here it would be so much better."

"I cannot," retorted Edmé, in a decided tone of voice, "and I prefer to
accompany you to Germany, although it seems to me that you offer your
escort somewhat reluctantly."

"The fact is, Cousin Edmé," replied the marquis, "I cannot take you with
me. Alone, my escape will be difficult; with you it will be impossible."

Edmé looked at him for a moment with open-eyed wonder, then she repeated
the word. "Impossible! Do you mean to tell me that you, a kinsman, are
going to leave me here to meet whatever fate may befall me, while you
save yourself by flight?"

"No, no, you do not understand me," the marquis replied, his pale face
flushing. "It is for your own sake that I cannot take you. It will mean
almost certain capture. If, as I said before, you could remain in some
place of safety in France for a little while"--

"I am ready to run whatever risk you do," replied the girl coolly. "When
do you start?"

"Mademoiselle, this is madness," exclaimed de Lacheville, pacing the
floor. "Can you not listen to reason?"

The sound of shouting in the distance caused him to stop suddenly and
run to the window. The candle had burned down to the socket and went out
with a few last feeble flickers. The cries of Gardin's ruffians were
borne to him on the wind.

The slight composure which he had managed to regain during his talk with
Edmé left him again, and he turned toward her, the trembling, shaking
coward that he was when she had first discovered him.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered, his hand shaking as he put it to his
lips.

"I have heard it in this very room to-day," replied Edmé, looking at him
with disdain.

"They are coming here again," he whispered hoarsely. "But they shall not
find me," he exclaimed fiercely, clenching his fist and shaking it in a
weak menace toward the spot whence the sound came. "I have a swift horse
in the courtyard beneath. In an hour I shall be safe from them," and he
prepared to leave the room.

The ordeal of the afternoon had told on Edmé's nerves and the thought of
being left alone again made her desperate.

"You shall not leave me here alone," she cried, seizing his arm. "You
were born a man--behave like one. Devise some means to take me from this
place at once. Do not leave me alone to face those wretches again, or I
shall believe you are a coward."

De Lacheville roughly released himself from her grasp.

"I care not what you think of me," he snarled. "It is each for himself.
I cannot imperil my safety for a woman. I must escape." And he rushed
from the room.

She heard the crunching of his horses' feet upon the gravel, and going
to the window saw him ride rapidly away. The remembrance of the young
Republican leader offering to risk his life for her, and the cowering
figure of her cousin, indifferent to all but his own safety, flashed
before her in quick contrast. She turned away from the window to find
herself in the arms of Agatha, who had at that moment returned.

"Agatha," she exclaimed, "do your hear those hoof-beats? Monsieur de
Lacheville is running away. He, a nobleman, is a coward and flies from
danger, while another man, a Republican--oh, Agatha, Agatha, what are we
to do? whom are we to believe; in whom should we trust?"

"Calm yourself, mademoiselle," replied Agatha, "and think only of what I
have to tell you. Listen to me closely. We must leave at once. I have a
plan of flight. I have been making a few hurried preparations."

"True, Agatha, in my bewilderment and anger, I forgot for the moment the
danger we incur by remaining here. Where are Father Ambrose and
Matthieu?"

"Matthieu is here in the château; he says he will never desert you as
long as you can have need of his poor services. Father Ambrose has
disappeared, but I think he is in a place of safety. But now you are to
be thought of. Will you trust me?"

"How can you ask that, Agatha? Have you not always proved faithful?"

"I mean, can you trust me to lead, and will you follow and be guided by
my suggestions?"

"I will do just as you may direct. I know you have a wise head, Agatha."

"This is my plan, then," continued the maid; "listen carefully while I
tell it to you."

An hour later the two women, dressed as peasants, with faces and hands
brown from apparent exposure to the sun in the hayfield, left the park
behind the château de Rochefort, and made their way along a hedge-bound
lane that wound through the fields. As they reached the crest of a hill
they stopped and looked back at the château. A red glow appeared in the
eastern sky.

"Look, Agatha," said Edmé, "morning is coming, the sun is about to
rise."

Suddenly the glow leaped into a broad flame which lit up the whole sky.

"'Tis the château on fire!" cried both women in one breath, and clinging
to each other they stood and watched it burn.

CHAPTER VII

GAILLARD GOES ON A JOURNEY

The first object that Robert Tournay saw as he rode into the inn yard at
La Thierry was a horse reeking with sweat. The next moment he was
greeted by the smiling face of Gaillard, who came out of the inn. "Have
you brought the passport?" cried Tournay eagerly, as he grasped his
friend by the hand.

For reply Gaillard took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and
disclosed the seal of the Committee of Public Safety. "Am I in time?" he
asked. "I have ridden post haste to get here with it. Can I serve you
further?"

"Come into the inn, and I'll tell you," replied Tournay. "I am almost
exhausted and must have something to eat."

Ordering some supper and a bottle of wine, which were brought at once,
Tournay helped Gaillard and himself bountifully. They ate and drank for
a few minutes in silence, Gaillard waiting for him to speak.

Gaillard was rather short in stature, with a pair of broad, athletic
shoulders. His face was freckled, and animated by a pair of particularly
active blue eyes. A large mouth, instead of adding to his plainness, was
rather attractive than otherwise, for on all occasions it would widen
into the most encouraging, good-natured smile, showing two rows of
regular, white teeth, firmly set in a strong jaw.

After he had partaken of a little food and drink, Tournay recounted to
Gaillard the substance of what had taken place at the château, leaving
out most of his final interview with Edmé de Rochefort, but dwelling on
her flat refusal to accept his escort to the frontier.

The actor listened to him intently and in silence; his face, usually
humorous, expressive of deep and earnest thought.

"Now what do you advise?" asked Tournay, as he pushed back his plate and
emptied the last of the wine into Gaillard's glass.

"What plan have you?" questioned Gaillard.

"I mean to take her away from here at all hazards," answered Tournay.

"Quite right," nodded Gaillard.

"But I can't very well pick her up and carry her off bodily," continued
Tournay. "And if I did she would be quite capable of surrendering
herself into the hands of the first committee in the first town where
they stop us to examine our passport."

"Then we must induce her to go of her own free will."

"Which she will not do," replied Tournay gloomily.

"It seems to me," said Gaillard, speaking slowly, while he held his
glass of wine to the light and inspected it minutely, "that if some one
should approach Mademoiselle de Rochefort, purporting to come from some
of her friends who have already gone abroad, and should say he was sent
secretly to conduct her to them, she would be willing to go with him."

"Unless she suspected him to be an impostor, she might possibly go,"
replied Tournay.

"He will have to convince her that he is not an impostor, and after a
night spent in the château alone she is more likely to believe in him,"
was Gaillard's reply. "How about Gardin," he asked suddenly. "Do you
anticipate any further trouble from that quarter?"

"I hardly think so," replied Tournay. "I shall go back to the château at
once and remain in the vicinity all night unknown to Mademoiselle de
Rochefort. See if you cannot procure a carriage here suitable for a long
journey. Then come up the château road. I shall be in waiting for you at
the entrance to the park. We will confer together as to a plan of action
to be carried out at daylight."

"Good," replied Gaillard; "I will set about my part of the work at
once."

The two men rose from the table; Gaillard went to the inn stables and
Tournay mounted his horse and rode toward the château.

He had not made half the distance between the village and the château
when he heard a footstep crunch on the gravel of the road, and reined
in his horse just as the figure of a man crept by him.

"Who is there?" cried Tournay, clicking the hammer of his pistol.

"A good citizen," was the reply in a timid voice.

"Father, is it you?" exclaimed Tournay, springing from his horse and
approaching the figure. "Is all well at the château?"

"It is my son, Robert," cried the old man. "I did not recognize your
voice until after I had spoken; but I am no good citizen of your present
disorderly Republic."

"Is all well at the château?" repeated Robert Tournay.

"Well? How can we all be well when the doors are broken in and the
furniture strewn about the place in pieces? Can I call all well when"--

"Mademoiselle Edmé?" interrupted Robert, with impatience, "how about
her?"

"She has gone," said Matthieu Tournay.

"Gone!" cried Robert, clutching his father by the shoulder. "Gone--how
and where?"

"You need not be alarmed for her safety," said the old man; "she is with
Agatha,--a brave, clever girl, capable of anything. They set out this
very night to seek a refuge with some relatives of Agatha who will keep
them in safety."

"And you permitted them to go?" demanded the younger Tournay, almost
shaking his father in his excitement.

"Permitted them? Yes, and encouraged them. I would myself have gone with
them if I had not feared that my feebleness would impede rather than
assist their flight. As it is, you need have no apprehension; when
Agatha undertakes a thing she carries it through, and mademoiselle also
is resolute and strong-willed. They will be safe enough, I warrant."

"Where did they go?" asked Robert.

"I've promised not to tell," said the old man doggedly.

"Father," exclaimed young Tournay, "do you not see how important it is
that I should know where they have gone? If you have any affection for
mademoiselle you will tell me. Cannot you trust your own son?"

"Will you promise not to prevent their going?" replied the old man.

Tournay thought for a moment. "Yes."

"To La Haye, in the province of Touraine, near the boundary of La
Vendée."

"Will they reach there in safety?" inquired Tournay, half to himself.

"You need have no alarm on that score. They have disguised themselves as
peasants; no one will be able to recognize them. Look!" he added
suddenly, pointing in the direction of the château.

A tongue of flame shot into the night air, then another and another
followed in quick succession.

"Is the château on fire?" cried Robert in consternation.

As if in answer the flames burst fiercely forth, and the noble old pile
stood revealed to them by the light of the fire that consumed it.

The surrounding landscape became brilliant as day, and the great oaks of
the park waved their bare branches frantically in the direction of the
edifice they had sheltered so many years; seeming to sigh pityingly as
one turret after another fell crashing to the ground.

Young Tournay looked around to see if any of the attacking party were
still lurking in the vicinity; but with the exception of himself and his
father, no human eye was witness of the burning.

"Gardin's men must have ignited that during their drunken invasion of
the wine-cellar," he exclaimed excitedly. Then in the next breath he
added, "Thank God! Mademoiselle has been spared this sight."

Old Tournay stood looking at the conflagration in silence; then turning
away with a sigh, he said simply, "There goes the only home I have ever
known; where my father lived before me and where you were born, Robert.
I must now find a new place to pass what few days of life remain to me."

Tournay laid his hand on his father's arm. "Will you come with me to
Paris?" he asked.

"No, no," replied his father. "I am not in sympathy with Paris, Robert,
nor with your ways. I don't understand them, boy. It may be all right
for you. I know you are a good son, you have always been that, but I
shall find a shelter in La Thierry. None will molest an old man like
me."

Leading his horse by the bridle, Tournay walked back to the village with
his father. On the way they were met by Gaillard, who had seen the
flames and had guessed their meaning.

Robert Tournay explained the situation to him as they all went back to
the inn. Greatly in need of rest, Robert threw himself down to wait
until the morrow.

They were up with the dawn, when Gaillard had a new suggestion to offer.

"You must return at once to Paris, my friend, for you must arrive there
before Gardin. You will need all the influence of your own military
position and the aid of your most powerful friends to enable you to meet
the charges that man will bring against you for frustrating the arrest.
I will try to find mademoiselle at La Haye, and will meet you at our
lodgings as soon as possible."

Robert grasped his companion's hand warmly.

"I shall never forget your friendship, Gaillard."

"You may remember it as long as you like if you will not refer to it. I
can never repay you for your many acts of friendship toward me."

"But your profession," interrupted Tournay, "how can you leave the
theatre all this time? How will your place be filled?"

"Oh, it will be filled very well. I arranged all that before leaving;
whether I shall find it vacant or not when I return is another matter.
But it does not trouble me; let it not trouble you, my friend." And with
a cheerful wave of the hand, Gaillard departed.

CHAPTER VIII

PÈRE LOUCHET'S GUESTS

In the southern part of the province of Touraine, in the village of La
Haye, lived Pierre Louchet, or as his neighbors called him, Père
Louchet.

Logically speaking, Louchet, being a bachelor, had no right to this
title, but as he took a paternal interest in all the young people of the
village, they had fitted him with this sobriquet, partly in a spirit of
gentle irony and partly in affectionate recognition of his fatherly
attitude toward them.

Père Louchet lived alone in a little cottage that was always as neat and
well-kept as if some feminine hand held sway there. Indeed, if he fell
sick, or was too busy with the crops on his small farm to pay proper
attention to his household duties, there were plenty of women from the
neighboring cottages who were glad to come in and make his gruel or
sweep up his hearth, so it was not on account of any unpopularity with
the gentler sex that he lived on in a state of celibacy.

In a society where marriage was almost universal, such an eccentricity
as that exhibited by Pierre Louchet in remaining single did not escape
comment. Indeed at the age of fifty he was as often bantered on the
subject as he had been at thirty. But neither the raillery and
innuendoes of the neighbors nor the entreaties, threats, and cajoleries
of his sister, Jeanne Maillot, had ever moved him to take a wife.

"It's a family disgrace," said Jeanne, putting her red hands on her
hips, and regarding her elder brother with a look of scorn. "Here am I
ten years younger than you, and with five children. And Marie who lives
at Fulgent has eight. And you, the only man in our family, sit there by
the chimney and smoke your pipe contentedly, and let the young girls of
La Haye grow up around you one after another, marry, settle down, and
have daughters who are old enough to be married by this time; and you do
nothing to keep up the name of Louchet."

"'T is not much of a name," replied Pierre.

