Presently Charlot turned to La Boulaye, and for all that he uttered no word, his glance left nothing to be said.  In response to it Caron stirred at last, and came leisurely over to the table.

“A mouthful of wine, and I’m gone, Charlot,” said he in level, colourless tones, as taking up a flagon he filled himself a goblet.

“Fill for me, too,” cried the Captain; “aye, and for the Citoyenne here.  Come, my girl, a cup of wine will refresh you.”

But Suzanne shrank from the invitation as much as from the tenor of it and the epithet he had applied to her.  Observing this, he laughed softly.

“Oh!  As you will.  But the wine is good-from cellar of a ci-devant Duke.  My service to you, Citoyenne,” he pledged her, and raising his cup, he poured the wine down a throat that was parched by the much that he had drunk already, But ere the goblet was half-empty, a sharp, sudden cry from La Boulaye came to interrupt his quaffing.  He glanced round, and at what he saw he spilled the wine down his waistcoat, then let the cup fall to the ground, as with an oath he flung himself upon the girl.

She had approached the table whilst both men were drinking, and quietly possessed herself of a knife; and, but that it was too blunt to do the service to which she put it, Charlot’s intervention would have come too late.  As it was he caught her wrist in time, and in a rage he tore the weapon from her fingers, and flung it far across the room.

“So, pretty lady!” he gasped, now gripping both her wrists.  “So! we are suicidally inclined, are we!  We would cheat Captain Charlot, would we?  Fi donc!” he continued with horrid playfulness.  “To shed a blood so blue upon a floor so unclean!  Name of a name of a name!”

Accounting herself baffled at every point, this girl, who had hitherto borne herself so stoutly as to have stoically sought death as a last means of escape, began to weep softly.  Whereupon: 

“Nay, nay, little-woman,” murmured the Captain, in such accents as are employed to a petted child, and instinctively, in his intent to soothe he drew her nearer.  And now the close contact thrilled him; her beauty, and some subtle perfume that reached him from her, played havoc with his senses.  Nearer he drew her in silence, his face white and clammy, and his hot, wine laden breath coming quicker every second.  And unresisting she submitted, for she was beyond resistance now, beyond tears even.  From between wet lashes her great eyes gazed into his with a look of deadly, piteous affright; her lips were parted, her cheeks ashen, and her mind was dimly striving to formulate a prayer to the Holy Mother, the natural protectress of all imperilled virgins.

Nearer she felt herself drawn to her tormentor, in whose thoughts there dwelt now little recollection of the vengeful character of his purpose.  For a second her wrists were released; then she felt his arms going round her as the coils of a snake go round its prey.  With a sudden reassertion of self, with a panting gasp of horror, she tore herself free.  An oath broke from him as he sprang after her.  Then the unexpected happened.  Above his head something bright flashed up, then down.  There was a dull crack, and the Captain stopped short in his rush; his hands were jerked to the height of his breast, and like a pole-axed beast he dropped and lay prone at her feet.

Across his fallen body she beheld La Boulaye standing impassively, the ghost of a smile on his thin lips, and in his hand one of the heavy silver candlesticks from the table.

Whilst a man might count a dozen they stood so with no word spoken.  Then: 

“It was a cowardly blow, Citoyenne,” said the Deputy in accents of regret; “but what choice had I?” He set down the candlestick, and kneeling beside Charlot, he felt for the Captain’s heart.  “The door, Citoyenne,” he muttered.  “Lock it.”

Mechanically, and without uttering a word, she hastened to do his bidding.  As the key grated in the lock he rose.

“It has only stunned him,” he announced.  “Now to prepare an explanation for it.”

He drew a chair under the old brass lamp, that hung from the ceiling.  He mounted the chair, and with both hands he seized the chain immediately above the lamp.  Drawing himself up, he swung there for just a second; then the hook gave way, and amid a shower of plaster La Boulaye half-tumbled to the ground.

“There,” said he, as he dropped the lamp with its chain and hook upon the floor by Charlot.  “It may not be as convincing as we might wish, but I think that it will prove convincing enough to the dull wits of the landlady, and of such of Charlot’s followers as may enter here.  I am afraid,” he deplored, “that it will be some time before he recovers.  He was so far gone in wine that it needed little weight to fell him.”

Her glance met his once more, and she took a step towards him with hands outstretched.

“Monsieur, Monsieur!” she cried.  “If you but knew how in my thoughts I wronged you a little while ago.”

“You had all reason to,” he answered, taking her hands, and there came the least softening of his stern countenance.  “It grieved me to add to your affliction.  But had I permitted him to do so much as suspect that I was anything but your implacable enemy, I had no chance of saving you.  He would have dismissed me, and I must have obeyed or been compelled, for he is master here, and has men enough to enforce what he desires.”

