Robert Tournay Part 28

"Yes, I think I can," rejoined St. Hilaire musingly.

"Now that you have had this warning I hope you will be able to elude them. Give me the paper again, Citizen St. Hilaire, that I may replace it before it is missed. He is at the club now, but I must hurry back.

Never mind the light; I can find my way well enough. My eyes are used to the dark."

St. Hilaire took up the lamp, and in spite of her remonstrances accompanied her down the four flights of stairs. At the door stood a handsome equipage.

"That is mine," she said, as St. Hilaire escorted her to the carriage; there was the same slight touch of pride in her tone that had crept out once before. "This once belonged to the d.u.c.h.ess de Montmorenci," she said. "It is rather heavy and old-fas.h.i.+oned, but will do very well until I can get a new one."

"I see that you have had the coat of arms erased," St. Hilaire remarked. "I suppose your new carriage will have a red nightcap on the panel."

"Now you are laughing at me," she said, tossing back her brown curls with a pout. "Good-night, marquis," she added in a low voice in his ear as he was closing the door of the carriage.

"Citizen St. Hilaire," he corrected gravely, as she drove away. "You forget there are no more marquises in France."

After La Liberte's departure the Citizen St. Hilaire retraced his steps up the stairs, humming quietly to himself. On reaching the top landing he entered his room and sitting down by the window he looked out over the lights of Paris. For two hours he sat thus buried deep in thought and scarcely moving. When he finally arose from his chair the city clock had long struck the hour of midnight.

First drawing the bolt to the door as if to prevent intrusion even at that late hour, he opened an old armoire in the corner of the room and took from it an object carefully wrapped in a velvet cover. He took from the covering a sword, with golden hilt studded with jewels. The scabbard, too, was of pure gold, set profusely with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Unsheathing the weapon he held it to the light. He held it carefully, almost reverently, as one holds some sacred relic. His eye was animated and had he uttered his thoughts he would have spoken thus:--

"This is the sword that a marshal of France wielded upon the field of battle. He was my ancestor, and from father to son it has come down to me, the last of my race. It is as bright to-day as when it flashed from its sheath at Rocroy. I have kept it untarnished. It is the sole remaining relic of the greatness of our name."

Replacing the sword carefully in its scabbard, he buckled it around his waist. Then taking a cloak from the armoire he enveloped himself in it, so as to completely hide the jeweled scabbard. This done, he went into his bedroom and drew from under his couch a small chest from which he took a purse containing some money. All these preparations he made quietly and with great deliberation. Returning to the sitting-room he unbolted and opened the door. All was quiet. A cat, that frequented the upper part of the building, and made friends with those who fed it, walked silently in through the open door and arching her back rubbed purringly against his leg. He went to the cupboard, and getting out a saucer filled it with the cream that was to have flavored his next morning's cup of coffee, and placed it on the floor. The animal ran to it greedily, and for a few moments St. Hilaire stood watching the little red tongue curl rapidly out and in of the creature's mouth as she lapped up the unexpected feast. Then giving a glance about the room, but touching nothing else in it, he extinguished the light and went out into the corridor, leaving the door ajar.

When he pa.s.sed out into the street he noticed that the rain had ceased.

The wind blew freshly from the west and the night was cool. Drawing his cloak closer about him and allowing one hand to rest upon his sword-hilt, he walked rapidly away, humming softly to himself. In the room he had just left, the cat licked up the last few drops of cream in the saucer; signified her contentment by stretching herself, while she dug her forepaws into the carpet several times in succession; then jumped into his vacant arm-chair and curled up for a nap.

The Citizen St. Hilaire had always foreseen the possibility of just such an emergency as now confronted him. He was quite prepared to meet it.

On the other side of the river in the small and quiet Rue d'Arcis dwelt an old man. The house in which he lived, number seven, was also very old. It was large and rambling. St. Hilaire knew it well. As a child he had played in it. It had once belonged to him, and he had deeded it to an old servant of his father at a time when he regarded old houses as enc.u.mbrances upon his estates, and when aged servants had found no place in his retinue. If for no other reason, his family pride had caused him to make generous provision for a faithful retainer, and now that his own worldly fortunes were reduced, he knew where to find a home until he could carry out his plans for leaving the country. For some time past he had been forming such plans, but with his customary indifference to danger he had delayed their execution from day to day.

Crossing the Seine by the bridge St. Michel and following the Quai, St.

Hilaire remembered an unfrequented way to the house in the Rue d'Arcis.

From the Quai on the left was a blind alley that ended at a row of houses. Through one of these houses had been cut an arched pa.s.sage to the street beyond. The pa.s.sageway came out on the other side almost directly opposite number seven, and offered a tempting short-cut.