"It is one your father had, and was quite good enough for me, until I
took Maillot."

"If I should marry, there would be less for your own children when I am
gone."

"I'm sure it was your happiness I was thinking of before all," replied
Jeanne, mollified at this presentation of the case.

"If it's my happiness you are thinking about, let me stay as I am. I and
my pipe are quite company enough, and if I want more I only have to step
across a field and I can find you and your good husband Maillot." And
Père Louchet's eyes would twinkle kindly while his pipe sent up a
thicker wreath of smoke.

One young woman once declared maliciously that Père Louchet squinted.
But those who heard the remark declared that it was because he was
always endeavoring to look in any direction except towards her who
sought to attract his attention, and after that the slander was never
repeated.

One morning in December the neighborhood of La Haye was set all in a
flutter of curiosity by a sudden increase in the family in Père
Louchet's cottage.

As an explanation of it he remarked with his eyes twinkling more than
usual: "I am getting old and need help about the place, and that is why
a nephew and a niece of my brother-in-law Maillot have come to live with
me."

Paul and Elise Durand were natives of "up north" and had never before
been as far south as La Haye. The woman was about twenty-five years old,
brown as a berry, with a sturdy figure and strong arms. Her brother was
tall and slender. He said he was nearly twenty, yet he was small for his
age and his entire innocence of any beard gave him a still more boyish
appearance. He spoke with a softer accent than most country lads in
those parts, but that was because he came from the neighborhood of
Paris; and then he and his sister had both been in the service of a
great "Seigneur" before the Revolution.

In the neighboring province of La Vendée the peasants, led by the
priests and nobles, were threatening to take up arms in support of the
monarchy. But the inhabitants of La Haye took little interest in
political affairs, and although they shared somewhat the sentiment of
opposition in La Vendée to the new government in Paris, they busied
themselves generally with their vineyards and their crops and took no
active part in politics. Paul and Elise were content in the fact that
their new home was so quiet and so remote from the strife that was
raging so fiercely all about them.

One morning, shortly after her arrival, Elise was resting by the stile
which divided the field of Père Louchet from that of his brother-in-law.
She had placed on the stile the bucket containing six fresh cheeses
wrapped in cool green grape leaves, while she herself sat down upon the
bottom step beside it, to remove her wooden sabot and shake out a little
pebble that had been irritating her foot. The wooden shoe replaced, she
took up her pail and was about to spring blithely over the stile, when
she drew back with a little cry of surprise mingled with alarm. Standing
on the other side, his arm resting on the top step, leaned a young man
who had evidently been watching her closely.

Drawing a short pipe from between a row of white teeth, his mouth
expanded in a wide grin.

"Did I frighten you?" he said, in a slight foreign accent but with an
extremely pleasant tone of voice.

"Not at all," answered Elise, looking at him frankly. "I'm not easily
frightened. If you will move a little to one side, I can cross the stile
and go about my affairs."

"What have you in the pail?" asked the man, as he complied with her
request.

"Cheeses," she answered, as he came lightly over the wall. "It's clear
you're not of this part of the country or you would never have asked
that question."

"I am not from this part of the country," said the stranger. "You ought
to know that by my accent."

"Where is your native place?" asked Elise, her curiosity aroused.

"A long distance from here--Prussia. Have you ever heard of that
country?"

"Yes."

"We are most of us against the Republic--there," said he. "I am, for
one," and he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. She made no
reply. "Let me carry your cheeses," he said, laying his hand upon the
bucket.

"They are not heavy," said Elise, "and I must hurry home."

"All ways are the same to me and I will go along with you," he said,
taking the bucket from her. "It's heavy for you."

"It's no burden for me, and as I don't know you I prefer to go home by
myself," she said frankly.

"Oh, I'm a merry fellow--you need not fear me. I am your friend."

"I have no way of being sure of that," was the reply, "though you don't
look as if you could be an enemy."

"I should be glad for an opportunity to prove myself your friend. And I
could prove that I am no stranger by telling you a good deal about
yourself and your brother Paul."

"Indeed," was all Elise vouchsafed in reply, but she looked a little
uncomfortable.

"I might tell you of an order of arrest that was not carried out; of a
château burned; of the midnight flight of two women and the arrival at
La Haye of a woman and her younger brother; all this I might tell you,
with the assurance that these secrets are safe in the keeping of a
friend."

"How will you prove that you are a friend?" Elise said in a low voice
with apparent unconcern, although she felt her heart beating with fear.

"The fact that I have just told you what I know and shall tell no one
else, should be one proof," he said. Elise did not answer, but looked at
him with a keen expression as if she would read his thoughts.

He had a frank, open face, the very plainness of which bespoke the
honesty of the man.

"Suppose I should say that I came from Hagenhof in Prussia and that I
was sent here by friends of your brother who have gone there. Suppose I
should say that they wanted you to join them and that I could take you
there with little risk to yourselves, would you be inclined to trust me
then?"

"What risk do we incur by remaining where we are?" inquired Elise,
without answering his question.

"You will always run the risk of discovery while in France," he replied.
"But tell me, are you inclined to trust me?"

"Yes," answered Elise, stopping and looking him full in the face. "I
am."

"Good," he cried, setting down the pail and extending his hand.

"I am disposed to trust you," she went on, "but in order to do so fully
I should wish to see a letter from the friend you speak of."

"It is dangerous to carry such a writing," he replied significantly.

"True, but you can mention names."

"I can, and will,--names your brother will know well. The Baron von
Valdenmeer, for instance. Besides, if I were your enemy I need not come
thus secretly. Your enemies can use open means."

"I said"--Elise hesitated--"I am disposed to believe you are what you
claim to be, but I can do nothing without the consent of my brother."

"Good! will you obtain his consent?"

"I will try."

"Good again. You will succeed. Talk with him and get his consent to
leave here. And as soon as possible I will make all the arrangements for
the journey so that we may leave in a week or at the latest a fortnight.
Then if you have not persuaded your brother that it is for his interest
to go with me, I will try and add my arguments to yours."

"I trust you will find us ready," said Elise; "but in the mean time
shall you remain here?"

"No, I must go to Paris," was the Prussian's answer. "If you should have
occasion to communicate with me, a word sent to Hector Gaillard, 15 Rue
des Mathurins, will reach me. But do not send any word unless it is of
the greatest importance, and then employ a messenger whom you can
trust."

"Is that your name?" asked the woman.

"That is my name while in France. Can you remember that and the
address?"

"I can."

"Then good-by. And a word at parting," he said--turning after he had
leaped the fence. "It is perhaps needless to caution you, but my advice
would be that your brother should not go too often to the village. His
hands are too small. Good-by." And he walked off up the lane smoking his
short pipe, and whistling gayly.

Two days later Gaillard joined his friend Tournay in Paris. He found
Tournay much more hopeful than when he had left him, and his spirits
rose still more as he heard Gaillard's news.

"It is Wednesday," Tournay said. "On Saturday the convention has
promised to send me back with my dispatches. Can you be ready for La
Haye by Saturday morning?"

"Yes," said Gaillard, "twelve hours earlier if necessary."

"It is agreed then for Saturday, unless the convention delays."

Three days after her meeting with Gaillard, Elise, on returning from a
neighboring town where she had gone to dispose of some butter, found the
kitchen deserted and the fire out. She had expected to find a bowl of
hot potato soup and a plate of sausage and garlic. Instead she found a
cold hearthstone and an empty casserole.

As usual, the first thought of the devoted sister was of Paul, and she
called his name loudly. It did not take long to ascertain that the house
was empty, and with her heart beating wildly with anxiety she ran
outside the cottage crying, "Oh, Paul, my child,--my brother, Paul!"
There was no answer save from the cattle in the outhouse who shook their
stanchions, impatient for their evening meal. She looked about for Père
Louchet. He also was absent. Evidently he had driven in the cows and had
been prevented from feeding them. Something serious had happened, and it
must have occurred within an hour, for at this time the cattle were
usually feeding.

Elise sat down for a moment on an upturned basket to collect herself.
Her first thought was to go to Maillot's in search of them. They might
be there, yet it would take an hour to go to Maillot's and return. And
then what if Louchet and Paul were not there! What if the couple had
been murdered and the bodies were still on the farm? Elise shuddered at
the thought, and called loud again, "Paul, Paul, my brother, art thou
not here?"

From the hay in the loft above came a smothered sound. With a glad cry
Elise sprang up the stairs, to see Père Louchet's head and shoulders
emerging from under a pile of clover.

"Where is Paul?" cried Elise, pouncing upon him before he had freed
himself from the hay, and almost dragging him to his feet. He blinked at
her for a moment while he picked the stray wisps of straw from his hair
and neck.

"Gone," he said laconically.

"Gone! Where?" cried Elise, frantically taking him by the shoulders and
shaking him so that the hayseed and straw flew from his coat. "Père
Louchet, what is the matter? I never saw you like this before; have you
been drinking?"

"No," he said slowly, and then as if the thought occurred to him for the
first time, he went toward a cask of cherry brandy which stood in a
corner of the granary and drew almost a tin-cupful.

With blazing eyes Elise saw him measure out the liquor slowly, with a
hand that trembled slightly, and put the cup to his lips. She felt as if
she must spring upon him and dash the cup from his hands, but she
controlled herself with an effort. Louchet drained off the brandy to the
last drop, straightened up, and looked at Elise. He acted like a
different man.

"Paul was taken from here about an hour ago by three men. They had
papers and red seals and tricolor cockades enough to take a dozen."

"And you let them take him?" cried Elise.

Père Louchet looked at his niece quizzically with his twinkling eye.

"There were three of them, Elise, my child, and they had big red seals
and swore a great deal."

"Of course," admitted the woman hastily, "you could do nothing by
force."

"I did try to prevent them from going upstairs where Paul was," the old
man replied, "but one of them knocked me on the head and into a corner
where I lay like a log."

"Oh that I had been here," moaned Elise, as she and Louchet went toward
the house. "If I could only know where they have taken Paul!"

"To Tours," replied Père Louchet with decision.

"How do you know?" asked Elise quickly.

"I remember it plainly now. When I lay in the corner with a kind of
dazed feeling in my head, not wishing to get up and stir around, I saw
one of the men--not the one who hit me, but a smaller man with a larger
hat and more cockades and more seals, take a paper out of his pocket and
read it to Paul. I tried to make out what it said, for although I could
hear every word that was uttered, I could not get an idea in my head
that would hold together; but I was able to catch the word Tours; I am
sure they have gone to Tours."

"How is your head now, Père Louchet?" asked Elise with feverish
eagerness.

"As clear as a bell," was the reply. "Let me have one little nip more of
that brandy and it will be clearer."

"Can you ride?"

"Like a boy."

"Good! Make up a bundle of food and clothing for a two-days' journey and
I'll have a horse at the door by the time you are ready."

Ten minutes later Père Louchet, with a bundle of necessities strapped on
his back, was mounted on one of his best horses which Elise had saddled
for him.

"Now, where am I to ride to?" he demanded, directing his twinkling eye
down upon his niece.

"Ride to Paris. Seek out Gaillard, 15 Rue Mathurins; give him this
letter. That is all I ask of you."

"And you--what are you going to do?" said Père Louchet, putting the
letter in his inside breast pocket with a slap on the outside to
emphasize its safety.

"I ride toward Tours," replied the intrepid woman.

CHAPTER IX

PRISON BOAT NUMBER FOUR

Paul Durand was confined in the prison at Tours. The prison was so
crowded that he had to be placed in a small room at the top of the
building adjoining the quarters occupied by the jailer and his family.

Paul was paler than usual, the result of fatigue from the long, rapid
ride from La Haye, but he showed no signs of fear and held up his head
bravely as the jailer entered the room. The latter carried a bundle
under his arm.

"You are to take these clothes," he said, "go into the adjoining room,
and put them on in place of the garments you have on."

Paul took the bundle and went into the next room. For fifteen minutes
the jailer sat upon the one chair the room contained, humming and
jingling his bunch of keys. Then the door into the outer corridor was
thrown open and a large man entered. The jailer sprang to his feet with
alacrity.

"Where's the prisoner, Potin?" demanded the newcomer in a harsh voice.

"In the next room, Citizen Leboeuf," replied Potin.

Leboeuf strode toward the door and laid his hand upon the latch.

"I beg your pardon, Citizen Leboeuf, but the prisoner may not be ready
to receive you."

"Well, there's no particular reason to be squeamish, is there?" asked
Leboeuf, screwing his fat face into a leer.

"If you will wait another minute I think the prisoner will come out,"
suggested Potin deferentially, jingling his keys.

"Bah, you show your lodgers too much consideration, citizen jailer; you
spoil them." Nevertheless Leboeuf allowed his hand to drop from the
latch and took a few impatient strides across the floor.

The door opened and, turning, Leboeuf saw Mademoiselle de Rochefort
standing on the threshold. She was thinner than when she left La
Thierry: but her eyes had lost none of their fire, and she looked
Citizen Leboeuf in the face without flinching. His dull eyes kindled
while he looked at her some moments without speaking.

"Do you know who I am?" he inquired in his thick, husky voice.

"Yes, I overheard the jailer call you Citizen Leboeuf."

"Right. I am Citizen Leboeuf; and do you know why you have been
brought here?"

"A paper was read to me last night which pretended to give some
explanation," was her quiet rejoinder.

"In order to save time and expense your trial will take place at Tours,
rather than at Paris. I am one of the judges of this district."

