists.... There are but two

characters in the story--his art makes all other but unnoticed shadows

cast by them--and the attention is so keenly fixed upon one or both,

from the first word to the last, that we live in their thoughts and see

the drama unfolded through their eyes."--N. Y. WORLD.

"It was bold to take Richelieu and his time as a subject and thus to

challenge comparison with Dumas's immortal musketeers; but the result

justifies the boldness.... The plot is admirably clear and strong, the

diction singularly concise and telling, and the stirring events are so

managed as not to degenerate into sensationalism. Few better novels of

adventure than this have ever been written."--OUTLOOK, NEW YORK.

"A wonderfully brilliant and thrilling romance.... Mr. Weyman has a

positive talent for concise dramatic narration. Every phrase tells, and

the characters stand out with life-like distinctness. Some of the most

fascinating epochs in French history have been splendidly illuminated by

his novels, which are to be reckoned among the notable successes of

later nineteenth-century fiction. This story of 'Under the Red Robe' is

in its way one of the very best things he has done. It is illustrated

with rigor and appropriateness from twelve full-page designs by R. Caton

Woodville."--BOSTON BEACON.

"It is a skillfully drawn picture of the times, drawn in simple and

transparent English, and quivering with tense human feeling from the

first word to the last. It is not a book that can be laid down at the

middle of it. The reader once caught in its whirl can no more escape

from it than a ship from the maelstrom."--PICAYUNE, NEW ORLEANS.

"The 'red robe' refers to Cardinal Richelieu, in whose day the story is

laid. The descriptions of his court, his judicial machinations and

ministrations, his partial defeat, stand out from the book as vivid as

flame against a background of snow. For the rest, the book is clever and

interesting, and overflowing with heroic incident. Stanley Weyman is an

author who has apparently come to stay."--CHICAGO POST.

"In this story Mr. Weyman returns to the scene of his 'Gentleman of

France,' although his new heroes are of different mould. The book is

full of adventure and characterized by a deeper study of character than

its predecessor."--WASHINGTON POST.

"Mr. Weyman has quite topped his first success.... The author artfully

pursues the line on which his happy initial venture was laid. We have in

Berault, the hero, a more impressive Marsac; an accomplished duelist,

telling the tale of his own adventures, he first repels and finally

attracts us. He is at once the tool of Richelieu, and a man of honor.

Here is a noteworthy romance, full of thrilling incident set down by a

master-hand."--PHILADELPHIA PRESS.

* * * * *

THE RED COCKADE.

A NOVEL OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN,

AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," "THE HOUSE OF

THE WOLF," "MY LADY ROTHA," ETC.

With 48 Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. Crown 8vo, Cloth,

ornamental, $1.50.

"Deserves a place among the best historical fiction of the latter part

of this century. The gradual maddening of the people by agitators, the

rising of those who have revenges to feed, the burnings and the outrages

are described in a masterly way. The attack on the castle of St. Alais,

the hideous death of the steward, the looting of the great building, and

the escape of the young lovers--these incidents are told in that

breathless way which Weyman has made familiar in other stories. It is

only when one has finished the book and has gone back to reread certain

passages that the dramatic power and the sustained passion of these

scenes are clearly felt."--SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE.

"'The Red Cockade,' a story of the French Revolution, shows, in the

first place, careful study and deliberate, well-directed effort. Mr.

Weyman ... has caught the spirit of the times.... The book is brimful of

romantic incidents. It absorbs one's interest from the first page to the

last; it depicts human character with truth, and it causes the good and

brave to triumph. In a word, it is real romance."--SYRACUSE POST.

"We have in this novel a powerful but not an exaggerated study of the

spirit of the high born and the low born which centuries of aristocratic

tyranny and democratic suffering engendered in France. It is history

which we read here, and not romance, but history which is so perfectly

written, so veritable, that it blends with the romantic associations in

which it is set as naturally as the history in Shakespeare's plays

blends with the poetry which vitalizes and glorifies it."--MAIL AND

EXPRESS, NEW YORK.

