When Déroulède came back, he brought an atmosphere of breezy cheerfulness with him.
The street was quiet now, and when walking past the hospital—his own gift to the Nation—he had been loudly cheered. One or two ironical voices had asked him what he had done with the aristo and her lace furbelows, but it remained at that and Mademoiselle Marny need have no fear.
He had brought Pétronelle along with him: his careless, lavish hospitality would have suggested the housing of Juliette’s entire domestic establishment, had she possessed one.
As it was, the worthy old soul’s deluge of happy tears had melted his kindly heart. He offered her and her young mistress shelter, until the small cloud should have rolled by.
After that he suggested a journey to England. Emigration now was the only real safety, and Mademoiselle Marny had unpleasantly drawn on herself the attention of the Paris rabble. No doubt, within the next few days her name would figure among the “suspect.” She would be safest out of the country, and could not do better than place herself under the guidance of that English enthusiast, who had helped so many persecuted Frenchmen to escape from the terrors of the Revolution: the man who was such a thorn in the flesh of the Committee of Public Safety, and who went by the nickname of The Scarlet Pimpernel.
IV
The Faithful House-Dog
After supper they talked of Charlotte Corday.
Juliette clung to the vision of that heroine, and liked to talk of her. She appeared as a justification of her own actions, which somehow seemed to require justification.
She loved to hear Paul Déroulède talk; liked to provoke his enthusiasm and to see his stern, dark face light up with the inward fire of the enthusiast.
She had openly avowed herself as the daughter of the Duc de Marny. When she actually named her father, and her brother killed in duel, she saw Déroulède looking long and searchingly at her. Evidently he wondered if she knew everything: but she returned his gaze fearlessly and frankly, and he apparently was satisfied.
Madame Déroulède seemed to know nothing of the circumstances of that duel. Déroulède tried to draw Juliette out, to make her speak of her brother. She replied to his questions quite openly, but there was nothing in what she said, suggestive of the fact that she knew who killed her brother.
She wanted him to know who she was. If he feared an enemy in her, there was yet time enough for him to close his doors against her.
But less than a minute later, he had renewed his warmest offers of hospitality.
“Until we can arrange for your journey to England,” he added with a short sigh, as if reluctant to part from her.
To Juliette his attitude seemed one of complete indifference for the wrong he had done to her and to her father: feeling that she was an avenging spirit, with flaming sword in hand, pursuing her brother’s murderer like a relentless Nemesis, she would have preferred to see him cowed before her, even afraid of her, though she was only a young and delicate girl.
She did not understand that in the simplicity of his heart, he only wished to make amends. The quarrel with the young Vicomte de Marny had been forced upon him, the fight had been honourable and fair, and on his side fought with every desire to spare the young man. He had merely been the instrument of Fate, but he felt happy that Fate once more used him as her tool, this time to save the sister.
Whilst Déroulède and Juliette talked together Anne Mie cleared the supper-table, then came and sat on a low stool at madame’s feet. She took no part in the conversation, but every now and then Juliette felt the girl’s melancholy eyes fixed almost reproachfully upon her.
When Juliette had retired with Pétronelle, Déroulède took Anne Mie’s hand in his.
“You will be kind to my guest, Anne Mie, won’t you? She seems very lonely, and has gone through a great deal.”
“Not more than I have,” murmured the young girl involuntarily.
“You are not happy, Anne Mie? I thought—”
“Is a wretched, deformed creature ever happy?” she said with sudden vehemence, as tears of mortification rushed to her eyes, in spite of herself.
“I did not think that you were wretched,” he replied with some sadness, “and neither in my eyes, nor in my mother’s, are you in any way deformed.”
Her mood changed at once. She clung to him, pressing his hand between her own.
“Forgive me! I—I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight,” she said with a nervous little laugh. “Let me see, you asked me to be kind to Mademoiselle Marny, did you not?”
He nodded with a smile.
“Of course I’ll be kind to her. Isn’t everyone kind to one who is young and beautiful, and has great, appealing eyes, and soft, curly hair? Ah me! how easy is the path in life for some people! What do you want me to do, Paul? Wait on her? Be her little maid? Soothe her nerves or what? I’ll do it all, though in her eyes I shall remain both wretched and deformed, a creature to pity, the harmless, necessary house-dog—”
She paused a moment: said “Good night” to him, and turned to go, candle in hand, looking pathetic and fragile, with that ugly contour of shoulder, which Déroulède assured her he could not see.
The candle flickered in
