Louis Capet must die, that fact remained unaltered, but there was added something more to the sentence, he must die within twenty-four hours. It was a merciful addition perchance, though not so intended; the shorter the time, the less the suffering. Patriotic Paris flung its red cap into the air, rejoicing greatly. Less than twenty-four hours to wait for the greatest amus.e.m.e.nt that had yet been vouchsafed to the mob. There was no time to sleep, no reason in sleep. Armed men would keep the streets to-morrow, but there would be vantage places to be struggled for and kept through long hours of waiting--yet not so long after all. Monday morning came quickly--ten o'clock--one carriage and its guard. The last ride of a king! The bitter mockery of fate sounded to-day for the Deep Purple of an empire--and France laughed. Revenge, too, perchance smiled, for the pa.s.sage of that lone coach left its trail of dead and wounded. Slowly he mounted into view of his people, and a heart here and there may have pitied him. He would speak. Surely in this last hour he may say a word; the words of a man at such a moment, be he king or peasant, may perchance have a strange meaning and appeal in them; and also they may be dangerous. Yes, he will speak. He is innocent, that much was heard, and then another spoke, a word of command, and there was the loud rolling of the drums. Nothing could be heard above the beating of those drums. It was difficult even to see through the forest of bayonets which surrounded the scaffold. It looked like a moment's struggle between executioners and hand-tied victim, an unequal contest.

Still the drums--then the sound of the heavy falling knife. Then silence, and Samson, chief priest of the guillotine, holding the head high, at arm's length, that all may see it and know that tyranny is at an end, that France is free. Patriotism, armed and otherwise, went mad with delight. This was a gala day! Sing, dance, drink in it! Such a day was never known in Paris before!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Paris flung its red cap in the air and France laughed.]

It was no wonder that Jeanne was forgotten, that Dr. Legrand was not called upon to answer awkward questions. It was not remarkable that the alleys and byways of Paris were deserted for the wider streets and places where patriots could rejoice together, and that many who were in hiding should be free for a day or two from the alarms which almost hourly beset them.

Richard Barrington had remained untroubled for many hours. As he fought in the empty house, struggling against a crowd which seemed to press in upon him from every side, and out of which looked familiar faces, his brain had played him a trick he thought he was fleeing from his enemies, jumping into darkness for safety. There had followed a period of total unconsciousness, set in the midst of a continuous dream as it were, for he seemed to realize at once without any break that he had fallen upon a bed of straw and could safely lie there to rest his tired limbs. There was no recollection of Legrand's asylum, or of the night escape over the roofs, but presently there came a conviction that he ought to be with Jeanne. It seemed to him that he tried to get out of the straw but was unable to do so. It had so twined about his body and limbs that he was bound by it as if with ropes. He must rest a little longer until he had more strength to break his bonds. Then again, faces looked at him, faces he ought to know, yet could not remember. There were low voices about him. He was thirsty, and in his struggles to free himself from the straw, chance guided his hand to a cup. Cool liquid was in it, water or wine, he could not tell which, but he drank eagerly and lay still again for a long time. Presently his strength was certainly returning, for without any great effort he drew his hands free from the binding straw and raised himself. A faint light was about him, showing stone walls, a narrow room, in a corner of which he was lying. On the floor beside him was a cup, a wine bottle, and a piece of bread. He picked up the bread and almost mechanically bit a piece out of it. He found that he was hungry. There was wine in the bottle and he drank. The straw no longer bound him, and he rose slowly to his feet and stared about him. Then, like waters suddenly breaking down a dam and flowing again into their old channel, memory rea.s.serted itself and his brain grew clear. He recollected the empty house, the sudden movement on the stars, the fight, Jeanne standing behind him in the corner. What had happened?

Where was she? Where was Seth? He knew where he was. The chair and table, the bowl and water can, the straw bed, the stone walls and the high grating--he was again in that buried cell of the old monastery.

"My head is heavy," he said aloud. "I must have been hurt and been delirious. For how long, I wonder?"

He began to move slowly about the cell. It was daylight, whether morning or afternoon he could not tell. He was not meant to die yet, or the wine and the bread would not be there, yet why was he in this place instead of an ordinary prison? His limbs were stiff, his head ached, it was difficult to think clearly. He could not detach reality from dreams.

