Front matter (continued 6)

"I agree to that without the slightest hesitation. But surely for you to traverse the streets with a blindfolded man, either on foot or in a vehicle, would arouse suspicion; which, I take it, gentlemen, is not what you desire."

"Excellently put, Monsieur; your perspicuity does you credit. We purpose taking steps to provide against the danger you suggest. In effect, you will be carted to our destination in the guise of merchandise—firewood, to be precise."

It was a curious mode of transit, but St. Just at once consented. He was prepared to submit to almost any inconvenience to see his wife. Then they proceeded to unfold their plan, and no time was lost in putting it in execution.

A long, open wicker basket, almost as long as a coffin, and considerably broader and higher—such as is used for carrying firewood—was dragged from the corner of the booth. Then a handkerchief was tied across St. Just's eyes. They wished to gag him, but refrained on his giving his word of honor that he would not utter a sound. Then they tied his feet together, his hands being already bound. Next he was lifted into the basket, the sides and ends of which were then lined with bundles of firewood, a layer being also laid upon the top of him.

Then one of the men went away to fetch a cart. St. Just hoped the journey was not to be a long one, for already he was beginning to feel far from comfortable; he was lying on his side, his knees doubled up to his chest. Though the air was cool and fresh outside, in his cubicle, packed round, as he was, with wood, it was almost stifling, and he began to sweat profusely. Breathing became oppressive, and his limbs soon ached with cramp. Then an intolerable itching of the skin set in, and the unsatisfied desire to scratch almost drove him mad. He fancied that his sensations must be those of a person buried alive.

After enduring this for about ten minutes—but which seemed to him a good half hour—he heard a cart draw up. Then he felt that he was being carried out and hoisted into it, and that wood and charcoal—as he supposed—were being thrown in after him.

Next, one man mounted on the cart, and another placed himself beside the horse, and they moved away.

Placed as he was, it was impossible for the passenger to see whither they were going, nor could he guess at their direction. But, after jolting and bumping along what seemed to him interminable streets, he believed they had reached a city barrier. At any rate, the cart was brought to a standstill, and a colloquy took place.

It must have been satisfactory, for they soon set off again, and now proceeded for what St. Just, in his imprisonment, thought many miles along a road without a turn. Then, from the change in his position, he could feel that they were going up hill; next, after a moment's halt, they passed through a gate; he knew this because he heard the gate clang to behind them.

At last, when his sufferings from his cramped position and the difficulty of breathing had become almost insupportable, and he was feeling that, unless they should be quickly ended, he must call out, despite his word of honor to keep silent, the cart came to a final stop.

After that, his imprisonment did not last long. The basket was soon hauled out, and St. Just was lifted from it. He was in a pitiable condition; not only was his face streaming with perspiration, but he was wet through from the same cause from head to foot, and he was gasping for breath. When they untied his legs and arms, he was so stiff that it was some time before he could straighten them, and, of course, to stand was quite out of the question.

But oh! the relief of being able to breathe without restraint. He lay panting on the ground, drinking in deep draughts of fresh, cool air, seeming as though he would never have enough. In a few minutes, he became himself, except for the stiffness of his limbs; every bone in his body ached, and the pain when he tried to move was terrible.

All this time, no word had been spoken by his conductors; but, when they saw that he was breathing easily, they expressed their regret for the discomfort they had put him to, at the same time telling him that they were now in Madame de Moncourt's grounds.

Then they helped him to his legs and supported him while they moved him about quietly, until he could stand alone. Next they straightened and bent his arms. The pain of all this was excessive, but he bore it manfully, bore it with the hope that he was so soon to see his wife. In a short time he could work his arms and legs without much pain, though stiffly still.

"You can walk now?" asked one of his companions.

"Walk!" repeated St. Just, with a laugh, "my faith, it will be some time before I can walk like a sober man; but I can crawl, which must serve me for the present. I seem to have no joints, and my sinews feel as though they were tied in knots. Never before have I endured such purgatory. But 'tis over, and I do not regret it, since it is to bring me to Madame de Moncourt."

All this time they were in the open air.

"We will proceed then," said a voice which St. Just recognized as the smutty faced man's. And he put his arm through St. Just's, and the three proceeded to a door, through which they passed, and, by the difference in the air and sound, the blindfolded man at once knew that he was inside a building. Then he was led along a passage, another door was opened, and they entered a room, the door of which was closed behind them.

"Pray be seated, Monsieur," said the voice that had spoken last; and a chair was placed behind him.

St. Just did so, and the next moment, the bandage was taken from his eyes. After having been so long in darkness, he was almost blinded by the sudden light, and was forced to place his hand before his eyes; but, in a few seconds, they had become used to it.

"Thank God, I am able to use my eyes again," he said. "Doubtless, Monsieurs, you have not restored my sight for nothing, and you will now lead me to Madame de Moncourt."

"Softly, Sir," was the reply; "we know not yet whether she will desire to see you. If not, you will remember our bargain, that you are to return to Paris under the same conditions that attended your arrival here.

"Pen, ink and paper are before you; write what you think proper to Madame, and it shall be delivered at once; the result will rest with her."

"What I desire above all things," replied St. Just; and he drew his chair up to the table and sat down to write. It was only a few lines, and it was in Arabic. He took this precaution lest his companions should attempt to read it, though, at the same time, he thought it most unlikely. He addressed the note in French, then handed it to one of the men, who left the room with it, the other remaining behind to watch him.

Not two minutes had elapsed when his messenger returned; there was a marked change in him. He was no longer cold and unbending, but there was a smile on his face, his tones were genial and his bearing was almost deferential.

"First let me apologize, Monsieur," he said, "for the unconventional and, I fear, painful mode of your conveyance here. I can assure you we had strong reasons for our seeming want of courtesy, and—"

"Pray say no more," interposed St. Just. "My journey, I cannot deny, was somewhat rough; but, if you bring me the news that Madame will receive me, it will be to me as though it had never been. I am impatient only for her answer to my note."

"She bids me say that it will give her great pleasure to receive you. A servant will be here to attend you to her almost immediately."

The man had scarcely ceased speaking, when the door was opened and a man in livery entered. Approaching St. Just, he bent deferentially before him, while he said:—

"Madame awaits Monsieur." Then he moved to the door and opened it. Bowing to his companions, who replied with, "An revoir, Monsieur," St. Just left the room, and then followed the man-servant, his heart beating with exultation as well as trepidation. A minute later, the door of another room was opened; then closed behind him. Instantly a well-known figure rushed up to him and flung herself into his arms.

"Henri! at last, my husband!"

"Halima, once more I have you!"

CHAPTER III.

St. Just led his wife to a couch and, seating himself beside her, placed his arm round her waist and drew her to him in a close embrace. Then, interspersing his words with fervid kisses, he exclaimed:—

"Once more we are together, my beloved, my darling, my wife. My Queen! you are more beautiful than ever. Oh! to think of all that I have missed, the years that we have been parted. And you, my Halima, have you thought of me?"

"Often indeed, my Henri, but with tears, as of one whom I should never see again; for I feared that you were no longer living. I felt sure my husband would come back to me, were he alive. Oh! why did you leave me all these years—it is more than three? It was cruel, Henri!"

"Cruel indeed, had I had the power. But I will tell you all that has befallen me since we parted. You will then see that I have not been to blame. Ah! I would have flown to your side, had I been able."

His eyes were all aflame with love, and he pressed her closely to him—almost savagely—and rained fresh kisses on her blushing face. She could not doubt the depth and fervor of his passion, and she had an intuition that it would be lasting. Moreover, his unstinted admiration was a tribute to her beauty, that appealed to the leading attribute of her being—pride in her own surpassing loveliness—and filled her with exultation and delight. No one knew better than herself the power that lies behind the eyes and smiles of a lovely woman, and in her own person, she missed no occasion of exploiting it; for the homage of the other sex was as the breath of life to her; a necessity of her existence. And she was irresistible; no man could approach her without becoming, if she so willed it, her devoted slave. Their hearts were as tinder to the spark of her personality. She was fascination in the concrete. All the Frenchmen she had met in Paris pronounced her "ravissante," and that summed her up. What contributed much to her success was that she retained the mastery of her own feelings; for no man, save St. Just, had plumbed the depth of passion in her; thus she had all others at a disadvantage. There were many that she liked, some that she had a certain fondness for, but none that could appease that love hunger that St. Just had roused in her and, when with her, satisfied. But, warm as her affection was for him, it was more ardent than enduring; for, when away from him, she was ready to console herself with others. "La donna e mobile," might well have been applied to her. She was a strange mixture, for, while erotic passion was strong in her voluptuous nature, she was discriminate in its indulgence; and, while she was sensual to the fingers' tips, there were few indeed who could boast with truth of having enjoyed her favors.

