treet, avoiding
publicity rather than courting it. He walked quickly until he came to
the Rue St. Honore, when his pace slackened a little and he grew more
thoughtful. His whole scheme was complete, and he reviewed every point
of it to make certain there was no flaw in it. He became suddenly
conscious of a man walking in front of him, one of many in the street
yet distinct from them all. He was slight, so slight that he seemed
tall, walked delicately, something feminine about him, a weak man,
perhaps, whom strong men would despise; yet heads were turned to look
after him, and a second glance found something definite and determined
in the delicate walk, something feline. He went forward noticing none,
straight forward, men of bigger bulk stepping out of his path. Latour,
whose thoughts were of self just now, not of country, went more slowly
still. He had no desire to overtake this man although he knew him well,
and dawdled until he saw him enter a cabinet-maker's shop. All Paris
knew that here Maximilian Robespierre had his lodging.

Latour quickened his pace and entered a house at the corner of a side
street. Yes, his master, the Citizen Bruslart was in, was the answer to
his inquiry, and the suspicion of a smile touched Latour's face at the
man's hesitation. After waiting a few moments he was announced, and
smiled again a little as he entered a room on the first floor, it was so
unlike his own, even as the occupant was unlike him.

"You favor me by this visit," said Bruslart, rising to welcome his
guest.

"You have not yet heard the reason of it."

If Latour expected his host to show any sign of anxiety he was
disappointed, and it was the man's nature to respect courage even in an
enemy. He hardly counted Bruslart as such, outwardly indeed they were
friends. Had Lucien Bruslart been a coward he would hardly have occupied
such an apartment as this and surrounded himself with so much luxury.
There was danger in luxury, yet it was a part of the man, fitted him,
was essential to him. He called himself citizen, sought the society of
patriots, talked as loudly as any. He had talked to such purpose that,
arrested and imprisoned as a dangerous aristocrat, he had been released
and welcomed as a true son of Paris. For all this, he was an aristocrat
to his finger tips, hated the very atmosphere of a true patriot, and
washed their touch from his hands with disgust. His own interests were
his paramount concern, he was clever en