"It will be scarcely more than its due to say that this will always rank

among Weyman's best work. In the troublous times of 1789 in France its

action is laid, and with marvellous skill the author has delineated the

most striking types of men and women who made the Revolution so

terrible."--NEW YORK WORLD.

"'The Red Cockade' is a novel of events, instinct with the spirit of the

eighteenth century and full of stirring romance. The tragic period of

the French Revolution forms a frame in which to set the adventures of

Adrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux, and the part he plays in those days of

peril has a full measure of dramatic interest.... Mr. Weyman has

evidently studied the history of the revolution with a profound

realization of its intense tragedy."--DETROIT FREE PRESS.

"The action of the story is rapid and powerful. The Vicomte's struggle

with his own prejudices, his unhappy position in regard to his friends,

the perils he encounters, and the great bravery he shows in his devotion

to Denise are strikingly set forth, while the historical background is

made vivid and convincing--the frenzy caused by the fall of the Bastile,

the attacks of the mob, the defence and strategy of the nobility, all

being described with dramatic skill and verisimilitude. It is a

fascinating and absorbing tale, which carries the reader with it, and

impresses itself upon the mind as only a novel of unusual merit and

power can do."--BOSTON BEACON.

"The story gives a view of the times which is apart from the usual, and

marked with a fine study of history and of human conditions and impulse

on Mr. Weyman's part. Regarding his varied and well-chosen characters

one cares only to say that they are full of interest and admirably

portrayed.... It is one of the most spirited stories of the hour, and

one of the most delightfully freighted with suggestion."--CHICAGO

INTERIOR.

"With so striking a character for his hero, it is not wonderful that Mr.

Weyman has evolved a story that for ingenuity of plot and felicity of

treatment is equal to some of his best efforts.... 'The Red Cockade' is

one of the unmistakably strong historical romances of the

season."--BOSTON HERALD.

"We are greatly mistaken if the 'Red Cockade' does not take rank with

the very best book that Mr. Weyman has written."--SCOTSMAN.

* * * * *

SOPHIA

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN

AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," ETC.

With 12 Illustrations by C. Hammond. Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental,

$1.50.

"Mr. Weyman's new romance illustrates the types and manners of

fashionable London society in the year 1742. In everything that means

the revival of an historical atmosphere it is skilful, and, on the

whole, just. The characters also are well realized.... 'Sophia' is a

decidedly interesting novel.... The tale moves swiftly, hurrying on from

the town to the heath, from hatred to love, from imprisonment on bread

and water to diamonds ... and a dozen other things. Sophia, the heroine,

is a bundle of girlish foolishness and charms. 'Sophia,' the book, is a

bundle of more or less extraordinary episodes woven into a story in the

most beguiling manner."--NEW YORK TRIBUNE, April, 1900.

"It is a good, lively, melodramatic story of love and adventure ... it

is safe to say that nobody who reads the lively episode in the first

chapter will leave the book unfinished, because there is not a moment's

break in the swift and dramatic narrative until the last page.... The

dramatic sequence is nearly faultless."--TRIBUNE, CHICAGO.

"Sophia, with her mistakes, her adventures, and her final surrender;

Sophia moving among the eighteenth century world of fashion at Vauxhall;

Sophia flying through the country roads, pursued by an adventurer, and

Sophia captured by her husband, transport one so far from this

work-a-day life that the reader comes back surprised to find that this

prosaic world is still here after that too-brief excursion into the

realm of fancy."--NEW YORK COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER.

"The gem of the book is its description of the long coach-ride made by

Sophia to Sir Hervey's home in Sussex, the attempt made by highwaymen to

rob her, and her adventures at the paved ford and in the house made

silent by smallpox, where she took refuge. This section of the story is

almost as breathless as Smollett.... In the general firmness of touch,

and sureness of historic portrayal, the book deserves high

praise."--BUFFALO EXPRESS.