Now, at her husband's close embrace, her whole being trembled with desire, and she bent her eyes languishingly upon his face, while she pressed her full red lips against his own; for his ardor had aroused the like in her.

"Oh! my own, my darling," she softly murmured, "I am in heaven now that you are back to me. No one has ever touched my heart like you."

For a space, with downcast eyes, she lay panting in his arms; for, what with their mutual kisses and his strong embrace, to breathe freely was impossible. Then she struggled gently.

"Loose me somewhat, dear," she gasped. "I love to feel your arms around me, but your clasp is so unyielding that I scarce can draw my breath. Nay, withdraw not altogether," she added, when he removed his arms, "but hold me gently, while you tell me all about yourself. There will be time for love's dalliances hereafter; now I am burning to be informed of your adventures."

Thus adjured, St. Just gave her a full description of all his doings since their separation. The story took long in telling, the longer that it was continually interrupted by her endearments and sympathetic comments on his sufferings. When it was ended, everything down to his arrival in Paris and his appearance in that room having been recounted she turned to him again.

"Oh! my Henri, what you have suffered," she exclaimed; "and to think that you should have lost all memory even of me! But, at least, you were spared the pain of wanting me."

"Ah! but think of the years of love that I have lost; for had I known, this wasted period would not have been. If necessary, I would have searched the whole world through for you. But my search would not have been prolonged, for love would have winged my feet, and brought me quickly to my goal."

"You can turn a pretty compliment. Tell me now, how like you me in this costume; you have never yet seen me, but in Eastern dress. Does my Parisian gown become me, with all these pretty chiffons?"

"You are ravishing, ma chérie; bewitching as you looked in Arab garb, your charms are even enhanced in European habit. You look a gay Parisian from head to foot."

Undoubtedly she did. No one, viewing her, would have guessed that in her veins there ran a drop of Arab blood, for she was fairer even than most Spanish women.

She laughed merrily at the compliment, for, in many things, she was pleased as easily as is a child, and was as open in displaying her delight.

"But now," resumed St. Just, "I am longing to hear about yourself; how it is I find you here, and what you have been doing in the interval."

"Ah! but it would take all night to tell you everything," was her reply. "By degrees you shall know all. Rest content on this occasion with the chief incidents. You know you left me at the "Tomb of the Kings" to take that treasure on to Cairo. Oh! that horrid treasure! But for that, I should not have lost you. Well, I waited for month after month for the message from you that was to tell me where I was to meet you; and, each day, I became more sad and lonely. Ah! my Henri, how I did miss you. When no news came, my anxiety became almost insupportable, for I feared that some misfortune had befallen you; and I—I was helpless to assist you, for I knew not what it was, or where you were.

"At last, three months after you had left me, one of the men who had formed your escort came into the camp alone. He could scarcely walk, but swayed about, like a drunken man, from side to side. He was unarmed and had scarcely a rag about him, and he looked as though he had not tasted food for many days. Altogether he was in a pitiable condition. At first, he was too weak to speak; he staggered into the encampment, and then his strength gave out, and he fell at full length to the ground. When he had been sufficiently restored with food and drink, he was brought to me, and then—then, my husband, I heard the dreadful news; the very worst that could have happened had befallen me." Even now she shuddered at its recitation; there was no make-believe about it, and St. Just's heart leaped with joy and sympathy at the thought of how she must have loved him.

"He told me," she went on, "of the attack on you at Thebes, and how he had seen you fall; also that Yusuf who was in the attacking party, had been slain by Mahmoud. May Allah bless the boy for that good deed! Henri, there must have been treachery somewhere, though I know not how it came about."

"There was," he interposed. "Some traitor in the camp must have given Yusuf notice of our coming, and he, in consequence, waylaid us."

"When I heard this dreadful news, I fainted," proceeded Halima, "and it was long before I again was conscious; and then—Ah! may I never again suffer what I went through then. I rent the air with piercing shrieks, when I realized that I should never see you more; for, after what this man had told me, and hearing nothing from you, I could not doubt that you were dead. How I passed the weeks that followed—but no, I cannot bear to dwell on it; I will draw a veil over that fearful time; it was worse even than when, once before, I thought that you were lost; for then you were not my husband." She trembled violently at the recollection.

"Of course," continuing, "the treasure having been captured from you, there was an end to my father's ambitious schemes on my behalf; and I was so depressed that I felt a desert life would drive me mad. Its dullness was more than I could bear. I wanted rousing; grief and monotony were killing me. So I resolved to do alone what we had meant to do together; to travel to my mother's country. I had still the jewels, and I knew that they were of enormous value, so that I should not be short of money. With Abdallah and a few more to escort me, I set off for Cairo, letting it be understood that I should remain there for a while and eventually rejoin the tribe.

"Arrived at Cairo, I told Abdallah only, under an oath of secrecy, of my real intentions, and that he was to take steps at once to put them into execution. He did his utmost to dissuade me, but, when he saw I was resolved, he promised to do his best to help me, and agreed to see me safe to France."

"Faithful old soul," interposed St. Just, "I am sure you could depend on him."

"Yes, indeed, I don't know what I should have done without him. He is with me still. Well, we made our way to Rosetta. Thence we took ship to Syracuse, where we landed, for the vessel went no further. Soon afterwards, Abdallah heard of a French brig that was bound for Brest, and in this we took our passage. From Brest we made our way to Paris.

"The first thing I did was to make my presence known to Buonaparte. I knew no one else in Paris, and I wanted an introduction to a dealer in precious stones, who would not rob me. He gave me this, and also told me of this villa at Auteuil, where I have since lived."

"You have renewed your intercourse with him!" St. Just exclaimed with anger, "and you professed to hate him."

"And so I do, and would circumvent him all I could; but, to do so, it is necessary that I know his schemes and movements. My vengeance is not forgotten; it is but gaining strength in slumber. I will be frank with you, Henri. He seemed overjoyed to see me, so far as one so impassive shows his feelings; and at once assumed that I desired our former relations to be restored. But I quickly undeceived him, though I told him he could visit me as a friend; and this he does. Perhaps he thinks I shall relent, but he deceives himself."

"I would he came not here," St. Just said gloomily. "He is both determined and deceitful and, should he guess your feelings towards him, will not spare you."

"Have no fear for me, my friend. I can protect myself. But it was necessary that I should be on friendly terms with him, so as to worm myself into the confidence of his ministers and adherents, and thus learn his plans."

"But how can you do this?" inquired her husband. "Surely they are not the men to reveal State Secrets!"

"They are men, my dear, and I am a woman. I have some of my sex's wit—and I am not wholly destitute of other weapons." And she looked at him coquettishly, and laughed a merry laugh. "Foolish boy, have I no powers of fascination?"

"Ah! have I not reason to know it!" he cried with strong conviction. "You are a queen, who, if you will it, can bring all men to your feet. But tell me, how did the First Consul take it when he learned that you were married?"

"Married!" she laughed gayly, "who says that I am married? My faith, not I."

St. Just loosed his hold of her with a sudden movement that was involuntary, and looked at her in wonder, to see whether she had spoken in mere banter, or in sober earnestness. He learned nothing from her face; it was an enigma to him.

"This jest is out of place with me," he said.

"No jest, my friend," she answered airily, "but the honest truth."

His face clouded and took on a stern expression.

"What mean you, Halima?" he asked, and there was deliberation in his voice. "But now, when first we met, you addressed me as your husband."

"A facon de parler, chéri. I thought 'twould please you; I ought rather to have said 'My lover.'"

He gazed at her in mingled anger and stupefaction. Then he sprang from the divan to his feet.

"Your effrontery amazes me," he said. "Pray do you pass as an unmarried woman?"

"I pass as Madame de Moncourt," she replied, flashing her eyes boldly on him, "and no one has yet had the temerity to ask for my credentials."

"I shall claim you as my wife," he said, his anger rising.

"And get shot as a deserter," was the cool response.

