"Vengeance is mine."
The pretence of a headache enabled Juliette to keep in her room the
greater part of the day. She would have liked to shut herself out from
the entire world during those hours which she spent face to face with
her own thoughts and her own sufferings.
The sight of Anne Mie's pathetic little face as she brought her food and
delicacies and various little comforts, was positive torture to the
poor, harrowed soul.
At every sound in the great, silent house she started up, quivering with
apprehension and horror. Had the sword of Damocles, which she herself
had suspended, already fallen over the heads of those who had shown her
nothing but kindness?
She could not think of Madame Déroulède or of Anne Mie without the most
agonising, the most torturing shame.
And what of him--the man she had so remorselessly, so ruthlessly
betrayed to a tribunal which would know no mercy?
Juliette dared not think of him.
She had never tried to analyse her feelings with regard to him. At the
time of Charlotte Corday's trial, when his sonorous voice rang out in
its pathetic appeal for the misguided woman, Juliette had given him
ungrudging admiration. She remembered now how strongly his magnetic
personality had roused in her a feeling of enthusiasm for the poor girl,
who had come from the depths of her quiet provincial home, in order to
accomplish the horrible deed which would immortalise her name through
all the ages to come, and cause her countrymen to proclaim her "greater
than Brutus."
Déroulède was pleading for the life of that woman, and it was his very
appeal which had aroused Juliette's dormant energy, for the cause which
her dead father had enjoined her not to forget. It was Déroulède again
whom she had seen but a few weeks ago, standing alone before the mob who
would have torn her to pieces, haranguing them on her behalf, speaking
to them with that quiet, strong voice of his, ruling them with the rule
of love and pity, and turning their wrath to gentleness.
Did she hate him, then?
Surely, surely she hated him for having thrust himself into her life,
for having caused her brother's death and covered her father's declining
years with sorrow. And, above all, she hated him--indeed, indeed it was
hate!--for being the cause of this most hideous action of her life: an
action to which she had been driven against her will, one of basest
ingratitude and treachery, foreign to every sentiment within her heart,
cowardly, abject, the unconscious outcome of this strange magnetism
which emanated from him and had cast a spell over her, transforming her
individuality and will power, and making of her an unconscious and
automatic instrument of Fate.
She would not speak of God's finger again: it was Fate--pagan, devilish
Fate!--the weird, shrivelled women who sit and spin their interminable
thread. They had decreed; and Juliette, unable to fight, blind and
broken by the conflict, had succumbed to the Megaeras and their
relentless wheel.
At length silence and loneliness became unendurable. She called
Pétronelle, and ordered her to pack her boxes.
"We leave for England to-day", she said curtly.
"For England?" gasped the worthy old soul, who was feeling very happy
and comfortable in this hospitable house, and was loth to leave it. "So
soon?"
"Why, yes; we had talked of it for some time. We cannot remain here
always. My cousins De Crécy are there, and my aunt De Coudremont. We
shall be among friends, Pétronelle, if we ever get there."
"If we ever get there!" sighed poor Pétronelle; "we have but very little
money, _ma chérie,_ and no passports. Have you thought of asking M.
Déroulède for them?"
"No, no," rejoined Juliette hastily; "I'll see to the passports somehow,
Pétronelle. Sir Percy Blakeney is English; he'll tell me what to do."
"Do you know where he lives, my jewel?"
"Yes; I heard him tell Madame Déroulède last night that he was lodging
with a provincial named Brogard at the Sign of the Cruche Cassée. I'll
go seek him, Pétronelle; I am sure he will help me. The English are so
resourceful and practical. He'll get us our passports, I know, and
advise us as to the best way to proceed. Do you stay here and get all
our things ready. I'll not be long."
She took up a cloak and hood, and, throwing them over her arm, she
slipped out of the room.
Déroulède had left the house earlier in the day. She hoped that he had
not yet returned, and ran down the stairs quickly, so that she might go
out unperceived.
The house was quite peaceful and still. It seemed strange to Juliette
that there did not hang over it some sort of pall-like presentiment of
coming evil.
From the kitchen, at some little distance from the hall, Anne Mie's
voice was heard singing an old ditty:
/*[4]
"De ta tige détachée
Pauvre feuille désséchée
Où vas-tu?"
*/
Juliette paused a moment. An awful ache had seized her heart; her eyes
unconsciously filled with tears, as they roamed round the walls of this
house which had sheltered her so hospitably, these three weeks past.
And now whither was she going? Like the poor, dead leaf of the song, she
was wastrel, torn from the parent bough, homeless, friendless, having
turned against the one hand which, in this great time of peril, had been
extended to her in kindness and in love.
Conscience was beginning to rise up against her, and that hydra-headed
tyrant Remorse. She closed her eyes to shut out the hideous vision of
her crime; she tried to forget this home which her treachery had
desecrated.
