In the excitement that followed on the disclosure of the Chouan leader's news, de Guichard, now speeding citywards, was forgotten. And, on the morrow, while the other conspirators yet lingered, and St. Just was hastening to Ettenheim, with a letter for the ill-fated Duc d'Enghein, urging him to join the cause, the traitor de Guichard was being borne across the channel, as fast as ship could take him, to France and Buonaparte.
CHAPTER VIII.
A long stretch of road wound its way along, until it was lost in the distance in a thin white thread. At intervals at both sides were wooden pillars painted in the national colors of Baden. Not far away, a broad river swept along, following the same course as the road.
Moving along the road in silence, was a squadron of dragoons, at their head a stern-faced officer; but between him and it, two closely-guarded carriages.
In the first was seated St. Just, and by his side an older man, whom the former had just addressed as General Dumouriez, opposite to them sat two soldiers, their guards. In the second carriage was a young man of refined appearance, whose countenance, at this moment, was racked with anguish.
"My wife, my poor wife!" he murmured.
The sun was rising on the 15th of March, 1804.
* * * * *
Within the narrow walls of a square-chamber, which was bare of furniture, save for a common wooden table, a man was seated on a rudely constructed stool. His face could not be seen, for it was hidden in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His whole attitude bespoke despair—despair that was well-founded, for he was waiting, waiting hopelessly, for the death he felt was close at hand.
It was St. Just, and he was immured in the fortress of Vincennes.