For Love of a Bedouin Maid

by Voleur

The machine prepared, the next thing was to select a place for its employment; and in this the plotters would be guided either by the public announcements or by the information privately conveyed to them of the First Consul's intended movements.

Meanwhile St. Just awaited his instructions.

Lest he should be recognized—for he had abandoned his idea for the present of reporting himself to the military authorities—he was now posing to the outside world as a doctor come to Paris, not to practice, but to study. His appearance was so changed that none of his old acquaintances would have known him. His former dark locks were now cut close to the head, and by the aid of chemicals had assumed a light brown hue, and the once clean-shaven, resolutely moulded mouth and chin were now concealed under a mustache and beard to match his hair. His clothes were of a sober cut and color to suit his professional assumption, and his gait was slow and measured. Carrying the conventional silver-headed stick, and with serious mien, and apparently immersed in grave reflection, he moved about the crowded streets; no one of all the thoughtless, laughter-loving Parisians, who differed little at that time from what they are to-day, would have dreamed that he was aught but what he seemed, a sober citizen, on lawful business bent.

On a certain afternoon in the expiring year, just when it was growing dusk, St. Just received instructions to repair to the appointed spot, and perform his part in the dastardly conspiracy.

Now, though, from day to day, he had held himself in readiness for such directions as he had now received, when the news came to him that the time for action had actually arrived, he felt almost stunned, and shrank with horror from the performance of the deed imposed on him. For all that, he knew that there was no evading it; the hour for backing out was past; any treachery to his comrades, or even a mere refusal to play his part would, he was convinced, result in retribution that would cost his life. True, that, in executing the conspirators' behests, he would be placing that life in serious jeopardy; but this was preferable to the certainty of losing it.

He set out from his apartment on his murderous errand, with dragging footsteps and a heavy heart. No one, to look at him, would have guessed that, under that calm exterior, there raged a tumult of emotions. He recalled the memory of his campaigns under the great general on whose destruction he was bent, and his feet faltered. He felt he could not go through with what was ordered. For a moment, a wild idea took hold of him to retrace his steps and, at all hazards, to make his way to the Tuileries and acquaint his old commander with his impending danger. He stopped and turned half round. Then the thought of what would be the consequence, the certainty that those he had betrayed would track him down and take his life, no matter how or where he tried to hide himself, restrained him from acting upon his half formed purpose. With a despairing sigh he resumed his progress to the rendezvous, the conflict being waged within him almost tearing him to pieces.

But, for all the tempest of his mind, he was careful how he held his silver-headed stick, keeping it as nearly perpendicular as he could, and never letting it touch anybody or anything except the ground; for, innocent as it appeared, it contained the potentiality of destruction. The upper half of it was hollowed out and held at the bottom a powerful acid. Above this, but separated from it, and concealed under the silver knob, was a subtle chemical. When the knob should be unscrewed and the stick sufficiently inclined, the acid would come into contact with this chemical and ignite it; on touching with this the fuse in the supposed water cart, the explosion would follow in due course.

Presently he came to a broad thoroughfare, and, once more, he halted, undecided. To his left lay the way to the Tuileries, the way to honor, pardon, and—death! To the right, that to the Opera House, whither the carriage of the First Consul would shortly pass—the way to dishonorable revenge and Halima, and, if the scheme should prove successful—Life!

His indecision was but momentary, he chose the turning to the right; it was the crisis of his career. A hollow, scornful laugh broke from him at the reflection that, should the explosion be successful, there would be no performance at the opera that night. On the other hand, should it result in a fiasco, Paris would, on the morrow, be engaged in the performance of a "Dies Iræ," in which he and his associates would be taking leading parts.

He had scarcely started afresh, after his temporary pause, when a beggar who was tapping the ground in front of him with a stick, as though blind, shoved against him. At the same moment St. Just felt something pressed into his palm. Muttering an apology, the beggar dived into the crowd and disappeared.