"It must be prevented; General Buonaparte must not enter Paris."
Again there was a moment's silence, followed by a sort of click. In his agitation at hearing these words, the unseen listener (St. Just) had touched the handle of his sword. Instantly he moved back noiselessly and stood within the window curtains out of sight. Those in the inner chamber started at the sound and, half drawing their swords, turned their eyes towards the door, with guilty fear.
Sotin was the first to speak. "See, the door in unlatched; perhaps the officer...." Then, seizing the door, he flung it open and peered forth. The lamp dimly burning left the outer room in gloom, but he crossed the floor and, going to the doorway opening on the corridor, looked up and down the passage. Nothing met his gaze, and all was silent, save for the distant murmuring of voices in the hall below. He drew back into the antechamber; then proceeded to one of the windows, the curtains of which he pulled aside. The light of the moon, for the night had cleared, streamed into the room, but no one was to be seen.
"Bah! it was my fancy," he muttered; then, shaking his head as though still doubtful of what had caused the noise, he returned to the inner room. "The wind, I suppose," he said, at the same time closing the door.
Once more St. Just breathed freely. "If he had moved this curtain," was his thought, "France might have lost her General."
Again he moved forward and placed his ear against the partition. The act was futile. Cautioned by their recent fright, the directors lowered their voices, so that only scraps of the conversation reached St. Just:—
"A band of men .... Kill post boys .... witnesses dangerous .... Above all .... Buonaparte .... Highwaymen ... common thing .... who's to know? ... Sad .... great loss ... Public funeral .... Minister of police .... Hand bills .... No success .... Make certain...."
At this point their further words became inaudible. Then the sound of a carriage entering the courtyard caught his ears, and he moved rapidly, but noiselessly, to the window, and looked out. Below him was a post chaise drawn by four horses. He stood for a moment wondering. Who on earth could have arrived at this unseasonable hour: Carnot, the Director? Augereau, his general?
The next instant he had left the window and passed through the doorway and downstairs. At the foot of the staircase the soldiers in the hall had been drawn up in line. Two or three servants, with torches in their hands, were standing on the steps, while a soldier was opening the carriage door. The postillions were covered with mud, the horses also, and reeking and steaming with sweat; and the whole appearance of the carriage showed it to have traveled far and fast. A slight, short man, with pale face and long, auburn hair, and with eyes, that, without appearing to do so, took in the whole scene at a glance, alighted from the carriage. His dress was plain and simple; white breeches thrust into top boots, and a long, dark blue coat with a high collar. Round his waist was a tricolored sash and, suspended from a belt beneath it, was a sword. He wore a cocked hat which, after he had returned the salute of the soldiers, he removed.
The moment the light from the torches fell upon his features, all was bustle and excitement.