"The woman appeals to me in a curious way," Latour answered. "After all, what is she? A little fish out of a great shoal. I would net in the shoal. It is not difficult with this little fish for bait. Do you not see how it is? This little fish is precious to the shoal, and lost, the shoal, or part of it, at any rate, will turn to find her. So long as it is known that she lives, there will be other emigrés stealing into Paris to look for Mademoiselle St. Clair."
"You are right. Delay will be wise," was the answer.
"Urge it, then," said Latour, with gleaming, sinister eyes. "Urge it. You are the keepers of prisoners and should know best when to spare and when to kill. It is not my business, and I have a name for gentleness in some matters, a reputation which it suits me to preserve, but I am bloodthirsty enough to give you good advice."
Latour knew how swift revolutionary justice was sometimes. It might be only a matter of hours between mademoiselle and the guillotine. He had counseled delay, confident that these men would counsel it in their turn, and take to themselves the credit for so excellent an idea.
He had other business as he passed along the corridor of the prison, a jest with the red-capped turnkey concerning the pretty birds he tended so lovingly.
"Some of them sing even, citizen," answered the man, with a great, coarse laugh. "Shall I show you some of my pets? You may not have another opportunity."
"I do not understand birds."
"Will you not look at the new one caught only to-day?"
"Ah, the aristocrat! I had forgotten her. Where is she caged?"
"Yonder, a small cage, and with three others not of her breed. She does not sing, citizen, she scolds. I tell you she has some strange oaths and curses at her tongue tip, and mingles them curiously with prayers for deliverance."