Mademoiselle Edmé looked at him with an expression of indifference.

"You do not appear to be afraid."

"I am not afraid," was the quiet reply.

Leboeuf eyed her with evident admiration.

"Why did you put on boy's clothes?" he asked abruptly.

"In order to avoid detection," she answered frankly, coming forward and
seating herself in the chair which Potin had vacated upon her entrance.
Leboeuf was standing before her, hat in hand, an act of politeness he
had not shown to any one for years.

"And you did it well," he said. "You threw them off the track
completely. Had it not been for me, your hiding-place would never have
been discovered. It was a splendid trick you played upon those bunglers
from Paris." And he slapped his thigh in keen appreciation of it, and
laughed hoarsely.

"I will take your boy's clothes with me," he continued as he prepared to
leave the room, "lest you should be tempted to put them on again from
force of habit. We don't want you turning into a boy any more. No, you
make too pretty a woman." Then going up to the jailer he said something
to him in a low voice which Edmé could not hear. Potin seemed to be
remonstrating feebly. Leboeuf scowled, and from his manner appeared to
insist upon the point at issue.

"Are you sure you are not afraid?" he said again abruptly to Edmé as he
went to the door and stood with one hand on the latch looking back into
the room.

"No!"

He looked at her admiringly.

"Remember you are a woman now and have a perfect right to be afraid;
also to kick and scream when anything is the matter."

Edmé made no reply.

"In case you should ever feel afraid," he said significantly, "just send
for Leboeuf, that's all," and with this he left the room.

Edmé remained in Potin's charge for two days. The jailer treated her
with great consideration, and she congratulated herself upon having
fallen into such kindly hands. She momentarily expected to be summoned
before the Tribunal. She did not know what the result would be; but she
looked forward to her trial with impatience. In any event it would end
the suspense in which she was living.

On the afternoon of the second day Potin entered her room, accompanied
by one of his deputies.

"You must prepare to go with this man, citizeness," said the little
jailer.

"Has the Tribunal sent for me? she inquired.

"Not yet. But you are to be transferred to another prison."

"I prefer to stay here," she said. "Cannot you ask them to allow me to
remain?"

"You have no choice in the matter, nor have I; I have only my orders."

"From whom did the order come? From that man Leboeuf who came here the
other day?" she demanded quickly.

"I am not at liberty to say," replied Potin, shifting his feet uneasily.

"Are you forbidden to tell me where I am to be taken?" was her next
question.

"To prison boat Number Four. The city prisons are so full," he
continued, in answer to her look of surprised inquiry, "that great
numbers have to be lodged in the boats anchored in the river. Number
Four is one of the largest," he added as if by way of consolation.

In company of the deputy Edmé was conducted to the floating prison on
the Loire. As they stepped over the side they were met by a little
round-shouldered man with splay feet. His face was wrinkled and brown
almost to blackness; his dress showed that he had a fondness for bright
colors, as he wore a purple shirt with a crimson sash, a bright yellow
neckcloth, and a red cap. The deputy turned over his charge to him,
received his quittance, and went away.

Edmé was conducted to a room in the stern of the vessel. It was a small
room and to her surprise she found it furnished comfortably, almost
luxuriously. On a table in the centre stood a carafe of wine and a
basket of sweet biscuit. Two or three chairs and a couch completed the
equipment of the room. At the extreme end, the porthole had been
enlarged into a window which looked out over the river. This window was
closed by wooden bars. Otherwise the place looked more like the
comfortable quarters of some ship's officer than a jail.

"Is this where I am to remain?" she asked of her new jailer.

The man nodded and withdrew, locking the door after him.

Edmé threw herself into a chair. It was intended that she should at
least be comfortable while in prison, and this thought helped to keep up
her spirits. She rose, took a glass of wine and some of the biscuit, and
then after finishing this refreshment, feeling fatigued, she lay down
upon the couch and fell asleep.

It was nearly dark when she awoke. Lying on the couch she could see the
dying light of the short December day shining feebly in at the window,
reflected by the metal of a swinging lamp over the table. As she lay
there she became aware of a noise that had evidently awakened her. It
was the sound of wailing and lamentation, accompanied by the creaking of
timber and the swash of water.

Rising from the bed she went to the window and looked out over the
river.

Going down the stream were two other prison boats. They were scarcely
fifty yards away and proceeded slowly with the current, the water
lapping against their black sides. They were old vessels, and creaked
and groaned as if they were about to fall apart from very rottenness.
From between their decks came the sound of human voices raised in cries
of fear, despair, and lamentation; all mingled in a strange, horrible
medley, which, borne over the water by the sighing night wind, struck a
chill into Edmé's heart.

The vessels, stealing down the river with their sailless masts against
the evening sky, looked like phantom ships conveying cargoes of
unrestful, tortured spirits into darkness. The sight so fascinated Edmé
that she stood watching them until they drifted out of sight and the
cries of those on board grew fainter and fainter in the distance. So
absorbed had she been as not to hear the lock click in the door and a
man enter the room. She only became aware of his presence on hearing a
heavy sigh just behind her, and turning her head she saw Leboeuf's
heavy face at her shoulder. She gave a startled cry and stepped nearer
the window.

"It is a sad sight, is it not," he remarked, with a look of sympathy
ill-suited to the leer in his eyes, "and one that might easily frighten
the strongest of us."

"It is your sudden appearance, when I thought I was entirely alone, that
startled me," replied Edmé, regaining her composure with an effort. "I
was so intent upon looking at those boats that I did not hear you come
in."

"I see you didn't. I may be bulky, but I'm active and can move quietly,"
and he gave a chuckle.

Edmé thought him even more repulsive than at the time of his visit to
the prison. His face seemed coarser and more inflamed, and his eyes, so
dull and heavy before, shone as if animated by drink.

"Where are they taking those poor people?" she asked; "for I presume
those are prison boats."

"They are," was the reply in a thick utterance. "Just like this. Are you
sure that you want to know where they are being taken?"

"Would I have asked you otherwise?"

"Are you sure you won't faint?"

Edmé gave a shrug of contempt. She saw that he was trying to work upon
her fears, and felt her spirit rise in antagonism.

The look of admiration that he gave her was more offensive than his
pretended sympathy. Leaning forward he whispered, "They are going down
the river for about two miles. There they will get rid of their
troublesome freight and return empty."

"What do you mean?" asked Edmé. "Where do they land the prisoners?"

"They don't land them, they water them," and he gave a low, inward
laugh. "They drown every prisoner on board. Tie them together in
couples, man and woman, and tumble them overboard by the score."

Edmé gave a cry of horror. "It is too horrible to be true. I don't
believe it!"

"Why not?" asked Leboeuf; "drowning is an easy death, and every one of
them has been fairly and honestly condemned. This boat is to follow in
its turn. Every prisoner here has looked upon the sun for the last time,
though not one of them knows just when he is to die."

The idea of such wholesale murder seemed so utterly impossible to her
that in her mind she set down Leboeuf's whole account as a fiction of
his drink-besotted brain, called up to frighten her. Yet at the moment
when she turned from him in disgust to look out of the window, she saw
that their own vessel had begun to move slowly through the water.

"We have started," said Leboeuf, as if he were mentioning a matter of
the smallest consequence.

"You say that every one upon this boat is a condemned person," said Edmé
quietly, repressing her terror with an effort.

Leboeuf nodded.

"But I am not. I have not even had a hearing."

"No?" exclaimed Leboeuf in a tone of surprise. "Then those jailers
have made another mistake."

Edmé advanced toward him one step, and in a tone which made the huge man
draw back, said:--

"I was brought here by your order!"

"Oh, no, I knew nothing of the change. It was that villain Potin."

"I was brought here by your order," she repeated. "I demand that I be
taken where I can have a trial."

"Potin has made another mistake," was all Leboeuf would vouchsafe in
reply.

"If there has been any mistake, it is yours. I demand that you set it
right."

"It is too late!"

"There must be some one aboard this vessel who has the power to do it,
if you have not. I will go and appeal for aid," and she took a step
toward the door.

Leboeuf interposed his bulky body between her and the means of exit;
closed and locked the door on the inside.

"I will cry aloud. Some one will hear me," she said in desperation.

"Who will hear you above all that noise?" he inquired tersely.

The prisoners on the boat, now fully aware that their time of execution
had come, were crying out against their fate,--some praying for mercy,
some calling down the maledictions of heaven upon their butchers, while
others wept silently.

"Merciful Virgin, protect me. I have lost all hope," cried Edmé, turning
from Leboeuf and sinking despairingly upon her knees.

"Ah, now you are frightened!" exclaimed Leboeuf, "admit that you are
frightened!"

"If it is any satisfaction to have succeeded in terrifying a woman
unable to defend herself, I will not rob you of the pleasure, but know
that it is not death, but the manner of it, that I fear."

"But you are afraid; you have confessed to it at last, and now Leboeuf
will see that they do not harm you." He gave a grim chuckle as if he
enjoyed having won his point. Rapidly pushing the table to one side,
turning back the rug that covered the floor, he stooped; and to Edmé's
astonished gaze lifted up a trap door in the floor of the cabin. Edmé
drew back from the black hole at her feet.

"It is large enough to afford you air for several hours," Leboeuf
said. "By that time I will get you out again. Quick, descend the steps."

Edmé, fearing further treachery, drew back in alarm. "I prefer to meet
my fate here."

Leboeuf struck a light and by the rays of the lamp a ladder was
revealed.

"I tell you it is certain death to remain here fifteen minutes longer.
Even I could not save you then. The more they throw into the water the
more frenzied they become for other victims. They will ransack the
entire boat; but they won't find you down there. Leboeuf alone knows
this place. Quick! If you would live to see the sun rise to-morrow, go
down the steps of that ladder."

He took her by the shoulder to assist in the descent. His touch was so
distasteful to her that she threw off his hand and went down the ladder
unaided. "Make not the slightest sound, whatever you may hear going on
up here above you, and wait patiently until I come to release you."

With these words the door was shut down and Leboeuf went out and up to
the deck alone.

The vessel had reached a point in the river just outside the city. Here
the stream narrowed and ran swiftly between the banks.

The sky was windy; and between the rifts of the high-banked clouds the
moon shone fitfully. To the east lay the city of Tours, its spires
standing out in sharp silhouette against the sky. On the river bank the
wind swept over the dead, dry grass with a mournful, swaying sound and
rattled the rotting halyards of the old hulk, which with one small sail
set in the bow to keep it steady, made slowly down the river with the
current, hugging the left bank as if fearful of trusting itself to the
swifter depths beyond.

A rusty chain rasped through the hawse-hole, and the vessel swung at
anchor.

In a small and close compartment in the ship's depths, totally without
light, and with her nerves wrought upon by Leboeuf's appalling story,
Edmé could only guess at what was happening above her head.

She knew that something terrible was taking place. She could hear a
confusion of cries and trampling of feet; of hoarse shouts and commands;
and she pictured in her imagination scenes quite as horrible as were
actually taking place above her. In every wave that splashed against the
vessel's side she could see the white face of a struggling, drowning
creature, and every sound upon the vessel was the despairing death-note
of a fresh victim. Through it all she could see the large face of
Leboeuf leering at her with his bleary eyes. To have exchanged one
fate for a worse one was to have gained nothing, and in her mental agony
she almost envied those who a short time ago had been struggling
helplessly in the hands of their executioners, and whose bodies now were
quietly sleeping in the waters of the flowing river.

A quiet fell upon the vessel. The last cry had been uttered, the last
command given, and no sound reached Edmé's ears but the soft plash of
the water as it struck under the stern of the boat.

Then the remembrance of Leboeuf's face and look became still more
vivid. She feared him in spite of all her courage; in spite of her pride
that was greater than her courage, she feared him. The knowledge that he
was aware of his power and took delight in it made the thought that she
would soon have to face him there alone more terrible than her dread of
the worst of deaths.

A footfall sounded on the floor above her head. That it was not
Leboeuf's heavy tread, Edmé was certain. Rather than fall into his
hands again she would trust herself to the mercies of the worst ruffian
among the executioners, and she struck with her clenched hand a
succession of quick knocks upon the trap.

The footsteps ceased, and in the stillness that followed Edmé called out
to the man above her and told him where to find the opening. In another
instant the door was lifted up and she came up into the cabin.

"Kill me," she cried out; "throw me into the river if it be your
pleasure, but I implore you, do not let"--

The man's hand closed over her mouth, and lifting her in his arms he
carried her across the cabin. The room was dark; either Leboeuf had
put out the light when he left, or the newcomer had extinguished it, but
Edmé saw that he bore her toward the window from which the lattice had
been removed. She closed her eyes to meet the end. She felt herself
swiftly lifted through the window, and then instead of water her feet
struck a firm substance.

"Steady for one moment," said a voice in her ear as she opened her eyes
in bewilderment to find herself standing on the seat of a small skiff, a
man supporting her by the arm. Her face was on a level with the window,
and looking back into the cabin she saw a light at the further end, as
the bulky form of Leboeuf appeared at the door, lantern in hand, his
heavy countenance made more ugly by an expression of surprise and rage.

Voices were heard in hot dispute, then came two pistol shots so close
together as to seem almost one. A figure leaped through the smoke that
poured from the window, and Edmé from her seat in the skiff's bow where
she had been swung with little ceremony, saw a man cut the line, while
the other bent over his oars and made the small craft fly away from the
vessel, straight for the opposite shore. The man who had leaped from the
window took his place silently in the stern. Placing one hand on the
tiller, he turned and looked intently over his shoulder at the dark
outline of the prison ship, which was rapidly receding into the gloom.

