CHAPTER XIX, COMPLEXITIES Citizen deputy David Laid 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 questions put to him, and Merlene just returned from his errand at the Luxembourg prison, had given his version of the domed ciliary 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 day-relayed, with his sheer 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 meantime, during the short respite which his enemies would leave him, his one thought in duty would be to get his mother and Anne-Miais safely out of the country. And also, 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 basis 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 irrigated 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 paliation 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. At his own door he was met by Anne-Mierre in tears. She has gone, remembered the young girl, and feel as if I had murdered her. Gone? Who? Where? Query Dayer laid rapidly, an icy feeling of terror gripping him by the hard strings. Juliet has gone, replied Anne-Mierre. Those awful brutes took her away. When? Directly after you left. That man Merlene found some ashes and scraps of paper in her room. Ashes? Yes, in a torn letter case. Great God! She said that they were love letters which she had been burning for fear you should see them. She said so. Anne-Mierre, Anne-Mierre, are you quite sure? It was also horrible, and yet he did not quite understand it all. His brain, which was usually so keen and so active, refused him service at this terrible juncture. Yes, I am quite sure, continued Anne-Mierre in the midst of her tears, and, oh, that awful Merlene said some dastardly things, but she persisted in her story that she had another lover. Oh, Paul, I am sure is not true. I hated her because you loved her so, and I mistrusted her, but I cannot believe that she was quite as base as that. No, no child, he said, in a toneless, miserable voice. She was not so base as that. Tell me more of what she said. She said very little else, but Merlene asked her whether she had denounced you as to get you out of the way. He hinted that, that I was her lover, too. Yes, murmured Anne-Mierre. She hardly liked to look at him. The strong face had become hard and set in its misery. And she allowed them to say all this. He asked at last. Yes, and she followed them without a murmur, and Merlene said she would have to answer before the promenade of public safety, for having fooled the representatives of the people. She'll answer for it with her life, murmured they were laid, and with mine, he added half audibly. Anne-Mierre did not hear him.  Before they took her away, she said, placing her thin, delicate-looking hands on his arm. I ran to her and bait her farewell. The soldiers pushed me roughly aside, but I contrived to kiss her. And then she whispered a few words to me. Yes, what were they? It was an oath, she said. I swore to my father and to my dead brother. Tell him, repeated Anne-Mierre slowly, an oath. Now he understood, and oh, how he pitied her. How terribly she must have suffered in her poor, harassed soul when her noble, upright nature fought against this hideous treachery. That she was true and brave in herself, of that day relayed had no doubt. And now this awful sin upon her conscience, which must be causing her endless misery. And alas, the atonement would never free her from the load of self-condemnation. She had elected to pay with her life for her treason against him and his family. She would be arraigned before a tribunal, which would inevitably condemn her. Oh, the pity of it all. One moment's passionate emotion, a lifelong superstition and mistaken sense of duty, an Alice in this misery, this terrible atonement of a wrong that could never be undone. And she had never loved him. That was the true, the only sting he knew now. It wrinkled more than her sin, more than her falsehood, more than the shattering of his ideal. With a passionate desire for his safety, she had sacrificed herself in order to atone for the material evil which she had done. But there was the wreck of his hopes and of his dreams. Never, until now, when he had irretrievably lost her, the day relayed realized how great had been his hopes, how he had watched, day after day, for a look in her eyes, a word from her lips to show him that she too, his unattainable saint, would one day come to earth and respond to his love. Now and then, when her beautiful face lighted up at the side of him, when she smiled a greeting to him on his return from his work, when she looked with pride and admiration on him from the public bench in the assemblies of the convention, there he had begun to hope, to think, to dream.  She did not love him of that he felt convinced. Manlike he did not understand to the fool that great and wonderful enigma which has puzzled the world since primal times, a woman's heart. The eternal contradictions which go to make up the complex nature of an emotional woman were quite incomprehensible to him. Juliet had betrayed him to serve her own sense of what was just and right, her revenge and her oath. Therefore she did not love him. It was logic, sound, common sense, and, aided by his own diffidence where women were concerned, it seemed to him irrefutable. To a man like Paul Day relayed, a man a thought of purpose and of action, the idea of being false to the thing loved, of hate and love being interchangeable, was absolutely foreign and unbelievable. He had never hated the thing he loved, or loved the thing he hated. A man's feelings in these respects were so much less complex, so much less contradictory. Would a man betray his friend? No, never. He might betray his enemy, the creature he abhorred, whose downfall would cause him joy, but his friend, the very ideal, was repugnant and possible to an upright nature. Juliet's ultimate access of junior honesty in trying to save him, when she was at last brought face to face with the terrible wrong which she had committed, that he put down to one of those noble impulses of which he knew her soul to be fully capable, and even then his own diffidence suggested that she did it more for the sake of his mother, or for Anne-Mierre rather than for him. 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-Mierre, seeing him wrapped in his own thoughts, had quietly withdrawn. Her own good sense told her already that Paul Dayrelaid'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 Dayrelaid. There was no longer any hatred in her heart against Juliet. Where Paul Dayrelaid had failed to understand, there Anne-Mierre had already made a guess. She firmly believed that nothing now could save Juliet 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 arrival. She too had learnt, in those brief days, the great lesson that revenge belongs to God alone. CHAPTER XX. THE CHIVALBORNE. It was close upon midnight. The place had become suffocatingly hot. The fumes of ranked tobacco, of rancid butter, and or raw spirits hung like a vapor in mid-air. The principal room in the Oburg du Chivalre Bourne had been used for the past five years now as the chief meeting-place of the Ultrasansquillo Party of the Republic.  The Chivalre Bourne was one of the most wretched-looking dwellings in the 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 wanting to quit the gay salons of the ladies in order to repair it to the Chivalre Bourne for a night's carousel. 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 amongst here of a doke. 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 sort 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 pastor 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 Le Guillotine. It was from the sordid rooms of the Chivalre Bourne that most of the denunciations had gone forth which led but to the one inevitable ending, death. They sat in conclave here, some to score or so at first, the rabid patriots of this poor, downtrodden France. They talked of liberty mostly, with many oaths and curses against the tyrants, and then started a tyranny, anocracy, ten thousand times more awful than any wielded by the disloot bourbons. And this was the temple of liberty, this dark, damp, evil smelling brothel, with its narrow, cracked window-panes, which let in but an infinitismal fraction of air, and that of the foulest, most unwholesome kind. The floor was of planks roughly put together. Now they were worm-eaten, bare, safe for a thick carpet of greasy dust, which deadened the sound of booted feet. The place only boasted a couple of chairs, both of which had to be propped against the wall as they should break and bring the sitter down upon the floor. Otherwise a number of empty wine-barrels did duty for seats and rough-deal boards on broken trestles for tables. There had once been a paper on the walls. Now it hung down in strips, showing the cracked