Under arrest.
Déroulède did not attempt to go to her.
Only presently, when the heavy footsteps of Merlin and his men were once
more heard upon the landing, she quietly rose to her feet.
She had accomplished her act of humiliation and repentance, there before
them all. She looked for the last time upon those whom she had so deeply
wronged, and in her heart spoke an eternal farewell to that great, and
mighty, and holy love which she had called forth and then had so
hopelessly crushed.
Now she was ready for the atonement.
Merlin had already swaggered into the room. The long and arduous search
throughout the house had not improved either his temper or his personal
appearance. He was more covered with grime than he had been before, and
his narrow forehead had almost disappeared beneath the tangled mass of
his ill-kempt hair, which he had perpetually tugged forward and roughed
up in his angry impatience.
One look at his face had already told Juliette what she wished to know.
He had searched her room, and found the fragments of burnt paper, which
she had purposely left in the ash-pan.
How he would act now was the one thing of importance left for Juliette
to ponder over. That she would not escape arrest and condemnation was at
once made clear to her. Merlin's look of sneering contempt, when he
glanced towards her, had told her that.
Déroulède himself had been conscious of a feeling of intense relief when
the men re-entered the room. The tension had become unendurable. When he
saw his dethroned madonna kneel in humiliation at his feet, an
overwhelming pain had wrenched his very heart-strings.
And yet he could not go to her. The passionate, human nature within him
felt a certain proud exultation at seeing her there.
She was not above him now, she was no longer akin to the angels.
He had given no further thought to his own immediate danger. Vaguely he
guessed that Merlin would find the leather case. Where it was he could
not tell; perhaps Juliette herself had handed it to the soldiers. She
had only hidden it for a few moments, out of impulse perhaps, fearing
lest, at the first instant of its discovery, Merlin might betray her.
He remembered now those hints and insinuations which had gone out from
the Terrorist to Juliette whilst the search was being conducted in the
study. At the time he had merely looked upon these as a base attempt at
insult, and had tortured himself almost beyond bearing, in the endeavour
to refrain from punishing that evilmouthed creature, who dared to bandy
words with his madonna.
But now he understood, and felt his very soul writhing with shame at the
remembrance of it all.
Oh yes; the return of Merlin and his men, the presence of these grimy,
degraded brutes, was welcome now. He would have wished to crowd in the
entire world, the universe and its population, between him and his
fallen idol.
Merlin's manner towards him had lost nothing of its ironical
benevolence. There was even a touch of obsequiousness apparent in the
ugly face, as the representative of the people approached the popular
Citizen-Deputy.
"Citizen-Deputy," began Merlin, "I have to bring you the welcome news,
that we have found nothing in your house that in any way can cast
suspicion upon your loyalty to the Republic. My orders, however, were to
bring you before the Committee of Public Safety, whether I had found
proofs of your guilt or not. I have found none."
He was watching Déroulède keenly, hoping even at this eleventh hour to
detect a look or a sign, which would furnish him with the proofs for
which he was seeking. The slightest suggestion of relief on Déroulède's
part, a sigh of satisfaction, would have been sufficient at this moment,
to convince him and the Committee of Public Safety that the
Citizen-Deputy was guilty after all.
But Déroulède never moved. He was sufficiently master of himself not to
express either surprise or satisfaction. Yet he felt both--satisfaction
not for his own safety, but because of his mother and Anne Mie, whom he
would immediately send out of the country, out of all danger; and also
because of her, of Juliette Marny, his guest, who, whatever she may have
done against him, had still a claim on his protection. His feeling of
surprise was less keen, and quite transient. Merlin had not found the
letter-case. Juliette, stricken with tardy remorse perhaps, had
succeeded in concealing it. The matter had practically ceased to
interest him. It was equally galling to owe his betrayal or his ultimate
safety to her.
He kissed his mother tenderly, bidding her good-bye, and pressed Anne
Mie's timid little hand warmly between his own. He did what he could to
reassure them, but, for their own sakes, he dared say nothing before
Merlin, as to his plans for their safety.
After that he was ready to follow the soldiers.
