“She would believe you if you told her something of my love, of what I have done.”

“I will set life and death before her, Latour, and leave her free to choose.”

Latour moved again to the door and again came back.

“Men who love as we do must be enemies, still the enmity may be free from malice.  Other conditions might well have made us friends.  Will you grasp hands once more, Barrington?”

Across the little table their hands met, and were clasped firmly for a moment as the two men looked into each other’s eyes.  Then Latour went out quickly, locking the door behind him.

An hour later he went slowly up the stairs to his rooms.  Jacques Sabatier was waiting for him.

“Bad news, citizen,” said Sabatier.

Latour opened his door, and they entered.

“It should be bad news indeed if one may judge by your face,” he said.

“Citizen Bruslart was arrested on Saturday.  He is in the Conciergerie.  He demands that you see him to-night.  He knows that mademoiselle has escaped from the Rue Charonne, and he makes a shrewd guess where she is hidden.  You must see him, citizen; he is dangerous.”

CHAPTER XXVII

A RIDE IN THE NIGHT

Once again the dawn found Raymond Latour seated by the table.  No book lay open before him, he had not attempted to read.  Last night he had gone to the rooms above, taking Sabatier with him.  Sabatier forgot to swagger as he stood before Jeanne St. Clair, trying to look as steadily at her as she did at him.  Then Sabatier had gone with a promise on his lips which he roundly swore to keep, and for a little while longer Latour remained with Jeanne.  His face was calm when he left her, but Barrington might have retaliated and said there were tears in his eyes.  Perchance it was the cold wind on the stairs, for the night was bitter, Latour wrapped himself in a thick coat when he went out, and turned his steps in the direction of the Conciergerie.  It was near midnight when he returned home, but there was no sleep for him.  So the dawn found him seated by the table.  Again he felt cold and made himself coffee, but he was not excited.  His plans were made.  He was ready for the day and the work there was to do in it.

Yesterday the head of a king, a triumph surely to last for many days.  Patriots might rest a little now.  But Robespierre thought otherwise as he talked with Duplay, the cabinet maker, over the evening meal in the Rue St. Honore; great-voiced Danton knew that this was a beginning, not an ending; and many other deputies were sure that having gone so far they must go further.  There were other heads to offer to the guillotine, many others.  The tumbrils must carry the daily food, and the stock of such food must not be allowed to run short.  Many were condemned already; there were others waiting to be condemned; it would be well to get on with the work expeditiously.  Trials took time, though, truly, they need not be long.  There was one man waiting for whom nothing could be said.  The aristocrat, Lucien Bruslart, who had posed as an honest citizen, yet had hidden an emigre in the city.  Denounced by Citizeness Pauline Vaison, who was declared with one consent to be a true patriot, what hope could there be for him?