/*[4]
"Je vais où va toute chose
Où va la feuille de rose
Et la feuille de laurier,"
*/
sang Anne Mie plaintively.
A great sob broke from Juliette's aching heart. The misery of it all was
more than she could bear. Ah, pity her if you can! She had fought and
striven, and been conquered. A girl's soul is so young, so
impressionable; and she had grown up with that one, awful, all-pervading
idea of duty to accomplish, a most solemn oath to fulfil, one sworn to
her dying father, and on the dead body of her brother. She had begged
for guidance, prayed for release, and the voice from above had remained
silent. Weak, miserable, cringing, the human soul, when torn with
earthly passion, must look at its own strength for the fight.
And now the end had come. That swift, scarce tangible dream of peace,
which had flitted through her mind during the past few weeks, had
vanished with the dawn, and she was left desolate, alone with her great
sin and its lifelong expiation.
Scarce knowing what she did, she fell on her knees, there on that
threshold, which she was about to leave for ever. Fate had placed on her
young shoulders a burden too heavy for her to bear.
"Juliette!"
At first she did not move. It was his voice coming from the study behind
her. Its magic thrilled her, as it had done that day in the Hall of
Justice. Strong, passionate, tender, it seemed now to raise every echo
of response in her heart. She thought it was a dream, and remained there
on her knees lest it should be dispelled.
Then she heard his footsteps on the flagstones of the hall. Anne Mie's
plaintive singing had died away in the distance. She started, and jumped
to her feet, hastily drying her eyes. The momentary dream was dispelled,
and she was ashamed of her weakness.
He, the cause of all her sorrows, of her sin, and of her degradation,
had no right to see her suffer.
She would have fled out of the house now, but it was too late. He had
come out of his study, and, seeing her there on her knees weeping, he
came quickly forward, trying, with all the innate chivalry of his
upright nature, not to let her see that he had been a witness to her
tears.
"You are going out, mademoiselle?" he said courteously, as, wrapping her
cloak around her, she was turning towards the door.
"Yes, yes," she replied hastily; "a small errand, I ..."
"Is it anything I can do for you?"
"No."
"If ..." he added, with visible embarrassment, "if your errand would
brook a delay, might I crave the honour of your presence in my study for
a few moments?"
"My errand brooks of no delay, Citizen Déroulède," she said as
composedly as she could, "and perhaps on my return I might ..."
"I am leaving almost directly, mademoiselle, and I would wish to bid you
good-bye."
He stood aside to allow her to pass, either out, through the street door
or across the hall to his study.
There had been no reproach in his voice towards the guest, who was thus
leaving him without a word of farewell. Perhaps if there had been any,
Juliette would have rebelled. As it was, an unconquerable magnetism
seemed to draw her towards him, and, making an almost imperceptible sign
of acquiescence, she glided past him into his room.
The study was dark and cool; for the room faced the west, and the
shutters had been closed, in order to keep out the hot August sun. At
first Juliette could see nothing, but she felt his presence near her, as
he followed her into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
"It is kind of you, mademoiselle," he said gently, "to accede to my
request, which was perhaps presumptuous. But, you see, I am leaving this
house to-day, and I had a selfish longing to hear your voice bidding me
farewell."
Juliette's large, burning eyes were gradually piercing the semi-gloom
around her. She could see him distinctly now, standing close beside her,
in an attitude of the deepest, almost reverential respect.
The study was as usual neat and tidy, denoting the orderly habits of a
man of action and energy. On the ground there was a valise, ready
strapped as if for a journey, and on the top of it a bulky letter-case
of stout pigskin, secured with a small steel lock. Juliette's eyes
fastened upon this case with a look of fascination and of horror.
Obviously it contained Déroulède's papers, the plans for Marie
Antoinette's escape, the passports of which he had spoken the day before
to his friend, Sir Percy Blakeney--the proofs, in fact, which she had
offered to the representatives of the people, in support of her
denunciation of the Citizen-Deputy.
After his request he had said nothing more. He was waiting for her to
speak; but her voice felt parched; it seemed to her as if hands of steel
were gripping her throat, smothering the words she would have longed to
speak.
"Will you not wish me godspeed, mademoiselle?" he repeated gently.
"Godspeed?" Oh! the awful irony of it all! Should God speed him to a
mock trial and to the guillotine? He was going thither, though he did
not know it, and was even now trying to take the hand which had
deliberately sent him there.
At last she made an effort to speak, and in a toneless, even voice she
contrived to murmur:
"You are not going for long, Citizen-Deputy?"
"In these times, mademoiselle," he replied, "any farewell might be for
ever. But I am actually going for a month to the Conciergerie, to take
charge of the unfortunate prisoner there."
"For a month!" she repeated mechanically.
