“She does not believe that, nor do I, for that matter,” said Boissin.

“What you believe is a matter of indifference to me, citizen,” returned Bruslart, “and as for the woman—­well, she is in the Abbaye.  Not every man gets rid of his tiresome lovers as easily as I am likely to do.  More wine, landlord.  We’ll drink long life to liberty and death to all aristocrats.  And, Citizen Boissin, we must understand each other and become better friends.  I accused you of entering my lodgings without invitation, now I invite you.  Come when you will, you shall be welcome.  And, in the meanwhile, if there is any good patriot here who is a carpenter, and can spare time for a job, there is money to be earned.  He shall mend my cabinet.”

CHAPTER XIII

THE BUSINESS OF RAYMOND LATOUR

The arrest of an aristocrat, or of some poor wretch who had no claim to the title, but served just as well for a victim, was a common enough occurrence.  In the first panic there had been a rush for safety across the frontier, but there were many who remained, either not foreseeing how grave the danger would become, or bravely determining to face the trouble.  Some, like Monsieur de Lafayette, true patriots at heart, had attempted to direct the trouble, and being caught in its cyclonic fury were at grips with death and disaster; some, like Lucien Bruslart, having themselves or their friends to serve, openly threw in their lot with the people, playing the while a double game which kept them walking on the extreme edge of a precipice; and there were others who, finding their bravery and honesty of no avail, realizing that it was now too late to escape out of the country, hid themselves in humble lodgings, or were concealed in the homes of faithful servants.  There were patriots who were ready to howl death to all aristocrats, and yet gave shelter to some particular aristocrat who had treated them well in the past.  Kindnesses little heeded at the time saved many a man in his hour of need.

To Richard Barrington that slowly moving coach, surrounded by a filthy, yelling mob, was a new and appalling thing; to Raymond Latour it was a very ordinary matter, a necessary evil that France might be thoroughly purged from its iniquity.  When he laid his hand upon Barrington’s arm, he had no idea who the prisoner in the coach was.  Had he known, he might still have put out a restraining hand, realizing that to throw two lives away uselessly was folly, but in the wine shop afterward he would have treated his companion differently.

That morning he had waited patiently for the coming of Mademoiselle St. Clair.  He had made a last inspection of the rooms he had hired, satisfying himself that there was nothing left undone which it was in his power to do for her.  Then he had gone to his own room and tried to read during the interval of waiting.  His patience was strained to the limit when, at noon, Mercier and Dubois arrived alone.  He had expected them long before.  The delay had almost prepared him to hear that his plans had been frustrated, yet the two men who had entered, afraid of his anger, were surprised at the calmness with which he listened to their story.