plaster beneath. The whole place had a tone of yellowish gray grime all over it, save wear, in the center of the room, on a rough double post shaped like a guillotine, a scarlet cap of liberty gave a note of lurid color to the dismal surroundings. On the walls here and there, the eternal device, so sublime in conception, so sordid in execution, recalled the aims of the so-called club, liberté, fraternité, egalité, si non la more. Below the device, in one or two corners of the room, the wall was further adorned with rough charcoal sketches, mostly of an obscene character, the work of one of the members of the club, who had chosen this means of degrading his art. Tonight the assembly had been reduced to less than a score. Even according to the dictates of these apostles of fraternité, la guillotine goes on always. She had become the most potent factor in the machinery of government of this great revolution, and she had been daily, almost hourly, fed through the activity of this nameless club, which held its weird and awesome sittings in the dank coffee room of the chivalbornia. The number of the active members had been reduced. Like the rats and the cellars below, they had done away with one another, swallowed one another up, torn each other to pieces in this wild rage for a utopian fraternity. Marat, founder of the organization, had been murdered by girls' hands, but Caron, Manuel, Ausseline, had gone the usual way, denounced by their colleagues. Rabot, Custin, Besson, who in their turn were sent to the guillotine by those more powerful, perhaps more eloquent than themselves. It was merely a case of who could shout the loudest at an assembly of the national convention. La guillotine va toujours. After the dead of Marat, Merlin became the most prominent member of the club. He and Fuqua Tenville, his bosom friend, public prosecutor, and the most bloodthirsty homicide of this homicidal age, bosom friend both, yet they worked one against another, undermining each other's popularity, whispering persistently one against the other, he is a traitor. It had become just a neck-to-neck race between them towards the inevitable goal, the guillotine. Fuqua Tenville is the ascendant for the moment. Merlin had been given a task which he had failed to accomplish. For days now, weeks even, the debates of this noble assembly had been chiefly concerned with the downfall of Cissan deputy Dair Laid. His popularity, his calm security in the midst of his reign of terror and anarchy, had been a terrible thorn in the flesh of these rabid Jacobins. And now the climax had been reached. An anonymous denunciation enrails the hopes of these sanguinary patriots. It all sounded perfectly plausible. To try and save that traitor, Marie Antoinette, the widow of Louis Capet, was just the sort of scheme that would originate in the brain of Paul de Dair Laid. He had always been at heart an aristocrat, and the feelings of chivalry for a persecuted woman was only the outward signs of his secret adherence to the hated class. Merlin had been sent to search the deputy's house for proofs of the latter's guilt. And Merlin had come back empty-handed. The arrest of a female aristocrat, the probable mistress of Dair Laid, who obviously had denounced him, was but small compensation for the failure of the more important capture. As soon as Merlin joined his friends in the low, ill-lit, evil smelling room, he realized at once that there was a feeling of hostility against him. Tanville, enthroned on one of the few chairs of which the chivalrenia could boast, was surrounded by a group of surly adherents. On the rough trestles, a number of glasses, half filled with raw potato spirit, gave the keynote to the temper of the assembly. All those present were dressed in the black shag dispenser, the seedy black breeches, and down-it-heeled boots, which had become recognized as the distinctive uniform of the sanskiloe party. The inevitable friggin cap, with his tricolor caucade, appeared on the heads of all those present in various stages of dirt and decay. Tanville had chosen to assume a sarcastic tone with regard to his well-emboosened friend Merlin. Leaning both elbows on the table, he was picking his teeth with a steel fork. And then the intervals of his interesting operation gave forth his views on the broad principles of patriotism. Those who set round him felt that his star was in the ascendant and assumed the position of satellites. Merlin, as he entered, had grunted a sullen, good eve, and set himself down a remote corner of the room. His greeting had been responded to with a few jeers and a good many dark, threatening looks. Tanville himself had bowed to him with mock sarcasm and an unpleasant leer. One of the patriots, a huge fellow, almost a giant, with heavy, coarse fists, and broad shoulders that obviously suggested coal-heaving, had, after a few satirical observations, dragged one of the empty wine-barrels to Merlin's table and sat down opposite him.  "'Citizen Deputy Merlin will arrest you instead of Deputy Dere-laid, whom he is allowed to slip through his fingers.' "'Nay, I've no fear,' replied Lenoir with an oaf. "'Citizen Merlin is too much of an iristo to hurt anyone. His hands are too clean. He does not care to do the dirty work of the Republic. Isn't that so, Monsieur Merlin?' added the giant with a mock bow, and emphasizing the appellation which had fallen into completeness use in these days of equality. "'My patriotism is too well-known,' said Merlin roughly, to fear any attacks from jealous enemies. And as for my search in the Citizen Dere-laid's house this afternoon, I was told to find proofs against him, and I found none. Then why, expectorated it on the floor, crossed his dark carry arms over the table and said quietly, real patriotism, as the true Jacobin understands it, makes the proofs at once and leaves nothing to chance. A course of horse-mirmers of Viva la Liberté greeted this hurong of the burly coal-heaver. Feeling that he had gained the ear and approval of the gallery, Lenoir seemed, as it were, to spread himself out, to irrigate to himself the leadership of this band of malcontents, who, disappointed in their lust of they were Laid's downfall, were ready to exalt over that of Merlin. You were a fool, Citizen Merlin, said Lenoir with slow significance, not to see that the woman was playing her own game. Merlin had become livid under the grime on his face.  His own laws, his own theories, now stood in bloody array against him. Was it not he who had framed the indictments against General Kustin for having failed to subdue the cities of the south, against General Westerman, and Brunet, and Boharney, for having failed and failed and failed? And now it was his turn. These bloodthirsty jackals had been cheated of their prey, they would tear him to pieces in compensation of their loss. How could I tell, he murmured roughly, the woman had denounced him. A chorus of angry derision greeted this feeble attempt at defense.  It is evident, however, that it is quite one thing to frame a law, and quite another to obey it. What could I have done? Hawke got the innocent, rejoined Lenoir with his ear. What could he have done? Patriots, friends, brothers, I ask you, what could he have done? Giant had pushed the wine-cask aside. He rolled away from under him, and in the fullness of his contempt for Merlin and his impotence, he stood up before them all. Strong in his indictment against treasonable incapacity. I ask you, he repeated with the loud oath, what any patriot would do, what you or I would have done, in the house of a man whom we all know is a traitor to the Republic? Brothers, friends, citizen deputy Merlin found a heap of burned paper in a grate. He found a letter case which had obviously contained important documents, and he asks us what he could do. Day-relate is too important a man to be tried without proofs. The whole mob of Paris would have turned on us for having arraigned him, for having dare lay hands upon his sacred person. Without proofs. Who said there were no proofs? queried Lenoir. I found the burnt papers and torn letter case in the woman's room. She owned that they were love letters, and that she had denounced day-relate in order to be rid of him. Didn't let me tell you, citizen deputy Merlin, that a true patriot would have found those papers in day-relates, and not the woman's room, that in the hands of a faithful servant of the Republic, those documents would not at all have been destroyed, for he would have found one letter addressed to the widow capet, which would have proved conclusively that citizen deputy day-relate was a traitor.  Part D. Since day-relate is so important a person is, since we must all put on kid-gloves when we lay hands upon him, then let us fight him with other weapons. Are we aristocrats that we should hesitate to play the part of jackal to this cunning fox?  