His hat had fallen off, and in the uncertain light Edmé saw for the
first time that it was Robert Tournay.

Before a word could be uttered by any of them, a tongue of flame shot
out from the vessel behind them, followed by a loud and sharp report.
The dash of spray that swept over the boat told that the shot had struck
the water close by them.

The man at the oars shook the water from his eyes and redoubled his
efforts. "Head her down the river a little," he said.

"But the carriage is at least two miles above here," replied Tournay.

"No matter," answered Gaillard. "The shore here is too steep. We must
land a little further down."

Tournay altered their course and steered the boat slantingly across the
current.

They were now nearing the right-hand shore, which rose abruptly from the
river to a height of some twenty feet. The current here was swifter, and
the greatest caution had to be exercised. A second flash flamed out from
the prison ship, a sound of crashing wood, and the little skiff seemed
to leap into the air and then slide from under their feet, while the icy
water of the Loire rushed in Edmé's ears,--strangling her and dragging
her down, until it seemed as if the water's weight would crush her. Then
she began to come upward with increasing velocity until at last, when
she thought never to reach the surface, she felt her head rise above the
water and saw the cloudy, threatening sky, which seemed to reel above
her as she gasped for breath.

Another head shot to the surface by her side, and she felt herself
sustained, to sink no more. The words: "Place your right hand upon my
shoulder and keep your face turned down the stream away from the
current," came to her ears as if in a dream. Instinctively she obeyed.
With a few rapid strokes Tournay reached the shore. The bank overhung
the river and under it the water ran rapidly.

With only one arm free he could not draw himself and Edmé up the steep
incline. Twice he succeeded in catching a tuft of grass or projecting
root, and each time the force of the current broke his hold upon it, and
twirling them round like straws carried them on down the stream.

Gaillard, who had been struck by a splinter on the forehead, was at
first stunned by the blow, and without struggling was swept fifty yards
down the river. The cold water brought him back to consciousness, and he
struck out for the shore. He noticed, some hundred yards below, a place
where the river swept to the south and where the bank was considerably
lower. Allowing himself to be borne along by the current, he took an
occasional stroke to carry him in toward the shore, and made the point
easily.

Drawing himself from the water by some overhanging bushes, he shook
himself like a wet dog, and sitting on the river's edge proceeded to
bind up his injured eye, while with the other he looked anxiously along
the river-side. Suddenly he bent down and caught at an object in the
water.

"Let me take the girl," he said quickly. "Now your hand on this
bush--there!" And with a swift motion he drew Edmé up, and Tournay,
relieved of her weight, swung himself to their side.

For a short time they lay panting on the bank. Gaillard was the first to
get upon his feet.

"We shall perish of cold here," he exclaimed, springing up and down to
warm his benumbed blood, while the wet ends of his yellow neckerchief
flapped about his forehead.

"Can you walk, Mademoiselle de Rochefort?"

Edmé placed her hand upon her side to still the sharp shooting pain, and
answered "Yes."

"Good; the road is only a few rods from here, but we must follow it at
least two miles to the west."

"I shall be able to do it!"

As she uttered these words the pain in her side increased. She felt her
strength leave her, and but for the support of Tournay's arm she would
have fallen to the ground.

"She has fainted," cried Tournay in consternation.

"No," she remonstrated feebly, struggling with the numbness that was
overpowering her. "It is the cold. Let me rest for a moment; I shall be
better soon."

"Mademoiselle, you must walk, else you will die of cold," exclaimed
Tournay. "Take her by the arm, Gaillard."

Instead of complying with the request, Gaillard stood with head bent
forward peering up the road into the night gloom.

"Gaillard! man, do you not hear me?"

"The carriage! I hear the rattle of its wheels," cried Gaillard
joyfully. "Agatha can always be depended upon to do the right thing at
the right moment!"

"Hurry to meet her," cried Tournay; "tell her we are here!"

Gaillard sprang rapidly forward, shouting as he ran.

"Courage but a little moment longer," whispered Tournay, and taking Edmé
in his arms he followed Gaillard as fast as his burden permitted.

She had not entirely lost consciousness, but cold and fatigue had
combined to enervate and render her powerless of motion.

In a half swoon she felt herself carried she knew not whither. She felt
Tournay's strong arms about her, and a sense of security came over her
as she faintly realized that each step took her further away from the
dreaded Leboeuf.

Tournay hastened toward the carriage. The wind swept freshly over the
marshes, and he held Edmé close as if to shield her from the cold. Her
hair blew back into his face, covering his eyes and touching his lips.
As he felt her soft tresses against his cheek his heart throbbed so that
he forgot cold, fatigue, and danger.... Where they blinded him he gently
put the locks aside with one hand in a caressing manner and looked
tenderly down into the white face pressed against his wet coat.

The sound of wheels upon the frozen road came nearer. Lights flashed
around a turn in the road, and Tournay staggered to the carriage door as
the vehicle drew up suddenly.

"Hurrah!" cried Gaillard from the box, where he had taken the reins from
the driver. "We have won!"

CHAPTER X

OVER THE FRONTIER

In the carriage Agatha related to her mistress what had occurred after
her disappearance from La Haye. How she had sent Père Louchet with the
message to Gaillard at Paris, and then had followed on to Tours and
discovered where her mistress was imprisoned. Tournay and Gaillard,
coming post haste to Tours, had reached there on the same day that saw
the transfer of Mademoiselle de Rochefort to the prison-ship upon the
Loire. Together with Agatha, they had formulated a plan of rescue and
put it into immediate execution.

The two men had approached the vessel in a small skiff on the river,
while Agatha had awaited them in a carriage on the other side. The
moving of the prison ship down the river might have disconcerted their
plans had not the watchful Agatha seen the movement, and following along
the shore reached them when they had almost succumbed from the exposure
and cold.

The carriage was a commodious one and well equipped for the long
journey, and in a few minutes Agatha had her mistress in a change of
warm clothing. As soon as Edmé was able, she bade Agatha call Tournay to
the carriage door.

"Thanks are a small return for what you have done," she said as he rode
by her side, "yet they are all I have to give." Then she stretched her
hand out to him with an impulsive gesture,--"Robert Tournay, I misjudged
you when you were last at La Thierry. Will you forgive it?"

It was the first time she had spoken to him as one addresses an equal,
and it moved him greatly. He leaned forward and took the hand she gave
him, looking down at her with a smile that lit up his face, as he
said:--

"Mademoiselle, I forgave the words you spoke as soon as they were
uttered. It is happiness enough to know that I have saved you." Before
he released it, he thought he felt the hand in his tremble a little.

The remembrance flashed through her mind, how, years before, she had
once noticed Tournay's manly bearing as he rode into the château-court
upon a spirited horse. She had at that time thought him handsome, with
an air about him superior to his station, and then had dismissed him
from her thoughts. As he rode before her now, the water still dripping
from his clothing, hatless, with damp locks clinging to his forehead,
she thought she had never looked upon a nobler figure among all the
gentlemen who in the old days frequented the château of the baron, her
father.

"Where are we going?" she asked, with more emotion than such a simple
question warranted.

"To the German frontier," was the reply. "We must travel rapidly night
and day. I shall hardly dare to stop for rest until you are safely over
the border."

"I leave myself in your charge," she said, leaning back in the carriage.

He gave a word of command and the coach rushed forward through the
night.

Tournay's words had recalled vividly to Edmé her unhappy situation.
Although innocent of all crime, she was proscribed and forced to fly
from her own country to take refuge among those who were invading it.
And the man who rode by the side of her carriage, and had undertaken to
convey her in safety across the border, was a soldier, fighting for the
government that persecuted her. Laying her head upon Agatha's shoulder
she felt her heart swell with bitterness. For hours, during which Agatha
imagined that she slept, she watched in silence through the window the
dark outlines of the swiftly moving landscape. Finally long after
Agatha's regular breathing announced her slumber, Edmé, worn out by the
excitement and fatigue, leaned back in the opposite corner and slept
like a tired child.

For five days the coach rolled toward the frontier, Tournay and Gaillard
riding on horseback.

Through Blois, Orleans, Arcis sur-Aube to Bar-le-Duc and on toward Metz
they went, stopping only to exchange their worn-out horses for fresh
ones, and for such few hours of rest as were absolutely indispensable.

During all the journey, Tournay saw little of Mademoiselle de Rochefort,
although her comfort and her safety were his constant care. The
passport with which he was provided prevented all delay; and it was
thought best that mademoiselle should remain as secluded in the carriage
as possible. When she did step out for a breath of air or a few hours'
rest at some inn she always wore a veil to hide her features. Whenever
he approached her to inform her as to the route they traveled he always
did so with the greatest deference, showing marked solicitude for her
health and comfort; expressing deep regret that the nature of their
journey rendered the great speed imperative.

One afternoon as they crossed the little stream of the Sarre, Tournay,
who had been riding some fifty yards in advance, drew rein and waited
for the carriage to come up to him.

"In an hour, mademoiselle," he said, as in obedience to his signal the
vehicle drew up by the roadside, "we shall be across the frontier, and
in Germany. At Hagenhof resides the Baron von Waldenmeer, who I think is
known to you as your father's friend."

"He was one of my father's friends," Mademoiselle Edmé acquiesced.

"I remember having often heard his name mentioned at La Thierry," said
Tournay. "So I took this direction rather than further south, which
would have been somewhat shorter. A few hours will bring us to Hagenhof,
where you will be able to put yourself under the baron's protection."

"And you?" inquired Edmé, "what are you going to do?"

"I shall return to France."

The armies of Prussia and Austria, three hundred thousand strong, were
drawing in on France, to help to crush out the Republic and restore the
old régime.

The Baron von Waldenmeer's division was already on the frontier,
quartered at Falzenberg--waiting for other troops to come up before
joining the Austrian army at Wissembourg, near which the French had
concentrated a large force.

On a cold December afternoon two batteries of Prussian heavy artillery
were proceeding through the wood on the road going east from Inweiler,
whence they had been sent to join the main body of troops at Falzenberg.
It was snowing and at five o'clock darkness was already settling down on
the woodland road. Over the snow-carpeted leaves the wheels of the gun
carriages rolled almost noiselessly.

"Paff," growled Lieutenant Saueraugen, wiping the flakes from his
eyelashes for the twentieth time, as he thought of the hot sausages at
that moment being devoured in the mess-room at Falzenberg, and ten miles
between it and him. "A pest on such weather and such slow progress! at
this rate we shall not be at Falzenberg before midnight."

"_Donnerwetter!_ what is this?" he cried with his next breath, as along
the road that crossed from the north came a two-horse carriage at a
rapid gait. The driver of the vehicle saw the battery on the other road,
and tried to check the speed of his horses. The rider on the nigh leader
of the caisson whirled his horse to the left, but it received the
carriage pole on the right foreleg and went to the ground, dragging its
mate with it. Then followed a snorting of frightened animals and a
rattling of harness, flavored with the shouts and oaths of the
lieutenant and his men as they tried to bring order out of the
entanglement.

Two men on horseback rode up from behind the carriage, and with their
assistance the fallen horses were brought to their feet and the broken
harness repaired.

"Who the devil are you that tear through these woods like this?"
demanded the German, examining the abrasure on the leader's leg. "Come,
give account of yourselves." The two riders had remounted and seemed
anxious to be off.

"We are bound for Hagenhof," replied one of them. "We are in a great
hurry, and regret this accident, for which we are entirely to blame.
Name the amount which you think a proper compensation for your injured
horse and broken harness and we will gladly pay it."

He had spoken in German and in the easy, careless manner of one who
deemed the matter too trivial to be the cause of any controversy.

"You are French!" exclaimed the lieutenant, looking at the party
closely.

"We are," replied the man who had spoken before.

"You must accompany me to Falzenberg," said the German officer, "and
interview the general there."

"What does he say?" inquired the second Frenchman of his companion.

"Come, you had best not chatter your French before me," put in the surly
lieutenant, as one of the Frenchmen proceeded to interpret to the other.
"You may be spies for all I know, but that we shall find out when we get
to Falzenberg."

The dark eyes of the second Frenchman looked inquiringly at his comrade.
The other again translated the officer's words.

"We are most unfortunate, Gaillard, to have fallen in with this
imbecile," was the reply.

"My friend commends your prudence and judgment," repeated the
interpreter, his mouth widening and showing his white teeth, "and
desires me to tell you that we have important business at Hagenhof. If
you will send us there under an escort, we shall be able to prove that
we are not spying upon the movement of your troops."

The lieutenant scowled. "Can so few words of your language stand for all
that in German?" he demanded.

The Frenchman laughed lightly as he replied, "Our language is very
flexible."

"So perhaps may be your necks," said the officer brutally, a suspicion
entering his mind that he was being laughed at. "But you must come with
me to Falzenberg, and there's an end of it."

"Why not to Hagenhof?" persisted Gaillard with perfect good-humor.

"To Falzenberg!" roared the Prussian officer, swearing roundly, "and
before we start, let me see what sort of freight you are carrying along
the road." He approached the carriage with the intention of opening the
door.

Tournay wheeled his horse between him and the coach with a suddenness
that made the German jump aside to avoid being trodden upon by the
animal.

"We are going to General von Waldenmeer at Hagenhof," he said, speaking
his own language, "and if you prevent or delay our journey you may rue
it."

