The thick mist, which grew more and more dense, favoured
the new manoeuvre, and the constant roll of drums
drowned the hastily given orders.
The cart was drawn back into the deepest shadow of
the great portico, and whilst the mob were howling
their loudest, and yelling out frantic demands for
the traitors, Deroulede and Juliette were summarily
ordered to step out of the cart. No one saw them,
for the darkness here was intense.
“Follow quietly!” whispered a raucous
voice in their ears as they did so, “or my orders
are to shoot you where you stand.”
But neither of them had any wish for resistance.
Juliette, cold and numb, was clinging to Deroulede,
who had placed a protecting arm round her.
Santerne had told off two of his men to join the new
escort of the prisoners, and presently the small party,
skirting the walls of the Palais de Justice, began
to walk rapidly away from the scene of the riot.
Deroulede noted that some half-dozen men seemed to
be surrounding him and Juliette, but the drizzling
rain blurred every outline. The blackness of
the night too had become absolutely dense, and in the
distance the cries of the populace grew more and more
faint.
The unexpected.
The small party walked on in silence. It seemed
to consist of a very few men of the National Guard,
whom Santerne had placed under the command of the
soldier who had transmitted to him the orders of the
Citizen-Deputies.
Juliette and Deroulede both vaguely wondered whither
they were being led; to some other prison mayhap,
away from the fury of the populace. They were
conscious of a sense of satisfaction at thought of
being freed from that pack of raging wild beasts.
Beyond that they cared nothing. Both felt already
the shadow of death hovering over them. The supreme
moment of their lives had come, and had found them
side by side.
What neither fear nor remorse, sorrow nor joy, could
do, that the great and mighty Shadow accomplished
in a trice.
Juliette, looking death bravely in the face, held
out her hand, and sought that of the man she loved.
There was not one word spoken between them, not even
a murmur.
Deroulede, with the unerring instinct of his own unselfish
passion, understood all that the tiny hand wished
to convey to him.
In a moment everything was forgotten save the joy
of this touch. Death, or the fear of death, had
ceased to exist. Life was beautiful, and in the
soul of these two human creatures there was perfect
peace, almost perfect happiness.
With one grasp of the hand they had sought and found
one another’s soul. What mattered the yelling
crowd, the noise and tumult of this sordid world?
They had found one another, and, hand-in-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder,
they had gone off wandering into the land of dreams,
where dwelt neither doubt nor treachery, where there
was nothing to forgive.
