Robert Tournay Part 49

"Ah, Edme," he said, "who am I to deserve such a love as yours? The thought of the risk you incur almost drives me mad. The knowledge of your love will make my last hours the happiest of my life."

"Do not speak of dying, Robert," she said. "There must still be hope.

They dare not condemn you."

The words, "You do not know," sprang to his lips, but the look upon her face told him that she was as yet in ignorance of his sentence. He lacked the courage to tell her.

"It must come, Edme; we should not be blind to that. I would gladly live, if only long enough to see France freed from the talons that rend it, and the true Republic rise from under the tyranny that is crus.h.i.+ng it to death. I would gladly live for your love, a love I never dared to hope for either on earth or in heaven. Surely I ought to be the happiest of men to have tasted such bliss even for a moment; and to die with the firm belief that we shall meet beyond the grave."

She did not answer. The quick heaving of her bosom and the quiet sobbing she struggled to suppress went to his heart.

"Do not grieve for me so much," he whispered, drawing her to him; "after all, it will only be for a little while."

"For you who go the time may seem short," she answered mournfully; "but each year that I live without you will seem an eternity. I cannot bear it."

"Courage, dear one, I beseech you; do not grieve for me. Why, I might have met death any day within the past years. I have come to regard it with indifference. Not that I despise life," he added quickly. "Life with you would be more than heaven, but the very nature of a soldier's life makes him look upon his own sudden death as almost a probability.

It is but a pang, and all is over."

"I will not grieve for you, Robert," she replied with firmness, "not while there is something to be done. Something that I can do. They shall not murder you."

"What are you going to do?" he asked quickly, fearing that some rash undertaking had suggested itself to her mind.

"This Robespierre rules through the fear he has inspired, but he is hated," replied Edme. "The people accept his decrees like sheep, but they obey sullenly. They do not criticise him, but that bodes him the greater ill. It needs but one blast to make the whole nation turn against him. There must be men in the convention who are ready to rebel against him," she continued, talking rapidly. "I shall go to them."

"No, Edme, you shall not. It would be"--

"Listen to what I have to say," she said, interrupting him with an imperative gesture. "I shall find them out; I shall go to their houses.

It needs but a little fire; I will kindle it. I will plead with them. If they have any regard for their Republic they will listen to me. Your name, Robert, shall not be mentioned, but it will be my love for you that shall speak to them. In the name of the Republic I shall plead with them, but it will be only to save you. If they have any courage or manhood left, they will accept now."

Robert Tournay looked at her with wonder and admiration as, with a flush of excitement on her cheek, she outlined clearly and rapidly a plan strikingly similar to that evolved by St. Hilaire and himself,--similar, but more daring, more impossible; one that could not fail to be disastrous to her, whatever the ultimate result.

For a moment he feared to speak, knowing the inflexibility of her will.

"I pray you, Edme, abandon your design. It will only drag you into the net and will not avail me."

"Robert, my mind is fixed; my action may result in saving you, but if not, your fate shall be mine also."

"Edme! Do not speak thus. The thought of you standing on that scaffold, the terrible knife menacing your beautiful neck, will drive me mad. Oh, the horror of it!" and he put his hand before his eyes and trembled.

"Promise me that you will not do this," he continued pleadingly.

"Robespierre's power will come to an end, but the time is not yet ripe.

Do not try to save my life. Do not even try to see me again." He took her head between his hands. "Let this be our last adieu," he pleaded.

"Listen! the turnkey is advancing down the pa.s.sageway. I touch your lips; the memory of it shall dwell in my soul forever."

She threw her arms about his neck for a moment, then before the heavy turnkey entered the inclosure she had pa.s.sed quickly along the dark corridor through the wicket gate into the Tribunal Hall.

The chamber was dimly lighted by two smoky oil lamps, one on each side of the room; but they gave out enough light to enable her to see the way between the desks and chairs toward the door through which she had first entered from the street.

Edme turned the handle of the door but could not open it. It had been locked on the outside. She ran to one of the front windows. By the faint light in the Rue Barillerie, she could discern an occasional pa.s.ser-by.