"Oh yes!" he said, with a smile. "You see, our present Government is
afraid that poor Marie Antoinette will exercise her fascinations over
any lieutenant-governor of her prison, if he remain near her long
enough, so a new one is appointed every month. I shall be in charge
during this coming Vendémiaire. I shall hope to return before the
equinox, but--who can tell?"
"In any case then, Citoyen Déroulède, the farewell I bid you to-night
will be a very long one."
"A month will seem a century to me," he said earnestly, "since I must
spend it without seeing you, but ..."
He looked long and searchingly at her. He did not understand her in her
present mood, so scared and wild did she seem, so unlike that girlish,
light-hearted self, which had made the dull old house so bright these
past few weeks.
"But I should not dare to hope," he murmured, "that a similar reason
would cause you to call that month a long one."
She turned perhaps a trifle paler than she had been hitherto, and her
eyes roamed round the room like those of a trapped hare seeking to
escape.
"You misunderstand me, Citoyen Déroulède," she said at last hurriedly.
"You have all been kind--very kind--but Pétronelle and I can no longer
trespass on your hospitality. We have friends in England, and many
enemies here ..."
"I know," he interrupted quietly; "it would be the most arrant
selfishness on my part to suggest, that you should stay here an hour
longer than necessary. I fear that after to-day my roof may no longer
prove a sheltering one for you. But will you allow me to arrange for
your safety, as I am arranging for that of my mother and Anne Mie? My
English friend Sir Percy Blakeney, has a yacht in readiness off the
Normandy coast. I have already seen to your passports and to all the
arrangements of your journey as far as there, and Sir Percy, or one of
his friends, will see you safely on board the English yacht. He has
given me his promise that he will do this, and I trust him as I would
myself. For the journey through France, my name is a sufficient
guarantee that you will be unmolested; and if you will allow it, my
mother and Anne Mie will travel in your company. Then ..."
"I pray you stop, Citizen Déroulède," she suddenly interrupted
excitedly. "You must forgive me, but I cannot allow thus to make any
arrangements for me. Pétronelle and I must do as best we can. All your
time and trouble should be spent for the benefit of those who have a
claim upon you, whilst I ..."
"You speak unkindly, mademoiselle; there is no question of claim."
"And you have no right to think ..." she continued, with a growing,
nervous excitement, drawing her hand hurriedly away, for he had tried to
seize it.
"Ah! pardon me," he interrupted earnestly, "there you are wrong. I have
the right to think of you and for you--the inalienable right conferred
upon me by my great love for you."
"Citizen-Deputy!"
"Nay, Juliette; I know my folly, and I know my presumption. I know the
pride of your caste and of your party, and how much you despise the
partisan of the squalid mob of France. Have I said that I aspired to
gain your love? I wonder if I have ever dreamed it? I only know,
Juliette, that you are to me something akin to the angels, something
white and ethereal, intangible, and perhaps ununderstandable. Yet,
knowing my folly, I glory in it, my dear, and I would not let you go out
of my life without telling you of that, which has made every hour of the
past few weeks a paradise for me--my love for you, Juliette."
He spoke in that low, impressive voice of his, and with those soft,
appealing tones with which she had once heard him pleading for poor
Charlotte Corday. Yet now he was not pleading for himself, not for his
selfish wish or for his own happiness, only pleading for his love, that
she should know of it, and, knowing it, have pity in her heart for him,
and let him serve her to the end.
He did not say anything more for a while; he had taken her hand, which
she no longer withdrew from him, for there was sweet pleasure in feeling
his strong fingers close tremblingly over hers. He pressed his lips upon
her hand, upon the soft palm and delicate wrist, his burning kisses
bearing witness to the tumultuous passion, which his reverence for her
was holding in check.
She tried to tear herself away from him, but he would not let her go:
"Do not go away just yet, Juliette," he pleaded. "Think! I may never see
you again; but when you are far from me--in England, perhaps--amongst
your own kith and kin, will you try sometimes to think kindly of one who
so wildly, so madly worships you?"
She would have stilled, an she could, the beating of her heart, which
went out to him at last with all the passionate intensity of her great,
pent-up love. Every word he spoke had its echo within her very soul, and
she tried not to hear his tender appeal, not to see his dark head
bending in worship before her. She tried to forget his presence, not to
know that he was there--he, the man whom she had betrayed to serve her
own miserable vengeance, whom in her mad, exalted rage she had thought
that she hated, but whom she now knew that she loved better than her
life, better than her soul, her traditions, or her oath.
Now, at this moment, she made every effort to conjure up the vision of
her brother brought home dead upon a stretcher, of her father's
declining years, rendered hideous by the mind unhinged through the great
sorrow.
She tried to think of the avenging finger of God pointing the way to the
fulfilment of her oath, and called to Him to stand by her in this
terrible agony of her soul.
And God spoke to her at last; through the eternal vistas of boundless
universe, from that heaven which had known no pity, His voice came to
her now, clear, awesome, and implacable:
"Vengeance is mine! I will repay!"