The Light That Lures

by Percy James Brebner

Once again the dawn found Raymond Latour seated by the table. No book lay open before him, he had not attempted to read. Last night he had gone to the rooms above, taking Sabatier with him. Sabatier forgot to swagger as he stood before Jeanne St. Clair, trying to look as steadily at her as she did at him. Then Sabatier had gone with a promise on his lips which he roundly swore to keep, and for a little while longer Latour remained with Jeanne. His face was calm when he left her, but Barrington might have retaliated and said there were tears in his eyes. Perchance it was the cold wind on the stairs, for the night was bitter, Latour wrapped himself in a thick coat when he went out, and turned his steps in the direction of the Conciergerie. It was near midnight when he returned home, but there was no sleep for him. So the dawn found him seated by the table. Again he felt cold and made himself coffee, but he was not excited. His plans were made. He was ready for the day and the work there was to do in it.

Yesterday the head of a king, a triumph surely to last for many days. Patriots might rest a little now. But Robespierre thought otherwise as he talked with Duplay, the cabinet maker, over the evening meal in the Rue St. Honoré; great-voiced Danton knew that this was a beginning, not an ending; and many other deputies were sure that having gone so far they must go further. There were other heads to offer to the guillotine, many others. The tumbrils must carry the daily food, and the stock of such food must not be allowed to run short. Many were condemned already; there were others waiting to be condemned; it would be well to get on with the work expeditiously. Trials took time, though, truly, they need not be long. There was one man waiting for whom nothing could be said. The aristocrat, Lucien Bruslart, who had posed as an honest citizen, yet had hidden an emigré in the city. Denounced by Citizeness Pauline Vaison, who was declared with one consent to be a true patriot, what hope could there be for him?

Yet this man found a strange advocate, no less a person than Raymond Latour. The prosecution was short and convincing; the president's bell sounded with a sense of finality in it; the women in the gallery were ready to jeer at the next prisoner; in this case of Bruslart there was no excitement at all. Then Raymond Latour rose, and the loud murmur of astonishment quickly fell into silence. They had often heard and applauded Deputy Latour; what was he doing here? There was going to be excitement after all.

Raymond Latour was an orator, rough and passionate at times, yet seldom failing to get into sympathy with his audience. He looked at the white-faced, cringing prisoner, and he hated him, yet on his behalf he spoke more eloquently than he had ever done before perhaps. A less powerful advocate would not have been listened to. Latour's words were hung upon and applauded at intervals. He could not deny the charges brought against the prisoner; he was an aristocrat, he had helped an emigré, but he was not the only aristocrat who had become a true and worthy patriot. He had done many things which deserved acknowledgment. His apartment had always been open to his fellows, he had helped many with his money and his influence. Birth had made him an aristocrat, but he had not fled from Paris; he had stayed to champion the people. That surely was in his favor, seeing how powerful an incentive he had for crossing the frontier—love. Of all the charges brought against him, there was only one which counted—that he had helped an emigré. Citizens might hiss, but ought they not first to understand who this emigré was? She was, to begin with, an emigré against her will. She had been forced to leave Paris by her friends, by the Marquise de Rovère. That was known to many who listened to him. Mademoiselle St. Clair was known personally to many. She had fed the hungry; she had cared for the poor. Had she remained in Paris, not a hand would have been raised against her, and if it had been, a thousand would have been raised in her defense. True, she had become an emigré; true, she had entered Paris by stealth, and that might require some explanation were he defending her, but he was only speaking for the man who had hidden her. They must remember all the circumstances. It was said that mademoiselle had heard that her lover was in danger, and had returned to help him. Every woman would appreciate her action, every woman who had loved; the prisoner finding her in danger had hidden her, could not every lover understand his doing so? Here was no conspiracy against the people but a romance, a tale of lovers, which some poet might well make a song of for all true lovers to sing. Certainly Lucien Bruslart was not deserving of death.

There was applause when Latour finished, but many hisses. A woman's voice cried out that it appeared as though Citizen Latour loved the emigré himself, and laughter and a nodding of heads greeted the sally. A man shouted that Deputy Latour had ceased to be a true patriot, or he would never have spoken for such a prisoner. There was uproar, silenced by the president's bell—a pause, then sentence:—Lucien Bruslart was condemned. No eloquence in the world could have saved him.

Raymond Latour found himself hustled as he left the building. It was remembered that he had voted against the death of the king, that he had been for delay. To-day had proved that he had sympathy for aristocrats and emigrés. Yet he was Deputy Latour, powerful in the Convention, powerful in many quarters of the city, a man who was only partially understood and therefore dangerous. Robespierre, it was whispered, feared him, and Danton had been heard to say that he was better as a friend than an enemy. Even the firebrand Hébert had dared to say little against him in his paper "Père Duchesne." Latour was keenly alive to the angry storm which threatened, but this was not the moment to face it. A few hours might turn storm to sunshine, or perchance increase the storm to a veritable cyclone against which no man could stand. He passed into the street and out of the crowd, his face firm set, unreadable. He showed no sign of fear, he seemed curiously indifferent to man's opinion of him. It was noted by some that he did not go in the direction of the Rue Valette, and when he had passed out of sight they told one another that there was a set purpose on the deputy's face. What purpose? He hurried presently, choosing narrow and deserted streets, as a man who carries a secret and does not wish to be seen.

Barrington had roused from a night of dreamless sleep, refreshed, ready for the new day which was already creeping into his cell. Would Jeanne decide to see him once more? Yes, he was convinced she would. He was glad to feel the new strength in him, for there must be no tears in his eyes at that meeting, only brave words on his lips and strong encouragement in his face. Surely that meeting would be to-day. Latour would not delay. Yet, what did he mean when he said it might be difficult?

He asked no questions when Mercier brought his breakfast. It was strange, after all that had happened, that he should trust Latour, yet he did. He could not help doing so when they had grasped hands first in the wine shop—how long ago that seemed!—he had done so yesterday when they had gripped hands across this little table. He was a strange mixture of good and evil, this Raymond Latour. What did he intend to do? Would he sacrifice Jeanne rather than lose her?

"I cannot guess," Barrington murmured to himself. "He probably thinks that Jeanne will marry him rather than see me sent to the guillotine. It is a hard test. How must I counsel her?"

The light which came through the high grating gradually grew less. The night was coming quickly. He was not to see Jeanne to-day, perhaps never again. The bravery of the early hours passed from him and a chill of despair was at his heart as he sat at the table, his face buried in his hands.