The lieutenant, infuriated at this interference, caught Tournay's horse
by the bridle with one hand, while the other flew to his belt; but the
mention of General von Waldenmeer's name and the ring of decision in the
speaker's voice caused him to pause.

"General von Waldenmeer at Hagenhof," repeated Tournay slowly and
distinctly, as if he were speaking to a person of defective hearing.

"Who is making so free with the name of Waldenmeer?" cried a voice in
the French tongue but with a strong German accent; and half a dozen
Prussian officers came riding out of the wood, the fresh-fallen snow
flying from the evergreen branches like white down as their horses drove
through them.

They circled round the group by the carriage, drawing their animals up
with a suddenness that threw them on their haunches.

"Who is it that claims the friendship of von Waldenmeer?" repeated one
of the number, this time speaking in German. He was a young man about
twenty-two, with short, dark red hair, and a small mustache. He rode a
black horse that pranced and curvetted nervously.

"These people, my colonel," said the lieutenant, growing suddenly
polite. "I was about to tell them"--

"Never mind what you were about to tell them, Lieutenant Saueraugen,"
replied the colonel haughtily, "but inform me as briefly as possible
what has occurred."

Confused by the thought that possibly he had been rude to friends of
General von Waldenmeer, the lieutenant stammered through a recital which
was far from clear.

While the lieutenant was speaking, the young Prussian colonel was
slapping his boot sharply with his riding-whip, or checking the
impatient pawing of his horse.

"_Potstausend!_" he exclaimed, interrupting the unhappy lieutenant in
the middle of his story. "I cannot make head or tail of your account,
Saueraugen. Broken harness, and French spies, closed carriage, and
injured horses." Then, turning to Tournay, he addressed him in French:--

"I understand you are on your way to find General von Waldenmeer,--he is
in the field, quartered at present at Falzenberg. You can accompany me
there."

"We are bound for General von Waldenmeer's castle at Hagenhof," replied
Tournay politely, "and with your permission we will proceed there."

"Do you know the general?" inquired the Prussian colonel.

"I have not that honor."

"I am his son, Karl von Waldenmeer, and I think it would be best for you
to accompany me to Falzenberg, where I am going to join my father."

"Perhaps if the baroness is still at Hagenhof it would better suit the
inclination of the lady whom I escort, Mademoiselle de Rochefort, to go
forward rather than be compelled to go to Falzenberg."

Colonel von Waldenmeer sat in thought during the long space, for him, of
five seconds. "I think you would better come with me as far as
Falzenberg," he said.

"As you command," answered Tournay.

"Did I understand you to say that the occupant of that carriage was a
Mademoiselle de Rochefort?" asked the young von Waldenmeer, as Tournay
spoke aside to Gaillard.

"Yes."

"What is the nature of your business with the baron my father?" was the
next question, abruptly put.

"Will you permit me to discuss that with the baron himself?"

"As you will," answered the Prussian colonel with hauteur. Then turning
to the group of officers who had sat motionless upon their horses, he
said:--

"Gentlemen, you will please accompany this carriage to Falzenberg.
Lieutenant Saueraugen, bring up your batteries with all possible speed
and report to me. Franz von Shiffen, you will please come with me." He
gave his black charger a slight touch with the spur, the spirited animal
sprang forward, and he was seen galloping down the road, with Franz von
Shiffen riding hotly after him.

Baron von Waldenmeer, general of the division of the Rhine, was seated
with a beer mug before him and his pipe freshly lit, enjoying his
evening smoke, when word was brought to him that the party of Frenchmen,
encountered by his son and some other members of his staff on the road
from Inweiler, had arrived at Falzenberg, and was now awaiting his
pleasure in the room below. His son, who had come in some time before,
had told him of the incident of the meeting.

The baron blew a cloud of smoke out of his capacious mouth.

"Show the entire party up here at once. We can then hear their story and
decide as to the probability of it. You, Karl, send word to General von
Scrappenhauer that I shall have to defer our party of Skat for an hour.
Ludwig, have your father's beer mug replenished. Would you have his
throat become like the bed of a dried-up stream? And now send up your
Frenchmen; I am waiting for them."

Ludwig von Waldenmeer, who was the picture of his younger brother Karl,
except that he was heavier in build and larger of girth, passed the
beer flagon from his end of the table to his father.

Karl gave a few commands to an orderly, then took a seat by the
general's side. The latter was a man of about sixty. Around his shining
bald pate was a fringe of grizzled hair that had once been red. His
mustache was a bristling, scrubby brush of the same color. Although not
of great height he was broad of chest and still broader about the
waistband; and even in his lightest boots he rode in the saddle at two
hundred pounds.

An orderly opened the door and ushered in the four French travelers.
Mademoiselle de Rochefort entered first. She paused for a moment at the
sight of a room full of officers. Then she took a few steps into the
room and stood awaiting the baron's command. The baron took one look at
the figure before him, then rose suddenly to his feet and came toward
her; the other officers took the signal and rose from their places at
the table and stood beside their chairs.

"You are the daughter of Honoré de Rochefort. One has no need to ask the
question, it is answered by your face." And General von Waldenmeer took
Edmé by the hand and led her to a seat by his side. Agatha kept at her
mistress's elbow like a faithful guardian.

Tournay and Gaillard, travel-stained and splashed with mud from head to
foot, remained standing by the door.

"If you have come, as I surmise, to find in Prussia a home denied you by
your native land, let me say that nowhere will you find a warmer
welcome than under the roof of von Waldenmeer," and the general put her
hand to his lips.

"I have come," she replied, "to find a refuge from the persecution which
follows me in my own unhappy country. Thanks to the devotion of these
friends," and she turned toward Tournay with a look of gratitude, "I
have been able to reach here in safety, to throw myself upon your
protection, and to ask your advice as to my future movements."

"If you will pardon this reception in a rough soldier's camp,
mademoiselle, and can put up with such poor accommodation as this house
affords, to-morrow you shall be escorted on to Hagenhof, where my wife
will receive you as one of her own daughters." And he bent over her hand
for the second time.

This unusual show of gallantry on the part of their general caused Franz
von Shippen to place his hand before his mouth to hide a smile, while
Ludwig von Waldenmeer looked up at the ceiling.

"Franz," called out the general, "interview the good lady whose house we
occupy and see that the best room she has is prepared for Mademoiselle
de Rochefort. Ludwig, to-morrow you shall have the honor of escorting
this lady to Hagenhof. There you shall be welcome, mademoiselle, as long
as you choose to honor us with your company. But rest assured it will
not be long before your own country will be rescued from the miscreants
who are devouring it. All Europe is in arms to avenge outraged royalty;
the Prussian army of two hundred thousand men is now prepared to march
on Paris. With us are thousands of your own nobility. We make common
cause against anarchy and murder. We shall not rest until we have
restored the monarchy and chastised these insolent Republicans."

Edmé looked quickly in the direction of Tournay, fearful lest the
baron's words should stir him to make a reply, but he and Gaillard stood
listening imperturbably. From their quiet and unobtrusive demeanor the
general had taken them for servants of Mademoiselle de Rochefort and had
not given them a second look.

"But you are fatigued, mademoiselle," said von Waldenmeer. "To-morrow
morning will be a more fitting time to discuss your affairs. The good
hausfrau by this time is preparing your quarters. I will conduct you to
them. Your followers will be comfortably cared for outside."

Edmé, glad of an opportunity to escape further conversation, was about
to thank the general for his permission to retire to her room, when the
outer door opened and a number of French noblemen, officers of the
general's staff, entered the room.

Among them was the Marquis de Lacheville. His quick roving eye caught
sight of Edmé instantly. He stopped in the middle of a conversation with
a companion and looked over his shoulder hastily as if he would retrace
his steps without attracting attention; but it was too late. The deep
voice of General von Waldenmeer sounded in his ears.

"Ah, here are some of your brave countrymen, mademoiselle, who deem it
no disgrace to serve under the flag of Prussia in order to reconquer the
throne for their rightful sovereign."

The door behind de Lacheville was closed by the Count de Beaujeu, who
was the last to enter, and the marquis, drawing a deep breath between
his set teeth, stepped forward as one who suddenly resolves to take a
desperate chance.

"Cousin Edmé!" he exclaimed, coming up to where she was seated and
endeavoring to take her hand. "Thank Heaven you have escaped!"

"Yes, I am in a place of safety, thanks to a brave gentleman," she
replied, drawing back her hand. "But do not call me cousin. I ceased to
be your kinswoman when you deserted me at Rochefort. There are no
cowards of our blood." And she turned from him with a look of
unutterable contempt as if he were too mean an object to deserve her
passing notice. She had spoken in a low voice, yet so distinctly that
all in the room heard what she had said. A murmur of surprise ran round
the entire group of officers. The marquis drew back under the rebuff,
his face deadly pale, while he darted at Edmé a look of hatred as if he
could have killed her.

"What's that?" roared the general as soon as he could master his
astonishment. "One of my aides a coward?"

De Lacheville gave a quick glance around the room, as a hunted man,
brought suddenly to bay, might seek some weapon to defend himself. As he
caught sight of Tournay, his eyes gleamed wickedly.

"This mad girl," he exclaimed, pointing to Mademoiselle de Rochefort as
soon as he could control his voice, "was once my affianced bride, but
she has found a mate better suited to her liking. She has been traveling
with him throughout France, and now she seeks to extenuate her own
conduct by slandering me, whom she has wronged."

"If you are not the coward mademoiselle has called you, you will answer
to me for that lie," said Tournay, throwing Gaillard's restraining hand
off from his arm and advancing toward the marquis threateningly.

De Lacheville drew back. He remembered the duel in the woods at La
Thierry. He looked again into the dark eyes of the stern man who
confronted him, and his mouth twitched nervously. Then with an effort he
turned to the French gentlemen at his side and said, speaking rapidly,
"This fellow is a Republican, one of those who clamored for King Louis's
death. Shall we forget our oath to kill these regicides wherever we may
find them?"

Before he had finished speaking, three swords were out of their
scabbards and three infuriated French noblemen sprang at Tournay.

"Gott in Himmel!" shouted General von Waldenmeer, as his Prussian
officers beat down the points of the excited Frenchmen, "will you spill
blood here under my very nose? Colonel Karl von Waldenmeer, place those
French gentlemen under restraint, and let there be quiet here while I
examine into these charges."

The Marquis de Lacheville had taken up a position near the door.

"He is Robert Tournay, an officer of the Republican army!" he cried out
as he sheathed his sword. "While he is here in the disguise of a lackey
in waiting to Mademoiselle de Rochefort, his intention is to play the
spy and return with his information to France. For your own sake,
General von Waldenmeer, you should place him where he can do you no such
injury."

"What answer have you to make to this?" said the old general, addressing
Tournay. "Are you a servant of Mademoiselle de Rochefort, or are you a
spy of those Republican brigands? Speak! I condemn no man unheard."

Tournay looked round the room before replying.

"I am a colonel in the Republican army," he said quietly. "But I came
here solely to bring mademoiselle to a place of safety; not to spy upon
your army, which as a matter of fact I thought twenty miles further
east."

General von Waldenmeer broke the silence that followed this avowal.

"You admit that you are an officer in the Republican army. You are
within our lines under very peculiar circumstances. You may have taken
advantage of Mademoiselle de Rochefort's confidence in you to play the
spy. Until it is proven to the contrary, I must take the ground that
both you and your companion are spies, and treat you accordingly.
Colonel von Waldenmeer, you will send for a file of soldiers and place
these two men under arrest."

"General von Waldenmeer!" said Edmé de Rochefort, turning toward the old
baron with an appealing gesture, "you are about to commit an act of
grave injustice. Colonel Tournay is guiltless of the charge of being a
spy. The charge was brought against him out of malice and revenge by the
man who has just slandered me so basely."

She did not look at the Marquis de Lacheville, but under the general
gaze which was directed toward him as she spoke, he quailed and shrunk
from the room, shivering as with ague.

"This gentleman," she went on, looking at Tournay gratefully, "has
incurred great danger and endured much privation in order to bring me
here in safety. He has been brave and devoted when others cravenly
deserted me; and if he should be treated by you as a spy it would be as
if I had decoyed him here only to destroy him."

"No, mademoiselle, no," said Robert Tournay in a low tone.

By a quick gesture she bade him be silent.

"General von Waldenmeer, you are a brave soldier. You have professed the
greatest friendship for your old friend's daughter. She now asks you to
release these gentlemen. As a soldier and a gentleman you are bound to
grant her prayer."

She spoke the words simply and in the tone which was natural to her, as
if the request admitted of no denial; and laying her hand upon the
general's arm looked into his rough face.

For a moment he sat in silence. His heavy brows came down until they
shaded his eyes completely. Then taking the hand that rested on his
sleeve, he said:--

"At the risk of neglecting my duty as a soldier, I will grant your
request. These men shall go free, but," he added hastily, as though his
consent to their liberation had been given too quickly, "they must be
kept under surveillance here until to-morrow, and then they shall be
escorted back over the frontier. Colonel von Waldenmeer," he continued,
addressing his son, "I leave you to conduct these French gentlemen to
their quarters. I make you responsible for their keeping."

Edmé held out her hand to Tournay. "Good-night, Colonel Tournay," she
said. "It is a great joy and relief to know that you are to come to no
harm through having brought me here. And you, who have done so much for
me, will surely overlook this last and slight indignity which you are
called upon to endure for my sake."