With an effort she raised the heavy sash and leaned out. It was between eight and nine o'clock, and the small street was very quiet. The few pedestrians were already out of hearing, and had they been nearer she would have feared to call out to them. She looked down at the pavement.

The height was twenty feet; she closed the window with a shudder.

Looking about the room she saw, what had before escaped her notice, a ray of light coming through the crack of a door into an adjoining room.

A number of voices in conversation was audible. She resolved to play again the part of Citizeness Privat. Whoever might be there, when he learned that she had been accidentally locked in while at work, would show her the way out.

The door opened wider, and a man came forth. Edme, who had hastily taken up the same broom she had before used, pretended to be at work, while she summoned her self-possession. The man gave her no more than a casual glance as he went to a table, took out from a drawer a bundle of papers, and proceeded to look them over.

Edme looked at him closely, sweeping all the while. Her first apprehension was quieted when she saw he was a very young man with rosy cheeks and a pen behind his ear. He was evidently one of the government clerks, staying late at the office to finish some piece of work.

She breathed more freely every moment notwithstanding the amount of dust she raised. The clerk put the bundle of papers under his arm with a gesture of annoyance, and went back to the other room.

Edme waited a few minutes, put the broom under her arm, and approached the door which the clerk had left ajar. She could not help starting as she read the large letters on the panel of the door. The room which contained the apple-faced and harmless looking little scribe was designated "Chamber of Death Warrants."

"Here's a pretty state of affairs, Clement," she heard a voice exclaim in a tone of annoyance. "The list of warrants for 'La Force' to-morrow consists of thirty-seven names while I have only thirty-six doc.u.ments."

"Count them again, Hanneton; you know at school you were always slow at figures."

"I have compared the warrants with the list of names twice most carefully. I a.s.sure you one warrant is missing. See for yourself, '_Bonnefoi, Charles de, ex-n.o.ble_' is on the list, but there is not a single Bonnefoi among to-morrow's pile of warrants."

"Have you looked through those of day after to-morrow?"

"I have, both of the day after to-morrow and the day following that. In fact, I have gone over all the warrants for all the prisoners, but still no _Bonnefoi, Charles de, ex-n.o.ble_."

"Lucky for Bonnefoi!"

"But unlucky for me. I shall be discharged if I let these go out this way."

"I tell you what to do," said Clement, "take one from the day after to-morrow. They are in too great a hurry in the office these days to compare the lists; they just see if the number tallies, and send off the warrants to the keepers of the various prisons."

"But if I do that I shall still be one short, day after to-morrow."

"No you will not," replied the facile Clement; "you just take one from the day following that, and so on and so forth. You merely keep the thing going. Your lists and warrants will agree as to number every day.

No question arises, and the only result is that some fellow gets shoved along under the national razor just twenty-four hours earlier than he would have, had not some one,--I won't say named Hanneton,--but some one who shall be nameless, made a little blunder."

"I rather dislike to do such a thing, Clement."

"Oh, Hanneton, my boy, I always said you were slow. What's twenty-four hours to a man who has got to die anyway? and then think of Bonnefoi; he'll be overlooked for a long time. Some of those fellows among the aristocracy have been in prison two or three years already. They get to like it and lead quite a jolly life there. I am told they have fine times in some of the prisons. Bonnefoi will be wondering why they don't come to shave him, but he won't say anything. Bonnefoi won't peep. You can count on his silence."

"But my friend Clement, it will be discovered some day."

"Well, I can't look ahead so far as that. If you are found out you can say you made a mistake. They can't any more than discharge a man for making a mistake."

"I'll do it, Clement. Here goes--good luck to Bonnefoi."

"And good luck to the fellow you shove ahead in his place; we'll drink an extra gla.s.s to him when we finish work to-night. Let's see what may his name be."

"'_Tournay, Robert, former Colonel!_' h.e.l.lo, what's that?" cried Clement, interrupting him.

"I did not hear anything," replied Hanneton.

"The sound seemed to come from the next room."