And now she would have thanked him for having saved her, but he cut her short almost roughly.

“You owe me no thanks,” he said.  “I have but done for you what my manhood must have bidden me do for any woman similarly situated.  For to-night I have saved you, Citoyenne.  I shall make an effort to smuggle you and your mother out of Boisvert before morning, but after that you must help yourselves.”

“You will do this?” she cried, her eyes glistening.

“I will attempt it.”

“By what means, Monsieur Caron?”

“I do not yet know.  I must consider.  In the meantime you had best return to your coach.  Later to-night I shall have you and your mother brought to me, and I will endeavour to so arrange matters that you shall not again return to your carriage.

“Not return to it?” she exclaimed.  “But are we then to leave it here?”

“I am afraid there is no help for that.”

“But, Monsieur, you do not know; there is a treasure in that carriage.  All that we have is packed in it, and if we go without it we go destitute.”

“Better, perhaps, to go destitute than not to go at all, Mademoiselle.  I am afraid there is no choice for you.”

His manner was a trifle impatient.  It irritated him that in such a moment she should give so much thought to her valuables.  But in reality she was thinking of them inasmuch as they concerned her mother, who was below, and her father and brother who awaited them in Prussia, whither they had separately emigrated.  The impatience in his tone stung her into a feeling of resentment, that for the moment seemed to blot out the much that she owed him.  A reproachful word was trembling on her lips, when suddenly he put out his hand.

“Hist!” he whispered, the concentrated look of one who listens stamped upon his face.  His sharp ears had detected some sound which ­perhaps through her preoccupation ­she had not noticed.  He stepped quickly to the Captain’s side, and taking up the lamp by its chain, he leapt into the air like a clown, and came down on his heels with a thud that shook the chamber.  Simultaneously he dropped the lamp with a clatter, and sent a shout re-echoing through the house.

The girl stared at him with parted lips and the least look of fear in her eyes.  Was he gone clean mad of a sudden?

But now the sound which had warned him of someone’s approach reached her ears as well.  There were steps on the stairs, which at that alarming noise were instantly quickened.  Yet ere they had reached the top La Boulaye was at the door vociferating wildly.

Into the room came the hostess, breathless and grinning with anxiety, and behind her came Guyot, who, startled by the din, had hastened up to inquire into its cause.

At sight of the Captain stretched upon the floor there was a scream from Mother Capoulade and an oath from the soldier.

“Mon Dieu! what has happened?” she cried, hurrying forward.

“Miserable!” exclaimed La Boulaye, with well-feigned anger.  “It seems that your wretched hovel is tumbling to pieces, and that men are not safe beneath its roof.”  And he indicated the broken plaster and the fallen lamp.

“How did it happen, Citoyenne-deputy?” asked Guyot; for all that he drew the only possible inference from what he saw.

“Can you not see how it happened?” returned La Boulaye, impatiently.  “As for you, wretched woman, you will suffer for it, I promise you.  The nation is likely to demand a high price for Captain Charlot’s injuries.”

“But, bon Dieu, how am I to blame?” wailed the frightened woman.

“To blame,” echoed La Boulaye, in a furious voice.  “Are you not to blame that you let rooms in a crazy hovel?  Let them to emigres as much as you will, but if you let them to good patriots and thereby endanger their lives you must take the consequences.  And the consequences in this case are likely to be severe, malheureuse.”

He turned now to Guyot, who was kneeling by the Captain, and looking to his hurt.

“Here, Guyot,” he commanded sharply, “reconduct the Citoyenne to her coach.  I will perhaps see her again later, when the Captain shall have recovered consciousness.  You, Citoyenne Capoulade, assist me to carry him to bed.”

Each obeyed him, Guyot readily, as became a soldier, and the hostess trembling with the dread which La Boulaye’s words had instilled into her.  They got Charlot to bed, and when a half-hour or so later he recovered consciousness, it was to find Guyot watching at his bed-side.  Bewildered, he demanded an explanation of his present position and of the pain in his head, which brought him the memory of a sudden and unaccountable blow he had received, which was the last thing that he remembered.  Guyot, who had never for a moment entertained a doubt of the genuineness of the mise-en-scene La Boulaye had prepared, answered him with the explanation of how he had been struck by the falling lamp, whereupon Charlot fell to cursing lamps and crumblings with horrid volubility.  That done he would have risen, but that La Boulaye, entering at that moment, insisted that he should remain abed.

“Are you mad?” the Deputy expostulated, “or is it that you do not appreciate the nature of your hurt?  Diable!  I have known a man die through insisting to be about with a cracked skull that was as nothing to yours.”

“Name of a name!” gasped Charlot, who in such matters was profoundly ignorant and correspondingly credulous.  “Is it so serious?”

“Not serious if you lie still and sleep.  You will probably be quite well by to-morrow.  But if you move to-night the consequences may well be fatal.”

