She watched him during the trial, and wondered if he had any presentiment of the hatred which dogged him, like unto the one which had dogged Marat.
He was very dark, almost swarthy, a son of the South, with brown hair, free from powder, thrown back and revealing the brow of a student rather than that of a legislator. He watched Charlotte Corday earnestly, and Juliette who watched him saw the look of measureless pity, which softened the otherwise hard look of his close-set eyes.
He made an impassioned speech for the defence: a speech which has become historic. It would have cost any other man his head.
Juliette marvelled at his courage; to defend Charlotte Corday was equivalent to acquiescing in the death of Marat: Marat, the friend of the people; Marat, whom his funeral orators had compared to the Great, the Sacred Leveller of Mankind!
But Déroulède’s speech was not a defence, it was an appeal. The most eloquent man of that eloquent age, his words seemed to find that hidden bit of sentiment which still lurked in the hearts of these strange protagonists of Hate.
Everyone round Juliette listened as he spoke: “It is Citoyen Déroulède!” whispered the bloodthirsty Amazons, who sat knitting in the gallery.
But there was no further comment. A huge, magnificently-equipped hospital for sick children had been thrown open in Paris that very morning, a gift to the nation from Citoyen Déroulède. Surely he was privileged to talk a little, if it pleased him. His hospital would cover quite a good many defalcations.
Even the rabid Mountain, Danton, Merlin, Santerre, shrugged their shoulders. “It is Déroulède, let him talk an he list. Murdered Marat said of him that he was not dangerous.”
Juliette heard it all. The knitters round her were talking loudly. Even Charlotte was almost forgotten whilst Déroulède talked. He had a fine voice, of strong calibre, which echoed powerfully through the hall.
He was rather short, but broad-shouldered and well knit, with an expressive hand, which looked slender and delicate below the fine lace ruffle.
Charlotte Corday was condemned. All Déroulède’s eloquence could not save her.
Juliette left the court in a state of mad exultation. She was very young: the scenes she had witnessed in the past two years could not help but excite the imagination of a young girl, left entirely to her own intellectual and moral resources.
What scenes! Great God!
And now to wait for an opportunity! Charlotte Corday, the half-educated little provincial should not put to shame Mademoiselle de Marny, the daughter of a hundred dukes, of those who had made France before she took to unmaking herself.
But she could not formulate any definite plans. Pétronelle, poor old soul, her only confidante, was not of the stuff that heroines are made of. Juliette felt impelled by duty, and duty at best is not so prompt a counsellor as love or hate.
Her adventure outside Déroulède’s house had not been premeditated. Impulse and coincidence had worked their will with her.
She had been in the habit, daily, for the past month, of wandering down the Rue Ecole de Médecine, ostensibly to gaze at Marat’s dwelling, as crowds of idlers were wont to do, but really in order to look at Déroulède’s house. Once or twice she saw him coming or going from home. Once she caught sight of the inner hall, and of a young girl in a dark kirtle and snow-white kerchief bidding him goodbye at his door. Another time she caught sight of him at the corner of the street, helping that same young girl over the muddy pavement. He had just met her, and she was carrying a basket of provisions: he took it from her and carried it to the house.
Chivalrous—eh?—and innately so, evidently, for the girl was slightly deformed: hardly a hunchback, but weak and unattractive-looking, with melancholy eyes, and a pale, pinched face.
It was the thought of that little act of simple chivalry, witnessed the day before, which caused Juliette to provoke the scene which, but for Déroulède’s timely interference, might have ended so fatally. But she reckoned on that interference: the whole thing had occurred to her suddenly, and she had carried it through.
Had not her father said to her that when the time came, God would show her a means to the end?
And now she was inside the house of the man who had murdered her brother and sent her sorrowing father, a poor, senseless maniac, tottering to the grave.
Would God’s finger point again, and show her what to do next, how best to accomplish what she had sworn to do?
III
Hospitality
“Is there anything more I can do for you now, mademoiselle?”
The gentle, timid voice roused Juliette from the contemplation of the past.
She smiled at Anne Mie, and held her hand out towards her.
“You have all been so kind,” she said, “I want to get up now and thank you all.”
“Don’t move unless you feel quite well.”
“I am quite well now. Those horrid people frightened me so, that is why I fainted.”
“They would have half-killed you, if—”
“Will you tell me where I am?” asked Juliette.
“In the house of M. Paul Déroulède—I should have said of Citizen-Deputy Déroulède. He rescued you from the mob, and pacified them. He has such a beautiful voice that he can make anyone listen to him, and—”
“And you are fond of him, mademoiselle?” added Juliette, suddenly feeling a mist of tears rising to her eyes.
“Of course I am fond of him,” rejoined the other girl simply, whilst a look of the most tenderhearted devotion seemed to beautify her pale face. “He and Madame Déroulède have brought me up; I never knew my parents. They have cared for me, and he has taught me all I know.”
“What do they call you, mademoiselle?”
“My name is Anne Mie.”
“And mine, Juliette—Juliette Marny,” she added after a slight hesitation. “I have no parents either. My old
