The Light That Lures

by Percy James Brebner

"You shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. To-morrow I will do myself the honor of visiting you to tell you how he met his punishment—his death."

It was not boastfully said. The Vicomte was one of the most accomplished swordsmen in France.

Within an hour Jeanne St. Clair had left Beauvais.

All this came back to her most vividly as she sat alone in that upper room of the Lion d'Or. In what manner had Richard Barrington taken his punishment? She despised him for his mean deceit; by her direction he had been punished; yet with the knowledge that he was a scoundrel came the conviction that he was a brave man. The scene in that round chamber took shape again. It was curious how completely she remembered his attitude, his words, his manner, his looks; and not these only, but also the something new in her life, the awakening of an interest that she had never before experienced. It was not his mission which aroused it, it was not the man himself; it was only that, coincident with his coming, some secret chamber of her soul had been unlocked, and in it were stored new, dreams, new thoughts, new ambitions. They were added to the old, not given in exchange for them, but they had helped her to appreciate the man's position when he found the star was iron instead of gold, they had helped her to believe his tale. Her short interview with this man had suddenly widened her view of life, the horizon of her existence had expanded into a wider circle; this expansion remained, although the man had deceived her. In spite of that deceit there was something in this Richard Barrington to admire, and she was glad she had demanded that his punishment should be administered by gentlemen, not by lackeys. Certainly he was not a coward, and no doubt he had met his death as a brave man should. This train of thought was repeated over and over again, and always there came a moment when out of vacancy the man's face seemed to turn to her and their eyes met. She had not the power to look away. There was something he would compel her to understand, yet for a long while she could not. Then suddenly she knew. This surely was a vision. The spirit of the dead man had come to her. Why? Jeanne muttered a prayer, and with the prayer came a question: had she been justified in sending this man to his death?

When the vision finally passed from her she could not tell; whether she had fallen asleep in her chair she could not tell; but coming to full consciousness that she was alone in a mean room of a tavern on the Soisy road, the question still hammered in her brain as though it would force an answer from her. Was it only her loneliness and the shadows creeping into the room which brought doubts crowding into her mind? This friend of Lucien's, this Monsieur Mercier, what real guarantee had she of his honesty? He had brought her the gold star. It seemed a sufficient answer, but doubts are subtle and have many arguments. Why should she believe his story rather than Barrington's? Might not Mercier have been the thief? They were within a few miles of Paris. They had arrived at the Lion d'Or early in the day, why had they not pressed on to Paris? Their safety demanded patience, Mercier had said. Was this true? Was this the real reason for the delay?

The shadows increased, even the corners of this narrow room grew dim and dark. There was the sound of distant laughter, loud, coarse, raucous, many voices talking together, a shouted oath the only word distinguishable. Was this place, crowded with so-called patriots, safer for her than Paris? She started to her feet, suddenly urged to action. What was Monsieur Mercier doing?

She crossed the room and opened her door quietly. The passage without was dark save for a blur of light at the end where the top of the staircase was. Walking on tiptoe, she went toward this light. She would at least make an effort to discover how her companions were engaged.

From the top of the stairs she could see nothing, nor was it a safe place, for the light fell on her there. She crept down the stairs which were in darkness until she could see into the room from which the noise came. Even when bending down and looking through the banisters she could only see a part of the room. There were more visitors than chairs and benches, some sat on casks standing on end, and by way of applause at some witty sally or coarse joke, pounded the casks with their heels until the din was almost deafening. At a table upon which were many bottles, one or two of them broken, sat Monsieur Mercier and his comrade Dubois, both in the first stages of intoxication when men are pleased to have secrets and grow boastful.

"There's going to be good news for you, citizens," Mercier hiccoughed. "I've done great things, and this good fellow has helped me."

Dubois smiled stupidly.