"'Sophia' contains, in its earlier part, a series of incidents that is,

we believe, the most ingenious yet planned by its author.... The

adventure develops and grows, the tension increases with each page, to

such an extent that the hackneyed adjective, 'breathless,' finds an

appropriate place."--NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS.

"'Sophia,' his latest, is also one of his best. A delightful spirit of

adventure hangs about the story; something interesting happens in every

chapter. The admirable ease of style, the smooth and natural dialogue,

the perfect adjustment of events and sequences conceal all the usual

obtrusive mechanism, and hold the curiosity of the reader throughout the

development of an excellent plot and genuine people."--PUBLIC LEDGER,

PHILADELPHIA, PA.

"Those who read Mr. Stanley J. Weyman's 'Castle Inn' with delight, will

find in his 'Sophia' an equally brilliant performance, in which they are

introduced to another part of the Georgian era.... Mr. Weyman knows the

eighteenth century from top to bottom, and could any time be more

suitable for the writer of romance?... There is only one way to define

the subtle charm and distinction of this book, and that is to say that

it deserves a place on the book-shelf beside those dainty volumes in

which Mr. Austin Dobson has embalmed the very spirit of the period of

the hoop and the patch, the coffee-house, and the sedan chair. And could

Mr. Stanley Weyman ask for better company for his books than

that?"--EVENING SUN, NEW YORK.

"Contains what is probably the most ingenious and exciting situation

even he has ever invented."--BOOK BUYER, NEW YORK.

* * * * *

THE CASTLE INN.

A ROMANCE.

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," "SHREWSBURY,"

ETC., ETC.

With six full-page Illustrations by Walter Appleton Clark. Crown 8vo,

Cloth, ornamental, $1.50.

A tale which is full of old-world romance and adventure. It has a strong

flavor of the under life in England when George the Third was young,

when sign-posts served also as gibbets, when travel was by coach and

highwaymen were many, when men drank deep and played high. There are

plenty of stirring scenes along the way, plenty of treachery and

fighting at cross-purposes which lead to intricate and dramatic

situations. The heroine's charms recall Mlle. de Cocheforet in 'Under

the Red Robe,' and she proves herself a maid of spirit through all the

mishaps which befall her. One of the most notable things about 'The

Castle Inn' is the way in which Mr. Weyman has caught the spirit of the

age, and manages to imbue his readers with its feeling."--DETROIT FREE

PRESS.

" ... In 'The Castle Inn,' this master of romance tells a story of the

time of George III, in the third person.... A story of rapid action,

with a swinging succession of moving incidents that keep the reader

incessantly on the _qui vive_. It deals with human emotions with

directness and thoughtfulness."--THE PRESS, PHILA., PA.

" ... 'The Castle Inn' ... is so fresh and entertaining that it takes

one back to 'A Gentleman of France,' and other good things this author

did several years ago. Mr. Weyman, in looking about for an appropriate

setting for his romance, very wisely eschews scenes and people of

to-day, and chooses, instead, England a hundred and thirty years ago,

when George III. was on her throne, and living was a far more

picturesque business than it is now. Beautiful maidens could be

kidnapped then; daring lovers faced pistols and swords in behalf of

their sweethearts, and altogether the pace was a lively one. Mr. Weyman

knows how to use the attractive colorings to the best advantage

possible."--CHICAGO EVENING POST.

" ... a piece of work which is infinitely better than anything else

which he has accomplished. He has treated the eighteenth century, the

time of the elder Pitt, with a grasp and a sympathy that presage a

greater reputation for this novelist than he has enjoyed hitherto. The

story itself is worth the telling, but the great thing is the way it is

told."--NEW YORK SUN.

" ... he has a firm grasp of his period in this book, and revives the

atmosphere of the last century in England, with its shallow graces and

profound brutality, coherently and even with eloquence ... it is a most

interesting story, which should please the reader of romantic tastes and

sustain the author's reputation."--NEW YORK TRIBUNE.

