Robert Tournay Part 27

"Well, go if you will, but understand, Tournay, that if you refuse to obey this summons, I will protect you. They shall bring no fict.i.tious charges against a trusted officer in my army without entering into a contest with me."

"I thank you again, my general, but I will not permit you to embroil yourself with the committee on my account. You are too indispensable to France. Now I will take the leave of absence you accord me. In ten days you may look for my return."

General Hoche shook his head as Tournay left his presence:--

"I fear it will be longer than that, my friend," he sighed to himself.

Colonel Tournay, accompanied by but one orderly, rode toward Paris. The feelings of pride and pleasure which his general's praise had raised in his heart were subdued by the humiliation at being summoned before the Committee of Public Safety. But there was a fire in his eye, and a hardening of the lines near the mouth which boded that he would not submit tamely to insult nor an unjust sentence.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SWORD OF ROCROY

Citizen St. Hilaire had just come in from making a few purchases at the baker's shop in the Rue des Mathurins. Shortly after dusk that evening he had recalled to mind that he was without the gill of cream for his next morning's coffee, and also that the small white loaf which formed a part of his breakfast was at that moment reposing crisp and warm on the counter of the baker's shop a few doors distant.

As Citizen St. Hilaire was very particular about his coffee and always liked to have a certain choice loaf that Jules, the baker in the Rue des Mathurins, made to perfection late every afternoon, he had braved the wind and rain of a stormy January evening, and gone out to procure his next morning's repast.

Returning to his small apartment at the top of the house, he threw off his wet cloak and was on the point of extracting from his pocket a little can of cream, when a knock sounded at the door of the chamber which served him for sitting-room, dining-room, and library. Putting the can upon the table, he took up a lamp and went to the door.

A young woman stood upon the threshold. She had evidently come in a carriage, for the costly clothes she wore were quite unspotted by the rain.

"This is Citizen St. Hilaire," she said in a tone of conviction as she stepped into the room.

St. Hilaire bowed and stepped back to place the lamp upon a small table near at hand, and stood waiting the further pleasure of his visitor.

As he stood within the circle of light, the young woman looked from him to his modest surroundings with marked curiosity, her eyes dwelling upon each object in the room in turn. It did not take long to note every piece of furniture; the table, arm-chair, a few books, the violin case in the corner, with a picture or two and a pair of rapiers upon the wall. When she had completed her survey of the room her gaze returned to him once more.

He was plainly dressed in a suit of dark brown color. His linen was exquisitely neat, and his figure was so elegant that although his coat was far from new, and of no exceptional quality, it became him as well as if it were of the most costly material.

"Will you be seated?" said St. Hilaire, drawing forward the arm-chair from its corner.

The young woman took the seat he offered her.

"And so you are Citizen St. Hilaire," she repeated as if the name interested. "I--I am Citizeness La Liberte. I remember you well," she continued; "I saw you a number of times, years ago, at the home of the Marquis de----But why mention his name? There are no more marquises in France, and he was a worthless creature," and she tossed back her head with a gesture of careless freedom.

"No," he repeated, "there are no more marquises," and with a laugh he seated himself opposite her. The sharp end of the crisp loaf in his pocket made him aware of its presence. He took it out and put it in its place upon the table beside the cream.

"The Republic has caused many strange changes, but I should never have dreamed of finding you here like this, Citizen St. Hilaire," and again she eyed him wonderingly.

"The Republic has done a great deal for you?" said St. Hilaire, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Everything," replied La Liberte with emphasis, while her eyes and the jewels on her bosom flashed upon him dazzlingly. Her look indicated that she thought the Revolution had not dealt so generously by him.

"It has done much for me too," said St. Hilaire.

"What good has it done you?" inquired La Liberte incredulously.

"It has taught me wisdom," he replied.

"Oh," she answered contemptuously, "it has brought me pleasure.

Therefore I love it. But you, Citizen St. Hilaire,--will you answer me a question?"

St. Hilaire bowed in acquiescence.

"Are you satisfied with this Republic? I know it is dangerous to speak slightingly of it in these days, but between us, with only the walls to hear, do you like it?"

"I am never satisfied with anything," replied St. Hilaire with just a touch of weariness in his voice.

"I should think that you would hate it. I should were I you," and La Liberte shook her brown curls with a laugh.

"Notwithstanding," said St. Hilaire, "I would not go back to the old regime."

"I do not understand you at all," exclaimed La Liberte in despair, with a puzzled look on her brow.

"Why try?" he asked dryly. "I have given it up myself. Tell me in what way I can serve you?"

"I have come here to do you a service," she answered. The room was warm, and as she spoke she threw her ermine-lined cloak over the back of the chair.

A slight trace of surprise showed itself upon Citizen St. Hilaire's face as he looked at her inquiringly.

She had evidently found the chair too large to sit in comfortably, for she perched herself upon its arm with one foot on the floor while she swung the other easily.

"That is extraordinary!'" he exclaimed. "It is a long time since any one has gone out of his way to do me a service. May I ask why you have done so?"

"Oh, I can hardly tell you why," she replied, tapping her boot heel against the side of the chair. It was a very dainty foot and clad in the finest chaussure to be found in Paris. "You were once kind to a friend of mine," she went on to say, slowly--"and I rather liked you--and so I have come to show you this." She put a slip of paper into his hand.

It was headed, "List for the fifteenth Pluviose." Then followed a score of names. St. Hilaire saw his own among them near the end.

The young woman watched him earnestly while he read it. The careless look had quite disappeared from her face, and given place to one of seriousness.

"It is a list of names," said St. Hilaire, turning the paper over and looking at the reverse side to see if it contained anything else. "And my name is honored by being among them. Where did it come from? What does it mean?"

"I picked it up," replied La Liberte. "I saw it lying on a table. I did not know the other names upon it and should never have touched it had I not seen your name. And I resolved that you should see it also, and be warned in time. But you have little time to spare. To-morrow is the fifteenth."

"Warned?" repeated St. Hilaire, "of what?"

"Every man whose name is upon that list will be arrested to-morrow. It may be in the morning, it may be during the day, it may be late at night. But it will surely be to-morrow. Oh! I have seen so many of those lists, and of late they are longer and more frequent."

"Whose handwriting is this?" inquired St. Hilaire, looking at critically.

"I dare not tell," said La Liberte in a low tone.

"As long as you have revealed so much, why not go a step further and make the information of greater value?" he insisted quietly.

"One of the committee, I dare not mention his name even here," and she looked around the room furtively. "One of the most powerful," she went on, in a very low tone, as if frightened at her own temerity. "Cannot you guess?"