wealth.  The road lay straight before him; it led to fame, he meant it also to lead to love.  Give him love, and these little white rooms were all the kingdom he asked to reign in.  Love, the only love that had ever touched him.  He remembered its first coming.  A restive horse, a young girl in a carriage and in danger.  It was nothing to seize the horse, hold it, and quiet it; he had flushed and stammered when the girl had thanked him, all unconsciously casting the spell of her great beauty over him.  Never again had he spoken to her.  He was only a poor student, the child of simple folk in the country dead long ago; she was of noble birth, her home a palace, her beauty toasted at Versailles He saw her often, waiting to see her pass, and each day he thought of her, setting her on the high altar of his devotion.  He knew that his must always be a silent worship, that she could never know it.  Then suddenly had come the change, the tide of revolution.  The people were the masters.  He was of the people, of growing importance among them.  The impossible became the possible.  He had education, power he would have.  Strong men have made their appeal to women, the world over, in every age.  Why should not this woman love him?  The very stars seemed to have fought for him.  She would be here to-morrow, here in Paris, in danger; here, in these rooms, with no man so able to protect her as himself.  He had spoken among his fellows and won applause, could he not speak to just one woman in the world and win love?

“This is a nest, not a cage,” he murmured.  “To-morrow, I shall speak with her to-morrow.”

It must have been almost at this same moment that Pauline Vaison flung open the window and Lucien Bruslart looked in the direction of her pointing finger toward the Place de la Revolution.

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE SOISY ROAD

The Lion d’Or on the Soisy Road was well known to travelers.  Here the last change of horses on the journey to Paris was usually made, or, as was often the case, a halt for the night and arrangement made for an early departure next morning.  In these days it was no place of call for those who would leave the capital secretly.  Patriots were inclined to congregate about the Lion d’Or and to ask awkward questions.  Even in fustian garments nobility hides with difficulty from keen and suspicious eyes.  For those traveling towards Paris, however, there was not such close scrutiny.  If they were enemies of the state, Paris would deal with them.  There were lynx-eyed men at the city barriers, and a multitude of spies in every street.

To-day three travelers had halted at the Lion d’Or, travel-stained, horses weary, going no farther until to-morrow.  One of the three was a woman, a peasant woman wearing the tri-color cockade, who was needed in Paris to give evidence against an aristocrat.  That was good news, and better still, her fellow-travelers were undoubtedly true patriots and had the will and the wherewithal to pay for wine.  There was no need to trouble the woman with questions.  She might be left alone to gloat over her revenge, while patriots made merry over their drinking.