Facts proved how correct had been La Boulaye’s anticipations of the course that Cecile would adopt, Within a half-hour of his having quitted the house of Billaud Varennes, she presented herself there, and demanded to see the Deputy.  Upon being told that he was absent she determined to await his return.

And so, for the matter of an hour, she remained in the room where the porter had offered her accommodation, fretting at the delay, and only restrained from repairing to some other member of the Convention by the expectation that the next moment would see Varennes arrive.  Arrive he did at last, when her patience was all but exhausted, and excitedly she told her tale of what had taken place.  Varennes listened gravely, and cross-questioned her in his unbelief ­for it seemed, indeed, monstrous that a man of La Boulaye’s position should ruin so promising a future as was his by an act for which Varennes could not so much as divine a motive.  But her story hung together so faithfully, and was so far borne out by the fact that Varennes himself had indeed signed such a document as she described, that in the end the Deputy determined to take some steps to neutralise the harm that might have been done.

Dismissing the girl with the assurance that the matter should have his attention, he began by despatching a courier to Robespierre at Chartres ­where he knew the Incorruptible to be.  That done, he resorted to measures for La Boulaye’s detention.  But this proved a grave matter.  What if, after all, that half-hysterical girl’s story should be inaccurate?  In what case would he find himself if, acting upon it in the meantime, he should order Caron’s arrest?  The person of a Deputy was not one to be so lightly treated, and he might find himself constrained to answer a serious charge in consequence.  Thus partly actuated by patriotism and the fear of Robespierre, and partly restrained by patriotism and the fear of La Boulaye, he decided upon a middle course:  that of simply detaining La Boulaye at his lodging until Robespierre should either return or send an answer to his message.  Thus, whilst leaving him perfect freedom of movement within his own apartments, he would yet ensure against his escape so that should Robespierre demand him he could without difficulty be produced.

To this end he repaired with a sous-lieutenant and six men to La Boulaye’s house in the Rue Nationale, intending to station the soldiers there with orders not to allow the Deputy to go out, and to detain and question all who sought admittance to him.  He nourished the hope that the ci-devant Vicomte might still be with La Boulaye.  At the Rue Nationale, however, he was to discover that neither Deputy nor aristocrat was to be found.  Brutus informed him that he was expecting the Citizen La Boulaye, but beyond that he would say nothing, and he wisely determined to hold his peace touching the valise that he had been ordered to pack and the fact that he knew the Deputy meditated leaving Paris.  Brutus had learnt the value of silence, especially when those who sought information were members of the Convention.

Alarmed at this further corroboration of Cecile’s story of treachery Varennes left the military at Caron’s house, with orders not to allow the Deputy to again depart if in the meantime he should happen to return, whilst to every barrier of Paris he sent instructions to have La Boulaye detained if he should present himself.  By these measures he hoped still to be able to provide against the possibility of Caron’s seeking to leave Paris.

But Caron had been gone over an hour, and as a matter of fact, he was back again in Paris within a very little time of these orders having been issued.  At the Barriere d’Enfer, although recognised, he was not molested, since the orders only, and distinctly, concerned his departure and nowise his arrival.

Thus, not until he had reached his lodgings did he realise that all was not as he had hoped.  And even then it was only within doors that he made the discovery, when he found himself suddenly confronted by the sous-lieutenant, who was idling in the passage.  The officer saluted him respectfully, and no less respectfully, though firmly, informed him that, by order of the Citizen-deputy Billaud Varennes, he must ask him to confine himself to his own apartments until further orders.

“But why, Citizen-officer?” La Boulaye demanded, striving to exclude from his voice any shade of the chagrin that was besetting him.  “What do these orders mean?”

The officer was courtesy personified, but explanations he had none to give, for the excellent reason, he urged that he was possessed of none.  He was a soldier, and he had received orders which he must obey, without questioning either their wisdom or their justice.  Appreciating the futility of bearing himself otherwise, since his retreat was already blocked by a couple of gendarmes, Caron submitted to the inevitable.

