Part 26 (2/2)

”Jailer Mathon?”

”Yes.”

”You have in your charge an emigre, Jeanne St. Clair. She is to be removed forthwith to the Conciergerie. There is the order.”

Mathon took up a lantern and by the dim light read the paper handed to him. It was all in order, the full name of the emigre duly inserted, the genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the doc.u.ment. The jailer looked from the paper into the face of the man who had handed it to him.

”Do they set over prisoners fools who cannot read?” asked the man.

”No; the paper is in order,” Mathon answered.

”Obey it then. Fetch out the emigre.”

Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.

”It is down this pa.s.sage,” and his keys jingled. His fingers trembled a little as the men followed him. A few yards from the door the men halted.

”Bring her quickly. We have other work to do to-night more important than this.”

Mathon unlocked the door and entered the room.

”Jeanne St. Clair, your turn has come.”

The woman moved slowly.

”Quickly,” said Mathon. ”Your head's still in its place. Wrap the hood of your cloak well round it. There's no need to feel cold before the time. Don't speak,” he added in a whisper.

They went out together, Mathon locking the door again.

”This is the prisoner.”

The officers without a word placed themselves on either side of her, and they went quickly along the corridor leaving the jailer alone, one hand holding his keys, the other pressed to his pocket to make sure that the order he had obeyed still rested there.

A _berlin_ stood in the little square before the prison, the driver half asleep. He had no imagination, this driver, and this square was to him as any other in Paris. Yet on another night, not long since, how different it had been! Then a mob filled it, filled it to overflowing, a mob mad with l.u.s.t of blood and murder, armed with sabers, pikes and hatchets, any weapon that came to hand. Within the prison sat a sudden jury, a mockery of Justice; without stood Fate. A brief questioning, the veriest caricature of a trial, and prisoners were escorted to the doors, but no farther. The rest of the journey they must go alone. A lane opened before them, all must traverse it, old and young, man or woman.

It was a short journey, and amid frenzied shrieks they fell under the sabers and the pikes. There was no mercy, only red death and horror.

Rain had fallen in Paris since then, yet surely there must still be blood in the gutters of this square. The driver could not tell where he had been that night, not here certainly, but wherever it was he was minding his own business. He had enough to do to live from day to day, and had no use for a long memory. He had carried people, men and women, from one prison to another before this, and took no special interest in this job. The revolution mattered little to him if he could get sufficient for his wants. He had a room high up in the Faubourg St.

Antoine, with a wife and child in it, and cared little what heads fell daily in the Place de la Revolution. He woke from his reverie at the sound of footsteps. A woman was helped into the coach quickly, a man following her and closing the door sharply behind him. A second man climbed to the box beside the driver.

”To the Conciergerie,” he said.

The woman in the coach did not speak, but leaned back in the corner. The man was also silent until they had driven away from the square.

”Listen to me, mademoiselle,” he said presently. ”We are driving in the direction of the Conciergerie, but the way will be altered in a few minutes. My comrade will arrange that. Keep your cloak well round you and do not speak. You and I will have to walk presently to a safe retreat already prepared. You must do exactly as you are told or we may fail. Your escape may be discovered at any moment.”

The woman did not answer. She had no idea who her companion was, had perhaps a doubt in her mind concerning him, but she determined to obey; indeed, what else could she do?

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