“By Mercier turning first thief, then aristocrat, and playing each part so well that it seems to me he is now doubtful which he is.  I have only just returned from the Lion d’Or.”

“You saw her?”

“No, citizen.  She is still in ignorance of her destination in Paris.”

“She comes here to-morrow,” said Latour, sharply, and his steel gray eyes were suddenly fixed on Sabatier as though they went straight to his soul with the penetration of a shoemaker’s awl.  “She is to be delivered to me, and you and the others had best forget that you have been engaged on any private mission.”

“It is easy to serve Citizen Latour,” Sabatier said.

“Spoken as a brother,” was the answer.  “It is advantageous to serve him as it would be dangerous to play him false, eh?  Sabatier, my friend, most of us have some private revenge locked away in our hearts, the lack of opportunity alone prevents our satisfying it.  In these times there is much opportunity, it is that alone which makes us seem more vindictive than men in more peaceable circumstances.  Forget that you have helped me to mine, do not ask what form that revenge is to take.  I may some day help you to yours and be as secret and reticent.”

“I shall not forget the promise,” Sabatier returned, and it was easy to see that he was pleased with the confidence placed in him.

“First thing in the morning get to the inn and tell Mercier and Dubois to bring her here.  She must be made to understand that her safety depends upon it.  They need tell her nothing more.”

Sabatier had his hand upon the door to depart when Latour stopped him.

“What about the man who was robbed, this aristocrat you found at Tremont?”

“Safe in Beauvais, citizen, where he is likely to remain.  I put fear into him at Tremont and he ran.”

“He may come to Paris.”

“Then he is easily dealt with,” Sabatier answered, and went out.

He was a friend of Citizen Latour, a trusted friend; his swagger was greater than ever as he went down the Rue Valette.

Half an hour later Raymond Latour passed along the street, avoiding publicity rather than courting it.  He walked quickly until he came to the Rue St. Honore, when his pace slackened a little and he grew more thoughtful.  His whole scheme was complete, and he reviewed every point of it to make certain there was no flaw in it.  He became suddenly conscious of a man walking in front of him, one of many in the street yet distinct from them all.  He was slight, so slight that he seemed tall, walked delicately, something feminine about him, a weak man, perhaps, whom strong men would despise; yet heads were turned to look after him, and a second glance found something definite and determined in the delicate walk, something feline.  He went forward noticing none, straight forward, men of bigger bulk stepping out of his path.  Latour, whose thoughts were of self just now, not of country, went more slowly still.  He had no desire to overtake this man although he knew him well, and dawdled until he saw him enter a cabinet-maker’s shop.  All Paris knew that here Maximilian Robespierre had his lodging.