"Mademoiselle," he replied, bending over her hand and speaking in a tone
so low that none other in the room could hear, "there is nothing in the
world I would not endure for your sake. To have you speak to me like
this repays me a thousand-fold. Adieu, mademoiselle. Now, Colonel von
Waldenmeer, I am ready;" and with Gaillard at his side he followed young
von Waldenmeer from the room.

CHAPTER XI

UNDER WHICH FLAG?

As the three men came out into the corridor, the large outer door opened
and a sergeant of artillery stepped over the threshold, saluted the
colonel, and stood awaiting orders. The fine snow drifted past him into
the hall, stinging the faces of von Waldenmeer and his two prisoners.

The colonel turned toward the Frenchmen, and addressing them in his
quick way, said:--

"It is a vile night. Give me your word not to leave the quarters to
which I assign you until sent for, and I will permit you to pass the
night more in comfort under this roof."

Tournay gladly assented, the young von Waldenmeer spoke a few words of
command to the sergeant, who turned on his heel and repeated the order
in guttural tones to some snow-covered figures behind him. The door
closed with a loud bang and the escort was heard marching away.

Colonel Karl then led the way up a broad oaken staircase to a room at
the end of a long corridor on the upper floor.

"My own room is just opposite," said he with a gesture of the head, as
he threw open the door. "You will be more comfortable here than in the
guard-house."

The house which General von Waldenmeer had chosen for his headquarters
at Falzenberg was a commodious one, built around an open court, where in
summer a fountain played in the centre of a green grass plot. Tournay
stepped to one of the windows and looked out upon the scene. The bronze
figure in the fountain was draped with ice, and a great mound of snow
filled the centre of the square, where the soldiers had cleared a
passage for themselves. On the opposite side were the stables, and from
the neighing and stamping of hoofs, Tournay judged more than a dozen
horses were kept there. Lights flashed here and there as a subaltern or
private moved about in the performance of the night's duties.

The first thing which had struck Gaillard's eye on entering was a large
canopied bed. This reminded him too forcibly of his fatigue to be
resisted. He threw himself down upon it, boots and all, and was asleep
as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Von Waldenmeer stood in the centre of the room, slapping his hessians
with a little flexible riding-whip. Tournay began to thank him for the
courtesy he had shown them, when the latter stopped him in his abrupt
way, saying:--

"I was watching the Marquis de Lacheville's face while he was denouncing
Mademoiselle de Rochefort, and if ever I saw liar written upon a man's
countenance it was on his then. I wish that he had lied when he accused
you of being a colonel in the Republican army." And Colonel Karl strode
toward the door impatiently.

"Why should you have wished that?" demanded Tournay. "I am proud of my
position."

"Bah!" exclaimed the German, with his hand on the latch, "you should be
in the Prussian army. It is an honor to serve in the army that was built
up by the great Frederick. A man of your courage should not be content
to serve among those Republican brigands. Good-night,"--and he
disappeared rapidly through the door, slamming it behind him.

Tournay roused Gaillard from his slumber. Both men were numb with
fatigue. They had not taken off their clothes and slept in a bed since
leaving Paris, and five minutes later they had thrown off their garments
and sunk into a deep sleep in the large, white bed.

For ten hours Tournay slept without moving. Then he yawned, threw out
both arms, opened his eyes a little, and was preparing to sleep again
when he became conscious that a man was standing beside the bed. Opening
his heavy eyes a little further, he recognized Gaillard and said to him
drowsily:--

"Well! What is it, Gaillard? Can't I get a few minutes' sleep
undisturbed?"

"The forenoon is half gone," replied Gaillard; "you've slept enough for
one man."

"You don't mean to say that it's morning already!" exclaimed Tournay,
leaning on one elbow and blinking at the light.

"Morning! The finest kind of a morning," replied Gaillard gayly. "I've
been up these two hours. I gained permission to go to our carriage, and
I have taken out a change of linen from our equipment in the boot."

Tournay sprang from the bed and looked out of the window. The sun was
high in the heaven, and the day was bright and cold.

"That Lieutenant Sauerkraut, or whatever his name may be," said
Gaillard, "has just come up to say that the general would like to see
you at your convenience. The lieutenant was particularly civil, for him,
so I surmise nothing will interfere with our early departure. It's
astonishing how quickly an underling takes his tone from his superior
officer. I suppose it will be better for you to wait upon the general at
once, while the old gentleman is in a good humor," continued Gaillard,
"and as I have been given the liberty of the courtyard, I will employ
the time in looking after our horses."

"Very well," said Tournay. "I will go to General von Waldenmeer. I hope
nothing will interfere with our immediate departure."

General von Waldenmeer was seated at his table with a pile of maps and
papers before him. At Tournay's entrance the two officers who were
standing at the general's side withdrew to the further end of the room.
It was the same room in which the scene of the previous evening had
taken place. On the table at the general's elbow stood his beer-mug,
filled with his morning draught. The old soldier was evidently very much
absorbed in the work before him, for his heavy brows were drawn over
his eyes and his lips were moving as he studied the papers. From time to
time he reached out his left hand mechanically and took up the beer-mug,
refreshing himself with a long pull. With the exception of the two
officers, there were no other occupants of the room.

The picture of Mademoiselle Edmé, as she had appeared when pleading to
the general in his behalf, was so vivid in Tournay's mind that he stood
silently before the table, oblivious to his surroundings. He remained in
this position for some minutes when the general, upon one of his
searches for inspiration at the bottom of the beer-mug, glanced over the
rim and saw the Frenchman standing like a statue before him.

"_Potstausend!_" he exclaimed, as soon as he had set down the mug and
wiped the white froth from his mustache. "You were so quiet that I
forgot your existence and have been studying out a plan of campaign
against General Hoche under your very nose. He's a clever little man, is
Hoche," continued the old German musingly. "There is some sport in
beating him."

Tournay smiled quietly at hearing his idol patronizingly spoken of by an
officer who had not won half his fame.

"I wish you better success than your predecessor in the attempt, General
von Waldenmeer," he said.

The general smiled grimly at this hit and then changed the subject by
saying:--

"Last evening I told you that I would send you back to France with an
escort to the frontier."

Tournay bowed affirmatively.

"Since then, Mademoiselle de Rochefort has told me in full the story of
her escape from Tours, recounting your part in it, and dwelling most
flatteringly upon your bravery and discretion."

Tournay bowed again in acknowledgment.

"The service you have rendered the daughter of my old friend, by
effecting her rescue and bringing her here in spite of such great
obstacles, makes my obligation to you deep, very deep. My honor and my
inclinations are one, when they move me to accord you, not only your
freedom, but to offer you a commission in my son's regiment, the Tenth
Prussian heavy artillery."

If the general had ordered him out to instant execution or conferred
upon him in marriage the hand of his daughter Gretchen, Tournay could
not have felt more surprise. For a few moments he could find no words in
which to answer, and the general turned to the papers he had just laid
down.

"Is my entry into your service made a condition of my freedom?" he
finally found breath to inquire.

The Prussian general looked up from the map he had been studying,
pressing his fat finger upon it to mark the place.

"Certainly not," he replied, "I make no conditions in paying a debt."

"Then I will take my liberty, which you have promised to restore to me,"
answered Tournay, "and return to France."

It was now the general's turn to be surprised.

"You mean to say that you will go back to Paris?"

"I shall return to the French army at--It is needless to tell you where,
as you have been studying the map so attentively."

"But," interrupted General von Waldenmeer, "within six months our allied
armies will be in Paris. There will be no more Republic, and every one
who has been instrumental in the death of King Louis XVI. and the
destruction of the monarchy will have to pay the penalty. You are a
young man. You have been led into this republicanism by older heads. I
offer you an opportunity--not only of escaping the consequences of your
folly but the chance of redeeming yourself by fighting on the right
side--and you refuse?" and the general reached out for the beer-mug to
sustain himself in his disappointment. He was so sincere in his offer
and in his amazement at its refusal that the angry color on Tournay's
cheek faded away and a smile crept to his lips.

"Come," said the old general, putting down his mug after an unusually
long pull at the contents, "you are thinking better of it. I can
understand a soldier's disinclination to desert his colors, but this is
not as if I were asking you to be a traitor to your country. A von
Waldenmeer would cut out his own tongue rather than propose that to any
other soldier. I am putting it in your way to leave the service of a
faction who by anarchy and rebellion have gained control of France.
Under the banner of the allies are the true patriots of your country.
You have only to throw off that red, white, and blue uniform and put on
the colors of Prussia and you are one of them."

Again the flush of resentment rose to Tournay's cheek, but as he looked
down upon the German general who in perfect good faith and seriousness
made him such a proposal, and as he realized the utter impossibility of
either of them ever seeing the subject in the same light, his look of
anger changed to one of amusement, and a grim smile twitched at the
corners of his mustache.

"I appreciate the honor you would do me, General von Waldenmeer, but I
prefer to pay the penalty of my folly and remain loyal to the French
Republic."

The general took up his papers again. "Very well," he said gruffly. "I
will provide you with an escort over the frontier. It will be ready to
start within the hour." His eyebrows came down and he became deeply
immersed in the study of the map.

Tournay stood for a few moments looking at the fat forefinger of the old
soldier as it traced its way over the surface of the map. His thoughts
were of Mademoiselle de Rochefort. He wondered whether she had set out
on her way to Hagenhof. He almost hoped that she had left and that he
would be spared the pain of parting from her. Yet if she were still at
Falzenberg he knew he never could force himself to leave and not make an
attempt to bid her good-by.

It was with these conflicting emotions, mingled with a reluctance to
mention her name to the gruff old general, that he said in a low
voice:--

"Has Mademoiselle de Rochefort started on her journey to Hagenhof?"

He received no answer.

There had been a slight tremor in his voice as he spoke Edmé's name.
Hesitating for a moment, he stepped to the table and placing one hand on
it he asked again in a steady tone, "When does Mademoiselle de Rochefort
go to Hagenhof?"

The one word "To-morrow" came abruptly out of the large head buried in
the papers before him.

Tournay drew a sigh of relief. If she had gone away, leaving him no
word, he would have been the most miserable of men. Without further
words with the general he turned and left the room.

As he went along the hallway be heard the rustle of a woman's gown
behind him, and turning, saw to his great satisfaction the figure of
Agatha hurrying toward him.

"Agatha," he exclaimed, as she came up to him, "where is mademoiselle?
Can I see her?"

"Mademoiselle is in Frau Krieger's apartment at the further end of the
east wing. If you will come with me I will show you where it is. It is
fortunate that I have met you as I do, else it would have been difficult
to find you in this large place."

"Then you were sent to fetch me?" inquired Tournay eagerly.

"I did not say that," replied Agatha with a quiet smile.

"But you evidently were in search of me," persisted Tournay.

"I have no time to answer questions now," she replied, with a laugh.
"Here is the room," and she ushered him into a long old-fashioned salon,
whose uncomfortable pieces of furniture looked as if they had stood for
generations staring at their own ugly reflections in the polished
surface of the floor.

At one end of the room stood a porcelain stove in which a fire was
burning; but the large white sepulchral object seemed to chill the
atmosphere more than the fire could warm it. Two high windows hung with
heavy curtains faced the square in front of the house, while in the rear
two other windows looked out upon the courtyard.

Frau Krieger, the widow of a Prussian officer of high rank, had reserved
the salon and one or two adjoining rooms for her own use, and saw with
pride the remainder of her domicile turned into barracks by General von
Waldenmeer and his staff.

"Wait here a moment and I will tell mademoiselle," said Agatha,
traversing the salon and disappearing through a door in the further
side. Tournay walked to the front window and glanced out on the street.

The sentinel at the porte-cochère was on the point of presenting arms to
Ludwig von Waldenmeer, who rode out; and two of the general's staff
officers stood smoking and chatting in front of the building. Tournay's
alert ear caught the sound of light footsteps, and he turned just as
Edmé crossed the threshold from the inner room.

He had told himself many times within the last few minutes that the
interview must be a brief one if he were to retain complete mastery over
his feelings. As he approached her, his face, in spite of his efforts to
control it, expressed some of the emotions which the sight of her
awakened.

She extended her hand to him in her graceful, natural way, and he bent
over it, mechanically uttering the words he had been repeating over and
over to himself.

"I have come, mademoiselle, to say adieu."

At this, the color which had mantled her cheek as he touched her fingers
disappeared.

"You have not seen General von Waldenmeer, then?" she asked quickly.

"Yes, mademoiselle, and because I have seen him I intend to start at
once."

"General von Waldenmeer says that in less than three months' time the
Prussian army will be in Paris," said Edmé.

A slight smile of incredulity was Tournay's only reply.

"The monarchy will be restored," she continued; "little mercy will be
shown the Republicans. They will have justice meted out to them by their
conquerors."

"The allied armies will never reach Paris, mademoiselle, and before they
restore the monarchy they must kill every Republican who stands between
them and the throne."

"I do not want them to kill you," she said simply.

His heart beat wildly. For an instant he did not speak. When he could
trust his voice to answer he said:--

"I thank you deeply for your solicitude, mademoiselle, but whatever
happens I must go back to my duty."

Edmé hesitated a moment, then spoke, at first with evident effort; then
warming into a tone of almost passionate entreaty.

"You have done much for an unhappy woman, Robert Tournay. The
remembrance of the loyalty and devotion with which you watched over and
protected me shall never pass out of my memory. The de Rocheforts do not
easily forget such a debt as I owe you. In an attempt to repay it in
some measure, I persuaded General von Waldenmeer to offer you an
honorable position in his service. I am a proud woman, Monsieur Tournay,
and it cost me something to make such an appeal to the Prussian officer,
and now you reject his offer and present yourself before me so coolly
and say carelessly, 'I have come, mademoiselle, to bid you adieu.'"

