Therefore what mattered life to him now? She
was lost to him for ever, whether he succeeded in
snatching her from the guillotine or not. He
had but little hope to save her, but he would not owe
his life to her.
Anne Mie, seeing him wrapped in his own thoughts,
had quietly withdrawn. Her own good sense told
her already that Paul Deroulede’s first step
would be to try and get his mother out of danger, and
out of the country, while there was yet time.
So, without waiting for instructions, she began that
same evening to pack up her belongings and those of
Madame Deroulede.
There was no longer any hatred in her heart against
Juliette. Where Paul Deroulede had failed to
understand, there Anne Mie had already made a guess.
She firmly believed that nothing now could save Juliette
from death, and a great feeling of tenderness had crept
into her heart, for the woman whom she had looked
upon as an enemy and a rival.
She too had learnt in those brief days the great lesson
that revenge belongs to God alone.
The Cheval Borgne.
It was close upon midnight.
The place had become suffocatingly hot; the fumes
of rank tobacco, of rancid butter, and or raw spirits
hung like a vapour in mid-air.
The principal room in the “Auberge du Cheval
Borgne” had been used for the past five years
now as the chief meeting-place of the ultra-sansculotte
party of the Republic.
The house itself was squalid and dirty, up one of
those mean streets which, by their narrow way and
shelving buildings, shut out sun, air, and light from
their miserable inhabitants.
The Cheval Borgne was one of the most wretched-looking
dwellings in this street of evil repute. The
plaster was cracked, the walls themselves seemed bulging
outward, preparatory to a final collapse. The
ceilings were low, and supported by beams black with
age and dirt.
At one time it had been celebrated for its vast cellarage,
which had contained some rare old wines. And
in the days of the Grand Monarch young bucks were
wont to quit the gay salons of the ladies, in order
to repair to the Cheval Borgne for a night’s
carouse.
In those days the vast cellarage was witness of many
a dark encounter, of many a mysterious death; could
the slimy walls have told their own tale, it would
have been one which would have put to shame the wildest
chronicles of M. Vidoq.
Now it was no longer so.
Things were done in broad daylight on the Place de
la Revolution: there was no need for dark, mysterious
cellars, in which to accomplish deeds of murder and
of revenge.
Rats and vermin of all sorts worked their way now
in the underground portion of the building. They
ate up each other, and held their orgies in the cellars,
whilst men did the same sort of thing in the rooms
above.
It was a club of Equality and Fraternity. Any
passer-by was at liberty to enter and take part in
the debates, his only qualification for this temporary
membership being an inordinate love for Madame la
Guillotine.
