“One would think you had some real affection for me,” said Latour.

Sabatier swaggered to hide such weakness.  “I am a man, citizen, who fears nothing.  I can recognize another man who fears God or man as little as I do.”

“The wine has cured me,” said Latour.  “I shall do my business, nothing more.  I am not a fool.  There will be no need of carefulness.  Sabatier, to-morrow you must find out what Citizen Bruslart does.  His movements may be interesting.”

“And this man Barrington?”

“Leave him to me,” answered Latour.

No man knew better when to wait and when to act than Raymond Latour, and few men had a keener perception of possibilities, of chances which were worth taking, of risks it was unwise to run.  He appreciated his own power and influence to the very turn of a hair in the balance, and although to his companions he might exaggerate or underrate that influence to suit the occasion, he never made the fatal mistake of deceiving himself in the matter.  Under ordinary circumstances, had his interest been aroused in a prisoner, he would have gone openly to those in authority and put the case before them, with every confidence not only of being listened to, but of getting his request granted.  He had a strong following and was too powerful to offend.  But for such a prisoner as Mademoiselle St. Clair, he knew that he dare not plead.  The strongest man in Paris would be howled down by the mob if he attempted to procure her acquittal.  She was closely connected with the best hated families of France, she stood not for herself but for what she represented, and the mob had assisted at no capture that pleased it more.  This knowledge had for a moment robbed Latour of his nerve and courage.  Strong man and self-contained as he was, he had not been able to control himself and hide his fear from Jacques Sabatier; yet now, as he passed quickly through the streets in the direction of the Abbaye prison, his step was firm, his face resolute, his course of action determined upon.

For an hour he talked with two friends of his who were in charge of this prison of the Abbaye, laughed and rejoiced with them at the arrest of such an important emigre that day; and then, at their prophecy that she would not be long in their keeping, that the tribunal would see to it that she went speedily upon her last journey to the Place de la Revolution, Latour ventured a protest—­the first move in his scheme.  It was so definite a protest that his companions were astonished.

“What!  Does a woman appeal to you?  Are you losing your hatred for aristocrats?”

“The woman appeals to me in a curious way,” Latour answered.  “After all, what is she?  A little fish out of a great shoal.  I would net in the shoal.  It is not difficult with this little fish for bait.  Do you not see how it is?  This little fish is precious to the shoal, and lost, the shoal, or part of it, at any rate, will turn to find her.  So long as it is known that she lives, there will be other emigres stealing into Paris to look for Mademoiselle St. Clair.”