And she wished to see no one. She had a memory
to dwell on—a short, heavenly memory.
It consisted of a few words, a kiss—the
last one— on her hand, and that passionate
murmur which had escaped from his lips when he knelt
at her feet:
Citizen-Deputy Deroulede had been privately interviewed
by the
Committee of Public Safety, and temporarily allowed
to go free.
The brief proceedings had been quite private, the
people of Paris were not to know as yet that their
favourite was under a cloud. When he had answered
all the question put to him, and Merlin—just
returned from his errand at the Luxembourg Prison—had
given his version of the domiciliary visitation in
the Citizen-Deputy’s house, the latter was briefly
told that for the moment the Republic had no grievance
against him.
But he knew quite well what that meant. He would
be henceforth under suspicion, watched incessantly,
as a mouse is by the cat, and pounced upon, the moment
time would be considered propitious for his final
downfall.
The inevitable waning of his popularity would be noted
by keen, jealous eyes; and Deroulede, with his sure
knowledge of mankind and of character, knew well enough
that his popularity was bound to wane sooner or later,
as all such ephemeral things do.
In the meanwhile, during the short respite which his
enemies would leave him, his one thought and duty
would be to get his mother and Anne Mie safely out
of the country.
He thought of her, and wondered what had happened.
As he walked swiftly across the narrow footbridge,
and reached the other side of the river, the events
of the past few hours rushed upon his memory with
terrible, overwhelming force.
A bitter ache filled his heart at the remembrance
of her treachery. The baseness of it all was
so appalling. He tried to think if he had ever
wronged her; wondered if perhaps she loved someone
else, and wished him out of her way.
But, then, he had been so humble, so unassuming in
his love. He had arrogated nothing unto himself,
asked for nothing, demanded nothing in virtue of his
protecting powers over her.
He was torturing himself with this awful wonderment
of why she had treated him thus.
Out of revenge for her brother’s death—that
was the only explanation he could find, the only palliation
for her crime.
He knew nothing of her oath to her father, and, of
course, had never heard of the sad history of this
young, sensitive girl placed in one terrible moment
between her dead brother and her demented father.
He only thought of common, sordid revenge for a sin
he had been practically forced to commit.
And how he had loved her!
Yes, loved—for that was in the past
now.
She had ceased to be a saint or a madonna; she had
fallen from her pedestal so low that he could not
find the way to descend and grope after the fragments
of his ideal.