"The characters in the book are all entertaining, and many of them are

droll, while a few, like the conscientious Mr. Fishwick, the attorney,

and the cringing parasite, Mr. Thomasson, are, in their own way,

masterpieces of character study. Take it all in all, 'The Castle Inn' is

in many ways the best work which has yet come from Mr. Weyman's

pen."--COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, NEW YORK.

"Mr. Weyman has surpassed himself in 'The Castle Inn.' From cover to

cover the book teems with adventure and romance, and the love episode is

delicious. Julia will live as one of the most graceful heroines in the

literature of our time.... We get an excellent idea of the doings of

fashionable society in the time when George III. was young, and

altogether the volume can be heartily recommended as the best thing that

Weyman has done, and, in the opinion of one, at least, the most

fascinating book of the season."--HOME JOURNAL, NEW YORK.

* * * * *

COUNT HANNIBAL

A ROMANCE OF THE COURT OF FRANCE

BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN

AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," "UNDER THE RED ROBE," "THE CASTLE

INN," ETC., ETC.

With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50

"It is very seldom that one runs across a historical novel the plot of

which is so ably sustained, the characters so strongly drawn, the local

color or atmosphere so satisfactory.... 'Count Hannibal' is the

strongest and most interesting novel as yet written by this popular

author."--BOSTON TIMES.

"Stanley J. Weyman has had hundreds of imitators since he wrote 'A

Gentleman of France,' but no man has yet surpassed him. I know of no

book in the whole list of popular favorites that holds one's interest

more intensely or more continuously than 'Count Hannibal' does. And what

an insistent, throat-gripping interest it is!

What is the use of hoping for a decadence of the craze for historical

romances so long as the public is fed on books like this? Such a story

has zest for the most jaded palate; nay, it can hold the interest even

of a book reviewer. From the first page to the last there is not a

moment when one's desire to finish the book weakens. Along with the

ordinary interest of curiosity there goes that of a delightful and

unique love story involving no little skill in character

delineation."--RECORD-HERALD, CHICAGO.

"A spirited, tersely interesting and most vivid story of scenes and

incidents and portrayals of various characters that lived and fought and

bled in the lurid days that saw the massacre of St. Bartholomew.... This

is Mr. Weyman's most graphic and realistic novel."--PICAYUNE, NEW

ORLEANS.

"Mr. Weyman has surpassed himself in 'Count Hannibal.' The scene of the

story is laid chiefly in Paris, at the time of the massacre of St.

Bartholomew.... We are made to grasp the soul of Count Hannibal and are

tacitly asked to let its envelope take care of itself.... Never has Mr.

Weyman achieved, in fact, a higher degree of verisimilitude. Count

Hannibal may leave us breathless with his despotic methods, but he is

not abnormal; he is one of the Frenchmen who shared the temper which

made the St. Bartholomew, and he is intensely human too ... how the

tangle of events in which he and half a dozen others are involved is

straightened out we refrain from disclosing. The reader who once takes

up this book will want to find all this out for himself."--NEW YORK

TRIBUNE.

"A story in Mr. Weyman's best vein, with the crimson horror of St.

Bartholomew as an historical setting. 'Count Hannibal' is a worthy

companion of 'A Gentleman of France' and 'The Red Cockade,' and Mr.

Weyman's hand is as cunning as ever in fashioning a romance which will

send a thrill through the most jaded reader and keep even a reviewer

from his bed."--BOOKMAN, LONDON.

"The book is rapid, is absorbing, and the hero is a distinctly

interesting character in himself, apart from his deeds of

daring."--ATHENAEUM.

"Mr. Stanley Weyman's 'Count Hannibal' is fully worthy of his great

reputation--the style is brilliant, easy and clear; the invention of

subject and the turns of fortune in the story surprising; above all, the

subtle painting of a man and a woman's heart is done with inexhaustible

knowledge."--GUARDIAN.

"A picturesque and vigorous romance. The narrative will be followed with

breathless interest."--TIMES, LONDON.

LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.