Part 19 (2/2)

”You will not ask me to promise to act on your advice,” Barrington returned with a smile.

”No,” and then Lafayette looked earnestly into his face. ”No, I do not expect you to act upon it. For most of us some woman is a curse or a blessing, and the utmost a man can do is to satisfy himself which she is. If she is worthy, I would not call that man friend who was not ready to risk all for her. G.o.d grant we both win through to more peaceful days.”

Early in the afternoon Barrington went out, leaving Seth in the lodging.

Seth suggested that he should be allowed to go with him.

”You must be free to work should I be caught and unable to act for myself,” was the answer. ”After to-night I shall be able to make more definite plans. Under certain circ.u.mstances there will be nothing to prevent us setting out upon our return journey to Virginia. Believe me, Seth, I have not yet fallen in love with Paris.”

Seth watched him go, knowing that his resolution was not to be shaken, realizing, too, that there was reason in his argument.

”I couldn't understand any one being in love with Paris,” he said to himself; ”but there's a woman has Master Richard in her net. Love is a disease, the later caught, the worse it is. I wonder what his mother would have thought of this lady from Beauvais. And she doesn't care a handful of Indian corn for Master Richard as far as I can see; only makes use of him to get to another man. Falling in love with a woman of that kind seems a waste of good energy to me, but it's wonderful how many men have done it.”

Richard Barrington had no intention of running into unnecessary danger.

This man Mercier had no proof that he had helped Mademoiselle St. Clair to escape from the Lion d'Or. Paris was a big place, and he might never chance upon Jacques Sabatier. He had no intention of making any further use of Lafayette's name for the present, since it was evident that he might involve his friend in difficulty if he did. He was a Virginian gentleman in Paris privately. He was content to remain unknown if they would let him. If they grew inquisitive, his nationality should be in his favor, and the fact that he had come to offer his sword on the side of the people would be his safety. If he had made a few enemies by thwarting private plans, he had surely the power of making a thousand friends. So far his scheme was complete, but he was not thinking of it as he made his way toward the more central part of the city, taking care to appear as little of a stranger as possible. Was Lucien Bruslart to be trusted? This was the question he asked himself over and over again, finding no satisfactory answer. The reason which lay behind such a question could not be ignored. Any helpless woman would have appealed to him, he told himself, but the whole truth refused to be confined in such an argument. Jeanne St. Clair meant something more to him than this, but in this direction he refused to question himself further, except to condemn himself. Was he not viewing Lucien Bruslart through smoked gla.s.ses as it were?--an easy fault under the circ.u.mstances.

Jeanne loved this man. No greater proof was needed than her journey to Paris for his sake. Barrington had done her a service for which he had been amply thanked. To-night Bruslart would inform him that Jeanne was safe, and thank him again for what he had done. There was an end of the business; and since his enthusiasm to help the people had somewhat evaporated--Jeanne's influence again, doubtless--why should he not return home? France held no place for him. It would be better not to see Jeanne again, more honorable, easier for him.

At a corner he stopped. Others had done the same. Coming up the street was a ragged, shouting mob. There were some armed with pikes who had made a vain attempt to keep the march orderly; others, flouris.h.i.+ng sticks, danced and sang as they came; others, barely clad, ran to and fro like men half drunk, yelling ribald insults now at those who pa.s.sed by, now at the world at large. Women with draggled skirts and dirty and disordered hair were in the crowd, shrieking joyous profanity, striking and fighting one another in their mad excitement. There were children, too, almost naked girls and boys, as ready with oath and obscenity as their elders, fair young faces and forms, some of them, debauched out of all that was childlike. Every fetid alley and filthy court near which this procession had pa.s.sed had vomited its sc.u.m to swell the crowd. In the center of it rocked and swayed a coach. Hands were plenty to help the frightened horses, hands to push, hands to grip the spokes and make the wheels turn faster. The driver had no driving to do, so roared a song. The inmate of the coach might be dumb with fear, half dead with it, yet if he shrieked with terror, the cry of no single throat could rise above all this babel of sound.

”Way! Way for the cursed aristocrat!”

Children and women ran past Barrington shouting. One woman touched him with a long-nailed, dirty, scraggy hand.

”An aristocrat, citizen. Another head for La Guillotine,” she cried, and then danced a step or two, laughing.

Barrington stood on tiptoe endeavoring to see the miserable pa.s.senger of the coach, but in vain. The men with pikes surrounded the vehicle, or the poor wretch's journey might have ended at the first lamp.

”It's a woman,” said some one near him.

”Ay! a cursed aristocrat!” shouted a boy who heard. ”Get in and ride with her,” and the urchin sped onwards, shouting horrible suggestions.

”A woman!” Barrington muttered, and his frame stiffened as a man's will do when he thinks of action.

”Don't be a fool,” said a voice in his ear, and a hand was laid upon his arm.

He turned to face a man who looked at him fixedly, continued to look at him until the crowd had pa.s.sed, and others who had stopped to watch the procession had pa.s.sed on about their business.

”You would have thrown your life away had I not stopped you,” said the stranger.

”Perhaps. I hardly know.”

”Yet it is not so rare a sight.”

”At least I have not grown used to it,” Barrington answered.

”That is difficult,” said the man. ”I have seen more of it than you, but I have learned to hide my feelings. The first time I was like you. Even now I clinch my teeth and remain inactive with difficulty. This tends to make us conspicuous, citizen. We must be either victims or executioners to be in the fas.h.i.+on. Some of us have friends, perhaps, who may easily chance to be victims.”

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