He mounted leisurely to his study, and the ruin that stared him in the eyes was enough to have daunted the boldest of men.  Yet, to do him justice, he was more concerned at the moment with the consequences this turn of affairs might have for Mademoiselle than with his own impending downfall.  That he had Cecile to thank for his apprehension he never doubted.  Yet it was a reflection that he readily dismissed from his mind.  In such a pass as he now found himself none but a weakling could waste time and energy in bewailing the circumstances that had conspired to it.  In a man of La Boulaye’s calibre and mettle it was more befitting to seek a means to neutralise as much as possible the evil done.

He called Brutus and cross-questioned him regarding the attitude and behaviour of the soldiery since their coming.  He learnt that nothing had been touched by them, and that they were acting with the utmost discreetness, taking scrupulous care not to exceed the orders they had received, which amounted to detaining La Boulaye and nothing more.

“You think, then, that you might come and go unmolested?” he asked.

“I think that I might certainly go.  But whether they would permit me to return once I had left, I cannot say.  So that they will let you pass out, that is all that signifies at the moment,” said Caron.  “Should they question you, you can tell them that you are going to dine and to fetch me my dinner from Berthon’s.  As a matter of fact, I shall want you to go to Choisy with a letter, which you must see does not fall into the hands of any of these people of the Convention.”

“Give me the letter, Citizen, and trust me to do the rest,” answered the faithful Brutus.

La Boulaye searched a drawer of his writing-table for the blank passport he required.  Having found it, he hesitated for a moment how to fill it in.  At last he decided, and set down three names ­Pierre, Francois, and Julie Michael, players, going to Strasbourg ­to which he added descriptions of himself, the Vicomte, and Mademoiselle.  He reasoned that in case it should ultimately prove impossible for him to accompany them, the passport, thus indited, would still do duty for the other two.  They could easily advance some excuse why the third person mentioned was not accompanying them.  From this it will be seen that La Boulaye was far from having abandoned hope of effecting his escape, either by his own resourcefulness or by the favour of Robespierre himself, whose kindness for him, after all, was a factor worth reckoning upon.

To Mademoiselle he now wrote as follows: 

I am sending you the laissez-passer filled in for the three of us.  I am unfortunately unable to bring it myself as my abstraction of the order of release has already been discovered, and I am being detained pending the arrival of Robespierre.  But I am at my own lodging, and I have every hope that, either by the use of my own wit, or else by the favour of my friend Robespierre, I shall shortly be able to join you.  I would therefore ask you to wait a few days.  But should I presently send you word not to do so any longer, or should you hear of events which will render it impossible for me to accompany you, you can then set out with Ombreval, travelling under the guise described in the passport, and informing any questioners that the other person mentioned has been forced by ill health to interrupt his journey.  As I have said, I have every hope of winning through my present difficulties; but should I fail to do so, my most earnest prayer will be that you may make your way out of France in safety, and that lasting happiness may be your lot in whatever country you may elect to settle.  You may trust the bearer implicitly, patriotic though he may appear.

He subscribed the letter with his initials, and, having enclosed the passport and sealed the package, he gave it to Brutus, with the most minute instructions touching its delivery.

These instructions Brutus carried out with speed and fidelity.  He was allowed to quit the house without so much as a question, which left his plan for readmittance the greater likelihood of succeeding.  In something less than an hour ­for he hired himself a horse at the nearest post-house ­he had delivered his letter to Mademoiselle at Choisy.

Its contents sowed in her heart the very deepest consternation ­a consternation very fully shared by the Vicomte.

“Tenez!” he exclaimed, when he had read it.  “Perhaps now you will admit the justice of my plaint that you did not make a simple purchase of my liberty, as I counselled you, instead of entering into this idiotic compact with that sans-culotte.”

She looked at him a moment in silence.  She was suffering as it was at the very thought that La Boulaye’s life might be in danger in consequence of what he had done for her.  With reluctance had she accepted the sacrifice of his career which he had made to serve her.  Now that it became the question of a sacrifice of life as well she was dismayed.  All the wrongs that she and hers had done that man seemed to rise up and reproach her now.  And so, when presently she answered the Vicomte, it was no more than natural that she should answer him impatiently.