What had happened in that empty house? Where was Jeanne? He threw himself upon the straw bed again, intending to lie there and try to solve the problem, but he fell asleep.

He was roused suddenly. A man was bending over him, had probably touched him. It was Raymond Latour. For a moment or two Barrington was uncertain whether this was a dream or reality.

"So you're awake at last," said Latour.

Barrington rose slowly to his feet, and then sat down in the chair by the table.

"What day is it?"

"Monday--Monday afternoon."

Barrington appeared to make a calculation.

"Monday!" he said. "Then I have been here--"

"Since early on Sat.u.r.day morning," said Latour. "You were knocked about a bit in that empty house, and you've been in a more or less unconscious condition ever since. Have you your wits now? I have something important to say to you."

"Then you know about that empty house?"

"Yes."

"You arranged the--"

"Your capture--yes."

Barrington rose to his feet quickly, but stumbled a little as he did so.

"Now you must settle with me," he said.

"You're not strong enough yet," said Latour, easily catching the arm which aimed a feeble blow at him. "Mademoiselle St. Clair is safe. She is not in prison. Your man is safe. You, too, are safe for the present.

You had better listen to all I have to say."

Barrington sat down again, frowning at his impotence. He had not realized how weak he was.

"I let you out of this place believing you a liar, and had you watched,"

said Latour. "I still believed you a liar when I found that you knew mademoiselle was in Legrand's house in the Rue Charonne. Your man was watched too, and his preparations in that empty house understood. You know the result. I have it from mademoiselle's own lips that you are not a liar, that you are not in league with Lucien Bruslart, and I believe her."

"Where is she?"

"Safe in my keeping."

Barrington did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, "She is the aristocrat in whom you are interested?"

"Yes."

"Then it is you who have lied?"

"I deceived you, yes. Be a man, Barrington; look at this thing with the eyes of a man. What reason was there that I should trust you with such a secret? I had set myself a goal to win, why should I jeopardize my chances? Bruslart was the man she loved, not you."

"They say all is fair in love," said Barrington. "Go on, Latour, go on.

I suppose you have come to bargain with me. My arm may be weak, but my head grows clearer every minute."

"I want you to fulfill your promise. You owe me something. You said you would do your utmost to help me with the woman I loved. I know now that I could have no more powerful advocate."

"I cannot admit the debt," was the answer. "What do I owe you?"

"Your life once, perhaps twice, and again now. It is mine to save or destroy. A word from me and you change this place for a prison and the guillotine."

"I set no value on my life," Barrington answered.

"Jeanne St. Clair's life is in my hands, too," said Latour, slowly. "You would do something to save her?"

"Anything in the world. Save her, Latour, and though you send me to the gallows I will bless you."

Latour bit his lip a little. He wanted to hate this man who had come between him and his desires. He was convinced that he had done so, convinced that but for this American, Jeanne St. Clair would have listened to him. His worth against Bruslart's infamy must have appealed to her, had this man not come into her world.

"I know the truth," he said slowly, "I have had it from mademoiselle herself. I spoke of my love, as a man must speak when the whole pa.s.sion of his life is let loose. She could never love me, she said. Why?

Because she loves you. I have threatened her to no purpose. I threatened to sacrifice you unless she consented. It was of no avail. She swore that you did not fear death, that you would willingly die for her."

"She spoke only the truth," said Barrington.

"Yet you can save her," Latour returned. "You are the only man who can.

You shall go to her and plead with her for me. For her sake I will desert France, go anywhere, do anything she wills. She must be mine or, for G.o.d's sake, do not make me even whisper the alternative."

"Be honest. Let me know the alternative."

"She shall die. There you have it. You may make your choice."

"And I thought you loved her," said Barrington, slowly.

"I cannot bandy phrases with you," Latour answered pa.s.sionately. "You are a man as I am, there is something in us that is alike, I think.

Debate such questions with yourself and you will find an answer."

"I have said that I am willing to die for her," answered Barrington.

"Go a step further than that," returned Latour. "Help another man to possess her."