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Updated: May 5, 2025
Obedient to Madame Deroulede's suggestion, Juliette had tied a tricolour scarf round her waist, and a Phrygian cap of crimson cloth, with the inevitable rosette on one side, adorned her curly head.
No mere suspicion or anonymous denunciation would be sufficient in his case, to bring him before the tribunal of the Revolution. Unless there were proofs positive, irrefutable, damnable proofs of Paul Deroulede's treachery, the Public Prosecutor would never dare to frame an indictment against him.
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 Deroulede's speech was not a defence, it was an appeal.
Your position in our set would become untenable," retorted the Colonel, not unkindly, for in spite of Deroulede's extraordinary attitude, there was nothing in his bearing or his appearance that suggested cowardice or fear. "I bow to your superior knowledge of your friends, M. le Colonel," responded Deroulede, as he silently drew his sword from its sheath.
Feeling that he had gained the ear and approval of the gallery, Lenoir seemed, as it were, to spread himself out, to arrogate to himself the leadership of this band of malcontents, who, disappointed in their lust of Deroulede's downfall, were ready to exult over that of Merlin.
She had been in the habit, daily, for the past month, of wandering down the Rue Ecole de Medecine, ostensibly to gaze at Marat's dwelling, as crowds of idlers were wont to do, but really in order to look at Deroulede's house. Once or twice she saw him coming or going from home.
Honour was satisfied: the parvenu and the scion of the ancient race had crossed swords over the reputation of one of the most dissolute women in France. Deroulede's moderation was a lesson to all the hot-headed young bloods who toyed with their lives, their honour, their reputation as lightly as they did with their lace-edged handkerchiefs and gold snuff-boxes. Already Deroulede had drawn back.
The pent-up rage of the entire mob of Paris seemed to find vent for itself in the howls with which the crowd now tried to drown the rest of the proceedings. As their brutish hearts had been suddenly melted on behalf of Juliette, in response to Deroulede's passionate appeal, so now they swiftly changed their sympathetic attitude to one of horror and execration.
The worthy soldier had heard something of Deroulede's reputed bourgeois ancestry. This suggestion of an apology was no doubt in accordance with the customs of the middle-classes, but the Colonel literally gasped at the unworthiness of the proceeding. An apology? Bah! Disgusting! cowardly! beneath the dignity of any gentleman, however wrong he might be.
Deroulede's arm was round his beloved, her golden hair, fanned by the breeze, brushed lightly against his cheek. "Madonna!" he murmured. She turned her head to him. It was the first time that they were quite alone, the first time that all thought of danger had become a mere dream.
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