I Will Repay

but whom she now knew that she loved better than her life, better than her soul, her traditions, or her oath.
Now, at this moment, she made every effort to conjure up the vision of her brother brought home dead upon a stretcher, of her father’s declining years, rendered hideous by the mind unhinged through the great sorrow.
She tried to think of the avenging finger of God pointing the way to the fulfilment of her oath, and called to Him to stand by her in this terrible agony of her soul.
And God spoke to her at last; through the eternal vistas of boundless universe, from that heaven which had known no pity, His voice came to her now, clear, awesome, and implacable:
“Vengeance is mine! I will repay!”


XII
The Sword of Damocles

“In the name of the Republic!”
Absorbed in his thoughts, his dreams, his present happiness, Déroulède had heard nothing of what was going on in the house, during the past few seconds.
At first, to Anne Mie, who was still singing her melancholy ditty over her work in the kitchen, there had seemed nothing unusual in the peremptory ring at the front-door bell. She pulled down her sleeves over her thin arms, smoothed down her cooking apron, then only did she run to see who the visitor might be.
As soon as she had opened the door, however, she understood.
Five men were standing before her, four of whom wore the uniform of the National Guard, and the fifth, the tricolour scarf fringed with gold, which denoted service under the Convention.
This man seemed to be in command of the others, and he immediately stepped into the hall, followed by his four companions, who at a sign from him, effectively cut off Anne Mie from what had been her imminent purpose⁠—namely, to run to the study and warn Déroulède of his danger.
That it was danger of the most certain, the most deadly kind she never doubted for one moment. Even had her instinct not warned her, she would have guessed. One glance at the five men had sufficed to tell her: their attitude, their curt word of command, their air of authority as they crossed the hall⁠—everything revealed the purpose of their visit: a domiciliary search in the house of Citizen-Deputy Déroulède.
Merlin’s Law of the Suspect was in full operation. Someone had denounced the Citizen-Deputy to the Committee of Public Safety; and in this year of grace, 1793, and I of the Revolution, men and women were daily sent to the guillotine on suspicion.
Anne Mie would have screamed, had she dared, but instinct such as hers was far too keen, to betray her into so injudicious an act. She felt that, were Paul Déroulède’s eyes upon her at this moment, he would wish her to remain calm and outwardly serene.
The foremost man⁠—he with the tricolour scarf⁠—had already crossed the hall, and was standing outside the study door. It was his word of command which first roused Déroulède from his dream:
“In the name of the Republic!”
Déroulède did not immediately drop the small hand, which a moment ago he had been covering with kisses. He held it to his lips once more, very gently, lingering over this last fond caress, as if over an eternal farewell, then he straightened out his broad, well-knit figure, and turned to the door.
He was very pale, but there was neither fear nor even surprise expressed in his earnest, deep-set eyes. They still seemed to be looking afar, gazing upon a heaven-born vision, which the touch of her hand and the avowal of his love had conjured up before him.
“In the name of the Republic!”
Once more, for the third time⁠—according to custom⁠—the words rang out, clear, distinct, peremptory.
In that one fraction of a second, whilst those six words were spoken, Déroulède’s eyes wandered swiftly towards the heavy letter-case, which now held his condemnation, and a wild, mad thought⁠—the mere animal desire to escape from danger⁠—surged up in his brain.
The plans for the escape of Marie Antoinette, the various passports, worded in accordance with the possible disguises the unfortunate Queen might assume⁠—all these papers were more than sufficient proof of what would be termed his treason against the Republic.
He could already hear the indictment against him, could see the filthy mob of Paris dancing a wild saraband round the tumbril, which bore him towards the guillotine; he could hear their yells of execration, could feel the insults hurled against him, by those who had most admired, most envied him. And from all this he would have escaped if he could, if it had not been too late.
It was but a second, or less, whilst the words were spoken outside his door, and whilst all other thoughts in him were absorbed in this one mad desire for escape. He even made a movement, as if to snatch up the letter-case and to hide it about his person. But it was heavy and bulky; it would be sure to attract attention, and might bring upon him the additional indignity of being forced to submit to a personal search.
He caught Juliette’s eyes fixed upon him with an intensity of gaze which, in that same one mad moment, revealed to him the depths of her love. Then the second’s weakness was gone; he was once more quiet, firm, the man of action, accustomed to meet danger boldly, to rule and to subdue the most turgid mob.
With a quiet shrug of the shoulders, he dismissed all thought of the compromising letter-case, and went to the door.
Already, as no reply had come to the third word of command, it had been thrown open from outside, and Déroulède found himself face to face with the five men.
“Citizen Merlin!” he said quietly, as he recognised the foremost among them.
“Himself, Citizen-Deputy,” rejoined the latter, with a sneer, “at your service.”
Anne Mie, in a remote corner of the hall, had heard the name, and felt her very soul sicken at its sound.
Merlin! Author of that infamous Law