gton," said Sabatier. "I think you
will be compelled to travel toward Bordeaux."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SUPREME SACRIFICE

There had been no fresh news to tell at the barrier on the Versailles
Road, nor at other barriers, until late that night, yet Paris was
excited all day. The storm was destined to develop quickly into a
cyclone. Where was Latour? What secret plotting against the people had
he been engaged in that he should come forward to defend such a man as
Lucien Bruslart? One put the question to Robespierre himself; the answer
was a look and a whisper which meant much. There was the suggestion that
the deputy was a traitor. There seemed no other answer to the question,
and inquiry must be made. Who was the woman who had cried out that
Deputy Latour might himself be in love with the emigre? She was a good
patriot surely, and she was not difficult to find, for she thrust
herself into prominence. Yes, she was the woman who had denounced Lucien
Bruslart. Why? It was a long story, and she did not intend that the
deputy's eloquence should save Bruslart. He had been her lover, but what
was love when the country was in danger? She had been a prisoner in the
Abbaye, taken there in mistake for an aristocrat. She had been rescued.
This man Raymond Latour had rescued her. Might it not be that he loved
the aristocrat? The mob made her a heroine and plied her with questions
which she answered. Scores remembered how she had been arrested,
remembered her journey through the streets. She was believed to be an
aristocrat then, Jeanne St. Clair; now she was known for Pauline Vaison,
as good a patriot as there was in Paris, and as handsome a woman, too.
She was a queen to-day. Certainly there must be more inquiry, and at
once.

The jailer Mathon was found in a wine shop, being off duty, and he was
somewhat muddled with wine fumes though it was still early in the
afternoon. At first he could not remember anything, but fear presently
cleared his wits. Yes, a woman had escaped from the Abbaye, but he had
been held blameless. His papers were in order. The authorities had been
satisfied. Had he recognized the officers who had taken the prisoner
away? That was the point. Was one of them Deputy Latour? No; and yet,
now it was suggested to him, there had been something strangely familiar
about one of the men. It might have been Deputy Latour. This was good
evidence, and Mathon, the jailer, was suffered to go back to his wine.

B