"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 n.o.bility 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 mult.i.tude 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 c.o.c.kade, 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.

She was alone, in a poor room for a guest, one of the poorest in the inn, but good enough for a peasant woman. Her companions had shown her the advisability of choosing this room rather than another. She would be undisturbed here after her frugal meal, except by her companions perchance, and she had thrown back her rough cloak, showing fustian garments beneath, yet she was a strange peasant woman surely. Hands and face were stained a little, as though from exposure to sun and weather, but underneath the skin was smooth. Exposure had cut no lines in the face, labor had not hardened the hands. At the inn door her form had seemed a little bent, but alone in this room she stood straight as an arrow.

One of her companions entered presently. Citizen Mercier he called himself; a hateful name handle, he explained, but necessary for their safety. He wore the tri-color, too, and plumed himself that he pa.s.sed for as good a patriot as any. He closed the door carefully.

"So far we have managed well, mademoiselle. I have found a friend here who will ride into Paris and bring us word in the morning how we can most safely enter the city. We must be a little patient."

"Did he know anything of Lucien Bruslart?"

"I did not ask. It was difficult to get a moment to whisper to each other. And I will not stay with you. It would not be wise to take too much interest in a peasant woman," and he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

Jeanne St. Clair continued to stare at the door after he had gone. Her thoughts followed him as he went down the stairs to join his companions and take his share of the wine. Lucien had chosen a strange messenger, a friend Monsieur Mercier had called himself, yet Jeanne had never known him nor heard of him before. He puzzled her. Loneliness, and the circ.u.mstances in which she was placed, naturally made her thoughtful, and it was easy to be suspicious. Truly, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, full of ideas, full of resource, for danger had threatened them more than once upon the long and tedious journey from Beauvais. They had been obliged to halt at strange taverns, and there had been many delays. Now they were within a few miles of Paris--of Lucien. Yes, Monsieur Mercier had proved himself a friend, and yet, had it been possible, she would sooner have called another man friend, a man who was her enemy. How, easily she had believed him! Richard Barrington.

She spoke the name aloud, but not easily, trying to say it exactly as he had done, and the deliberation which she gave to each syllable made the name sound pleasant. She had not thought him a scoundrel when he fastened her mask for her. She had been most easily deceived, taken in by an absurd story.

The truth had come quickly. Richard Barrington could hardly have left the chateau when a man whispered Lucien's name in Jeanne's ear. She did not trouble to take this man into the chamber in the round tower, but she led him aside where he could talk without fear of being overheard.

This was some trick, but she must hear what he had to say, her safety to-morrow might depend upon it.

Monsieur Mercier introduced himself as a friend of Lucien's, and quickly told his story. Lucien was in danger, grave danger, and mademoiselle ought to know. For her Paris did not hold such danger as it did for most aristocrats; it was well known that she had been good to the poor; she would certainly be able to help Lucien. Mademoiselle knew Rouzet, Lucien's servant; he had started for Beauvais taking with him a little gold star which mademoiselle had given to Lucien. Not an hour afterwards it was discovered that there were others, enemies, anxious to get mademoiselle to Paris. Rouzet had been followed. Mercier, with a friend, had immediately ridden after him, only, alas! to find him dead upon the roadside and the star gone. They continued their journey toward Beauvais, with only one clew to the scoundrel who had murdered and robbed the faithful Rouzet. He was not a Frenchman. Even now Mercier did not know his name, but he and his friend had distanced the foreigner and his companion on the road and arrived first in Beauvais. Lodgings were scarce owing to the ball, and Mercier had waited for the villains, had taken them to a lodging next his own, nothing more than adjoining c.o.c.klofts, but with this advantage, that part of the woodwork dividing them could be easily removed. An invitation to wine (carefully drugged) had followed, and during the night the golden star was retrieved from the lining of the thief's coat; and lest he should discover the loss too soon, and so hamper any plan which it was advisable to make, a rough-cut iron star was left in its place. Here was the gold trinket, and glancing round to make certain no one was watching, Mercier had put it into her open hand.

This tale must be the truth. She had made no mention of Barrington, how could this man know of the iron cross unless his tale were true? Richard Barrington had declared he knew nothing of Lucien, but Mercier knew everything about him and much about her, too. She would not believe him until she had questioned him closely. As Mercier frankly answered her, she understood with how improbable a tale Barrington had deceived her.

Mercier was quick with advice. He knew that Madame la Marquise had no great affection for his friend Lucien. This other man might discover the trick played upon him and frustrate them. A hundred things might prevent mademoiselle from leaving the chateau if she delayed. To-night Beauvais was crowded, it would be easy for her to go, and Jeanne had consented to start in an hour.

She was proud, a daughter of a proud race. The n.o.bility were suffering many things at the hands of the people. This fellow Barrington should be punished. Retaliation was justifiable. There was not a man in the chateau of Beauvais who would not stand her champion. She sought out the Vicomte de Montbard, told him that this foreigner had come to her with a lying message from friends of hers in Paris. She had met deceit with deceit, and at dawn he was to wait for her at the wood end.

"Mademoiselle, lackeys shall beat the life out of him," was the answer.

"No, not that way. Go to him yourself, challenge him. If underneath his villainy there are concealed the instincts of a gentleman, let him have the chance of dying like one. But go with one or two others, prepared for treachery. He may be a scoundrel to the very core of his heart."

"Believe me, mademoiselle, you treat him far too courteously."

"Monsieur le Vicomte, he has touched me as an equal. I believed him to be a man of honor. Let him so far profit by my mistake, and be punished as I suggest."