“But I cannot sleep at this hour,” the Captain complained.  “I am very wakeful.”

“We will try to find you a sleeping potion, then,” said La Boulaye.  “I hope the hosteen may have something that will answer the purpose.  Meanwhile, Guyot, do not allow the Captain to talk.  If you would have him well to-morrow, remember that it is of the first importance that he should have utter rest tonight.”

With that he went in quest of Dame Capoulade to ascertain whether she possessed any potion that would induce sleep.  He told her that the Captain was seriously injured, and that unless he slept he might die, and, quickened by the terror of what might befall her in such a case, the woman presently produced a small phial full of a brown, viscous fluid.  What it might be he had no notion, being all unversed in the mysteries of the pharmacopoeia; but she told him that it had belonged to her now defunct husband, who had always said that ten drops of it would make a man sleep the clock round.

He experimented on the Captain with ten drops, and within a quarter of an hour of taking the draught of red wine in which it was administered, Charlot’s deep breathing proclaimed him fast asleep.

That done, La Boulaye sent Guyot below to his post once more, and returning to the room in which they had supped, he paced up and down for a full hour, revolving in his mind the matter of saving Mademoiselle and her mother.  At last, towards ten o’clock, he opened the casement, and calling down to Guyot, as Charlot had done, he bade him bring the women up again.  Now Guyot knew of the high position which Caron occupied in the Convention, and he had seen the intimate relations in which he stood to Tardivet, so that unhesitatingly he now obeyed him.

La Boulaye closed the window, and crossed slowly to the fire.  He stirred the burning logs with his boot, then stood there waiting.  Presently the stairs creaked, next the door opened, and Guyot ushered in Mademoiselle.

“The elder citoyenne refuses to come, Citizen-deputy,” said the soldier.  “They both insisted that it was not necessary, and that the Citoyenne here would answer your questions.”

Almost on the point of commanding the soldier to return for the Marquise, Caron caught the girl’s eye, and her glance was so significant that he thought it best to hear first what motives she had for thus disobeying him.

“Very well,” he said shortly.  “You may go below, Guyot.  But hold yourself in readiness lest I should have need of you.”

The soldier saluted and disappeared.  Scarce was he gone when Mademoiselle came hurrying forward.

“Monsieur Caron,” she cried “Heaven is surely befriending us.  The soldiers are drinking themselves out of their wits.  They will be keeping a slack watch presently.”

He looked at her for a moment, fathoming the purport of what she said.

“But,” he demanded at last, “why did not the Marquise obey my summons, and accompany you?”

“She was afraid to leave the coach, Monsieur.  Moreover, she agreed with me that it would not be necessary.”

“Not necessary?” he echoed.  “But it is necessary.  When last you were here I told you I did not intend you should return to the coach.  This is my plan, Citoyenne.  I shall keep Guyot waiting below while you and your mother are fortifying yourselves by supper here.  Then I shall dismiss him with a recommendation that he keep a close watch upon the carriage, and the information that you will not be returning to it to-night.  A half-hour later or so, when things are quiet, I shall find a way out for you by the back, after which the rest must remain in your hands.  More I cannot do.”

“You can,” she cried; “you can.”

“If you will enlighten me,” said he, with the faintest touch of irony.

She looked at his stern, sardonic face and solemn grey eyes, and for a moment it almost seemed to her that she hated him more than anybody in the world.  He was so passionless, so master of himself, and he addressed her in a tone which, whilst it suggested that he accounted himself most fully her equal, made her feel that he was really her better by much.  If one of these two was an aristocrat, surely that one was the Citizen-deputy La Boulaye.

“If you had but the will you would do it, Monsieur,” she answered him.  “It is not mine to enlighten you; I know not how.”

“I have the very best will in the world, Citoyenne,” said he.  “Of that I think that I am giving proof.”

“Aye, the will to do nothing that will shame your manhood,” she rejoined.  “That is all you think of.  It was because your manhood bade you that you came to my rescue ­so you said when you declined my thanks.  It is this manhood of yours, I make no doubt, that is now prevailing upon you to deliver two unprotected women out of the hands of these brigands.”

“In Heaven’s name, Citoyenne,” quoth the astonished Deputy, “out of what sentiment would you have me act, and, indeed, so that I save you, how can it concern you by what sentiment I am prompted?”

She paused a moment before replying.  Her eyes were downcast, and some of the colour faded from her cheeks.  She came a step nearer, which brought her very close to him.

“Monsieur,” she faltered very shyly, “in the old days at Bellecour you would have served me out of other sentiments.”

He started now in spite of himself, and eyed her with a sudden gleam of hope, or triumph, or mistrust, or perhaps of all three.  Then his glance fell, and his voice was wistful.

