"What do you want with me, citizens?"

He had been waiting for the summons, was ready for it. His hands had tightened a little as he heard the wreckage of the room above. He knew that the woman was no longer there, he knew that with his capture they would forget all about her for a little while. The hours to-night would be precious to her. Two men loved her, and Richard Barrington was not the only man who was willing to die for her. So he faced the crowd upon the stairs which, after one yell of triumph, had fallen silent. This man had always been feared. No one knew his power for certain. He was feared now as he stood, calm and erect, in the doorway.

"What do you want, citizens, with Raymond Latour?"

Still a moment more of silence; then a fiendish yell, earsplitting, filling the whole house hideously, repeated by the crowd in the courtyard, finding an echo far down the Rue Valette.

"Latour is taken! We've got that devil Latour!"

They brought him out of the house, bareheaded and with no heavy coat to shield him from the bitter night, just as they had found him. The officers, with naked sabres, were close to him as they crossed the courtyard, and went through the pa.s.sage to the street. They were afraid that the crowd might attack the prisoner. A woman, old and wrinkled, looking out from the baker's shop, shrank back behind the little counter that she might not be noticed. The mob danced and sang, but no one attempted to touch Latour. They were still afraid of him, he walked so erect, with so set a face, with so stern a purpose. He was the one silent figure in this pandemonium.

"The man who would have saved Louis Capet!" cried one, pointing at him.

Latour heeded not.

"The lover of an aristocrat!" cried another.

No one noticed it, but a smile was on Latour's face. This was his real offense, that he loved. The face of the woman seemed to shine down upon him out of the darkness of the night. All the past was in his brain; his love, his ambition, his schemes which had ended in this hour of ruin and failure. Yet still the smile was upon his lips, and there was a strange light in his eyes. Was it failure after all? This end was for her sake, the supreme sacrifice. What more can a man do than lay down his life for love?

CHAPTER XXIX

THE END OF THE JOURNEY

Richard Barrington looked at the man in the doorway and laughed. He was a mere stripling.

"You will want greater odds than that to drive desperate men," he said fiercely. "We return to Paris at once and must have your papers."

"Richard!"

Barrington stood perfectly still for a moment as the stripling stepped into the room, then he sprang forward with a little cry.

"Jeanne!"

"Ah! I hate that you should see me like this," she said, "but Citizen Sabatier declared it was necessary."

Her face was smeared, much as his own was, a ragged wig concealed her hair, she was dressed, booted, sashed as a patriot, a pistol at her waist, a c.o.c.kade in her hat, young-looking, yet little about her but her voice to proclaim her a woman.

"The odds are on our side, monsieur," said Sabatier, and then he touched Seth on the shoulder. "Come into the next room, there is wine there. We may finish the bottle. Love is wine enough for them. We must start in half an hour, Monsieur Barrington."

"Tell me, Jeanne, how did you come?" said Barrington, as the door closed leaving them alone. "I thought they had cheated me. Until I entered this room I hoped that my journey would lead me to you. I hardly know why but I trusted Latour. Then I was mad to think of my folly in believing, and now you are here. Truly, a miracle has happened."

"Oh, I have been so afraid, such a coward," she said, drawing his arm round her. "Raymond Latour came to me, straight from seeing you, I think, bringing this man Sabatier. He told me that I should see you again, and that I was to do exactly as Sabatier said. He had changed, Richard. He was very gentle. He asked me not to think unkindly of him.

He kissed my hand when he left me, and, Richard, he left a tear on it."

"I think he loved you, Jeanne."

"He said so; not then, but when he first came to me. It was horrible to hear love spoken of by any man but you. He threatened me, Richard. I thought he meant what he said."

"He did when he said it," Barrington answered. "He came to me, demanding that I should urge you to marry him."

"And you refused?"

"Yes, and yet--ah, Jeanne, I hardly know what I should have urged. The thought of the guillotine for you made me afraid."

"It would have been easier than marrying any other man," she whispered.

"Something, perhaps something you said, Richard, changed Latour. He evidently arranged my escape. Sabatier came early yesterday with these clothes. He told me to dress myself in them. Think of it, Richard! I walked through the streets with him like this, into a house in some alley, where we waited until it was dusk. Then we rode to the barrier.

I was some horrible wretch thirsting for blood, young as I was; I do not know what Sabatier said, but even the men at the barrier shuddered at me and turned away."

Barrington laughed and held her closer.

"Then we rode here. We came by the Sceaux road, Sabatier said. This lonely place made me afraid. It was so unlikely you would find me here.

Then I wondered whether you were dead. You have always seemed to come to me when I was in need, and this time--oh, it seemed so long, so hopeless! Now I want to cry and laugh both at once."

"You have no fear of the journey before us?" Barrington whispered.

"Fear! With you!"

"I mean just because it is with me. Do you know what we are going to do?

We travel to the sea, to a ship, then to my home in Virginia. Are you sure you do not fear the journey which means having me always with you?"

"Richard," she whispered, "you have never yet asked me to take that journey. Won't you ask me now?"

"Jeanne, my darling, my wife to be, will you come?"

"If G.o.d wills, dearest--oh, so willingly, if G.o.d wills."

She remembered how far the sea was, how terribly near to Paris they yet were. Disaster might be lying in wait for them along the road.

"He will keep us to the end, dear," Barrington whispered.

Presently she drew back from him. "How hateful I must look!" she exclaimed. "Do I seem fit to be the wife of any man, let alone your wife?"

"Shall I tell you what is in my mind?" he said.

"Yes, tell me, even if it hurts me."

"I am longing to see you again as I first saw you at Beauvais. I did not know who you were, remember, but I loved you then."

"Even then?"

"Yes," he answered, "and ever since and forever-more."

A few minutes later Sabatier entered the room.

"It is time," he said. "We must start at once. Citizen Mercier goes no farther. You are now three men under my command. Your names are as before Roche and Pinot. Mademoiselle is called Morel, a desperate young patriot, Monsieur Barrington. Do not forget that; only forget that she is a woman."