Her audacity and coolness staggered him; but, before he could reply, "Nay, I can save you from that," she said, "while I think of it, let me hand you this." And from a bangle on her wrist she unfastened the charm Buonaparte's wife had given him, as a reminder that her husband would spare his life, should it be jeopardized.

"I have worn it ever since we parted." She held it out to him.

But he declined it. "I will not have it," he said fiercely. "What care I for life, without you to share it? No matter what the consequences, I will proclaim you as my wife. Keep the talisman and be my murderess, if you will." Then he added with a heartfelt wail, "Oh! Halima, was all your boasted love for me but counterfeit?"

While his unbending resolution angered her, his anguish, which was but the expression of his great love for her, touched her heart. Besides which, she really loved him, and she did not mean to lose him; but she must have him on her own conditions. A smile of triumph overspread her face, but softened withal by love.

"Counterfeit," she cried. "You have had little experience of women, if you cannot discriminate between real and pretended passion. You have held me in your arms, and I have given you every proof that woman can of how I love you. You insult me when you suggest that my passion was assumed."

"Then why repudiate our marriage?"

"For the safety of us both. Be calm, my dear, and listen to me. First, as to the position. I am no longer in Egypt; I am in France and am a naturalized Frenchwoman. And you are a Frenchman. The Mahommedan ceremony we went through is not binding on us here. Were I to proclaim myself a Christian and disown the tie between us, you would be powerless to enforce it. Impersonally I have made inquiries. No doubt were I to admit your claim, I could not afterwards have it set aside. Now those are the cold, hard facts. Next, to consider the consequence that would ensue from such admission. I have said before, that I would be frank with you, and I will; I will keep nothing from you. Buonaparte pursues me with his attentions, but I know how to keep him at a distance. For all that, if he knew that I was married, he would see in it the cause of my refusing his advances. In such a case, for how long would your life be safe? Do you think his promises to you would bar the way to his desire? Even if he spared your life, he would either imprison you, or, at best, order you to join some regiment now abroad; in any case we should be separated. I am as firm as ever in my resolve to punish Buonaparte, and I want your help. As my acknowledged husband you could not give it. I cannot spare you, dear; believe me when I say that my love for you is true and deep. No other man has ever touched my heart like you; has made it leap within my bosom, and the blood to rush like a torrent through my veins. Be reasonable, my own man, and come and sit by me, and I will wind my arms around your neck, and kiss you to compliance. Come, Henri, to your Halima, whose heart and soul are wholly yours."

She held out her arms to him invitingly.

The man cast his eyes upon her glowing face and then on her heaving bosom, over which her draperies rose and fell; thence they traveled downwards, past the rounded arms and tapering fingers, to her dainty ankles and the little slender feet that rested on a footstool; and the blood began to boil within him with desire; but still he hesitated. She saw it and resumed:

"Henri, you will not desert me. There is no one I can absolutely trust, but you. I cannot do without you, but the public knowledge of the tie between us would defeat my plans, and would, I know, result in harm to you; and that I could not bear; for you are all the world to me."

The last words were uttered low, but were full of seductive sweetness to the hearer. She turned her liquid eyes on him, eyes in which his own image was reflected, and there was a witchery in her smiling, pleading mouth. Once more his gaze roamed over the woman's sensuous perfections, and he felt drunk with passion.

He sprang forward into her extended arms, and she caught him in her sinuous embrace.

"My queen! My life," he murmured.

She read her victory in his eyes and words, and was content. His passion seemed to have entered into her, for she pressed him tightly to her breast, and kissed him madly—almost hungrily—on his lips and eyes, as though she could not have enough of him.

But to one's capacity even, for his endearments, Dame Nature puts a limit, and soon Halima was fain, for want of breath, to place a drag on her effusiveness. She drew back and panted to regain her breath. When somewhat calmed, she spoke again.

"Cruel man," she murmured softly, "I began to think my charms were waning, when you remained so obdurate. Tell me, have I fallen off in face or form?"

He looked her over searchingly; there was hunger and covetousness in his eyes.

"My God!" he said in a tone almost of awe. "You are more beautiful than ever; I almost tremble at your loveliness."

A deep-drawn sigh escaped him. Presently he resumed, "Now tell me what you purpose. On what footing are we to stand towards one another?"

"Exactly as before, except in name. The world is not to know of our relationship. You will visit me openly, like my other friends, and sometimes in secret; only you must be circumspect. You will have your apartments in Paris, and I shall live on here. I shall have no secrets from you; you will know and be consulted about all my plans, for your help is vital to me. I am rich, and my purse will be always at our disposal. I will give you money before you leave me. Nay, you shall have it now, lest I forget it."

She moved to an escritoire and drew forth from it a roll of notes and gave it to him. "That will suffice for present needs," she said, "Do not be sparing in its use; there is plenty more."

Then she resumed her seat beside him. "Henri," she said, once more twining her arm around his neck, "I am all your own: body and soul and every atom of me are yours; but this is our own sweet secret."

"Sweet wife," he answered softly; "and I am wholly yours; my thoughts have never strayed to any other woman. I devote my will, my life to you. Henceforth I exist but to serve you."

"Dear boy," she cooed, "and do you think I could have let you go?"

"And yet, though we have but just met for the first time for years, you would send me from you. Oh! not to-night, my Halima," he cried imploringly.

There was a sensual sparkle in her eye.

"Nay, not to-night," she answered; "after so long a parting, I cannot spare you yet. But we must be circumspect. You shall pass here merely as my guest. I can so arrange it as to avoid suspicion."

"A hungry man is fain to accept a crust; I must make the most of what you offer," was his reply.

Now, whether throughout this burning interview Halima had spoken from her heart, whether even she had persuaded herself that all she said was true—that she had no thought for any other than her husband—need not be stated here. But so much may be chronicled, that he implicitly believed her.

They had so much to say to one another that the hours flew by unheeded; but, at last, Halima recalled herself to her shortcomings in the matter of the men who had accompanied St. Just—or rather brought him captive—and she sprang up suddenly.

"I don't know what our friends will think of us," she laughed; "I declare I had quite forgotten them; and all through you, you naughty fellow. I must send word to them that I shall be happy to receive them."

"What friends?" inquired her husband, and his tone betrayed annoyance.

"Those who brought you here."

"And who are they?"

"I will introduce you when they come. Meanwhile, will you ring the bell, my dear?"

St. Just did what he was asked, and the man who came in answer to her summons, was told to request the presence of the "two gentlemen who had arrived with Monsieur." An oath broke from her husband's lips when the servant closed the door; but she put her little hand before his mouth with a pretty action and exclaimed, "Oh! fie to say such naughty words; and so ungrateful too, when you have had me all to yourself for quite three hours."

"Ah! but think how long I've had to wait," he said. "Three years with you without a break, would not suffice me."

"Selfish glutton," she said roguishly, and her beaming countenance showed how pleased she was. The shortest route to her good will was ever by the road called Flattery.

Before she could add another word, the door was opened and the two gentlemen came in. For the moment, they seemed strangers to St. Just, but he soon recognized the features of the two men who had brought him in the cart. Had he met them without previous preparation, he certainly would not have known them. The coal merchant and the laborer were gone, and, in their places, stood two well-dressed gentlemen with clean hands and faces.

Halima advanced to them effusively, and held out her hand.

"What will you think of me? What can I say to you?" she cried. "I am in despair at the reflection of my want of courtesy. But—I will speak the truth—I had forgotten you were in the house. But indeed I had some reason, and, when you hear it, I trust you will forgive my seeming rudeness. This it is."

She turned round to St. Just, who was standing a little way behind her, and took his hand in hers; then led him forward.

"Mons. Georges Cadoudal, Mons. St. Regent," indicating first the quondam coal-merchant and then his comrade, "I have the honor to present to you Captain Henri St. Just, my husband."

The look of wonder and almost incredulity on the faces of the newcomers, and of surprise and satisfaction on St. Just's, caused much amusement to the lady. The two gentlemen, of course, had not had a notion that she was married; and he, after what had passed between himself and Halima, had never dreamed that she would disclose the fact; in that she had, he felt both grateful and delighted.

The three gentlemen bowed stiffly. "Surely Madame is not serious?" St. Regent questioned.

"Absolutely," she replied, "Naturally, you did not know that I was married," she went on vivaciously. "Nor indeed did I, until you were good enough to bring my husband to me. 'Tis nearly four years since we met, and I thought that we should never meet again. I believed he was no more. Am I forgiven for forgetting you, Messieurs?"