St. Hilaire walked quietly up the alley and had almost reached the farther end, when a door on the opposite side opened and a woman came out. The lateness of the hour and the signs of timidity which the woman showed, caused St. Hilaire to stop in the entrance to the pa.s.sageway and look back to observe her actions.

She peered first down the street cautiously, as if to see that there were no pa.s.sers on the Quai, then up at the windows of the houses opposite to a.s.sure herself that she was un.o.bserved from that quarter.

Satisfied as to both of these points, she closed the door noiselessly, and hurriedly pa.s.sed down the street. She was, however, not destined to reach the Quai unnoticed by any other eyes than St. Hilaire's, for she had not gone fifty paces when a party of four men, talking in loud voices, crossed the street on the Quai. At sight of them the woman stopped short and hesitated. The four also stopped and looked at her.

One of them called out to her. Evidently frightened she turned, and crossing the street hurried back. To St. Hilaire's surprise, she pa.s.sed by the house from which she had recently come, and made straight for the pa.s.sageway where he stood. The four men gave chase, one of them overtaking her before she had reached the entrance. He placed his hand upon her arm, while she cried and struggled to free herself. The hood fell over her shoulders, and in the light from a lantern, hung upon a projecting crane from one of the houses, St. Hilaire recognized Madame d'Arlincourt.

The exertion to free herself from the man's grasp had caused her hair to fall down upon her shoulders. Her blue eyes had a wild look like those of a person whose mind is strained almost to madness. She fought fiercely for her freedom.

A dove striking its pinions against a lion's paw could have been able to effect its release as quickly as the poor little countess from the huge hand that held her.

St. Hilaire was as gallant a gentleman as ever drew a sword, or raised a lady's fingers to his lips. On the instant, he forgot his own danger and the cause of his flight, and stepped forward into the circle of light.

"How now, citizen? What have you to do with this young citizeness?" he cried out in distinct tones.

In his surprise at St. Hilaire's sudden appearance, the man loosened his grasp upon Madame d'Arlincourt's shoulder. With a cry she flew instantly to St. Hilaire's side for protection.

"Defend me, sir, oh, save me from them!" she cried, catching hold of his arm.

"I will not let them harm a hair of your head," he whispered in reply; "calm yourself, my dear madame."

The quiet way in which he spoke seemed to bring back some part of her self-control. She ceased crying and stood by his side like a statue, although he could feel by the pressure on his arm that she still trembled.

"Well, citizen, what would you with this citizeness?" repeated St.

Hilaire in a loud voice, as the other men came up behind their comrade.

"Her actions are suspicious; she may be an aristocrat. We want to bring her to the Section for examination," answered one of them.

"Let her come to the Section," echoed another.

The fellow who had first laid hands upon the countess now recovered speech. "If she's an aristocrat here's at her; I've killed many an aristocrat in my day." As he spoke he drew himself together and raising his musket leveled it at the woman's head.

The countess tightened her grasp on St. Hilaire's arm with both her hands, rendering him powerless for the moment.

St. Hilaire pushed her gently behind him, and looking straight into his opponent's face, said firmly:--

"She shall certainly go to the Section, citizen, but first put down your weapon and let me speak. I am Citizen St. Hilaire--were we in the Faubourg St. Michel almost anybody would be able to tell you who I am."

"I know you, citizen!" exclaimed one of the men in the rear, "and you should know me also. My name is Gonflou!" and the fellow grinned good-naturedly over the shoulder of his companion, as if he recognized an old friend.

"Ah yes, good citizen Gonflou!" repeated St. Hilaire. "Restrain the ardor of this patriot who handles his musket so carelessly, while I question the little citizeness."

"Lower that musket, Haillon, or I'll beat your head with this," said Gonflou, rattling his heavy sabre threateningly.

Haillon muttered an oath and lowered the muzzle of his weapon.

"We can't be all night at this," he growled. "Better let me take a shot at the woman; she's an aristocrat, that's flat."

St. Hilaire bent over the countess.

"Release my arm!" She obeyed like a child. Stepping back with her a couple of paces, he continued:--

"Who is in the house you have just come out of? Answer me truthfully and fearlessly."

She looked up into his face, and he saw that she now recognized him as she answered in a whisper, "My husband. He is ill. I could only venture out after midnight to summon a physician who is known to us."

"Well," exclaimed Haillon, impatiently grinding the b.u.t.t of his gun on the pavement, "how long does it take to find out about an aristocrat?"

"She was going to summon a doctor to attend a sick father," said St.

Hilaire without looking at Haillon.

"Bah," growled the latter.

"Right behind us," continued St. Hilaire, in a very low voice, and looking into the countess' face earnestly to enforce his words, "is a pa.s.sageway that leads to the Rue d'Arcis."

Madame d'Arlincourt nodded. She understood.