Nay, let me tell you, friends, that the Republic has no use for cause, and calls him a traitor who allows one of her enemies to remain inviolate through his cowardice, his terror of that intangible and fleeting shadow, the wrath of a Paris mob. Which had been delivered with accompaniment of violent gesture, and a wealth of obscene epithets, quite beyond the power of the mere chronicler to render. Lenoy had a harsh, strident voice, very high-pitched, and he spoke with a broad, provincial accent, somewhat difficult to locate, quite unlike the horse-guttural tones of the low class Parisian. His enthusiasm made him seem oppressive. He looked, in his ragged, dust-dane clothes, the very personification of the squalid herd which had driven culture, art, refinement to the scaffold in order to make way for sordid vice, and satisfied lusts of hate. CHAPTER XXI A jack-of-an-orator Tenville alone had remained silent during Lenoy's impassioned speech. It seemed to be his turn now to become surly. He sat picking his teeth and staring moodily at the enthusiastic orator, who had so obviously diverted popular feeling in his own direction, and Tenville broke popularity only for himself. It is easy to talk now, citizen—Lenois, is that your name? Will you a competitive stranger here, citizen Lenoy, and have not yet proved to the Republic that you can do alt-else but talk? If somebody did not talk, citizen Tenville, is that your name? rejoined Lenoy with a sneer. If somebody did not talk, nothing would get done.  And I must say I am with you there, but— Pardee, tell us your but, citizen—said Tenville, for the coal-heaver had paused, as if trying to collect his thoughts. He had dragged a wine-barrel close to the trestle-table, and now set astride upon it, facing Tenville and the group of jack-of-an-orators. The flickering tallow-candle behind him threw into bold silhouette his square, massive head, ground with its frigid cap, and the great breadth of his shoulders, with the shabby knitted spencer and low, turned-down collar. He had long, thin hands which were covered with successive coats of coal dust, and with these he constantly made weird gestures, as if in the act of gripping some live thing by the throat. We all know that the deputy day-relate is a treachery, he said, addressing the company in general. We do, came the uniform ascent from all those present. Then let us put it to the vote. The eyes mean death, the nose—freedom. Ai-ai, came from every horse, parched throat, and twelve gaunt-hand were lifted up demanding death for the citizen-deputy day-relate. The eyes haven't, said Loon-Walk Wiley. Now all we need to do is decide how best to carry out our purpose. Merlene, very agreeably surprised, as he public attention thus diverted from his own misdeeds, had gradually lost his surly attitude. He too dragged one of the wine-barrels, which did duty for chairs, close to the trestle-table, and thus the members of the nameless Jacobin Club made it a compact group, picturesque in its weird horror, its uncompromising flaunting ugliness. I suppose, said Tenville, who was lost to give up his position as leader of these extremists. I suppose, citizen Loon-Walk, that you are in position to furnish me with proofs of the citizen-deputy's guilt. If I furnish you with such proof, citizen Tenville, retorted the other, will you, as public prosecutor, carry in the indictment through? It is my duty to publicly accuse those who are traitors to the republic. Undue, citizen Merlene, queried Loon-Walk, will you help the republic to the best of your ability to be rid of a traitor? My services to the cause of our great revolution are too well known, began Merlene, but Loon-Walk interrupted him with impatience. Party! But we'll have no rhetoric now, citizen Merlene. We all know that you have blundered, and that the republic cares little for those of the her-sons who have failed. But whilst you are still minister of justice, the people of France have need of you for bringing other traitors to the guillotine. He spoke the last phrase slowly and significantly, lingering on the word other, as if he wished it's a whole awesome meaning to penetrate well into Merlene's brain. What's as your advice then, citizen Loon-Walk? Apparently, by unanimous consent, the coal-heaver from some obscure province of France had been tacitly acknowledged the leader of the band. Merlene, still in terror for himself, looked to him for advice. Even Tenville was ready to be guided by him. All were at once in their desire to rid themselves of day relayed, who by his clean living, his aloofness from their own hideous orgies and deadly hate, seemed a living reproach to them all, and they all felt that in Loon-Walk there must exist some secret dislike of the popular citizen deputy, which would give him a clear insight of how best to bring about his downfall.  We are all agreed, commenced Loon-Walk wily, that just at this moment it would be unwise to arraign the citizen deputy without material proof. The mob of Paris worshipped him, and would turn against those who had tried to do throne their idol. Now Citizen Merlene failed to furnish us with proofs of day-relay's guilt. For the moment he is a free man, and I imagine a wise one. Within two days he will have quitted this country. Well knowing that, if he stayed long enough to see his popularity wane, he would also outstay his welcome on earth altogether. Aye aye, said some of the men approvingly, whilst others laughed horsely at the weird jest. I propose, therefore, continued Loon-Walk after a slight pause, that it shall be Citizen Deputy Day-Relate himself who shall furnish to the people of France proofs of his own treason against the Republic. But how? But how? Rapid, loud, and excited queries read this extraordinary suggestion from the provincial giant. By the simplest means imaginable, retorted Loon-Walk with imperturbable calm, isn't there a good proverb which our grandmothers used to quote, that if you only give a man a sufficient length of rope, he is sure to hang himself. We'll give our aristocratic Citizen Deputy plenty of rope, I'll warrant, if only our present minister of justice," he added, indicating Merlene, will help us in the little comedy which I propose that we should play. Yes, yes, go on, said Merlene excitedly. The woman who denounced they were laid. That is our trump card, continued Loon-Walk, now waxing enthusiastic with his own scheme and his own eloquence.  Why? Not, as Citizen Merlene supposed, because he had discarded her. No, no, she had another lover, she has admitted that. She wished to be rid of Day-Relate and make way for the other, because he was too persistent, ergo, because he loved her. Well, and what does that prove, hurried Tenville with dry sarcasm? It proves that Day-Relate, being in love with the woman, would do much to save her from the guillotine. Of course. Partee, let him try, say I, rejoin Loon-Walk placidly, give him the rope with which to hang himself. What does he mean? Asked one or two of the men, whose dull brains had not quite as yet grasped the full meaning of this monstrous scheme. You don't understand what I mean, Citizens. You think I am mad, or drunk, or traitor like Day-Relate? I'd be in. Give me your attention five minutes longer, and you shall see. Let me suppose that we have reached the moment when the woman, what is her name—oh, yes, Juliet Marnie, stands in the Hall of Justice on her trial before the Committee of Public Safety. Citizen Fouquois Tenville, one of her greatest patriots, reads the indictment against her. Paper surreptitiously burnt, the torn, mysterious letter-case found in her room. But these are presumed in the indictment, to be treasonable correspondence with the enemies of the Republic. Comden Nation follows at once then the guillotine. There's no defense, no respite. The Minister of Justice, according to Article IX of the law framed by himself, allows no advocate to those directly accused of treason, but continued the giant with slow and calm and impressiveness. In the case of ordinary civil indictments, offenses against public morality, or matters pertaining to the penal code, the Minister of Justice allows the accused to be publicly defended. Place Juliet Marnie in the dock on a treasonable charge. She will be hustled out of the court in a few minutes, amongst a batch of other traitors. Drag back to her own prison, and executed in the early dawn, before day-relate has had time to frame a plan for her safety or defense. If then he tries to move heaven and earth to rescue the woman he loves. The mob of Paris may, who knows, take his part warmly. They are mad where day-relate is concerned, and we all know that two devoted lovers, have Eiref, now found favor with the people of France. A curious remnant of sentimentalism, I suppose, and the popular citizen