"Nay, Madame," replied Cadoudal, "'tis not forgiveness you require, for you have done no wrong; congratulations you demand, and from my heart I tender them."

He laid his hand across his chest and bent low before her. Then he addressed her husband, and held out his hand. "But, if Madame is to be congratulated, tenfold more are you, Monsieur, in that you call the loveliest woman in all France your wife. Have you forgiven us, for the roughness of your ride?" he laughed.

"So entirely, if any forgiveness is required," St. Just replied, "that, with the same end in view, I would ask to be allowed to undergo the ride again; for all that, I never underwent such pain before. Even now, my limbs have not recovered their full power. Messieurs, I thank you heartily for all that you have done for me."

Then Halima spoke again.

"My friends," she said, "I have told you that he is my husband, to convince you that you may repose the fullest trust in him, but the knowledge is to go no farther; the fact must be a secret most profound; for, should it be even hinted at, the consequences might be to bring our plans to naught. Amongst friends—and, dare I breathe the word, conspirators—there should be the utmost confidence; and my husband is one of us; he is with us heart and soul in all that we have set before us; he will consult with us, and I will vouch for his good faith, his intrepidity and his zeal; for he has the same cause for hating the First Consul, as myself. You may speak, therefore, with perfect openness before him, and I beg you will."

Naturally after this, there was the utmost friendliness between St. Just and his new acquaintances, and he made many discoveries that astonished and amazed him.

Their conversation was, soon afterwards, interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who announced that dinner was served.

"Give me your arm, Henri," said Halima. "You will permit me, Messieurs," she laughed. "My husband has been so long away from me, that he is the greatest stranger."

During and after dinner St. Just learned much more that astonished him—notably that Halima and Cadoudal had been concerned in the recent plot to put an end to Buonaparte.

This and more was told to St. Just on that eventful evening, much to his uneasiness. He found himself, unwittingly, posted on the verge of a political volcano, with a fair chance of being speedily engulfed within its crater. He had never suspected that his wife, simply to gratify her vindictive animus towards Buonaparte, would engage in schemes so dangerous and far-reaching; and take part in a conspiracy whose ramifications extended even beyond the country, and that, whether the outcome were disaster or success, must result in deluging the land with blood. And he himself was now committed to their schemes. His heart was not in the conspiracy, and he trembled at the risk his wife and he were running. He resolved to use his utmost influence to persuade her gradually to withdraw herself from her dangerous surroundings. At the same time, he could not but admit to himself that his hope of succeeding with her was slight, for he knew her spirit and determination.

It was late when, greatly to St. Just's relief, St. Regent and Cadoudal took their leave. When the door closed upon them, he sprang to his feet and stretched himself.

"Thank God, they're gone," he cried. "I've had enough of plotting for to-night; and now, my Halima, the few hours left we'll dedicate to love."

He opened his arms to her. She ran to him and hid her face upon his breast. "And, I, too," she murmured, "have been longing to be alone with you, my Henri."

CHAPTER IV.

Nothing of any moment happened during the next three weeks, the position Halima had laid down at her first meeting with her husband being rigidly maintained. He came to see her as often as she would permit, but resided at his apartment in the Rue de Dauphin, and with, of course, the ever-faithful Mahmoud, who showed much surprise at the arrangement.

Halima had expressed her wish to see him, so, on his next visit, St. Just took the young man with him. Mahmoud's delight at once more meeting his young mistress was supreme; he threw himself at her feet and uttered cries of joy in his native Arabic, blessing her and thanking Allah for having permitted him to set his eyes on her again.

She pleased him mightily when she enlarged upon his bravery and fidelity to her husband, and told him that he would find a friend in her throughout her life, because she knew that, but for him, St. Just would not be living. Nor did she forget to thank him for having slain the hated Yusuf. Then she complimented him upon his manly looks and handsome face, and prophesied that all the French girls would lose their hearts to him. Altogether, when Mahmoud left her, he was in the seventh heaven of delight, and more than ever devoted to herself and her husband. It would have gone hard with any one who should have dared to question any act or word of theirs, or say a syllable in their disparagement, in Mahmoud's hearing.

During these weeks St. Just's love for Halima, if possible, increased in fervor; with the result that, though in her presence he was supremely happy, when away from her, he was restless, discontented, and suspicious. On the whole it may be questioned whether he was not happier when he was living at Marsala, oblivious of her existence, than now, when he basked in her society for minutes, and yearned for it unsatisfied for hours.

With her it was another matter, for, though she preferred his company to that of any other man, and, when she had him to herself, placed no limitations on her passions; her love for him was neither of that depth nor of that enduring nature which was his for her. She was more like a child with a much prized toy, than a wife absorbed in her devotion to her husband.

Moreover, she had other matters to occupy her mind; she was up to her ears in intrigues with various persons, not only of the First Consul's entourage, but also of the adherents of the Bourbons. And the atmosphere of treason and conspiracy in which she lived she thoroughly enjoyed. She reveled in the power her beauty and her money gave her; and even, strange as it may appear, in the risk she ran; this to her was but a pleasurable excitement.

Buonaparte's visits to the Auteuil villa, to St. Just were a perpetual sore; not that he was jealous or suspicious of his wife—for he had accepted without reserve her statement that her old relations with the General neither had been nor would be resumed; and he had confidence both in her will and her ability to maintain her intimacy with him on a platonic footing—but that he was filled with a deep-seated rancor against the First Consul, not only for Halima's betrayal, but also because he, St. Just, regarded him as the cause of all the sufferings and misfortunes he had undergone. Animated by this resentment, therefore so far from condemning the treasonable proceedings of his wife's associates, he acquiesced in the plotters' aims, at the same time that he doubted their accomplishment; and, additionally, the wisdom of the means proposed for bringing them about. Then there was the accompanying danger, and St. Just had had enough of that to make him circumspect.

Altogether, he resolved to mix himself as little as might be with the conspiracy; though, had he desired it, he might have learned its inmost workings; for, now that Halima had vouched for his fidelity, the conspirators were ready to place absolute trust in him. As it was, they spoke openly before him on the few occasions when he chanced to be present at their meetings; so that, had he been minded to play the traitor, he was in possession of ample information to lay the whole party by the heels.

Situated as he was, he could not wholly withdraw himself from active participation in their schemes, but he confined himself as a rule, to a subordinate position, his duties being principally the delivering of messages and letters to various persons more or less in touch with the conspiracy.

St. Just had formed a close friendship with St. Regent, one of the two men, it will be recollected, who had brought him to Halima. There was a great charm for St. Just in St. Regent's good-tempered, frank, impetuous nature. Moreover the man had a strong will and a large amount of that magnetic force which, when put forth, compels the acquiescence of those on whom it is brought to bear. And he had exercised it upon St. Just, with the result that he had gained over him complete ascendancy, and could mould him to his will.

He started a plot, in which he was determined that St. Just should take a part. The latter, though unwilling, was like wax in the other's hand, and found himself unable to resist.

St. Regent numbered among his associates one Carbon, a chemist, an ardent conspirator, like himself. To him, he and St. Just repaired, and the three, with four others of like mind, laid their heads together to evolve a plan for Buonaparte's assassination.

The outcome was, an "Infernal machine" of the following description. An ordinary hand water cart, with its barrel made of zinc, was filled with gunpowder and scraps of iron; in the tap, barely protruding from it, was placed a special fuse that, on being touched with a chemically prepared stick, would become ignited. This fuse, in a given time, would fire the gunpowder inside the barrel, when the results would not be difficult to guess.

St. Just, much to his annoyance and dismay, was told off to perform the duty of artillery man.

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

Meanwhile St. Just awaited his instructions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instantly St. Just closed his hand, then quietly put it into his pocket; by its feel he knew he held a piece of folded paper—no doubt a message of importance. He clenched it tightly in his palm, lest some police spy, having witnessed the beggar's action, should seek to seize it; for spies in Paris were plentiful as blackberries in those perilous times, so that one could scarcely trust one's neighbor.

The conspirator strolled insouciantly towards an oil lamp which hung a little higher than his head, over a grocer's shop.

Here he withdrew the note and opened it. It was from one of the leaders in the plot, and its words were few, but to the point, for one who understood their language:

"The weather seems settled, so cloaks will not be needed." In the corner was a little flag roughly delineated in red ink.

