Part 21 (2/2)
”I am not so certain of his hatred against all aristocrats,” said Barrington, slowly.
”He has a tongue that would persuade the devil himself to believe in him,” said Bruslart.
”And I do not think he knew who was in the coach,” Barrington went on.
”I have a reason for saying so, and I may find out the truth presently.”
”You are a stranger in Paris, you cannot hope to be a match for Raymond Latour.”
”At least there is work for me to do in this matter, and I shall not run needlessly into danger. Freedom is precious to us both, monsieur, at the present time, since we must use it to help mademoiselle. You pose as a leader of the people, therefore some authority you must have; tell me, what power have you to open the door of mademoiselle's prison?”
”Alas, none.”
”Think, think. Patriotism, wrong headed though it may be, will clothe its enthusiasts with a kind of honor which cannot be bribed, but how many real patriots are there in Paris? Are the ragged and filthy men and women of the streets patriots? I warrant a fistful of gold thrown by the man they cursed would bring him a very hurricane of blessings.”
”You do not understand the people, monsieur,” answered Bruslart. ”They would scramble for your gold and cry for more, but they would still curse you. The mob is king.”
”There is the individual, monsieur,” said Barrington. ”Try a golden key on his cupidity. I do not mean on a man who is swaggering with new authority, but some jailer in the prison.”
”It might be done,” said Bruslart.
”It can. It must. You may use me as you will,” Barrington returned. ”I am ready to take any risk.”
”Mademoiselle would certainly approve your loyalty.”
”I feel that I am responsible for bringing her to Paris,” Barrington answered. ”I would risk my life to carry her safely back to Beauvais.”
Bruslart looked at him keenly for a moment, then held out his hand.
”Monsieur, I am ungenerous, if not in words in my thoughts. It is not to be supposed that I should be the only man to be attracted by Mademoiselle St. Clair, yet I am a little jealous. You have had an opportunity of helping her that has not been given to me. You have been able to prove yourself in her eyes; I have not. Has not my folly been her ruin?”
”You have the opportunity now,” said Barrington, whose hand was still clasped in Lucien's.
”You do not understand my meaning.”
”Only that we pledge ourselves to release mademoiselle.”
”And the real strength underlying this resolve? Is it not that we both love her?”
Barrington drew back a little, and felt the color tingle in his face.
Since the moment he had first seen her this woman had hardly been absent from his thoughts, yet from the first he had known that she was pledged to another man, and therefore she was sacred. Deep down in his nature, set there perchance by some long-forgotten ancestor, cavalier in spirit, yet with puritan tendencies in thought, there was a stronger sense of right and wrong than is given to most men perhaps. As well might he allow himself to love another's wife, as to think of love for another man's promised wife. The standard of morality had been easy to keep, since, until now, love for neither wife nor maid had tempted him; but during the last two or three days the fierce testing fires had burned within him. It had been easy to think evil of the man who stood before him, easy to hope that there might be evil in him, so that Jeanne St.
Clair being free because of this evil, he might have the right to win her if he could. Lucien Bruslart's quiet statement came like an accusation; it showed him in a moment that in one sense at any rate he had fallen before the temptation, for if he had not allowed himself to think of love, he had yielded to the mean wish that her lover might prove unworthy. It helped him also to rise superior to the temptation.
”I may have had ungenerous thoughts, too,” he said, ”but they have gone.”
”And only love remains,” Bruslart returned, the slight rise in his tone making the words a question rather than a statement.
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