"We all tried to be brave," she said, "but, frankly, I for one was very frightened; as for poor Marie, she spent the night lamenting and calling on all the saints to protect her."
Later, when they reached the portal of the prison-house she said to her father:
"Let us drive home, father. I am so anxious to know if everything has been all right in the house, with maman lying there alone."
It was a bright, frosty morning, but a thin layer of snow still lay on the ground. In this outlying part of the town, there were few passers-by and no cabriolets in sight, but a poor wretch in thin blouse and tattered breeches stood shivering in the middle of the road. He was an old man, with arched back and wrinkled, grimy face; from under his shabby red cap wisps of white hair fluttered in the wind. His teeth were chattering as he murmured a prayer for charity. Maurin called to him:
"See if you can find a cabriolet, citizen, and bring it along. You might get one in the Place Verte and there will be five sous for you. We'll wait for it at the tavern over the way."
The man raised a finger to his forelock and shuffled off in the direction of the Place Verte, his sabots made no sound on the thin carpet of snow.
"What misery, mon Dieu," Blanche sighed while she watched the old caitiff's retreating figure. "And this is what they call Equality and Fraternity. Can't anything be done for a poor wretch like that? He seems almost a cripple with that humped back."
"He could go to the Assistance Publique," Maurin replied dryly, "but some of these fellows seem to prefer begging in the streets. This one, I should say, has been a soldier in —— "
He was about to say "In Louis Capet's army," but with Charles Levet within hearing, he thought better of it. This was obviously not the moment to irritate the old man.
"Come and drink a mug of hot ale with me while we wait," he suggested cheerily to the whole party. They were all very cold, having only had a meagre prison breakfast in the early hours of the morning: a small tavern over the way, at a short distance looked inviting. Old Levet would have demurred: he wore his most obstinate expression: but Blanche was obviously both weary and cold and the maid looked ready to faint with inanition; even Augustin cast longing eyes across the road. Louis Maurin without another word led the way, Levet followed reluctantly, the others with alacrity, and presently they were all seated at a table in a small stuffy room that reeked of lamp-oil and stale food, but sipping with gusto the hot ale which the landlord, surly and out-at-elbows, had placed before them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A False Move
It was after the first ten minutes of desultory conversation among the party, that Louis Maurin made what he called afterwards the greatest mistake of his life. Indeed he often cursed himself afterwards for that twinge of jealousy, coupled with boastfulness, which prompted him to speak of Simon Pradel at all. It was just one of those false moves which even an experienced chess-player might make with a view to protecting his queen, only to find himself check-mated in the end. Little did the astute lawyer guess that by a few words carelessly spoken he was actually precipitating the ruin of his cherished hopes and helping to bring about that extraordinary series of events which caused so many heartburnings, set all the quidnuncs of Choisy gossiping and remained the chief topic of conversation round local firesides for many weeks to come.
Blanche had drunk the ale, said a few pleasant words to Maurin, chaffed her brother and the maid, and relapsed into silence. Maurin, who was feeling at peace with all the world and very pleased with himself, queried after a time:
"Thoughtful, mademoiselle?"
It seemed almost as if she had dropped to sleep for she gave no sign of response, and Maurin insisted.
"Of what are you thinking, mademoiselle?"
She roused herself, gave a shrug, a sigh, a feeble smile and replied:
"Friends."
"Why friends?" he asked again.
"I was just wondering how many of our friends will have to suffer as we did last night ... as innocently I mean ... arrest ... imprisonment ... anxiety ... These are terrible times, Louis!"
"And there are worse to come, mademoiselle," he declared ostentatiously; "happy are those who have powerful friends to save them from disaster."
This hint was obvious, but neither old Levet nor Augustin responded to it. It was left for Blanche to say:
"You have been very kind, Louis."
Silence once more, until Augustin remarked:
"We were, of course, innocent."
"That helped a little, of course," Maurin was willing to admit, "but you have no idea how obstinate the Committee are, once there has been actual denunciation of treason. And we must always remember those poor wretches who for a miserable pittance will ferret out the secrets of some who have not been clever enough to keep their political opinions to themselves."
"I suppose it was one of those wretches who trumped up a charge against us," Blanche remarked.
"Undoubtedly. And I had all the difficulty in the world — in fact I had to pledge my good name — before I could persuade the Chief of Section that the charge was trumped up."
He paused a moment, then added self-complacently:
"I shall find it still more difficult in the case of Simon Pradel, I'm afraid."
Blanche gave a start.
"Simon?" she queried. "What about Simon?"
"Didn't you know?"
"Know what?"
Already Maurin realised that he had made a false move when he mentioned Pradel. Blanche all at once had become the living representation of eager, feverish anxiety. Her cheeks were aflame, her eyes glittered, her voice positively quavered when she insisted on getting an explanation from the lawyer.
"Why don't you answer, Louis? What is there to know about Simon?"
Why, oh, why had he brought the doctor's name on the tapis? He had done it primarily for his own glorification, and in order to stand better and better with the Levets because of his influence and his zeal. Never had he intended to rouse dormant passion in the girl by speaking of the danger which threatened Pradel. Women are queer, he commented with bitterness to himself. Let a man be sick or in any way in need of their help, and at once he becomes an object of interest, or, as in this case, simple friendship at once flames into love.
Old Levet, who had hardly opened his mouth all this while, and had seemed to be too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to take notice what was said around him, now put in a word:
"Don't worry, my girl," he said; "Simon is no fool, and there is no one in Choisy who would dare touch him."
By this time, Maurin had succeeded in turning his thoughts in another direction. Self-reproach gave place to his usual self-complacency and self-exaltation. He had made a false move, but he thanked his stars that he was in a position to retrieve it.
"I am afraid you are wrong there, Monsieur Levet," he observed unctuously. "As a matter of fact I happen to know that the Section has its eye on Dr. Pradel. His mysterious comings and goings yesterday, and his constant visits at the Château de la Rodière, which often extend late into the night, have aroused suspicion, and, as you know, from suspicion to denunciation there is only one step — and that one sometimes leads as far as the guillotine. However, as I had the pleasure of telling you just now, I will