St. Just started, and an uneasy look appeared upon his face at the reading of this note. The words, taken alone, meant that everything was going satisfactorily, that the police had apparently no suspicions, and that no special precautions needed to be taken. But the addition of the red flag imported danger, and that the words signified the exact opposite of what they stated, viz.—that the police had got wind of something and were on the alert, and that St. Just was to exercise the utmost care in all his movements, and to warn any others in the plot, that he might see, to keep themselves as little in evidence as they could. Disquieting intelligence for a man engaged on such an errand as was his.

The first thing to be done was to get rid of this unwelcome missive, for the agents of police were expert at reading cryptograms and digging out their meaning how deep soever it was buried. Should he be arrested, therefore, he had no mind that this compromising message should be found on him.

He saw a ready way to its destruction. With the hand that held the note he took out his watch, and brought it near the lamp above him, as though to learn the time. Apparently, he was unable to see distinctly by the feeble, flickering light; so he carefully transferred the watch to the hand that grasped his silver-headed stick; then, lighting the paper at the oil lamp, he held it close to the watch face, as though the better to read the figures on the dial.

It burnt more rapidly than he had expected, with the result that it scorched his finger.

With the sudden smart he forgot the rôle and tone he was assuming, and, without a thought, brought out in his natural voice a string of military oaths. Suddenly he pulled up, at the reflection of his indiscretion. But not before his imprecations had been heard.

They caught the ear of a drunken-looking man, who was supporting himself against a cabaret across the street. He was an old soldier, and instantly recognized the familiar oaths. He looked long and searchingly at St. Just, with a clearness of perception that would scarcely have been expected in a drunken man.

Annoyed at his unguarded exclamation, St. Just put his smarting finger into his mouth, and once more forgetting the added years and professional gravity he was simulating, strode rapidly down the street.

This also the watcher noted. "Military oaths, military step," he muttered. "You're not exactly what you seem, my friend. And your voice I've heard before. I shall put a name to you anon." And he wheeled round and entered the cabaret against which he had been leaning.

Meanwhile, St. Just strode on and, rounding a corner to the right, he hurried forward. Half way down the street, he stopped. In the middle of the road and almost blocking it were two carts, a market man's and a water carrier's. They seemed to have collided, for the water cart was tilted on its side, with one wheel off. The water carrier was assailing the owner of the market cart with language more forcible than polite; and the other was retaliating in terms equally expressive, each charging the other with having caused the accident.

But a glance showed St. Just that this mutual vituperation was all make-believe, for in the water carrier he recognized St. Regent and in the market man another of the conspirators; but both so well disguised that, had he not been prepared beforehand, he would not have known them.

When both thought that their wordy warfare had continued long enough to allay any suspicions that they were in collusion, the driver of the market cart, first giving St. Just a wink that was almost imperceptible, moved forward for a few yards, then deliberately drew round his horse so that it and the cart behind it stood crosswise in the street and blocked it.

Soon—it is always so, even in the most trivial street accidents—a little crowd began to form. This gave St. Just the opportunity he wanted to transmit to his friends the warning he had received. Elbowing his way to them, he called out in loud tones:

"Messieurs, how is this? Come, you must clear the road; the First Consul is on his way to the Opera and will pass by almost immediately." Then in a lower tone, "Be on your guard; there is danger ahead; the police are on the qui vive."

The words had hardly left his mouth, when, in the distance, the sound of horses' hoofs was heard. They came on at a brisk trot, and, before St. Just had had time to unscrew the knob of his stick, half a dozen dragoons had wheeled round the corner of the street, and were advancing up it. They were the foremost of the First Consul's escort. With fumbling fingers, St. Just removed from his stick the silver top. He was trembling violently. Now that the supreme moment had arrived, his nerve gave out. The dastardly nature of what he purposed presented itself in full force before him. He felt he could not do the deed.

St. Regent shot a searching glance at him and understood. He saw that, though St. Just was no intending traitor, his resolution had deserted him, and that, unless he himself applied the match, their plot would be abortive. With a gesture of impatience and a muttered exclamation, he snatched the stick from the trembling man.

Meanwhile, at the First Consul's approach, a crowd had quickly gathered, impeding the progress of the cavalcade. But the soldiers, striking the people with the flat of their swords and pressing their horses on them, soon forced a passage for the carriage which, driven at a rapid pace, passed the point of danger at the very moment that St. Regent applied the match.

For a few moments, St. Just remained standing at a distance he judged safe from the fateful water cart. He was still trembling violently. Then, realizing that the explosion would occur too late to achieve its object, he elbowed his way through the seething mob and, when clear of it, made a dash for the end of the road. This he gained without impediment, but, no sooner had he done so, than he found himself grasped firmly by the arms and surrounded by a party of men, who turned the corner of the street just when he reached it.

Before he had even time to make a protest, still less to free himself, the First Consul's carriage dashed by at a rapid trot, and he caught a glimpse of Buonaparte, who was laughing at some sally of his aide-de-camp.

"Forward!" shouted the leader of the men who had seized St. Just.

But, before the order could be obeyed, and almost at the same instant, there was a roar like thunder when the electric fluid strikes a building, and two of the party were hurled violently against the shutters of a house hard by. Then a wave of blinding smoke, accompanied by a fetid stench of sulphurous gas, swept up the street, almost stifling St. Just and those who had arrested him. Then, a howl of rage went up, with threats and execrations for the perpetrators of the deed, mingled with the groans of the injured, the shrieks of the terror-stricken women and the clatter of the falling bricks. The whole air was full of dust, and the din was deafening. Nobody understood exactly what had happened, or who had caused it; only that a terrible explosion had occurred and that much havoc had been wrought by it. The babble and confusion were indescribable and panic had seized on all the crowd, men, women and children fleeing in all directions.

Then the leader of the party in whom St. Just had, by this time, recognized the agent Vipont, gave his attention to his two men who had been knocked down and had remained motionless where they had fallen. One had had his head crushed in by a piece of iron from the exploded water cart. He was a ghastly sight, his face battered out of recognition, and his blood and brains scattered about the trottoir.

The other had come so violently into contact with the shutter he had been thrown against, that the hook in it had been forced through his forehead and deep into his brain. Both men were stone dead, of course.

The horse belonging to the market cart that had been forced purposely into collision with the pretended water cart, had had one of its legs torn off, and the blood was streaming from it. It had also suffered other injuries, and portions of the shattered cart lay on it. The look of anguish in the poor creature's eyes was piteous to behold; it seemed to be appealing to those about it to end its sufferings; but none heeded it. All were too much occupied in tending their injured fellow creatures.

Vipont and his police were thus engaged, and also on the lookout for those who had caused the outrage. Presently they found St. Regent. He was lying near the dying horse. He had been hurled some yards, and the fall had rendered him insensible, but the only outward injury he had sustained seemed to be the loss of three fingers from his left hand. They picked him up and took charge of him, but whether because he was found so near the scene of the disaster, or that they had received some information, or merely because he had been injured, St. Just had no means of judging.

Round the exploded water cart was a yawning hole, and lying half in it was the mangled carcass of the horse of one of Buonaparte's dragoons, blown almost all to pieces. Its rider had escaped with a broken leg. Many of the houses about were more or less in ruins, while all in the vicinity of the explosion had their windows broken.

"To the Temple," said the police agent to his men. "When we have safely lodged our prisoners, it will be time enough to render assistance here."

At this moment St. Just caught sight of the pretended blind beggar who, earlier in the evening, had handed him the note. The man passed close to him and, in passing whispered rapidly in his ear, "Keep faith, and hope."

Then he disappeared amongst the crowd, and the police party began to move away, St. Just held firmly by a police agent on each side, and St. Regent, insensible and in happy ignorance of what had happened to him, borne by two men on a litter they had improvised.

CHAPTER V.

His captors marched St. Just along at a brisk pace and in a short time, they reached the Place de la Bastille, whose name achieved the double purpose of keeping alive the memories of the horrors that had been perpetrated within the grim fortress that had stood there, and of signalizing the triumph of democracy.

Continuing their way, they gained the prison that had been the last abiding place of the ill-fated Louis Capet. St. Just had often passed it, but had little thought he should ever find himself a prisoner within its walls; but that had been in the days when his honor was unsullied and he was glowing with the ardor of a young soldier, confident in his ability to cut his way to fortune with his sword. Alas how utterly had his hopes been falsified!