deputy knows better than anyone else on earth how to play upon the sentimental feelings of the populace. Now in the case of a penal offense, mark where the difference would be. The woman Juliet Marnie, a reign for wantonness, for an offense against public morals. The Burt correspondence admitted to be the letters of a lover. Her hatred for day-relate suggesting the false denunciation. Then the minister of justice allows an advocate to defend her. She has none in court, but thank you day-relate would not step forward and bring all the fervor of his eloquence to bear in favor of his mistress. Can you hear his impassioned speech on her behalf? I can. The rope. I tell you, citizens, with which he'll hang himself. Will he admit in open court that the Burt correspondence was another lover's letters? No, a thousand times no. And in the face of his emphatic denial of the existence of another lover for Juliet, it will be for her clever public prosecutor to bring him down to an admission that the correspondence was his, that it was reasonable, that she burnt them to save him. He paused, exhausted at last, mopping his forehead, then drinking large gulps of brandy to ease his parched throat. A veritable chorus of enthusiasm greeted the end of this long peroration. The Machiavellian scheme, almost devilish in its cunning, in its subtle knowledge of human nature and of the heartstrings of a noble organization like they were lades, commended itself to these patriots who were thirsting for the downfall of a superior enemy. Even Tenville lost his attitude of dry sarcasm. His thin cheeks were glowing with the lust of the fight. Already for the past few months, the trials before the Committee of Public Safety had been dull, monotonous, uninteresting. Charlotte Corday had been a happy diversion, but otherwise it had been the case of various deputies, who had held views that had become too moderate, or of the generals who had failed to subdue the towns or provinces of the South. But now this trial on the morrow, the excitement of it all, the trap laid for day relaying, the pleasure of seeing him take the first step towards his own downfall. Everyone there was eager and enthusiastic for the fray. Lenoir, having spoken at such length, had now become silent, but everyone else talked and drank brandy, and hugged his own hate and likely triumph. For several hours, far into the night, the sitting was continued. Each one of the score of members had some comment to make on Lenoir's speech, some suggestion to offer. Lenoir himself was the first to break up this weird gathering of human jackals, already exulting over their prey. He bade his companions a quiet good night, then passed out into the dark street. After he had gone there were a few seconds of complete silence in the dark and sordid room, where men's ugliest passions were holding absolute sway. The giant's heavy footsteps echoed along the ill-paved street, and gradually died away in the distance. Then at last, Foqua Tenville, the public prosecutor, spoke. And who is that man? He asked, addressing the assembly of patriots. Most of them did not know. Provincial from the north, said one of the men at last. He has been here several times before now. And last year he was a fairly constant attendant. I believe he is a butcher by trade, and I find he comes from Calais. He was originally brought here by a citizen for God, who is good to patriot enough. One by one the members of this bond of fraternity began to file out of the chivalbornia. They nodded curt good-nights to each other, and then went to their respective abodes, which surely could not be dignified with the name of home. Tenville remained one of the last. He and Merlene seemed suddenly to have buried the hatchet, which a few hours ago had threatened to destroy one of the other of these wild and bosom friends. Two or three of the most ardent of these ardent extremists had gathered round the public prosecutor and Merlene the framer of the law of the suspect. What do you say, citizens? said Tenville at last quietly. That man-lois, he—me seems—is too eloquent, eh? Dangerous, pronounced Merlene, whilst the other is not at approval. But his scheme is good, suggested one of the men. And we avail ourselves of it, ascended Tenville. But afterwards he paused, and once more everyone not at approval. Yes, he is too dangerous. We'll leave him in peace tomorrow, but afterwards. With a gentle hand Tenville caressed the tall double-posed, which stood in the center of the room, and which was shaped like the guillotine. An evil look was on his face, the grin of a death-dealing monster, savage and envious. The others laughed and grim content. Merlene grunted as early approval. He had no cause to love the provincial coal-heaver who had raised a raucous voice to threaten him. Then, nodding one to the other, the last of the men would, satisfied with this night's work, passed out into the night. The watchman was making his rounds, carrying his lantern, and shouting his customary cry. Inhabitants of Paris sleep quietly. Everything is in order. Everything is at peace. CHAPTER XXII. THE CLOSE OF DAY Day-related had spent the whole of this same night in a wild, impassioned search for Juliet. Earlier in the day, soon after Annier's revelations, he had sought out his English friend, Sir Percy Blakeney, and talked over with him the final arrangements for the removal of Madame de Rélée and Annier from Paris. Though he was a born idealist and a utopian, while de Rélée never, for a moment, had any illusions with regard to his own popularity, he knew that any time, and for any trivial cause, the love which the mob bore him would readily turn to hate. He had seen Mirabu's popularity wane. Lafayette's de Molin was it likely that he alone would survive the inevitable death of so ephemeral a thing. Therefore, whilst he was in power, whilst he was loved and trusted, he had, figuratively and actually, put his house in order. He had made full preparations for his own inevitable downfall, for that probable flight from Paris of those who were depended upon him. He had, as far back as a year ago, provided himself with the necessary passports, and bespoken with his English friend certain measures for the safety of his mother and his crippled little relative. Now it was merely a question of putting those measures into execution. After two hours of Juliet Marnie's arrest, Madame de Relaide and Anne-Mier had quitted the house in the rue École des Médicinés.  The mother of the popular citizen deputy was free to travel in molested. The necessary passports, which the safety of the republic demanded, were all in perfect order, and Madame de Relaide and Anne-Mier passed through the north gate of Paris an hour before sunset on that twenty-fourth day of Fructe d'Or. Their large traveling chase took them some distance on the north road, where they were to meet Lord Hastings and Lord Anthony Dewhurst, two of the Scarlet Pimpernel's most trusted lieutenants, who were to escort them as far as the coast, and then see them safely aboard the English yacht. On that score, therefore, de Relaide had no anxiety.  Then there was old patronel. Ever since the arrest of her young mistress, the poor old soul had been in a state of mind bordering on frenzy, and no amount of eloquence on de Relaide's part would persuade her to quit Paris without Juliet. If my pet lamb is to die, she said, amidst heartbroken sobs, then I have no cause to live. Let those devils take me along, too, if they want to use this old woman like me. But if my darling is allowed to go free, then what would become of her in this awful city without me? She and I have never been separated. She wouldn't know where to turn for her home. And who would cook for her and iron out her kerf-chips? I'd like to know. Reason and common sense were, of course, powerless in face of the sublime and heroic childishness. No one had the heart to tell the woman that the murderous dog of the revolution seldom loosened its fangs once they had closed upon a victim. All de Relaide could do was to convey patronel to the old abode, which Juliet had quitted in order to come to him, which had never been formally given up. The worthy soul, calmed and refreshed, deluded herself into the idea that she was waiting for the return of her young mistress, and became quite cheerful at sight of the familiar room. De Relaide had provided her with money and necessaries. He had but few remaining hopes in his heart, but among them was the firmly implanted one that patronel was too insignificant to draw upon herself the terrible attention of the Committee of Public Safety. By the nightfall he had seen the good woman safely installed, then only did he feel free. At last he could devote himself to what seemed to him the one, the only aim of his life, to find Juliet. A dozen prisons in this vast Paris. Over