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There is no doubt that the little Vicomte's sword-play had become more and more wild: that he uncovered himself in the most reckless way, whilst lunging wildly at his opponent's breast, until at last, in one of these mad, unguarded moments, he seemed literally to throw himself upon Deroulede's weapon.
The news had quickly spread along the streets that Merlin, Merlin himself, the ardent, bloodthirsty Jacobin, had made a descent upon Paul Deroulede'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.
He wanted it to take him and his friends out of Paris, and, by God! he was like to succeed. Juliette's heart within her beat almost to choking; her strong little hand gripped Deroulede's fingers with the wild strength of a mad exultation.
The moment for cool-headed action was at hand. The Scarlet Pimpernel had planned the whole thing, but it was for his followers and for those, whom he was endeavouring to rescue from certain death, to help him heart and soul. Deroulede's grasp tightened on Juliette's little hand. "Are you frightened, my beloved?" he whispered. "Not whilst you are near me," she murmured in reply.
The light from the petrol lamp shone full on Deroulede's earnest, dark countenance as he looked Juliette's infamous accuser full in the face, but the tallow candles, flickering weirdly on the President's desk, threw Tinville's short, spare figure and large, unkempt head into curious grotesque silhouette.
Tall, debonnair, well-dressed, he seemed by his very presence to dissipate the morbid atmosphere which was beginning to weigh upon Deroulede's active mind. Deroulede followed him readily enough through, the intricate mazes of old Paris, and down the Rue des Arts, until Sir Percy stopped outside a small hostelry, the door of which stood wide open.
Deroulede'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.
Little more than a minuted had elapsed since the moment when the first peremptory order, to open in the name of the Republic, had sounded like the tocsin through the stillness of the house. Deroulede's kisses were still hot upon her hand, his words of love were still ringing in her ears. And now this awful, deadly peril, which she with her own hand had brought on the man she loved!
Now, Citizen Merlin failed to furnish us with proofs of Deroulede's guilt. For the moment he is a free man, and I imagine a wise one; within two days he will have quitted this country, well knowing that, if he stayed long enough to see his popularity wane, he would also outstay his welcome on earth altogether." "Ay!
Papa Deroulede!" she says, pointing an attenuated litte finger across at him, and turning eagerly to those around her, her eyes dilating in wishful recollection of a happy afternoon spent in Papa Deroulede's house, with fine white bread to eat in plenty, and great jars of foaming milk.
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