He had brought Petronelle 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 draw 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.
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 Deroulede 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 Deroulede
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 Deroulede seemed to know nothing of the circumstances
of that duel. Deroulede 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.