Vipont pulled vigorously at the bell, which answered his appeal with a strident clangor that made St. Just's heart thrill. It seemed to ring out the death-knell of his freedom, if not indeed his life. A wicket in the heavy gates was opened, and a man in uniform appeared behind it.

"A prisoner," said Vipont curtly. Then the party stepped inside and the little door was closed behind them.

They crossed the court—it had been the garden during the imprisonment of the Royal family—and the moon was shedding her rays upon the very tree under which the hapless monarch had been wont to take his daily exercise; causing the leaves to shimmer with a silver light as they were stirred by the gentle breeze. St. Just glanced up at the black facade, now dimly outlined against the dark wintry sky, and the gruesome thought flashed on him that, perhaps, he too was doomed to pace each day up and down, up and down, beneath that selfsame tree until that morning when he should be told that his last hour had come, and be hurried to the scaffold.

Vipont's party marched on with him and halted at a door, which, at the summons of the warder who had admitted them to the prison, was opened.

They entered the building, and then St. Just was escorted down a narrow passage to a flight of steps. These the man descended, and the others followed, emerging at the bottom on another passage, along which the jailer led the way, the rest of the party keeping close behind him, their footsteps echoing along the sunken corridor with thuds that reminded the prisoner of the blows he had heard at nights when the executioner and his assistants were setting up the scaffold, from which in the cold, gray morning some poor devil was to take his last look on the world. This reflection and the searching cold and damp, that seemed to pierce his very bones, and the mouldy smell that permeated the place, sent a shiver through St. Just that, despite his efforts to repress it, was visible to all.

Presently another iron door was reached, and, being opened, revealed a room about five yards by four in area. High up in one wall was a narrow, strongly barred window, that was little more than a slit, and communicated to the outer air by a sort of funnel, for even the cell's vaulted roof was below the surface of the ground. A small fireplace faced this window, and, to prevent the possibility of a prisoner's escape that way, a strong iron grating was fixed in the lower part of the chimney.

A low wooden bedstead a yard in width, a small deal table and a wooden stool comprised the furniture of this inhospitable apartment. At the sight of it St. Just's heart sank.

When the door of what was to be St. Just's home until he should be otherwise disposed of, had been thrown open, Vipont stood aside, and, bending before the prisoner in mock courtesy, motioned him to pass inside.

"I regret, Mons. le docteur," he said, "that we cannot offer you a more luxurious apartment; for this, I admit, is scarcely fitting for a member of the learned profession, I doubt not, you adorn. But, at any rate, you will be safe from thieves, and your scientific meditations will not be interrupted."

He wound up with a self-sufficient chuckle. St. Just made no reply, but crossed the threshold of his cell, into which the jailer had preceded him with a lantern. Then Vipont and his myrmidons withdrew. But, in a few minutes, he returned, as though he had forgotten something. He stepped quickly to the jailer's side and whispered something in his ear. Now that St. Just had had time to look at him, he saw that the jailer was a hard-featured, impassive, honest-looking fellow, with nothing in his countenance that augured cruelty or ill-nature, for the mere love of it. Whatever Vipont had said to him, the jailer raised the lantern and turned its light upon St. Just at the same time bestowing a keen glance on him. It will be borne in mind that St. Just was got up to pass for a serious, middle-aged member of a learned profession. The result of the jailer's scrutiny, which was made with much deliberation, was the muttered reply to his companion, "I am of your opinion."

Then he placed the lantern on the table and moved round behind St. Just, who, though suspicious of the glances cast at him, had no idea what they portended; but he was soon to know, for the man suddenly threw himself upon him, pinioning his arms behind him, so that he could not move.

Indeed St. Just made no attempt to do so, for the whole movement had been so rapid that he was taken quite aback. Before he had recovered his composure, Vipont had made a dash at his beard and plucked it off; when, instead of a middle-aged doctor, there stood before them a man clean-shaven and with youthful lineaments. The change it made in him was wonderful; even his frame seemed to have become more upright and muscular, so powerful is the influence of association.

Retaining in his grasp the beard, Vipont stepped back a pace and, advancing the lantern towards the prisoner's face, seemed to be diving into his memory for a clue that should enable him to fix the personality of the man in front of him; for the latter could see by the police agent's expression that he was convinced that they had met before.

Vipont looked long and earnestly at the captive, but to little purpose; he could not put a name to him.

All at once he in the book of memory found the page that contained the name he was in search of. A smile formed itself upon his face, the prelude to a mocking laugh, that rang loudly through the cell. He removed his hat and bent in mock courtesy before St. Just.

"Mons. St. Just," he said, "late lieutenant of the Guard at the Luxembourg Palace, we meet again. On the occasion that I have in mind, I have a fancy that I owe to you the failure of—well, an affair I need not specify. Now I have an opportunity of satisfying the debt; and be assured you shall be paid in full."

St. Just laughed scoffingly. "We shall see, my friend, I fear you not; the less so after the reminder you have given me of our first meeting, the circumstances of which had escaped my memory. I wonder whether the First Consul knows the part you played. For myself, I will not attempt to deny that I am St. Just—though, I think you would be put to it to prove it."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't," retorted Vipont, with a sneering laugh.

Just then the sound of a distant clock, which was striking ten; was borne across the frosty air, and penetrated to the prison. It checked the agent in the middle of his laugh.

"So late!" he exclaimed. "I have dallied here too long, and must be going."

Then he continued mockingly, "Do me the favor, my good Desmartins, to show this gentleman, in whom I take the deepest interest, every attention; treat him with the greatest deference; load his table with the daintiest viands; bring out for him your choicest wines; prepare for him your downiest bed; find him amusement, that he may not know a moment's weariness; guard him from every danger. In a word, do everything to keep him safe and happy, treating him as an honored guest, extending to him cheerfully the hospitality for which the genial custodian of the Temple is so famed." Then he turned to St. Just and, in the same mocking tone continued, "Can I add anything further, Sir, to ensure your comfort? I regret that I can no longer avail myself of the pleasure of your company; but I am already due at the Opera, where I have to report to the First Consul. I am desolated that I cannot have the honor of your company thither, but I shall be pleased to bear him any message you may charge me with."

There was a mocking smile on Vipont's lips, when he finished speaking, and, with pretended deference, he once more bent low before St. Just.

The latter glared savagely at the police agent, but, when he spoke, there was no passion in his voice, only a cold incisiveness in every word that fell upon the mocker's ears and, despite his well-assumed impassiveness, caused him some uneasiness.

"Yes, go, Sir," said St. Just. "Go, by all means, to the First Consul, and tell him from me, if you have the honesty and courage to keep your promise, that, on the night to which you have alluded, you and the rascal Sotin, were the men who tried to murder him by Mons. Barras' orders. I think, when he knows this, for all your activity in his behalf to-night, you will not be long in paying another visit to the Temple, but in a somewhat different capacity from that you occupy at present. You will have an opportunity of testing the hospitality of our good friend here; of participating in the luxuries you suggested he should heap on me."

Vipont turned pale and trembled with mingled rage and dread.

"You lie, coquin," he yelled, "you vile traducer of a trusted servant of the State. I know not what you mean. But I will soon silence your perjured tongue."

And he laid his hand upon his sword and half drew it from its sheath, at the same time taking a step forward. But Desmartins interposed, and laid his hand on the police agent's arm.

"No violence, Monsieur, I beg," he said. "It is not to be permitted. I am responsible for the prisoner's safety, and you shall not do him hurt." And he placed himself between the men.

The sword dropped back into its scabbard, and Vipont, scowling, removed his grasp from it. He glared furiously at St. Just.

"Why does he insult me, then," he snarled, "the gredin? But let him wait, the coward, till I have the opportunity of chastising him. Then we shall see."

"As you say," St. Just calmly interposed, "we shall see. But I care not to bandy further words with you; and surely you are forgetting your appointment." And, to show that conversation on his part was at an end, he turned his back on Vipont and took a step or two away.

The police spy shook his fist in menace at St. Just; then, with the words, "Au revoir, coquin," he turned on his heel and quitted the cell, followed by the jailer, who took with him the lantern, leaving St. Just to darkness and his thoughts.

For a while, he remained motionless where he stood, listening to the retreating footsteps of his late companions. At last, they died away, and the silence that ensued was deathlike.

"Will Halima hear what has befallen me?" he mused. "And how will she act if she do hear it? Will she leave me to my fate? No, no, she could not be so cruel!"

