Strange to say the awkward questions were not asked, nor was an immediate search instituted.  For the moment, at any rate, Jeanne St. Clair was of small account, another name was in everybody’s mouth, another personality was forced into tragic prominence, and the hundreds of deputies on whose word so much depended had no time or inclination to think of any one else.

Wednesday and Thursday, which were marked days for Jeanne St. Clair, were stupendous days for Paris, for France, for the world.  The fate of Louis Capet, once king, was sealed in them.  He must die.  By the vote of the deputies this was decided.  His crime?  Who shall say.  Chiefly perhaps that he was born to be a king, and lived, a weak king, in a strenuous time.  And yet the business was not at an end.  Some would have an appeal made to the people, a proposition easily overruled; some would have delay, and that was not so easily settled.  There must be more voting.  So on this Saturday and Sunday the deputies were busy, and Paris vibrated with excitement.  Raymond Latour now voted for delay, as before he had voted against the death sentence, firm to his conviction that the head of a king was not necessary to the safety of France.  Patriots hissed at him and at many others.  Robespierre noted the set of his face and thought of the future; others noted that set face and thought of the future, too.  Was Raymond Latour as strong a man as some declared?  Was he safest as a friend or as an enemy?  Once more the votes were counted.  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 amusement 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 passage 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