"You think it easy for me to say those words?" replied Tournay
vehemently.

She did not wait for him to finish, but went on:--

"I place it in your power to serve the rightful cause, honorably and
loyally,--the cause of the king; _my_ cause, Robert Tournay, and you
refuse to do so."

"Do you not see that what you propose would be my dishonor?" he asked
gently.

"No," answered Edmé firmly. "You are a brave but obstinate man, who
madly pursues a wicked course; because, having once espoused it, you
think to desert it would be disloyal. You are mad, Robert Tournay, but I
will rescue you from your folly. I will save you in spite of yourself. I
command you to stay here!" and with the same imperious gesture which he
knew so well of old, she stood before him, her dark blue eyes, as was
their wont under stress of excitement, flashing almost black. The tone
was one of command, but there was in it a note of entreaty that went to
his heart. He caught the hand which she held out to him, and exclaimed
fervently:--

"I would give ten years of life to be able to obey you, but it cannot
be. You do not know what you are asking of me or you would not put my
honor thus upon the rack. It is cruel of you, mademoiselle, but I
forgive you. You cannot understand. How should you--you are of the
Monarchy, and I am of the Republic. The Republic calls me and I must
go."

"The Republic!" repeated Edmé, "Oh! execrable Republic! It has robbed me
of everything in the world--family, estate, friends, and now"--She
paused, the sentence incomplete upon her lips, and looked at him with an
expression of pain upon her face as if some violent struggle were
taking place within her. "And now you are going back to it. You may
become its victim; you, who are so brave and strong and noble. Yes," she
continued, "I will give the word its full meaning, Robert Tournay, you
are noble--too noble to become a martyr in such a cause. I entreat you
not to go. I fear for your safety."

Tournay's head swam. For a moment he felt that he must fold her in his
arms and tell her that for her sake he would give up everything in the
world for which he had striven,--country, liberty, and honor; the
Republic itself.

With a mighty effort he threw off the feeling of weakness, passionately
crying, "For God's sake, mademoiselle, do not speak to me like that. You
will make me forget my manhood. You will make me act so that your
respect, which I have been so fortunate as to win, will turn to
contempt. You could almost make me turn traitor to the Republic."

"What is this Republic? this creature of the imagination which you place
above all else in the world?" she asked impetuously. "What has it done
for France? What has it done for you?"

Before Tournay could answer, the sound of martial music was heard
outside, and the measured tread of passing troops shook the room. He
stepped to the window and drawing aside the curtains motioned Edmé to
come to his side.

Wonderingly she approached and saw a brigade of infantry passing in
review of the general of division. They marched with absolute
precision, the sun reflecting on the polished barrels of their guns as
on a solid wall.

"There go the best troops in the world," said Tournay. Edmé looked up in
his face with surprise at his sudden change of manner.

"The soldiers of Prussia: at the command of their officers they will
march like that to the batteries' mouth, closing up the gap of the
fallen men with clock-work movements. There are two hundred thousand of
them, and they are preparing to attack France. Joined with them are the
tried veterans of Austria. On the sea," he continued, "the fleets of
England are bearing down upon the ports of France. In the south, Spain
is pouring her soldiers over the Pyrenees. These allied armies have
banded together to destroy France. Yet we shall throw them back again,
as we did at Wattignes and at Jemappes. There the flower of the European
armies was scattered by our raw French troops. Although outnumbered and
outmanoeuvred, the _men_ of France hurled back their foes in broken
and disordered array. And why? Because in the heart of every Frenchman
burns the new-born fire of liberty. He is fighting for the freedom he
has bought so dearly. He is fighting for that Republic which has made
him what he is--a _man_! It is France against the world! and by the
Republic alone will she triumph over her enemies. That is my answer,
mademoiselle. The Republic has made a new France, and _I_ am part of it.
At her call I must leave everything and go to her defense."

While he spoke thus, Edmé saw his face animated with a light she had
learned to know so well,--the same light that had shone from his eyes
when he confronted the mob in her château; the same fire that flashed as
he defended himself before General von Waldenmeer.

"You say I place my duty to the Republic above any earthly
consideration," he said. "Let me tell you that I hold your respect still
dearer. If I should desert my cause, the cause for which I have lived,
should I not lose that respect? Ask your own heart, mademoiselle, would
it not be so?"

She stood in silence. Then her eyes met his. He read her answer there
before she spoke, and in the look she gave him he thought he read still
more--something he dared not believe, scarcely dared hope.

"You are right," she replied, speaking slowly and distinctly. "Go back
to France! It is I who bid you go."

"I knew you would tell me to go," he replied.

The sound of voices in the corridor outside fell upon their ears.

"There are Gaillard and the escort," said Tournay, sadly. "Mademoiselle,
good-by! I may never see you again. But I thank God that you are here in
safety, and I shall find some happiness in the thought that I have been
an instrument in your deliverance."

She did not answer, but stretched out her hand to him. He took it, and
dropping on one knee, put it to his lips. "It is for the last time," he
said, looking up at her. His face was deadly pale, and there was a look
of pleading in his brown eyes.

She placed her other hand upon his head. It was but the slightest touch,
as if she yielded to a sudden impulse, and then with the same swift
movement she drew away from him.

"As it _must_ be, I pray you to go quickly," she said, and without
waiting for a reply she turned and left him.

Tournay rose to his feet,--"I swear to you now, mademoiselle, that some
day I shall see you again," and he rushed from the room to the courtyard
below.

"Are the horses ready?" he whispered hoarsely, grasping Gaillard by the
arm.

"At the door with an escort of Prussian officers," was the reply.

"What time is it?"

"Three hours before dark."

"We must be over the frontier and well into France by to-night," was
Tournay's rejoinder. "Come!"

Standing by the window, Edmé saw him leap into the saddle. He gave one
look in her direction, but could not see her, concealed as she was by
the heavy curtains.

She heard the officers laughing and talking among themselves. She saw
one of the men jump from his horse, tighten a saddle girth, and remount
with an agile spring. Then Colonel von Waldenmeer approached and
addressed some remark to Robert Tournay. The latter, who had been
sitting erect and motionless upon his horse, turned slightly in the
saddle to answer the Prussian officer.

Edmé could see that his features were set and their expression stern.

Colonel von Waldenmeer mounted his own horse, gave a word of command,
and the party started forward.

Edmé watched them as they went up the road. Ten horses riding two
abreast, the snow flying out from under the heels of the galloping
hoofs. She watched them until the square shoulders of Colonel Tournay
were hardly distinguishable from those of Colonel Karl who rode beside
him. The cavalcade disappeared around a bend in the road, and Edmé
turned from the wintry aspect without to the dreary salon with a heavy
heart.

CHAPTER XII

THE FOUR COMMISSIONERS

Under the escort of Karl von Waldenmeer and half a dozen of his French
officers, Tournay and Gaillard rode rapidly toward the French boundary.

It had stopped snowing during the night, and the weather was clear and
cold.

They rode in silence, no sound being heard but the regular dull beating
of their horses' hoofs on the snow-covered ground.

They drew out of the wood and saw the frozen surface of the Rhine before
them, the sun dazzling their eyes with its reflected light upon the ice.

With one accord the party reined in their horses and sat motionless,
looking at the glorious sight of the ice-bound river.

Karl von Waldenmeer was the first to break the silence. Pointing with
his gloved hand toward the opposite shore he said:--

"There, gentlemen, is France, and my road ends here."

Tournay merely made an inclination of the head in assent. He was
thinking sadly of Edmé standing by the window in the cheerless old salon
at Falzenberg; but as he looked out over the river towards his own land
he remembered the army on the other side of the Vosges; the prospect of
the impending campaign caused his spirits to revive, and he replied:--

"We owe you thanks, Colonel von Waldenmeer, for the kindness you have
been pleased to show us. When we meet again it will doubtless be upon
the field of battle, but I shall not even then forget your courtesy of
to-day."

"It will always give me pleasure to meet you again, under any
circumstances, Colonel Tournay," said the Prussian, "and if it be on the
field, to cross swords with you. A brave foe makes a good friend, and I
shall be glad to count you as both of these. And now, gentlemen, we will
relieve you of our escort; there lies your way over that bridge, just
below here. We return to Falzenberg."

"Let us cross upon the ice," said Gaillard to Tournay; "it will bear our
weight easily."

They rode down the bank. At the brink their horses drew back, but being
urged by their riders, went forward, feeling the ice daintily with their
forefeet with cat-like caution. Seeing that the ice was quite safe, the
Frenchmen put spurs into their horses and the animals swung into a
gallop, their iron-shod feet cutting into the ice with a pleasant,
crunching sound.

Reaching the further side, they rode up the steep bank, then reined in
their horses and looked back. The declining rays of the sun tipped the
snow-clad hemlock trees on the other side of the river with crimson,
and against the dark outline of the forest behind, the figures of
Colonel von Waldenmeer and his officers sat motionless as statues. Each
party gave the military salute, and the Prussians rode back into the
wood, while Tournay and Gaillard sat looking after them until they were
no longer in sight.

"We are on French soil once more," exclaimed Tournay, "and now to join
General Hoche and fight for it."

"I had best return to Paris," said Gaillard.

"I fear to have you return there now, after having put your head in
danger by assisting me," said Tournay anxiously.

"I shall be as safe in Paris as anywhere in the world," replied his
friend. "Nobody will suspect the actor Gaillard of having any connection
with the flight of Mademoiselle de Rochefort. I cannot do better than to
return to Paris and resume my usual mode of life there. While, if you
are suspected, as is more likely, of instigating or effecting
Mademoiselle de Rochefort's escape from Tours, you must look to your
military reputation and your influence in the convention to protect you
from an inquiry on the part of the rabid revolutionists."

"What you say, Gaillard, is sound reasoning. I will follow your advice.
Embrace me, my friend, and let us part here."

"Good-by until we meet again, my colonel!" was Gaillard's only audible
reply, and then he rode off toward the west, while Tournay turned his
horse in the direction of the north, where the French troops lay
encamped.

It was about noon of the next day when he reached the French army, and
stopping only at his own tent to put on his uniform he hurried to the
headquarters of General Hoche and reported for duty. He had traveled so
rapidly from Tours that he reached the army almost as soon as General
Hoche expected him, and the general attributed the delay of a day or so
to the bad condition of the roads.

Tournay hesitated to set him right in the matter, as he deemed it more
prudent to refrain from mentioning to anyone his part in Mademoiselle de
Rochefort's escape.

"What news do you bring from the convention?" was the question of the
general as they were seated alone.

"Bad!" replied Tournay, "as you can tell by the tone of these
dispatches. The convention has many able men in it, but they are
dominated too entirely by the Revolutionary Tribunal, and that body is
dominated too much by one man. His power is ruining the Republic. Unless
we get rid of Robespierre, we might as well go back to the monarchy."

After a few moments spent in reading the papers Tournay had put in his
hand, General Hoche looked up with an expression of annoyance on his
brow.

"Yes; the insulting tone of this dispatch is almost beyond endurance. I
am glad after all that my business is out here fighting the external
enemies of France. Were I at Paris, I should be embroiling myself daily
with some of those who are in power. If we meet with the slightest
reverses here at the front there is a howl from St. Just and that crowd
that we are betraying the Republic. Meanwhile they furnish us with a
beggarly equipment. It is they who are betraying the Republic. Were it
not for Danton we should get nothing. He alone makes success against our
enemies possible. And we must be successful, Colonel Tournay; look here
at the plan of campaign."

And the young general, in his military ardor, forgetting entirely the
insulting dispatch, turned with enthusiasm to the maps which lay spread
out on the table.

"Here are the bulk of the Austrian forces at Wissembourg. That old
German beer-barrel von Waldenmeer is at Falzenberg. He intends to
concentrate his troops there and then bring them up to join the Austrian
general, Wurmser."

Tournay started at his own general's accurate information in regard to
the enemy's position and plans.

"We must attack Wurmser at once before he can receive reinforcements,
and then proceed to Landau. They have beaten us once at Wissembourg and
will not be looking for us to take the offensive again so soon. I have
already given the order to mobilize the troops. I and my staff will ride
forward this evening. By to-morrow night we shall have retaken
Wissembourg."

"One moment, general," interrupted Tournay, as Hoche took up another
map. "I wish to tell you that I have just seen General von Waldenmeer at
Falzenberg."

Hoche looked at his officer with surprise.

"I went to the Prussian frontier on an errand, the nature of which I
should prefer to keep secret for the present. I was suspected of being a
spy, taken prisoner, and brought before General von Waldenmeer. He
listened to my explanations and released me under circumstances no less
peculiar than those which brought me within his lines." Here Tournay
stopped, the blood coming to the surface under the bronze of his cheek
at the steady gaze of General Hoche.

"Is that all?" inquired the latter.

"That is all," answered his colonel, "except that had I not made this
detour I should have been here twenty-four hours earlier, and that as I
got within the Prussian lines by mistake and did not go as a spy, I can
give you no information which you have not already obtained."

"If you had arrived twenty-four hours later you would have missed the
grandest opportunity of your life; I intend to give you, Colonel
Tournay, the command of a brigade in the approaching battle."

"A brigade?" echoed Tournay in surprise.

"You shall atone for your breach of discipline by bearing great
responsibility in the attack. I intend your brigade to be where the
fight is hottest, and if there is anything left of it after the
engagement, and of you, colonel, you shall continue to command it and I
will recommend you for promotion."

