"It is bad news?" said Barrington.

"Yes, monsieur, and I was to say to you that you would do well to leave Paris at the first opportunity. There is no place for an honest man to-day in France. My master told me to say that."

This news added to Barrington's feeling of impotence, and was depressing. Had his days been full of active danger it would not have had such an effect upon him. Naturally disposed to see the silver lining of every cloud, he was unable to detect it now. Instead, his mind was full of questions. Was Bruslart honest? Was he leaving no stone unturned to release Mademoiselle St. Clair? Had Raymond Latour lied to him? Was this week of waiting merely a pretext in order that he might have time to render the prisoner's acquittal absolutely impossible?"

"I'd trust this man Latour before I would Bruslart," Seth said, when Barrington appealed to him, but in such a tone that he did not appear really to trust either of them.

"And at the end of this week what are we to do if mademoiselle is still a prisoner?"

"Master Richard, we're just men, ordinary men, and we cannot do the impossible. We shall have done all that it is in our power to do, and a ride toward the sea and a ship bound for Virginia would be the best thing for us."

"You would leave a defenseless woman in the hands of her enemies?"

Barrington asked.

"It seems to me she must remain there whether we stay or go. I'm looking at the matter as it is, and I see no opening for a romantic side to it,"

Seth answered. "You cannot do battle with a whole city, that would mean death and nothing accomplished; you cannot go to these ruffians and demand her release, that would mean death, yours and hers, in the shortest time possible. No, unless this man Latour keeps his word, I see naught for us but a return to Virginia as quickly as may be."

"You would never spend another night of sound sleep, Seth."

"I should, Master Richard. I should just forget this time as though it had never been, wipe the marks of it off the slate. He's a wise man who does that with some of the episodes of his life."

"I am a fool with a long memory," said Barrington.

"Ay, but you will grow older, Master Richard; and life is less romantic as we grow older."

So from Seth there was not much consolation to be had, only sound common sense, which was not altogether palatable just now as Barrington counted the days. Latour had been very indefinite. He had said a week, and on waking one morning Barrington's first thought was that the week ended to-morrow. It was a proof of his trust in Latour, half unconscious though such trust might be, that he had not expected to hear anything until the week had pa.s.sed. He judged Latour by himself.

Seth went out in the morning as usual, looking as true and uncompromising a patriot as any he was likely to encounter in the street. He rather prided himself on the way he played his part, and wore the tri-color c.o.c.kade with an air of conviction. Grim of feature, he looked like a man of blood, a disciple of rioting, and he had more than once noticed that certain people who wished to pa.s.s un.o.bserved shrank from him, which pleased him greatly. Early in the afternoon he returned hurriedly. It was so unlike him to come up the stairs hastily, two at a time, that Barrington opened the door to meet him.

"Shut it, Master Richard," he said, as he entered the room.

"What has happened?"

"The unexpected. Mademoiselle escaped from the Abbaye Prison last night."

"You are sure! You have seen Latour?"

"Sure! The news is all over Paris. The mob is furious. There are cries for a general ma.s.sacre of prisoners, as happened a little while since, so that no others may escape. There is talk of a house-to-house search, and there are more ruffians in the streets to-day than I have seen at all."

"Is there any mention of Latour, any suspicion of him?"

"I heard none, but they talk of--"

"Bruslart!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Barrington.

"No, of a scurvy devil of a royalist who helped mademoiselle into Paris."

"Of me? By name?"

"I did not hear your name spoken, but it is you they mean. They are looking in every direction for mademoiselle, but they are keeping their eyes open for you, too. There'll be some who will remember seeing you at the barrier the other day. Yours is a figure not easily to be forgotten.

Keep within doors, Master Richard, until it is safe for us to sneak away."

"You know that is impossible."

"Mademoiselle has escaped," said Seth. "It is now your turn to seek safety."

"With her escape my part commences," said Barrington, with a laugh that had happiness in it. "It is for me to take her back to Beauvais or elsewhere to safety."

"It is madness to think of it," said Seth. "To be in your company would increase her danger. Think of her, Master Richard, think of her. Your l.u.s.t for romantic adventure makes you selfish. For days to come you are a marked man. In the streets, at any moment, you may be recognized. Even in this quiet corner of the city you are hardly safe. They'll trap you if they can and only a miracle can prevent them."

"I have given a promise, Seth."

"Break it, if not for your own sake, for the woman's. You risk bringing her to ruin. I came back here to-day more cautiously than I have ever done. One moment of carelessness and you are lost. If this man Latour must be seen, let me go to him. No one is likely to recognize me. No one turns to look after me as I pa.s.s. I am insignificant, of no account. Let me go."

"Seth, you have not told me everything," he said, suddenly. "There is something you are keeping back. What is it?"

Seth was by the window looking down into the quiet street as though he expected to see danger enter it at any moment.

"What is it?" Barrington repeated.

"I'd give half my remaining years if my conscience would bid me lie to you," Seth answered, fiercely. "I've prayed, yes, I prayed as I hurried through the streets that your mother's spirit might be allowed to whisper to me and bid me deceive you."

"Come, Seth, tell me everything," and Barrington let his hand fall affectionately on the man's shoulder. "Could conscience persuade you to barter half your years, it would be but a device of the devil to lead us into greater difficulty."

"I was recognized to-day. That swaggerer Sabatier touched me in the street, and with a word of caution bid me walk beside him as though we were boon companions. He was a messenger from Raymond Latour."

"Yes, what did he say?"

"He told me that mademoiselle had escaped, news I had heard already, and he bid me tell you from Latour to go to-night, as soon as it began to grow dusk, to the Rue Charonne, to a tavern there called the Chat Rouge.

You are to ask for the tavern keeper and say to him 'La vie est ici.' He will understand and bring you to Latour and mademoiselle. Plans are laid for your escape."

"Is that all, Seth?"

"And enough, surely. It comes from Sabatier, and we know something of him. It is a trap baited too openly. You will not go, Master Richard."

"Not go! Why, this is the very kind of message I have waited for, but I did not expect it until to-morrow."

"And I go with you."

Barrington was thoughtful for a moment.

"No. We will exercise every caution. Should escape from Paris seem possible at once, I can send for you or tell you when and where to join me; if I walk into a trap, you will still be at liberty to work for my freedom."

Seth knew from past experience that all argument was useless, and listened attentively to his master's instructions.

"If you do not see me, or hear from me within three days, you must act as you think best, Seth. Whatever my danger I shall have absolute confidence in you. Mademoiselle once in safety, you shall have your desire; we will ride toward the sea and a homeward-bound ship."

Twilight was gathering over Paris when Richard Barrington left the house of Monsieur Fargeau and went in the direction of the Rue Charonne. The wine shops were full to overflowing; small crowds were at street corners, filthy men and women ripe for any outrage. The names of unpopular deputies were freely and loudly cursed; the most unlikely revolutionists were openly accused of having sympathy with aristocrats.