Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 2

Chapter IV

Chapter IVHalf an hour later the Republicans, having fruitlessly searched throughout the house, were busying themselves on the floor above, terrifying almost beyond their wits the two Auvergnat servants, an occupation that seemed to afford them considerable amusement, for loud laughter was heard from time to time from that quarter.

Deroulède had been allowed to remain with his mother, guarded by two of the men, who watched his every movement, and listened to every word he said. The old lady sat rigid in her upright chair. There was a curious look in her wide-open eyes, fixed, and staring straight in front of her. It was a look more of suspicion than anxiety, more of wrath than of terror. Her son held her wrinkled hand in his, and was trying with soft, endearing words to soothe and reassure her.

The soft sound of a rustling gown made them both start. It was Juliette, pale still —from the emotions, no doubt, of the last half hour. Deroulède dared not ask her any questions. The men were there, close to him, ever watchful. He tried to read in her face, but it was almost sphinx-like in its impenetrability.

Mme. Deroulède had not turned toward the young girl; she still sat quite rigid, idly toying with a scrap of paper she held in her wrinkled old hands.

“My son,” she said suddenly, quite loudly, so that the men at the door might hear if they chose, “have you any idea as to who the dastardly, nameless accuser is, who has dared to frame the calumny that the Citizen-Deputy Deroulède is a traitor?”

The young man, wondering what his mother might possibly mean, did not answer; he had looked at Juliette and thought how pale she appeared, and his heart ached to see that wild, scared look in her eyes.

“Citizen Marat, from whom I vainly tried to obtain certainty on the subject,” continued the old lady in the same hard and dry voice, “could not himself tell me, but he had in his hand this letter, the anonymous denunciation that reached the Committee this evening, and he thought that perhaps I might know the handwriting, and——”

“Juliette, for God's sake, what is the matter?” here interrupted Deroulède, unable to understand, not daring to trust to his senses, as Juliette with a wild cry had thrown herself between mother and son, and seizing the letter from the old lady's hand began tearing it into shreds with the nervous gestures of one half-demented, while her trembling lips framed the half-incoherent words: “No! no!—you shall not read—not yet—Citizen Deroulède —not yet—wait—a little while longer—wait——”

And her haggard face, her appealing look turned upward toward Deroulède, spoke with pitiable clearness of her guilt and of her treachery.

“Fool!” laughed the old lady, shrugging her shoulders and looking contemptuously at the young, girlish form, so pathetic in its helpless confession of guilt. “Look at her, my son, as she stands self-accused, the vilest thing on earth, a snake in the grass, whom we both have loved and nurtured; aye, self-accused, for, fool that she is, that empty paper bore no witness against her till her own conscience changed it into a damning proof of her guilt.”

Deroulède had stood all this while as if paralyzed. His mind seemed unable to grasp the hideous truth that would force itself into his aching brain, and instinctively he shut his eves, that they at least might not see this fearful vision of the terrible downfall of one of God's purest angels.

Thus a few minutes sped rapidly by. Mme. Deroulède had sunk back exhausted in her arm-chair, and naught was heard now save the low mocking comments made by the men, who had looked on without interfering at the curious scene which had been enacted before them.

It was almost a relief to Deroulède to hear Marat and his companions once more descending the stairs, and the terrorist's sarcastic laugh and coarse jests, when the men told him of the short drama they had just witnessed, seemed even more endurable than the sight of this girl whom he had so deeply loved, and who had waited all these days to repay him—thus.

“Citizen-Deputy,” said Marat, “we are all glad to say that we have found nothing in your house that in any way can place your loyalty to the Republic in doubt. At the same time, it is my duty to ask you to follow me to-night, for there are several questions the Committee of Public Safety will desire to ask you to-morrow. They can but lead to your more complete justification.”

Deroulède, as if in a dream, prepared to follow the men. What cared he what happened to him now, since the one idea of his life, his faith, his hope, his love had been so completely shattered? Forgotten were his plans, his friends, the unhappy royal prisoner in the Conciergerie. All had vanished before this picture of the fallen angel at his feet. He kissed his mother, bidding her good-by, not heeding the old lady's sorrowful agony and terror for her only son, and forcing himself not to look once more at the young face he had so dearly loved, he walked out of the room escorted by two of Marat's men.

His footsteps, and those of his escort, were heard echoing down the staircase. Then the hall door was heard to open and to shut with a loud bang. Mine. Deroulède had at last given way to tears, and sat in her great arm-chair, weeping piteously. Marat's eyes were fixed with a mixture of sarcasm and contempt on Juliette, who had recovered her self-possession, and stood erect, calmly awaiting the final dénouement of the drama she had written with her own hand.

Two of the men, who on Deroulède’s departure had withdrawn, after a whispered order from their chief, now returned. One of them carried the casket containing the fateful papers; these he placed on the table close to Juliette.

“You recognize this casket?” asked Marat, pointing to it, and speaking to the young girl, who nodded in reply.

“I suppose you know where it was found?”

“Yes,” she answered quietly.

“Hidden underneath your mattress. What have you to say?”

“I will answer when I am on my trial,” she said mechanically.

“You acknowledge, then, that they are yours?”

“Yes,” she again asserted, this time defiantly.

“Then your denunciation of Citizen-Deputy Deroulède ——“

“Was a lie to screen myself.”

She spoke quietly now, without hesitation.

Mme. Deroulède gazed at the young girl, trying to understand the enigma that her feeble brain still refused to grasp.

Marat cared little for enigmas. He had not wasted his evening. Here was a most interesting capture, a delightful victim, such as he and his followers loved to see on the tumbrils; a head refined, sweet, aristocratic, such as they loved to see falling under the guillotine.

She was quite prepared to follow the men, prepared to leave this house whose hospitality she had so cruelly betrayed, for that dark, crowded prison at the Conciergerie, from which there was but one exit—the one that led to the guillotine.

But before going she seemed to hesitate a moment, and looked appealingly at Mme. Deroulède. The old lady made no sign, only sitting with her hands clasped, her face averted.

The girl turned to Marat.

“May I—may I speak one word to her? Only a last message. I understand quite well that it is the last time I shall see her.”

Marat paused, then he nodded assent. She went up to madame, and whispering so low that even Marat's inimical ears could not hear:

“Will you tell him—presently—when it is all over—in about two days—that when I sinned so deeply against him—I did not guess—what he told me to-night —did not know—did not realize. My name is Marny—and he killed my brother —he will remember. I thought only of vengeance—while he dreamt of love. But to-night I understood him—I learnt to know myself—and—tell him—madame, that it was Juliette who saved him—by giving her life for his—but remember—only afterward—promise.”

And with a firm, quiet step she followed Marat and his men out of the room.