Tournay grasped his chief by the hand.

"You may be sure, General Hoche, that I shall do my utmost to deserve
the honor you have done me."

"I was persuaded of that before I determined to give you the command,"
replied Hoche; "now go forward and join your regiment. By midnight I
shall be at Wissembourg and shall have one last word with all of my
generals. I do not believe in protracted councils of war."

That evening Colonel Tournay was encamped before the field of
Wissembourg. He sat in his tent waiting for the summons that should
bring him to General Hoche's council board.

An orderly entered with the word that a commission of four men from the
Committee of Public Safety at Paris wished to speak to him.

Tournay started from the reverie into which he had fallen. His thoughts
had been dwelling upon the events of the past week, and the announcement
struck a discordant note in his meditation. "Show them in," he replied
briefly.

In another moment the four commissioners stood before him. Three of the
men were unknown to him, but the fourth was Gardin. The latter, as
spokesman, stood a little in advance of the others. On his face there
was a look of mingled insolence and triumph.

Tournay's gorge rose at sight of the man, but remembering that he was
the recognized emissary from the committee he controlled his impulse to
kick him from the tent.

"Will you be seated, citizens?" he said, rising and addressing his
remark more to the three commissioners who were not known to him than to
Gardin. "Orderly, bring seats."

"Our business with you will be of such short duration that we shall have
no need to sit down," answered Gardin curtly.

"Orderly, do not bring the seats," was Tournay's quick order, as he
resumed his former place on a camp-chair and sat carelessly looking at
the four men standing before him. This placed Gardin in just the
opposite rôle from that he had intended to assume. He saw his mistake at
once, and hastened to recover his lost ground.

"Citizen colonel," he said, drawing a paper from his pocket and putting
it in Tournay's hands, "here is a document from the committee which even
you cannot question. It is addressed to Robert Tournay."

Tournay broke the large red seal of the letter and read:--

     CITIZEN COLONEL ROBERT TOURNAY; with the Army of the Moselle,
     Citizen General Lazare Hoche commanding:--

     The Citizen Colonel Tournay is hereby summoned to appear before
     the Committee of Public Safety to answer charges affecting his
     patriotism and loyalty to the Republic. He will resign his
     command at once, and return to Paris in the company of the four
     commissioners who bring him this document.

     Signed: For the Committee of Public Safety,

     COUTHON,
     ST. JUST.

     This 5th Pluviose, the year II. of the French Republic one and
     indivisible.

When he had finished reading the document Tournay folded it carefully
and placed it in his pocket.

"Well?" demanded Gardin impatiently.

"I cannot at present leave the army," was the reply.

The four commissioners exchanged looks.

"We are on the eve of a decisive engagement with the enemy. When that is
over--in a few days, if I am alive, I will answer the committee's
summons."

"We were instructed to bring you back with us at once," said one of the
commissioners.

"And we'll do it, too," muttered another under his breath.

The fourth pulled Gardin by the sleeve and whispered something in his
ear.

"I regret, citizen commissioners," repeated Tournay, "that I cannot at
present leave the army."

Then rising suddenly and confronting Gardin he said passionately:--

"Tell your masters that it is not necessary to drag Robert Tournay to
Paris like a felon, that he will appear before the committee of his own
free will; that he regards the welfare of France as paramount to
everything else, and that his duty to her will take him to the field
to-morrow."

"Your answer is not satisfactory to us," persisted Gardin, "nor will it
be to the committee. Once more, and for the last time, citizen colonel,
will you obey this summons as it is written?"

"No!" thundered Tournay.

"Then in the name of the Republic I suspend you from your command, and
arrest you as a traitor. Lay hands upon him!"

Gardin himself, remembering his previous encounter with Tournay in which
he had come off so poorly, merely gave the command, leaving the others
to execute it. Two of them stepped forward with alacrity, one upon each
side of Tournay, and grasped him by the arms.

He offered no resistance, but raising his voice a little called out:--

"Officers of the guard!"

Half a dozen of his Hussars who were in the adjoining tent hastened in
at his call.

"Arrest these four men!" commanded Tournay quietly.

"Stop!" cried Gardin; "arrest us at your peril. We are the authorized
emissaries of the Committee of Public Safety," and he flourished his
commission in the soldiers' faces. "We are but carrying out our strict
orders. To lay hands upon us will be to bring down upon your heads the
vengeance of Robespierre."

The Hussars stood still. The name of the man who governed France under
the cloak of the Republic made them hesitate.

"Conduct the prisoner away with as much dispatch as possible," said
Gardin in a quick, low tone to his companions.

"Lieutenant Dessarts, arrest these four men instantly," repeated
Tournay. There was a ring in his voice which his subordinates well
understood, and without further hesitation they laid hands upon the
Paris commissioners and proceeded to drag them from the tent by force.

"He has been relieved of his command and therefore has no right to give
you orders. Are you slaves that you obey him thus?" yelled Gardin,
struggling with the big corporal who held him.

"See that no harm is done them, Lieutenant Dessarts," Tournay called out
as the men were led away. "Conduct them outside our lines and give
orders that they shall not be permitted to return."

Following them to the door of his tent, Tournay coolly watched the
unhappy commissioners as they were led away, protesting vehemently
against the indignity of their arrest and vowing vengeance for it.

It was a cold winter night, and the wind blew down through the mountain
passes of the Vosges with biting keenness. Throwing his cloak over his
shoulder he strolled out through the camp. In spite of the chilling wind
the soldiers showed the greatest enthusiasm. As he went down the long
line of camp-fires, he was recognized and cheered roundly. Cries of
"We'll beat them at Wissembourg to-morrow, colonel!" "Landau or death!"
greeted him on all sides.

The next day showed that they had not uttered vain boasts.

Tournay's command, sweeping through a narrow defile in the face of a
destructive fire, tore through the enemy's centre, and combining with
Dessaix on the left, and Pichegru on the right, sent Wurmser's troops
backward before his Prussian allies could come to his assistance.

With the cry of "Landau or death!" the victorious French dashed on
toward the beleaguered city and raised the siege just as the brave
garrison was in the last extremity for want of food and ammunition.

The day after the relief of Landau, Colonel Tournay entered the tent of
the commander-in-chief. Hoche rose to meet him, and taking him by the
hand said warmly:--

"Colonel Tournay, in the name of France I thank you for the efficiency
and bravery displayed yesterday. The victory of Wissembourg will live in
the annals of history, and a full share of the glory belongs to you. In
my dispatches to the convention I have not omitted to mention your noble
conduct."

The generous Hoche pressed the hand of his colonel in fraternal feeling.
He was two years younger than Tournay, although care and fatigue gave
him the looks of an older man. At twenty-four this remarkable man had
risen to be preëminently the greatest general in France, and but for his
premature death might in later years have contested with Napoleon for
his laurels.

"I have come, general, to ask your permission to return to Paris," said
Tournay, much gratified by the words of praise from the lips of one whom
he regarded as the greatest military hero of the age.

"Again?" said Hoche, in a tone of surprise.

"The Committee of Public Safety have seen fit to summon me to appear
before them," Tournay continued. "Some one has been found to impeach my
loyalty, and I must answer the charge."

A shade passed over the face of Hoche.

"But I can ill spare you, Colonel Tournay. What does this committee mean
by suspecting the integrity of an officer in whom I have implicit faith?
By Heaven, I will not permit it! If they arrest you, I'll throw my
commission back in their faces before I will allow you to answer their
charges."

"That, my general, would but work injury to France, who depends upon
such a man as you to save her. You surely will not desert her because a
few overheated brains at Paris have seen fit to listen to some of my
traducers. I will go back to Paris and confront my enemies. My conduct
at Wissembourg will be an answer to their charge of treason." And the
colonel drew himself up with a flash of pardonable pride in his dark
eyes.

"You may be right," replied Hoche, "but I would not trust them. The
reputation which your conduct at Wissembourg will create for you will
make them jealous, and they will whisper it about that your popularity
renders you dangerous. I know them. They become jealous of any man's
reputation. They will have me before the bar of their tribunal as soon
as they feel that they can spare me."

And Hoche laughed scornfully as he uttered the prophecy which was so
soon to be fulfilled.

"I have no fear but that I shall be able to satisfy them as to loyalty,"
replied Tournay, smiling at the absurdity of the great and popular Hoche
pleading before the tribunal.

"Well, go if you will, but understand, Tournay, that if you refuse to
obey this summons, I will protect you. They shall bring no fictitious
charges against a trusted officer in my army without entering into a
contest with me."

"I thank you again, my general, but I will not permit you to embroil
yourself with the committee on my account. You are too indispensable to
France. Now I will take the leave of absence you accord me. In ten days
you may look for my return."

General Hoche shook his head as Tournay left his presence:--

"I fear it will be longer than that, my friend," he sighed to himself.

Colonel Tournay, accompanied by but one orderly, rode toward Paris. The
feelings of pride and pleasure which his general's praise had raised in
his heart were subdued by the humiliation at being summoned before the
Committee of Public Safety. But there was a fire in his eye, and a
hardening of the lines near the mouth which boded that he would not
submit tamely to insult nor an unjust sentence.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SWORD OF ROCROY

Citizen St. Hilaire had just come in from making a few purchases at the
baker's shop in the Rue des Mathurins. Shortly after dusk that evening
he had recalled to mind that he was without the gill of cream for his
next morning's coffee, and also that the small white loaf which formed a
part of his breakfast was at that moment reposing crisp and warm on the
counter of the baker's shop a few doors distant.

As Citizen St. Hilaire was very particular about his coffee and always
liked to have a certain choice loaf that Jules, the baker in the Rue des
Mathurins, made to perfection late every afternoon, he had braved the
wind and rain of a stormy January evening, and gone out to procure his
next morning's repast.

Returning to his small apartment at the top of the house, he threw off
his wet cloak and was on the point of extracting from his pocket a
little can of cream, when a knock sounded at the door of the chamber
which served him for sitting-room, dining-room, and library. Putting the
can upon the table, he took up a lamp and went to the door.

A young woman stood upon the threshold. She had evidently come in a
carriage, for the costly clothes she wore were quite unspotted by the
rain.

"This is Citizen St. Hilaire," she said in a tone of conviction as she
stepped into the room.

St. Hilaire bowed and stepped back to place the lamp upon a small table
near at hand, and stood waiting the further pleasure of his visitor.

As he stood within the circle of light, the young woman looked from him
to his modest surroundings with marked curiosity, her eyes dwelling upon
each object in the room in turn. It did not take long to note every
piece of furniture; the table, arm-chair, a few books, the violin case
in the corner, with a picture or two and a pair of rapiers upon the
wall. When she had completed her survey of the room her gaze returned to
him once more.

He was plainly dressed in a suit of dark brown color. His linen was
exquisitely neat, and his figure was so elegant that although his coat
was far from new, and of no exceptional quality, it became him as well
as if it were of the most costly material.

"Will you be seated?" said St. Hilaire, drawing forward the arm-chair
from its corner.

The young woman took the seat he offered her.

"And so you are Citizen St. Hilaire," she repeated as if the name
interested. "I--I am Citizeness La Liberté. I remember you well," she
continued; "I saw you a number of times, years ago, at the home of the
Marquis de----But why mention his name? There are no more marquises in
France, and he was a worthless creature," and she tossed back her head
with a gesture of careless freedom.

"No," he repeated, "there are no more marquises," and with a laugh he
seated himself opposite her. The sharp end of the crisp loaf in his
pocket made him aware of its presence. He took it out and put it in its
place upon the table beside the cream.

"The Republic has caused many strange changes, but I should never have
dreamed of finding you here like this, Citizen St. Hilaire," and again
she eyed him wonderingly.

"The Republic has done a great deal for you?" said St. Hilaire, raising
his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Everything," replied La Liberté with emphasis, while her eyes and the
jewels on her bosom flashed upon him dazzlingly. Her look indicated that
she thought the Revolution had not dealt so generously by him.

"It has done much for me too," said St. Hilaire.

"What good has it done you?" inquired La Liberté incredulously.

"It has taught me wisdom," he replied.

"Oh," she answered contemptuously, "it has brought me pleasure.
Therefore I love it. But you, Citizen St. Hilaire,--will you answer me a
question?"

St. Hilaire bowed in acquiescence.

"Are you satisfied with this Republic? I know it is dangerous to speak
slightingly of it in these days, but between us, with only the walls to
hear, do you like it?"

"I am never satisfied with anything," replied St. Hilaire with just a
touch of weariness in his voice.

"I should think that you would hate it. I should were I you," and La
Liberté shook her brown curls with a laugh.

"Notwithstanding," said St. Hilaire, "I would not go back to the old
régime."

"I do not understand you at all," exclaimed La Liberté in despair, with
a puzzled look on her brow.

"Why try?" he asked dryly. "I have given it up myself. Tell me in what
way I can serve you?"

"I have come here to do you a service," she answered. The room was warm,
and as she spoke she threw her ermine-lined cloak over the back of the
chair.

A slight trace of surprise showed itself upon Citizen St. Hilaire's face
as he looked at her inquiringly.

She had evidently found the chair too large to sit in comfortably, for
she perched herself upon its arm with one foot on the floor while she
swung the other easily.

"That is extraordinary!'" he exclaimed. "It is a long time since any one
has gone out of his way to do me a service. May I ask why you have done
so?"

"Oh, I can hardly tell you why," she replied, tapping her boot heel