"You shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. To-morrow I will do myself the honor of visiting you to tell you how he met his punishment--his death."

It was not boastfully said. The Vicomte was one of the most accomplished swordsmen in France.

Within an hour Jeanne St. Clair had left Beauvais.

All this came back to her most vividly as she sat alone in that upper room of the Lion d'Or. In what manner had Richard Barrington taken his punishment? She despised him for his mean deceit; by her direction he had been punished; yet with the knowledge that he was a scoundrel came the conviction that he was a brave man. The scene in that round chamber took shape again. It was curious how completely she remembered his att.i.tude, his words, his manner, his looks; and not these only, but also the something new in her life, the awakening of an interest that she had never before experienced. It was not his mission which aroused it, it was not the man himself; it was only that, coincident with his coming, some secret chamber of her soul had been unlocked, and in it were stored new, dreams, new thoughts, new ambitions. They were added to the old, not given in exchange for them, but they had helped her to appreciate the man's position when he found the star was iron instead of gold, they had helped her to believe his tale. Her short interview with this man had suddenly widened her view of life, the horizon of her existence had expanded into a wider circle; this expansion remained, although the man had deceived her. In spite of that deceit there was something in this Richard Barrington to admire, and she was glad she had demanded that his punishment should be administered by gentlemen, not by lackeys.

Certainly he was not a coward, and no doubt he had met his death as a brave man should. This train of thought was repeated over and over again, and always there came a moment when out of vacancy the man's face seemed to turn to her and their eyes met. She had not the power to look away. There was something he would compel her to understand, yet for a long while she could not. Then suddenly she knew. This surely was a vision. The spirit of the dead man had come to her. Why? Jeanne muttered a prayer, and with the prayer came a question: had she been justified in sending this man to his death?

When the vision finally pa.s.sed from her she could not tell; whether she had fallen asleep in her chair she could not tell; but coming to full consciousness that she was alone in a mean room of a tavern on the Soisy road, the question still hammered in her brain as though it would force an answer from her. Was it only her loneliness and the shadows creeping into the room which brought doubts crowding into her mind? This friend of Lucien's, this Monsieur Mercier, what real guarantee had she of his honesty? He had brought her the gold star. It seemed a sufficient answer, but doubts are subtle and have many arguments. Why should she believe his story rather than Barrington's? Might not Mercier have been the thief? They were within a few miles of Paris. They had arrived at the Lion d'Or early in the day, why had they not pressed on to Paris?

Their safety demanded patience, Mercier had said. Was this true? Was this the real reason for the delay?

The shadows increased, even the corners of this narrow room grew dim and dark. There was the sound of distant laughter, loud, coa.r.s.e, raucous, many voices talking together, a shouted oath the only word distinguishable. Was this place, crowded with so-called patriots, safer for her than Paris? She started to her feet, suddenly urged to action.

What was Monsieur Mercier doing?

She crossed the room and opened her door quietly. The pa.s.sage without was dark save for a blur of light at the end where the top of the staircase was. Walking on tiptoe, she went toward this light. She would at least make an effort to discover how her companions were engaged.

From the top of the stairs she could see nothing, nor was it a safe place, for the light fell on her there. She crept down the stairs which were in darkness until she could see into the room from which the noise came. Even when bending down and looking through the banisters she could only see a part of the room. There were more visitors than chairs and benches, some sat on casks standing on end, and by way of applause at some witty sally or coa.r.s.e joke, pounded the casks with their heels until the din was almost deafening. At a table upon which were many bottles, one or two of them broken, sat Monsieur Mercier and his comrade Dubois, both in the first stages of intoxication when men are pleased to have secrets and grow boastful.

"There's going to be good news for you, citizens," Mercier hiccoughed.

"I've done great things, and this good fellow has helped me."

Dubois smiled stupidly.

"Tell me, is there any more room in the prisons, or are they filled up with cursed aristocrats?"

Jeanne held her breath. Was Mercier playing a part for her greater security? How well he played it!

"There'll be room for you and your friends," laughed a man, "or they'll make room by cutting off a few heads. It's very easy."

"There's more demand for heads than supply," growled another. "There's some calling themselves patriots that might be spared, I say."

Drumming heels greeted this opinion.

"Very like," Mercier answered. "Shouldn't wonder if I could throw this bottle and hit one or two at this moment, but I'm thinking of emigres."

A savage growl was the answer.

"They're safe over the frontier, aren't they?" laughed Mercier. "They won't bring their heads to Paris to pleasure Madame Guillotine, will they? No," cried Mercier, clasping a bottle by the neck and striking the table with it so that it smashed and the red wine ran like blood. "No, they think they're safer where they are. The only way is to fetch them back. Lie to them, cheat them until we get them in France. Then--"

He slapped his hands onto the table, into the spilled wine, then held them up and laughed as the drops fell from his finger ends. His meaning was clear.

"Bring them back, Citizen Mercier, and you'll be the first man in Paris," said one.

"That's what I am doing. I've been to Beauvais, playing the aristocrat, and doing it so well that one cursed head is already being carried to Paris by its owner, and others will follow."

Jeanne crouched on the stairs, holding her breath.

"Long live Mercier!" came the cry.

There was an instant's silence, then a thud as a man jumped from a cask, overturning it as he did so.

"The woman upstairs! The peasant woman! There are plenty of heads in Paris. Why not to-night, here, outside the Lion d'Or? Madame Guillotine is not the only method for aristocrats."