“I thought, Monsieur, that we had already discussed and settled that?”

“Settled it?” he echoed, with a sneer.  “It seems none so easy to settle.  Do you think that words will settle it.”

“By no means,” she answered, her voice quivering.  “It seems as if a man’s life will be required for that.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and his face put on a look of annoyance.

“I hope, Mademoiselle, that you are not proposing to introduce sentimentality.  I think you would be better advised to leave that vulgarity to the vulgar.”

“I do not propose to pursue the discussion at all, Monsieur,” was her chilly answer.

“The way of woman,” he reflected aloud.  “Let her find that she is being worsted in argument, and she calmly tells you that she has no mind to pursue it.  But, Mademoiselle, will you tell me at least what you intend?”

“What do I intend?” she questioned.  “What choice have we?”

“Whenever we are asked to follow a given course, we have always the choice between two alternatives,” he theorised.  “We can comply, or not comply.”

“In the present instance I am afraid your rule is inapplicable.  There is no room for any alternative.  We can do nothing but wait.”

She looked at him impatiently, and wearily she sank on to a chair.

“Monsieur,” she said, as calmly as might be, “I am almost distracted by my thoughts as it is.  I don’t know whether you are seeking to complete the rout of my senses.  Let me beg of you at least not to deal in riddles with me.  The time is ill-chosen.  Tell me bluntly what is in your mind, if, indeed, anything.”

He turned from her peevishly, and crossed to the window.  The twilight was descending, and the little garden was looking grey in the now pallid light.  Her seeming obtuseness was irritating him.

“Surely, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed at last, “it is not necessary that I should tell you what other course is open to us?  It is a matter for our choice whether we depart at once.  We have a passport, and ­and, enfin, every hour that we remain here our danger is increased, and our chances of escape are lessened.”

“Ah!” She breathed the syllable contemptuously.  “And what of La Boulaye?”

“Pooh! he says himself that he is in no great danger.  He is among his fellows.  Leave him to extricate himself.  After all, it is his fault that we are here.  Why should we endanger our necks by waiting his convenience?”

“But surely you forget what he has done for us.  You are forgetting that he has rescued you from the guillotine, dragged you out of the very jaws of death.  Do you think that to forsake him now would be a fair, an honest return?”

“But name of a name,” rasped the Vicomte, “does he not say that he is far from despairing?  His position is not half so dangerous as ours.  If we are taken, there will be an end of us.  With him matters are far from being so bad.  He is one of the rabble himself, and the rabble will look after its own.”

She rose impatiently.

“Monsieur, I am afraid the subject is not one that we may profitably discuss.  I shall obey the voice of my conscience in the matter, and I shall wait until we hear again from La Boulaye.  That is the message I am about to return him by his servant.”

The Vicomte watched her fling out of the room, and his weak face was now white with anger.  He rapped out an oath as he turned to the window again.

“Mad!” he muttered, through-set teeth.  “Mad as a sun-struck dog.  The troubles she has lately seen have turned her head ­never a difficult matter with a woman.  She talks as if she had been reading Rousseau on the ‘Right of man’.  To propose to endanger our lives for the sake of that scum, La Boulaye!  Ciel!  It passes belief.”

But it was in vain that he was sullen and resentful.  Suzanne’s mind entertained no doubt of what she should do, and she had her way in the matter, sending back Brutus with the message that she would wait until La Boulaye communicated with her again.

That night Caron slept tranquilly.  He had matured a plan of escape which he intended to carry out upon the morrow, and with confident hope to cradle him he had fallen asleep.

But the morrow ­early in the forenoon ­brought a factor with which he had not reckoned, in the person of the Incorruptible himself.  Robespierre had returned in hot haste to Paris upon receiving Varennes’ message, and he repaired straight to the house of La Boulaye.

Caron was in his dressing-gown when Robespierre was ushered into his study, and the sight of that greenish complexion and the small eyes, looking very angry and menacing, caused the song that the young man had been humming to fade on his lips.