He paced restlessly about, tortured by the reflections that assailed him. Beneath his conviction of her love for him there always lurked a doubt of her fidelity. He did not forget that, on their meeting after nearly four years' separation, she had looked more radiantly beautiful than ever; there had been no evidence in her appearance that she had bewailed his loss; and he did not doubt that, in his absence, she had consoled herself with other lovers, and, in like circumstances, would do so again. She had frankly admitted that the indulgence of her passions was a necessity of her life. The thought threw him into a fever of impatience and rebellion at his helplessness, and he began to cast about for a means of informing her of his predicament.

Suddenly he halted in his aimless tramp about his cell. The blind beggar—who was not really blind—had seen his capture, and, if himself unknown to Halima, would know those who were acquainted with her, and so the news would reach her. St. Just had not had time to recognize the man, even if he had ever seen him before; but he was convinced that he was in the plot.

His wife would not be long in hearing what had happened; perhaps she had heard already. And she could save him, if she would, for she had in her possession the charm that Josephine had given him, the talisman that Buonaparte had promised should three times be effective in protecting him, should the need arise and Buonaparte have the power; and surely, surely Halima would use it in his behalf.

This hope, nay, this certainty—for, after all her protestations of undying love, she would never be so base as to desert him—brought with it comparative relief, and he was able to look his position in the face, without the dread that had but now oppressed him.

Then, with reawakened confidence, he threw himself upon his narrow pallet and, worn out by the excitement he had undergone, soon dropped off into a slumber in which all his troubles were forgotten; he even dreamed that he was with Halima.

A week passed by, and gradually the captive's spirits sank, for not a whisper from the outer world had come to him, and the dreadful thought was gaining on him that, after all, he was to be abandoned to his fate. The hours dragged on in horrible monotony, his only visitor being his jailer, who came at stated intervals to supply him with the sorry food that was his fare. But, though the man was rough and almost surly, and could with difficulty be got to speak—and, when he did, it was only in monosyllables—St. Just looked forward to his visits with positive delight, parting from him with regret and counting the hours, by the chimes of distant clocks, until he should be due again. He was the captive's sole link with humanity.

St. Just made various attempts to sound him, asked him whether anyone had called at the prison in reference to his case; whether he was being talked about outside; whether he had heard again from Vipont; but he said not a word of Halima.

But he could extract nothing from Desmartins; the man was as close as a mouse trap that has just achieved its purpose. All that could be got from him was that he knew nothing. Then St. Just tried to inveigle him into talk on general topics; he was so loth to lose the sight of a human face, the sound of a human voice. But his jailer discouraged conversation and would have none of it.

However, on the evening of the seventh day of his incarceration, and without any previous intimation, the door of his cell was opened, and—not Desmartins, as he had at first assumed—but a file of soldiers entered. They were followed by their officer. He bowed to the prisoner and then told him that he had orders to remove him, and that it would be necessary to blindfold him.

"Whither do you take me?" asked St. Just.

"That I am not at liberty to say," replied the officer; "but you will learn anon."

Then they blindfolded him, and two of the men placed themselves one on each side of him, and each took an arm to guide him; thus they led him from the room, and along the narrow passage, the jailer going in advance to show the way, and taking the same route as on St. Just's arrival.

Presently, by the change in the sounds above him, and the freshness of the atmosphere, St. Just knew that he was in the open air; in another minute he heard the prison gate clang to behind him. Then he was guided into a carriage, which was quickly driven away.

He was scarcely seated, when a voice muttered in a loud whisper in his ear, "Make no rash effort to escape, and do not speak, or attempt to remove your bandage, or you will suffer for it."

At the same time, to lend significance to the speaker's words, something cold and hard was pressed against the hearer's temple. St. Just knew it for the muzzle of a pistol, and, for a moment, shivered. But only for a moment; it needed little wit to know that, for the present at any rate, his life was safe. For all that, he deemed it prudent to obey the injunctions of his companion; so sat motionless and silent. He tried at first to follow in his mind the turns the carriage took, but, blindfold as he was, he found it hopeless, so gave it up, resigning himself with such patience as he could command to whatever was to follow. But his mind was in a fever of inquiry. Was he being conveyed to Halima's house, or to some place of safety at her instance; or were his captors taking him to some other prison, where the discipline was harsher, and the prisoners had less chance of making their escape?

The carriage creaked and rumbled on, with frequent jolts, for the roads, at all times, at that period, bad, were now, by the mingled action of frost and slush, a succession of alternate holes and hillocks. But, at last, when it seemed to St. Just that they had been traveling for hours, the carriage halted, and he was bidden to descend. Then he was again taken by the arm and guided up a narrow staircase. Arrived at the top, his conductor whispered a few words to some one there. A door was opened, and he was led into a room and halted. Then the same voice that had addressed him in the carriage spoke again.

"You are at your journey's end, and your bandage will now be removed. Light, you see, like everything else, comes to him who waits." He laughed pleasantly.

When the bandage had been removed, St. Just found himself in a moderate-sized apartment, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books. He was standing before an open hearth, in which, burned a cheerful fire of wood, whose flames diffused a ruddy glow throughout the room, and a genial warmth that was more than grateful to a man who had been enduring for a week the chill, damp air of a prison cell. On one side of the room were two long windows, now closed with shutters and hung with dark red curtains. A large oil lamp, its brilliance tempered by a deep green shade, was burning on a table in the center of the room. On the side that faced the fire was a pair of folding doors, now closed. These details St. Just took in unconsciously, for what fixed his glance, immediately that his bandage was removed, was the figure of a man who was a stranger to him. He was standing by the fire and partially supporting himself on a stick. An elderly man, thin in figure, somewhat below the average height, and of shrivelled aspect. His face was long and lean and absolutely colorless; only redeemed from lifelessness by the piercing eyes, which were ever shifting restlessly, as though trying to find an entrance into the weak places of an opponent. He was dressed from head to foot in black.

Hard by St. Just there stood another man, whose green uniform with red facings proclaimed him to be an officer of Chasseurs. He had been St. Just's companion in his drive, and he it was who had removed the handkerchief from his eyes, for he still held it in his hand.

The elder man fixed his keen glance upon St. Just for several moments, without speaking. Then suddenly he addressed him in a high-pitched voice.

"Well Mons. St. Just, what have you to say for yourself for mixing in plots against the First Consul?"

Then, before his hearer could reply, he continued to the officer in attendance: "You can withdraw, Beaumont. Wait in the anteroom, in case you should be wanted—but not within earshot of this room." And he raised his finger meaningly at the young officer, who, coloring to the roots of his hair, stammered at the slur cast on him.

"Mons. de Talleyrand, I am a soldier and a man of honor. It is an insult to suggest—"

"Go, Sir," interrupted the other sternly. "I have not time to pick and choose my words, except when matters of State demand it."

And, without further parley, the officer retired.

Then the man who had been addressed as Talleyrand resumed his conversation with St. Just; but first he moved to a chair, halting slightly in his walk.

"Well, Sir," he said, "you find my question difficult to answer. But I will spare you the dishonor of inventing denials that would be unavailing; for the information at my command is unimpeachable. But one thing I should like to know, that you alone can tell me; and that is how it happens that you, who were reported dead in Egypt more than three years ago, have now turned up alive in Paris?"

This was a much easier question to reply to than the other, and St. Just detailed, shortly, the particulars—garbled for the occasion—of his capture in the desert and subsequent adventures, up to his landing and accident at Margala, explaining his strange loss of memory, that had extended even to his ignorance of his own identity; and how that memory had only recently been restored.

The story seemed plausible to Talleyrand, for it appeared incredible that a soldier with St. Just's prospects of advancement would willingly sacrifice his career.

"That seems reasonable," was his comment, "but what I can not understand is why, on your return to Paris, you did not at once report yourself. I should have thought that, having lost so much valuable time, you would not have wasted a moment in seeking reinstatement. How was that? You must have had some overpowering reason, and I am curious to know it?"

And he shot a searching glance at his hearer's face, as though he thought thereby to wrench the truth from him.