As he passed close to Juliette he bowed, and almost inaudibly whispered:
"Adieu!"
She heard the whisper, but did not respond. Her look alone gave him the
reply to his eternal farewell.
His footsteps and those of his escort were heard echoing down the
staircase, then the hall door to open and shut. Through the open window
came the sound of hoarse cheering as the popular Citizen-Deputy appeared
in the street.
Merlin, with two men beside him, remained under the portico; he told off
the other two to escort Déroulède as far as the Hall of Justice, where
sat the members of the Committee of Public Safety. The Terrorist had a
vague fear that the Citizen-Deputy would speak to the mob.
An unruly crowd of women had evidently been awaiting his appearance. The
news had quickly spread along the streets that Merlin, Merlin himself,
the ardent, bloodthirsty Jacobin, had made a descent upon Paul
Déroulède's house, escorted by four soldiers. Such an indignity, put
upon the man they most trusted in the entire assembly of the Convention,
had greatly incensed the crowd. The women jeered at the soldiers as soon
as they appeared, and Merlin dared not actually forbid Déroulède to
speak.
_"A la lanterne, vieux crétin!"_ shouted one of the women, thrusting her
fist under Merlin's nose.
"Give the word, Citizen-Deputy," rejoined another, "and we'll break his
ugly face. _Nous lui casserons la gueule!_"
"_A la lanterne! A la lanterne!"_
One word from Déroulède now would have caused an open riot, and in those
days self defence against the mob was construed into enmity against the
people.
Merlin's work, too, was not yet accomplished. He had had no intention of
escorting Déroulède himself; he had still important business to transact
inside the house which he had just quitted, and had merely wished to get
the Citizen-Deputy well out of the way, before he went upstairs again.
Moreover, he had expected something of a riot in the streets. The temper
of the people of Paris was at fever heat just now. The hatred of the
populace against a certain class, and against certain individuals, was
only equalled by their enthusiasm in favour of others.
They had worshipped Marat for his squalor and his vices; they worshipped
Danton for his energy and Robespierre for his calm; they worshipped
Déroulède for his voice, his gentleness and his pity, for his care of
their children and the eloquence of his speech.
It was that eloquence which Merlin feared now; but he little knew the
type of man he had to deal with.
Déroulède's influence over the most unruly, the most vicious populace
the history of the world has ever known, was not obtained through
fanning its passions. That popularity, though brilliant, is always
ephemeral. The passions of a mob will invariably turn against those who
have helped to rouse them. Marat did not live to see the waning of his
star; Danton was dragged to the guillotine by those whom he had taught
to look upon that instrument of death as the only possible and
unanswerable political argument; Robespierre succumbed to the orgies of
bloodshed he himself had brought about. But Déroulède remained master of
the people of Paris for as long as he chose to exert that mastery. When
they listened to him they felt better, nobler, less hopelessly degraded.
He kept up in their poor, misguided hearts that last flickering sense of
manhood which their bloodthirsty tyrants, under the guise of Fraternity
and Equality, were doing their best to smother.
Even now, when he might have turned the temper of the small crowd
outside his door to his own advantage, he preferred to say nothing; he
even pacified them with a gesture.
He well knew that those whom he incited against Merlin now would, once
their blood was up, probably turn against him in less than half-an-hour.
Merlin, who all along had meant to return to the house, took his
opportunity now. He allowed Déroulède and the two men to go on ahead,
and beat a hasty retreat back into the house, followed by the jeers of
the women.
_"A la lanterne, vieux crétin!"_ they shouted as soon as the hall door
was once more closed in their faces. A few of them began hammering
against the door with their fists; then they realised that their special
favourite, Citizen-Deputy Déroulède, was marching along between two
soldiers, as if he were a prisoner. The word went round that he was
under arrest, and was being taken to the Hall of Justice--a prisoner.
This was not to be. The mob of Paris had been taught that it was the
master in the city, and it had learned its lesson well. For the moment
it had chosen to take Paul Déroulède under its special protection, and
as a guard of honour to him--the women in ragged kirtles, the men with
bare legs and stripped to the waist, the children all yelling, hooting,
and shrieking--followed him, to see that none dared harm him.