five thousand prisoners on that night, awaiting trial, condemnation, and death. They were laid at first, strong in his own power, his personality, had thought that the task would be comparatively easy. At the Palais d'Houstisse, they would tell him nothing. The list of new arrests had not been handled in by the commandant of Paris, Citizen Santair, who classified and docketed the miserable herd of aspirants for the next day's guillotine. The list, moreover, would not be completed until the next day, when the trials of the new prisoners would already be imminent. The work of the Committee of Public Safety was done without much delay. Then began De Relaide's weird request through those twelve prisons of Paris. From the temple to the conciergerie, from Palais Condé through the Luxembourg, he spent hours in the fruitless search. Everywhere the same shrug of the shoulders, the same and different reply to his eager query. Unknown. She had not yet been docketed, not yet classified. She was still one of that immense flock of cattle, sent in ever-increasing numbers to the slaughterhouse. Presently tomorrow, after a trial which might last ten minutes, after a hasty condemnation and quick return to prison, she would be listed as one of the traitors, whom this great and beneficent republic sent daily to the guillotine. Veiling did De Relaide try to persuade, to entreat, to bribe. The solemn guardians of these twelve Charnel houses knew nothing of individual prisoners. But the citizen deputy was allowed to look for himself. He was conducted to the great vaulted rooms of the temple, to the vast ball rooms of the Palais Condé, where herded the condemned and those still awaiting trial. He was allowed to witness there the grim farcical tragedies, with which the captives beguiled the few hours which separated them from death. Mont trials were acted there, Tenville was mimicked, and the Place de la Revolution, Sampson the headman, and a couple of inverted chairs to represent the guillotine. Daughters of dukes and princes, descendants of ancient lineage, acted in these weird and ghastly comedies. The ladies, with hair bound high over their heads, would kneel before the inverted chairs, and place the snow-white necks beneath this imaginary guillotine. Speeches were delivered to a mocked populace, whilst a moxantere ordered a mock roll of drums to drown the last flow of eloquence of the supposed victim. No, the horror of it all, the pity, pathos, and misery of this ghastly parody, in the very face of the sublimity of death. They were laid shuttered when first he beheld the scene, shuttered at the very thought of finding Juliet amongst these careless, laughing, thoughtless mimes. His own, his beautiful Juliet, with her proud face and majestic queen-like gestures. It was a relief not to see her there. Juliet Marnie, incognue, was the final word he heard about her. No one told him that by deputy Merlene's strictest orders she had been labeled dangerous, and placed in her remote wing of the Luxembourg Palace, together with a few who, unlike herself, were allowed to see no one, communicate with no one. Then when the cover of food had sounded, when all public places were closed, when the night watchmen had begun his rounds, they relayed knew that his quest for that night must remain fruitless. But he could not rest. In and out the tortuous streets of Paris he roamed during the better part of that night. He was now only awaiting the dawn to publicly demand the right to stand beside Juliet.  Only one thing kept his brain active, his mind clear, the hope of saving Juliet. The dawn was breaking in the far east wind, wandering along the banks of the river. He suddenly felt a touch on his arm. Come to my hovel, said a pleasant, lazy voice close to his ear, whilst a kindly hand seemed to drag him away from the contemplation of the dark, silent river. And a dimmed beastly place it is too, but at least we can talk quietly there. They relayed, roused from his meditation, looked up to see his friend, Sir Percy Blakeney, standing close beside him. Tall, debonair, well dressed, he seemed by his very presence to dissipate the morbid atmosphere, which was beginning to weigh upon Dayerlade's active mind. Dayerlade followed him readily enough through the intricate mazes of old Paris, and down the rue des arts, until Sir Percy stopped outside a small hostelry, the door of which stood wide open. My host has nothing to lose from footpaths and thieves. Explained the Englishman as he guided his friend through the narrow doorway, then up a flight of rickety stairs to a small room on the floor above. He leaves all doors open for anyone to walk in but law. The interior of the house looks so uninviting that no one is tempted to enter. I wonder you care to stay here, remarked Dayerlade, with a momentary smile, as he contrasted in his mind the studious appearance of his friend with the dinginess and dirt of these surroundings.  Dayerlade shook his head. You'd best go back to England, then, he said, for I'll never leave Paris now. Not without Juliette Marnie, shall we say? Rejoined Sir Percy plassably, and I fear me that she has placed herself beyond our reach, said Dayerlade somberly. You know that she is in the Luxembourg prison, worried the Englishman suddenly. I guessed it, but could find no proof. And that she will be tried to-morrow. They never keep a prisoner pining too long. Reply Dayerlade bitterly. I guess that, too. What do you mean to do? Defend her with the last breath in my body. You still love her, then, asked Blakeney with a smile. Still, the look, the accent, the agony of a hopeless passion conveyed in that one word, told Sir Percy Blakeney all that he wished to know. Yet she betrayed you, he said tentatively. And to atone for that sin, an oath, mind you, friends, warned to her father. She's all ready to give her life for me. And are you prepared to forgive? To understand is to forgive. Rejoined Dayerlade simply, and I love her. Your Madonna, said Blakeney, with a gently ironical smile.  And she? She does not love me. Would she have betrayed me else? He sat beside the table and buried his head in his hands. Not even his dearest friend should see how much he had suffered, how deeply his love had been wounded. Sir Percy said nothing. A curious, pleasant smile lurked around the corners of his mobile mouth. Through his mind there flitted the vision of beautiful Marguerite, who had so much loved yet so deeply wronged him. And, looking at his friend, he thought that Dayerlade, too, would soon learn all the contradictions, which wage a constant war in the innermost recesses of a feminine heart. He made a movement as if he would say something more, something of grave import, and seemed to think better of it and shrugged his broad shoulders, as if to say, let time and chance take their course now. When Dayerlade looked up again, Sir Percy was sitting placidly in the armchair with an absolutely blank expression on his face. Now that you know how much I love her, my friend, said Dayerlade as soon as he had mastered his emotions. Will you look after her when they have condemned me and save her from my say? A curious, enigmatic smile suddenly illumined Sir Percy's earnest countenance. Do you attribute supernatural powers to me, then, or to the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel?  Once more it seemed that Sir Percy were about to reveal something of great importance to his friend, and once more he checked himself. The Scarlet Pimpernel was, above all, far-seeing and practical, a man of action and not of impulse. The glowing eyes of his friend, his nervous, feeble movements, did not suggest that he was in a fit state to be entrusted with plans, the success of which hung on a mere thread. Therefore Sir Percy only smiled and said quietly, Well, I'll do my best. CHAPTER XXIII. The day had been an unusually busy one. Five and thirty prisoners, arraigned before the bar of the Committee of Public Safety, had been tried in the last eight hours, an average of rather more than four to the hour, twelve minutes and a half in which to send a human creature, full of life and health, to solve the great enigma which lies hidden beyond the waters of the Styx. And Citizen Deputy Foquat-Tenville, the public prosecutor, had surpassed himself. He seemed indefatigable. Each of these five and thirty prisoners had been arraigned for treason against the Republic, for conspiracy with her enemies, and all had to have irrefutable proofs of their guilt brought before the Committee of Public Safety. Sometimes a few letters, written to friends abroad, and seized at the frontier. A word of condemnation of the measures of the extremists, an expression of horror at the massacres on the passé de la Révolution, where the guillotine creaked incessantly. These were irrefutable proofs, or else perhaps a