“You, Maximilien!” he exclaimed.

“Your cordial welcome flatters me,” sneered the Incorruptible, coming forward.  Then with a sudden change of voice:  “What is that they tell me you have done, miserable?” he growled.

It would have been a madness on Caron’s part to have increased an anger that was already mounting to very passionate heights.  Contritely, therefore, and humbly he acknowledged his fault, and cast himself upon the mercy of Robespierre.

But the Incorruptible was not so easily to be shaken.

“Traitor that you are!” he inveighed.  “Do you imagine that because it is yours to make high sounding speeches in the Convention you are to conspire with impunity against the Nation?  Your loyalty, it seems, is no more than a matter of words, and they that would keep their heads on their shoulders in France to-day will find the need for more than words as their claim to be let live.  If you would save your miserable neck, tell me what you have done with this damned aristocrat.”

“He is gone,” answered La Boulaye quietly.

“Don’t prevaricate, Caron!  Don’t seek to befool me, Citizen-deputy.  You have him in hiding somewhere.  You can have supplied him with no papers, and a man may not travel out of France without them in these times.  Tell me ­where is he?”

“Gone,” repeated La Boulaye.  “I have set him free, and he has availed himself of it to place himself beyond your reach.  More than that I cannot tell you.”

“Can you not?” snarled Robespierre, showing his teeth.  “Of what are you dreaming fool?  Do you think that I will so easily see myself cheated of this dog?  Did I not tell you that rather would I grant you the lives of a dozen aristocrats than that of this single one?  Do you think, then, that I am so lightly to be baulked?  Name of God?  Who are you, La Boulaye, what are you, that you dare thwart me in this?” He looked at the young man’s impassive face to curb his anger.  “Come, Caron,” he added, in a wheedling tone.  “Tell me what you have done with him?”

“I have already told you,” answered the other quietly.

As swift and suddenly as it changed before did Robespierre’s humour change again upon receiving that reply.  With a snort of anger he strode to the door and threw it open.

“Citizen-lieutenant!” he called, in a rasping voice.

“Here, Citizen,” came a voice from below.

“Give yourself the trouble of coming up with a couple of men.  Now, Citizen La Boulaye,” he said, more composedly, as he turned once more to the young man, “since you will not learn reason you may mount the guillotine in his place.”

Caron paled slightly as he inclined his head in silent submission.  At that moment the officer entered with his men at his heels.

“Arrest me that traitor,” Maximilien commanded, pointing a shaking finger at Caron.  “To the Luxembourg with him.”

“If you will wait while I change my dressing-gown for a coat, Citizen-officer,” said La Boulaye composedly, “I shall be grateful.”  Then, turning to his official, “Brutus,” he called, “attend me.”

He had an opportunity while Brutus was helping him into his coat to whisper in the fellow’s ear: 

“Let her know.”

More he dared not say, but to his astute official that was enough, and with a sorrowful face he delivered to Suzanne, a few hours later, the news of La Boulaye’s definite arrest and removal to the Luxembourg.

At Brutus’s description of the scene there had been ’twixt Robespierre and Caron she sighed heavily, and her lashes grew wet.

“Poor, faithful La Boulaye!” she murmured.  “God aid him now.”

She bore the news to d’Ombreval, and upon hearing it he tossed aside the book that had been engrossing him and looked up, a sudden light of relief spreading on his weak face.

“It is the end,” said he, as though no happier consummation could have attended matters, “and we have no more to wait for.  Shall we set out to-day?” he asked, and urged the wisdom of making haste.

“I hope and I pray God that it may not be the end, as you so fondly deem it, Monsieur,” she answered him.  “But whether it is the end or not, I am resolved to wait until there is no room for any hope.”

“As you will,” he sighed wearily, “The issue of it all will probably be the loss of our heads.  But even that might be more easily accomplished than to impart reason to a woman.”

“Or unselfishness, it seems, to a man,” she returned, as she swept angrily from the room.