“But the old days are dead, Mademoiselle.”

“The days, yes,” she answered, taking courage from his tone.  “But love Monsieur, is everlasting ­it never dies, they say.”

And now it was La Boulaye who drew closer, and this man who had so rigidly schooled himself out of all emotions, felt his breath quickening, and his pulses throbbing faster and faster.  To him it seemed that she was right, and that love never died ­for the love for her, which he believed he had throttled out of existence long ago, seemed of a sudden to take life as vigorously as ever.  And then it was as if some breeze out of the past bore to his nostrils the smell of the violets and of the moist earth of that April morning when she had repulsed him in the woods of Bellecour.  His emotion died down.  He drew back, and stood rigid before her.

“And if it were to live, Citoyenne,” he said ­the resumption of the Republican form of address showed that he had stepped back into the spirit as well as in the flesh “what manner of fool were I to again submit it to the lash of scorn it earned when first it was discovered?”

“But that belonged to the old days,” she cried, “and it is dead with the old days.’

“It is vain to go back, Citoyenne,” he cut in, and his voice rang harsh with determination.

She bit her lip under cover of her bent head.  If she had hated him before how much more did she not hate him now?  And but a moment back it had seemed to her that she had loved him.  She had held out her hands to him and he had scorned them; in her eagerness she had been unmaidenly, and all that she had earned had been humiliation.  She quivered with shame and anger, and sinking into the nearest chair she burst into a passion of tears.

Thus by accident did she stumble upon the very weapon wherewith to make an utter rout of all Caron’s resolutions.  For knowing nothing of the fountain from which those tears were springing, and deeming them the expression of a grief pure and unalloyed ­saving, perhaps, by a worthy penitence ­he stepped swiftly to her side.

“Mademoiselle,” he murmured, and his tone was as gentle and beseeching as it had lately been imperious.  “Nay, Mademoiselle, I implore you!”

But her tears continued, and her sobs shook the slender frame as if to shatter it.  He dropped upon his knees.  Scarcely knowing what he did, he set his arm about her waist in a caress of protection.

A long curl of her black, unpowdered hair lay against his cheek.

“Mademoiselle,” he murmured, and she took comfort at the soothing tone.

From it she judged him malleable now, that had been so stern and unyielding before.  She raised her eyes, and through her tears she turned their heavenly blue full upon the grey depths of his.

“You will not believe me, Monsieur,” she complained softly.  “You will not believe that I can have changed with the times; that I see things differently now.  If you were to come to me again as in the woods at Bellecour ­” She paused abruptly, her cheeks flamed scarlet, and she covered them with her hands.

“Suzanne!” he cried, seeking to draw those hands away.  “Is it true, this?  You care, beloved!”

She uncovered her face at last.  Again their eyes met.

“I was right,” she whispered.  “Love never dies, you see.”

“And you will marry me, Suzanne?” he asked incredulously.

She inclined her head, smiling through her tears, and he would have caught her to him but that she rose of a sudden.

“Hist!” she cried, raising her finger:  “someone is coming.”

He listened, holding his breath, but no sound stirred.  He went to the door and peered out.  All was still.  But the interruption served to impress him with the fact that time was speeding, and that all unsuspicious though Guyot might be as yet, it was more than possible that his suspicions would be aroused if she remained there much longer.

He mentioned this, and he was beginning to refer to his plan for their escape when she thrust it aside, insisting that they must depart in their coach, so that their treasure might also be saved.

“Be reasonable, Suzanne,” he cried.  “It is impossible.”

A cloud of vexation swept across her averted face.

“Nay, surely not impossible,” she answered.  “Listen, Caron, there are two treasures in that coach.  One is in money and in gold and silver plate; the other is in gems, and amounts to thrice the value of the rest.  This latter is my dowry.  It is a fortune with which we can quit France and betake ourselves wherever our fancy leads us.  Would you ask me to abandon that and come to you penniless, compelled thereby to live in perpetual terror in a country where at any moment an enemy might cast at me the word aristocrate, and thereby ruin me?”

There was no cupidity in La Boulaye’s nature, and even the prospect of an independent fortune would have weighed little with him had it not been backed by the other argument she employed touching the terror that would be ever with her did they dwell in France.

He stood deep in thought, his hand to his brow, thrusting back the long black hair from his white forehead, what time she recapitulated her argument.

“But how?” he exclaimed, in exasperation “Tell me how?”

“That is for you to discover, Caron.”

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and set himself to pace the chamber.  And now his fingers came in contact with something foreign.  Idly he drew it forth, and it proved to be the phial Mother Capoulade had given him, and from which he had poured the ten drops for the Captain’s sleeping potion.  His eyes brightened with inspiration.  Here was a tool whose possibilities were vast.  Then his brows were knit again.

“Wait,” he said slowly.  “Let me think.”