couple of pistols, or an old family sword seized in the house of a peaceful citizen, would be brought against a prisoner, is an irrefutable proof of his warlike dispositions against the Republic. Though it was not difficult. Out of five and thirty indictments, Foquat-Tenville had obtained thirty convictions. No wonder his friends declared that he had surpassed himself. It had indeed been a glorious day, and the glow of satisfaction as much as the heat caused the public prosecutor to mop his high, bony cranium before he had adjourned for the much-needed respite for refreshment. The day's work was not yet done. The politicals had been disposed of, and there had been such an accumulation of them recently that it was difficult to keep pace with the arrests. And in the meanwhile the criminal record of the great city had not diminished. Because men butchered one another in the name of equality, there were none the fewer among the fraternity of thieves and petty pilferers of ordinary cutthroats and public wantons. And these, too, had to be dealt with by law. The guillotine was impartial, and fell with equal velocity on the neck of the proud duke and the gutter born Fidegeois on a descendant of the Bourbons and the wastrel born in a brothel. The ministerial decrees favored the proletariat. A crime against the Republic was indefensible, but one against the individual was dealt with, with all the paraphernalia of an elaborate administration of justice. There were citizen judges and citizen advocates, and the rabble who crowded in to listen to the trials, acted as honorary jury. It was all thoroughly well done. The citizen criminals were given every chance. The afternoon of this hot August day, one of the last of Gloria's Fructidor, had begun to wane, and the shades of evening to slowly creep into the long, bare room where this travesty of justice was being administered.  Just above him, on the bare, white-washed wall, the words, la republique une est indivisible, and below them the device, liberté, igualété fraternité. To the right and left of the citizen president, four clerks were busy making entries in that ponderous ledger, that amazing record of the foulest crimes the world has ever known, the bulletin de tribune revolutionnaire. At present no one is speaking, and the grating of the clerks' quill-pins against the paper is the only sound which disturbs the silence of the hall. In front of the president, on a bench lower than his, sits citizen Foquat-Enville, rested and refreshed, ready to take up his occupation, for as many hours as his country demands it of him. On every desk, a tallow candle, smoking and spluttering, throws a weird light and more weird shadows on the faces of clerks and president, on blank walls and ominous devices. In the center of the room, a platform surrounded by an iron railing is ready for the accused. Just in front of it, from the tall, raftered ceiling above, there hangs a small brass lamp with a green abajou. On each side of the long, white-washed walls, there are three rows of benches, beautiful old carved oak pews, snatched from Notre Dame and the churches of Saint Eustache and Saint-Germain-Lucerois. Instead of the pious worshipers of medieval times, they now accommodate the lookers on of the grim spectacle of infortunates in their brief halt before the scaffold. The front row of these benches is reserved for those citizen deputies who desire to be present at the debates of the tribunal revolutiona. It is their privilege, almost their duty, as representatives of the people, to see that the sittings are properly conducted. These benches are already well-filled. At one end, on the left, citizen Merlene, minister of justice, sits.  Other well-known faces are there also, dimly outlined in the fast-gathering gloom. But everyone notes, citizen deputy Dayrelate, the idol of the people, as he sits on the extreme end of a bench on the right, with arms tightly folded across his chest, the light from the hanging lamp falling straight on his dark head and proud, straight brows, with the large, restless, eager eyes. Onon the citizen president rings a hand-bell, and there's a discordant noise of horse laughter and loud curses, some pushing, jolting, and swearing, as the general public is admitted into the hall.  Has humanity really such a scum? Women with a single ragged curdle and shift, through the interstices of which the naked, grime-covered flesh shows shamelessly, with bare legs and feet thrust into heavy sabbows, hair disheveled, and evil spirit sodden faces, women without a semblance of womanhood, with shriveled, barren breasts, and dry, parched lips that have never known how to kiss. Women without emotion save that of hate, without desire save for the satisfaction of hunger and thirst, and lust for revenge against their sisters less wretched, less unsex than themselves. They crowd in, jostling one another, swarming into the front rows of the benches, where they can get a better view of the miserable victims about to be pilloried before them. And the men without a semblance of manhood, bent under heavy care of their own degradation, dead to pity, to love, to chivalry, dead to all save in an ordinent longing for the sight of blood. And God helped them all, for there were children, too.  And now they stare around them with eager, greedy eyes, awaiting the amusement of the spectacle, gazing at the president with his tall, frigid cap, at the clerks wielding their indefatigable guile pens, writing, writing, writing, at the flickering lights, throwing clouds of sooty smoke up to the dark ceiling above, then suddenly the eyes of one little mite, a poor, tiny midget not yet in her teens, alight on Paul Dayer-Lade's face, on the opposite side of the room. Chon, Papa Dayer-Lade, she says, pointing in an attenuated little finger across at him, and turning eagerly to those around her, her eyes dilating and wishful recollection of a happy afternoon spent in Papa Dayer-Lade's house, with fine white bread to eat in plenty and great jars of foaming milk. He rouses himself from his apathy, and his great earnest eyes lose the look of agonized misery, as he responds to the greeting of the little one. For one moment, oh, a mere fraction of a second, the squalid faces, the miserable, starved expressions of the crowd, softened outside of him. There is a faint murmur amongst the women, which perhaps God's recording angel registered as a blessing. Who knows? Foquat Enville suppresses a sneer, and the citizen president impatiently rings his handbell again. Bringing forth the accused, he commands in stentorian tones. There's a movement of satisfaction among the crowd, and the angel of God is forced to hide his face again. Chapter 24 The Trial of Juliet It is all indelibly placed on record in the Bulletin de Travino Revolutione, under date 25th of Fructidor, year one of the Revolution. Anyone who cares may read, for the Bulletin is in the archives of the Bibliothèque Nationale of Paris. One by one, the accused have been brought forth, escorted by two men of the National Guard, and ragged, stained uniforms of red, white, and blue. They were then conducted to the small race platform in the center of the hall, and made to listen to the charge brought against them by citizen Foquat Enville, the public prosecutor. These were petty charges, mostly pilfering, fraud, theft, occasionally arson or manslaughter.  These two were condemned to the guillotine, the other sent to the galleys at Brest or Toulon, the forger along with the petty thief, the housebreaker with the absconding clerk. There was no room in the prison for ordinary offenses against the criminal code. They were overfilled already with so-called traitors against the Republic. Three women were sent to the penitentiary at the celpatriar, and were dragged out of the court, shrilly protesting their innocence, and followed by obscene jeers from the spectators on the benches. Then there was a momentary hush. Juliet Marnie had been brought in.  