St. Just quailed beneath it. He knew, by hearsay, the character of the man before him, and, while anxious to conceal his conjugal relations, he recognized the risk he ran, should Talleyrand convict him of an attempt to palm off a lie on him. His difficulty was that he was in the dark as to how much his cross-questioner knew. But Talleyrand was noted for his gallantries; so St. Just thought he might look more leniently on his dereliction, if he assigned a woman as its cause. All this passed rapidly through his mind during the few seconds that elapsed before his answer. With some hesitation, and the color mounting to his face, he said:—

"I fully intended to report myself, as was my duty; but—"

"The woman tempted me," interrupted Talleyrand with a sneer, and a smile that had more of triumph than good-nature in it.

St. Just started. Oh that he could fathom the depth of the knowledge that Talleyrand possessed of him! However, the wily statesman had given him his cue.

"Scarcely that," he answered, "for it would be base to charge a woman with what was the outcome solely of my own infatuation. For I was infatuated, infatuated to the verge of madness; my passion robbed me of my judgment; so that I lived only in the present, with no thought of consequences."

"And yet you were not content to bask in the Egyptian beauty's smiles, but must needs associate yourself with plotters against the State. 'Twas there your madness really lay—not in your infatuation for Madame de Moncourt. That I readily excuse; nay more, I can applaud; your preference does you credit, Sir; I can scarcely pay her the same compliment for the interest she takes in you."

The speaker seemed to delight in saying things that made his hearers wince, and the coarse slight in his last words had that effect upon the man before him.

A momentary flash of anger gleamed in his eyes; then surprise showed on his face. Talleyrand knew the woman for whom he had forsaken honor; and she was interesting herself on his behalf, if the statesmen's words meant anything. Probably his presence there was due to that. The thought brought much relief. But Talleyrand had made no reference to his marriage; most likely then, he was unaware of it!

"I see you have guessed my secret," he replied. "I adore the lady to whom you have just referred, and she has accorded me the privilege of a visitor. I met her first in Egypt, where I was so fortunate as to save her life."

"Indeed! And now she is using her influence to save yours. Do you know this trinket?"

He held up the charm Josephine had given to St. Just.

"I do; it belongs to me. It was given me some years ago by Madame Buonaparte, in the presence of her husband, the night I saved him from assassination."

"Dear me, you seem to have a trick of saving life," sneered Talleyrand.

"Say rather, the good Fortune. But to continue; on that occasion, the General attached a promise to the gift."

"Which he has fulfilled, and not for the first time, I understand. This is the key that has unlocked your prison cell. Madame de Moncourt, by some means,"—and he looked meaningly at St. Just—"got news of your predicament and, having this talisman of yours in her possession, entrusted it to me to pass on to the First Consul, with the reminder of his pledge to you. I have fulfilled my errand, and, on certain conditions, you are free."

St. Just could not repress a sigh of relief, for, though from the commencement of his interview he had thought that he was safe, now he was assured of it.

"I am deeply grateful to you, Sir," he said, "for your efforts on my behalf; also to Madame de Moncourt, to whom, if I may take the liberty, I will ask you to convey my heartfelt thanks."

Ignoring St. Just's request, which he had wit enough to know was not made seriously, and, in consequence, resented, Talleyrand answered sharply.

"Then show your gratitude, Sir, by abstaining in the future from dabbling in conspiracies, and by devoting yourself faithfully to your country's interests. Are you ready to act thus?"

To this St. Just answered that he was; and, at the time he really meant it.

"See that you keep your word," rejoined the other; "your honor requires much cleansing ere it will be bright. Here is your trinket, which I trust you will never again prostitute to such vile purpose as that to which it has just been put. But now, as to the conditions of your liberty. It is thought a change of air would be beneficial to you. Are you willing to leave France forthwith, for as long or as short a period as may be ordered?"

St. Just's face fell; absence from France meant also absence from Halima; but he was in no position to make terms; he had no choice but to submit; still his distaste to the position was apparent in his answer.

"If my sole choice lies between captivity in France, and liberty abroad," he said despondently, "I must fain choose the latter, though life lived out of France will be mere existence. Is my place of banishment yet decided?"

Talleyrand smiled sourly. "Things need not be quite so bad for you as your forecast; if so you will it. The First Consul is disposed to give you a chance of regaining your lost honor, but it will be your last. He is in contemplation to send you to England on a mission of some importance. To ensure success, tact, courage, secrecy and adaptability will be required; and, above all—fidelity." And he fixed his eyes significantly on his hearer. "On your conduct of the affair will depend your future. The business will not occupy you long. Your answer?"

By the time the speaker had concluded, St. Just had brightened up considerably. He hastened to reply with energy, "I accept without a moment's hesitation. Sir, I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the kindness shown me; and I pledge my honor—"

Talleyrand looked up with a curious, amused expression. "Your what, Sir?" he asked cynically.

St. Just colored with shame. For a moment he was discomposed. Then he replied, "I deserve your reprimand, Monsieur. I should have said, I give my solemn word—I swear—that I will do my utmost to assure the success of the mission to be entrusted to me. If earnestness of purpose, unwearying labor, fearlessness of danger and unswerving fidelity can secure it, I shall not fail. If needs be, I am ready to sacrifice my life, in the cause committed to me."

Talleyrand's nature was too cold, and he had too full a knowledge of the workings of the human heart for such "high falutin" to make much impression on him: indeed, he rather despised enthusiasm; in his eyes it showed want of self-control. But, in the present instance, he was satisfied that St. Just meant all he said; whether his sentiments would be enduring, was another thing.

"Your words are fair enough, Sir," he said coldly; "see that your deeds lag not behind them."

The words had scarcely left his lips, when the folding doors at the end of the room were opened, and the First Consul entered.

He paused for a moment in the doorway and then came forward. The light from the lamp, modified, as it was, by the green shade, made his countenance, always pale and passionless, look almost death-like now, and emphasized by contrast the wondrous eyes which flashed and glistened with vitality and movement. He wore the uniform of an officer of Artillery, and with scarce a decoration. His nether limbs were encased in white breeches and silk stockings; a sash of tricolor completed his costume.

His eyes fixed the two men in the room; both felt their magnetic force, and one seemed almost turned to stone. But almost instantly, both bent before him.

"So!" he began, in a hard, dry voice, "Mons. St. Just, you have come to life again. I will inquire into that anon. Meantime, perhaps you, Mons. de Talleyrand, will explain the meaning of this—gentleman's presence here." He stamped his foot impatiently.

"Sir," began Talleyrand, in his icy tones, "I ventured to send for Mons. St. Just with a view to his being despatched to England on the mission we have discussed together. You left in my hands the selection of the agent, and, for several reasons which I shall be happy to give you when we are alone, I deemed him suitable."

"An assassin, a prisoner from the Temple! I congratulate you on the felicity of your selection," was the ironical rejoinder.

"A prisoner whom your clemency has freed. You cannot, General, have forgotten the token from Mons. St. Just I handed you."

Buonaparte had not forgotten, but for a purpose he affected to have done so. The Man of Destiny forgot nothing. "Token, what token?" he asked sharply. He dropped into a chair, then leisurely took snuff.

"This charm, Sir," said St. Just respectfully. He stepped forward and held out the trinket. "This jewel given to me by Madame Buonaparte in your presence, one memorable night, when you attached a promise to it."

"I now remember, Sir," answered the First Consul sternly, "and the pledge I gave you, but I little guessed that I should be reminded of it in such circumstances as the present. I did not expect that, in the fulfillment of my promise, I should be called upon to save a would-be assassin, and a deserter from his colors from the penalty of his crimes. But I will respect my word, Sir; your life is spared. See that you make a worthier use of it in the future." Then, in a voice of thunder, he concluded, "But have a care, Sir, have a care, lest you try my patience and forbearance beyond their limits. Never again put that trinket to so vile a use, or I fear me you will find that it has lost its virtue. Nay, I marvel that, on this occasion, you should have shielded yourself with its protection. A brave man dishonored, is glad to hide his dishonor in the grave."

The countenance he turned upon St. Just was awful in its sternness and contempt, and the confusion and abasement of the wretched man were piteous to behold. He bent his head to his chest, and trembled in every limb, and his face rivaled in its pallor even Buonaparte's. The scathing words of the First Consul had so affected him that, for the moment, he felt that death itself would have been preferable, and regretted that the talisman had been employed to save his life. His breath came hard and fast, and he made several ineffectual attempts to speak; at last he gasped out:

"Sir I thank you for your clemency. I am so bewildered, so abashed, I despise myself so much, that I can scarce find words. I can only say—you have spared my life, do with it what you will."