Part 23 (1/2)

It was not all the truth. Mercier said nothing of the amount of wine he had drunk, nothing of his boasting. He described the men at the Lion d'Or as truculent, easily ready to take offense, difficult to persuade.

”They began by rejoicing that a market woman was on her way to Paris to give evidence against an aristocrat,” Mercier said, ”and then the devil prompted some man to speculate whether she might not be an aristocrat in disguise. They were for making certain, and if she were an aristocrat they would have hanged her in the inn yard. I had to threaten to shoot the first man who attempted to mount the stairs.”

”And even then they only waited to get the better of us,” said Dubois.

”They left the inn sulkily at last,” Mercier went on, ”but all night we kept guard upon the stairs, wasting precious hours as it happened.”

”Go on,” said Latour, quietly.

”Soon after dawn we were startled by a groan from the end of a pa.s.sage, and we went to find a man lying there half dead. He had been badly handled, near where he lay was a door opening onto stairs which went down to the kitchens and the back entrance to the house. We went to mademoiselle's room and found that she had gone. How it had been accomplished neither Dubois nor I could tell, but we were both convinced that some of the men had stolen back after leaving the inn and had taken mademoiselle away, telling her some plausible tale to keep her silent.

We roused the sleeping inn and searched it from cellar to garret. From the man lying in the pa.s.sage we could get no coherent words, though we wasted good brandy on him. We went to the village, and were not satisfied until we had roused every man who had been at the Lion d'Or that night. More hours wasted. Then we went back to the inn and found the man revived somewhat. He declared that as he came to the top of the stairs a man and a woman met him. Before he could utter a cry the man seized him by the throat; he was choked and remembered nothing more. It was natural that our suspicions should turn to this fellow Barrington whom we had so easily outwitted at Beauvais. On this theory we asked ourselves which way he would be likely to take mademoiselle. It did not seem possible that they could enter Paris. We were at a loss what to do, and indeed wasted more time in searching the country in the neighborhood of the Lion d'Or for traces of the fugitives.”

”You have certainly wasted much time,” said Latour. ”Tell me, what is this man Barrington like.” He had already had a description from Jacques Sabatier, but a word-picture from another source might make the man clearer to him. Mercier's description was even better than Sabatier's.

”Did you tell this story of the Lion d'Or at the barrier?”

”No,” Mercier answered. It was evidently the answer Latour wished to receive, and in a sense it was true. Mercier had not proclaimed at the barrier that he had been outwitted, and no one knew what business had taken him from Paris; but he had said that he believed an emigre in the disguise of a market woman had entered the city that morning. ”What emigre?” he was asked. ”Mademoiselle St. Clair,” he had answered. The guard said nothing, no more inclined to confess to carelessness than Mercier was, and Mercier and Dubois had ridden on convinced that mademoiselle was not in Paris. At the barrier his remarks might have been taken for badinage, a sneer at the vigilance which was kept, had not the entrance of the quarreling market woman been remembered.

”If she is in Paris, we shall find her,” said Latour.

”It is more likely she had ridden back to Beauvais,” said Dubois. ”If she is wise that is the way she has taken.”

”Women in love are not always wise,” said Latour.

”I am afraid, citizen, this unfortunate business has interfered with your plans. I am sorry. We had managed the whole affair so excellently.” Mercier was so relieved to find Latour so calm that he was inclined to swagger.

”Most excellently,” was the answer. ”I am as far from having mademoiselle in my power as I was when you started.”

”Citizen--”

”Is there need to say more?” Latour asked sharply. ”I shall have other work for you presently; see that it is accomplished better. Did you meet Jacques Sabatier on the road this morning?”

”No, citizen. We have not seen him since he met us at the tavern yesterday and rode to Paris for your instructions. This morning we left the road several times to make sure the fugitives were not hidden in some shed or hollow. If he travelled to the Lion d'Or that is how we must have missed him.”

”Come to me to-night at nine,” he said, dismissing them. His anger was great, but it did not suit him to say more.

This was all Latour knew when he chanced upon Richard Barrington in the afternoon. He was thinking of mademoiselle when the noise of the approaching crowd reached him, and then he noticed the tall, strongly knit figure of the man just before him. A second glance convinced him that this was the American; therefore mademoiselle was in Paris. This was the man who had brought all his scheming to naught; his enemy, a daring and dangerous foe. He noted the expression on Barrington's face as the crowd went by, saw the intention in his eyes. In another moment his enemy might be destroyed, gashed with pikes, trampled under foot, yet Latour put out his hand and stopped him. Why? Latour could not see even his enemy throw his life away so uselessly. He hardly gave a thought to the wretched prisoner in the coach, but his interest was keen in the man who went with him to the wine shop. It was no mere phrase when he said he was a man after his own heart, he meant it. Their paths in life might be antagonistic, their ideals diametrically opposed, yet in both men there was purpose and determination, a struggle towards great achievement, a definite end to strive after. Circ.u.mstances might make them the deadliest of foes, but there was a strong and natural desire for friends.h.i.+p as they clasped hands.

”I could love that man,” Latour mused as he went towards the Rue Valette afterwards. ”Yet I must spy upon him and deceive him if I can.

Mademoiselle is in Paris and he knows where she is hidden. He is Bruslart's friend, and Bruslart I hate.”

He climbed the stairs to his room to find Sabatier waiting for him on the landing.

”I have heard,” said Latour, unlocking his door and entering the room with his visitor, ”I have heard the whole story. The fools have been outwitted. I have just left this man Barrington.”

”Citizen, I do not think you have heard the whole story.”

Latour turned quickly. Something in the man's tone startled him.

”Mademoiselle was taken to the Abbaye prison this afternoon,” said Sabatier.