Beneath a tiny, white cap, her golden hair appeared in dainty, curly perfusion. Her childlike oval face was very white, but otherwise quite serene. She seemed absolutely unconscious of her surroundings, and walked with the firm step up to the platform, looking neither to the right nor to the left of her. Therefore she did not see day or late. A great and wonderful radiant seemed to shine in her large eyes, the radiance of self-sacrifice. She was offering not only her life, but everything a woman of refinement holds most dear for the safety of the man she loved. A feeling that was almost physical pain, so intense was it, overcame day or late, when at last he heard her name loudly called by the public prosecutor. All day he had waited for this awful moment for meeting his own misery, his own agonized feeling of an irretrievable loss, and the horrible thought of what she would endure, what she would think, when first she realized the terrible indignity which was to be put upon her. Yet for the sake of her, of her chances of safety and of ultimate freedom, it was undoubtedly that it should be so. Arraigned for conspiracy against the republic, she was liable to secret trial, to be brought up, condemned and executed before he could even hear of her whereabouts, before he could throw himself before her judges and take all guilt upon himself. Those suspected of treason against the republic forfeited, according to Merlene's was iniquitous law, their rights of citizenship, in publicity of trial and in defense. It all might have been finished before day or late knew anything of it. The other way was, of course, more terrible, brought forth amongst the scum of criminal Paris, on a charge the horror of which he could but dimly hope that she was too innocent to fully understand. He dared not even think of what she would suffer. But undoubtedly it was better so. The mud thrown at her robes of purity could never cling to her, and at least her trial would be public. He would be there to take all infamy, all disgrace, all approprium on himself. The strength of his appeal would turn her judges wrath from her to him, and after these few moments of misery she would be free to leave Paris, France, to be happy and to forget him and the memory of him. An overwhelming, all-compelling love filled his entire soul for the beautiful girl, who had so wronged yet so nobly tried to save him. Allonging for her made his very sinews ache. She was no longer Madonna, and her beauty thrilled him with the passionate, almost sensuous desire to give his life for her. The indictment against Juliette Marnie has become history now. On that day, the twenty-fifth of Fricknador, at seven o'clock in the evening, it was read out by the public prosecutor and listened to by the accused, so the bulletin tells us, with complete calm and apparent indifference. She stood up in that same pillory where once stood poor, guilty Charlotte Corday, where presently would stand proud, guiltless Marie Antoinette. And they relayed listen to the scurrilous document, with all the outward calm his strength of will could command. He would have liked to rise from his seat then and there, at once, and in mad, purely animal fury have, with the blow of his fists, quash the words in foquat enville's lying throat. Before her sake he was bound to listen, and above all to act quietly, deliberately, according to form and procedure, so as in no way to imperil her cause. Therefore he listened whilst the public prosecutor spoke. Juliet and Marnie, you are hereby accused of having, by a false and malicious denunciation, slandered the person of a representative of the people. You cause the revolutionary tribunal, through this same mischievous act, to bring a charge against this representative of the people, to institute a domiciliary surge in his house, and to waste valuable time which otherwise belonged to the service of the republic. And this you did not from a misguided sense of duty towards your country, but in wanton and impure spirit, to be rid of the surveillance of one who had your welfare at heart, and who tried to prevent your leading the immoral life which had become a public scandal, and which has now brought you before this court of justice, to answer to a charge of wantonness, impurity, defamation of character, and corruption of public morals. Improved of which I now place before the court your own admission, that more than one citizen of the republic has been led by you into immoral relationship with yourself. And further, your own admission, that your accusation against citizen-deputy day relayed, was false and mischievous. And further and finally, your immoral and obscene correspondence with some persons unknown, which you vainly tried to destroy. In consideration of which, and in the name of the people of France, who spokesman I am, I demand that you be taken hints from this hall of justice to the Place de la Revolution, in full view of the citizens of Paris, and its environs, and clad in a soiled white garment, emblem of the smirch upon your soul, that there you be publicly whipped by the hands of citizen Sampson, the public executioner, after which, that you be taken to the prison of the South Petrier, there to be further detained at the discretion of the Committee of Public Safety. And now, Juliette Marnie, you have heard the indictment preferred against you. Have you anything to say? Why the sentence which I have demanded shall not be passed upon you? Jeers, shouts, laughter, and curses greeted the speech of the public prosecutor. All that was most vile and most bestial in this miserable, misguided people struggling for utopia and liberty seemed to come to the surface, while listening to the reading of this most infamous document. The delight of seeing this beautiful, ethereal woman, almost unearthly in her proud aloofness, smirched with the vilest mud to which the vituperation of man can contrive to sink, was a veritable treat to the degraded riches. The women yelled horse approval, the children not understanding, but in mirthless glee, the men, with loud curses, showed their appreciation of Oquatineville's speech. As for day relayed, the mental agony he endured surpassed any torture which the devils, they say, reserved for the damned. His sinews cracked and his frantic efforts to control himself. He dug his fingernails into his flesh, trying by physical pain to drown the sufferings of his mind. He thought that his reason was tottering, that he would go mad if he heard another word of his infamy.  All his pity for them was gone, his love for humanity, his devotion to the suffering poor.  He was, for one brief moment, now at one with them in their inordinate lust for revenge. Only Juliet, throughout all this, remained calm, silent, and passive. She had heard the indictment, heard the loathsome sentence, for her white cheeks had gradually become ashy pale. But never for a moment did she depart from her attitude of proud aloofness.   The bulletin says that she took out her handkerchief and wiped her face with it. The cecilye l'effron qui fût par l'idée. The heat had become oppressive. The atmosphere was overcharged with the dank, penetrating odor of steaming, dirty clothes. The room, though vast, was close and suffocating. The talocandles flickering in the humid, hot air threw the faces of the president and clerks into bold relief, with curious caricature effects of light and shade. The petrol lamp above the head of the accused had flared up and begun to smoke, causing the chimney to crack with a sharp report. This diversion affected a momentary silence among the crowd, and the public prosecutor was able to repeat his query. Juliet Marney, have you anything to say and reply to the charge brought against you, and why the sentence which I have demanded should not be passed against you? The city smoke from the lamp came down in small, black, greasy particles. Juliet, with her slender fingertips, flicked one of these quietly off her sleeve. Then she replied, No, I have nothing to say. Have you instructed an advocate to defend you, according to your rights of citizenship, which the law allows? added the public prosecutor solemnly. Juliet would have replied at once. Her mouth had already framed the no for which she meant to answer. But now at last had come Dayer-Lade's hour. For this he had been silent, had suffered and had held his peace, whilst twice twenty-four hours had dragged their weary links along, since the arrest of the woman he loved. In a moment he was on his feet before the mall, accustomed to speak, to dominate, to command. Citizeness Juliet Marney has entrusted me with her defense. He said, even before the no had escaped Juliet's white lips. And I am here to refute the charges brought against her, and to demand, in the name of the people of France, full acquittal and justice for her. CHAPTER XXV The defense. Intense excitement, which found vent and loud applause, greeted Dayer-Lade's statement. Saira, saira, vas-i, Dayer-Lade, came from the crowded benches round, and men, women and children, wearied with the monotony of the past proceedings, settled themselves down for a quarter of an hour's keen enjoyment. If Dayer-Lade had anything to do with it, the trial was sure to end in excitement, and the people were always ready to listen to their special favorite. The citizen deputies, drowsy after the long, oppressive day, seemed to rouse themselves to renewed interest. Lebrun, like a big, shaggy dog, shook himself free from creeping somnolence. Robespierre smiled between his thin lips, and looked across at Merlene to see how the situation affected him. The enmity between the Minister of Justice and Citizen Dayer-Lade was well known, and everyone noted, with added zest, that the former were a keen look of anticipated triumph. High up, on one of the topmost benches, sat Citizen LeMouie, the stage manager of this palpitating drama. He looked down, with obvious satisfaction, at the scene which he himself had suggested last night to the members of the Jackamon Club. In sharp eyes had tried to pierce the gloom which wrapped the crowd of spectators, searching mainly to distinguish the broad figure and massive head of the provincial giant. The light from the petrol lamp shone full on Dayer-Lade's earnest, dark countenance, as he looked Juliet's infamous accuser full in the face, but the tallow candles flickering weirdly on the President's desk, through Tenville's short, spare figure, and large, unkempt head into curious, grotesque silhouette. But apparently had lost none of her calm, and there was no one there sufficiently interested in her personality to note the tinge of delicate color which, at the first word of Dayer-Lade, had slowly mounted to her pale cheeks. Tenville waited until the wave of excitement had broken upon the shoals of expectancy. Then he resumed. Then, Citizen Dayer-Lade, what have you to say? Why sentence should not be passed upon the accused? I have to say that the accused is innocent of every charge brought against her in your indictment, replied Dayer-Lade firmly. And how do you substantiate this statement, Citizen Deputy? inquired Tenville, speaking with mock, unctuousness. Very simply, Citizen Tenville, the correspondence to which you refer did not belong to the accused, but to me. It consisted of certain communications, which I desired to hold with Marie-Antoinette, now a prisoner in the Conciergerie, during my state there as Lieutenant-Governor. The Citizeness Juliet Marney, by denouncing me, was serving the Republic, for my communications with Marie-Antoinette had referenced to my own hopes of seeing her quit this country and take refuge in her own native land. Gradually as Dayer-Lade spoke, a murmur, like the distant roar of a monstrous breaker, rose among the crowd on the upper benches, as he continued quietly and firmly, so it grew in volume and in intensity until his last words were drowned in one mighty thunderous shout of horror and nexecration. Dayer-Lade, the friend and idol of the people, the privileged darling of this unruly population, the father of the children, the friend of the women, the sympathizer in all troubles, Papa Dayer-Lade as the little ones called him, he, a traitor, self-accused, plotting and planning for an ex-tyrant, a harlot who had called her self- a queen, for Marie-Antoinette the Austrian, who had desired and worked for the overthrow of France. He, Dayer-Lade, a traitor, in one moment, as he spoke, the love which in their crude hearts they bore him, that animal primitive love, was turned to sudden, equally irresponsible hate. He had deceived them, laughed at them, tried to bribe them by feeding their little ones, bah, the bread of the traitor, it might have choked the children. Surprise at first had taken their breath away, already they had marveled why he should stand up to defend a wanton. And now, probably feeling that he was on the point of being found out, he thought it better to make a clean breast of his own treason, trusting in his popularity, in his power over the people, bah, no one extenuating circumstance did they find in their hardened hearts for him. He had been their idol, enshrined in their squalid, degraded minds, and now he had fallen, shattered beyond recall, and they hated and loaked them as much as they had loved him before. And this his enemies noted, and smiled with complete satisfaction. Merlin heaped a sigh of relief. Sinville nodded his shaggy head in token of intense delight. What that provincial cold-heaver had foretold had indeed come to pass. The populace, that most fickle of all fickle things in this world, had turned all at once against its favorite. This l'noix had predicted, and the transition had become even more rapid than he had anticipated. They relate had been given a length of rope, and, figuratively speaking, had already hanged himself. The reality was a mere matter of a few hours now. At dawn to-morrow the guillotine, and the mob of Paris, who yesterday would have torn his detractors limb from limb, would on the morrow be dragging him, with hoots and yells and howls of execration, to the scaffold. The most shadowy of all footholds, that of the whim of a populace, had already given way under him. His enemies knew it, and were exulting in their triumph. He knew it himself, and stood up, calmly defiant, ready for any event, if only he succeeded in snatching her beautiful head from the ready embrace of the guillotine. Juliet herself had remained as if entranced. The color had again fled from her cheeks, leaving them paler, more ashen than before. It seemed as if in this moment she suffered more than human creature could bear, more than any torture she had undergone here the two. He would not owe his life to her. That was the one overwhelming thought in her, which annihilated all others. His love for her was dead, and he would not accept the great sacrifice at her hands. Thus these two, in the supreme moment of their life, saw each other, yet did not understand. A word, a touch, would have given them both the key to one another's heart. And now it seemed his death would part them forever, whilst that great enigma remained unsolved. The public prosecutor had been waiting until the noise had somewhat subsided, and his voice could be heard above the den. Then he said, with a smile of ill-concealed satisfaction, and is the court then to understand, Citizen Deputy Day relayed, that it was you who tried to burn the treasonable correspondence and to destroy the case which contained it. The treasonable correspondence was mine, and it was I who destroyed it. But the accused admitted before Citizen Merlene that she herself was trying to burn certain love-letters that would have brought to light her illicit relationship with another man than yourself, argued Tenville Swawley. The rope was perhaps not quite long enough. Day relayed that it must have all that could be given him, ere this memorable sitting was adjourned. Day relayed, however, and said of directing his reply straight to his enemy, now turned towards the dense crowd of spectators on the benches opposite to him. Citizens, friends, brothers, he said warmly. The accused is only a girl, young, innocent, knowing nothing of peril or of sin. You all have mothers, sisters, daughters. Have you not watched those dear to you in the many moods of which a feminine heart is capable? Have you not seen them affectionate, tender, and impulsive? Would you love them so dearly but for the fickleness of their moods? Have you not worshipped them in your hearts, for those sublime impulses which put all man's plans and calculations to shame? Look on the accused, Citizens. She loves the Republic. The people of France, and feared that I, an unworthy representative of her sons, was hatching treason against our great mother. That was her first wayward impulse, to stop me before I committed the awful crime, to punish me, or perhaps only to warn me. Does a young girl calculate, Citizens? She acts as her heart dictates, her reason but awakes from slumber later on when the act is done, then comes repentance sometimes, another impulse of tenderness which we all revere. Could you extract vinegar from rose-leaves? Just as readily could you find reason in a young girl's head? Is that a crime? She wished to thwart me in my treason, then, seeing me in peril, the sincere friendship she had for me gained the upper hand once more. She loved my mother, who might be losing a son. She loved my crippled foster sister, for their sakes, not for mine. But, traitors, did she yield to another, a heavenly impulse, that of saving me from the consequences of my own folly? Was that a crime, Citizens? When you are ailing, do not your mothers, sisters, wives tend you? When you are seriously ill, would they not give their heart's blood to save you?  And so it was with the accused, Citizens. She had seen my crime and longed to punish it. She saw those who had befriended her in sorrow, and she tried to ease their pain by taking my guilt upon her shoulders. She has suffered for the noble lie, which she had told on my behalf, as no woman has ever made to suffer before. She has stood white and innocent as your newborn children in the pillory of infamy. She was ready to endure death, and what was ten thousand times worse than death, because of her own warm-hearted affection. But you, Citizens of France, who, above all, are noble, true and chivalrous, you will not allow the sweet impulses of the young and tender womanhood to be punished with the ban of felony.  Take her to your hearts, she is worthy of it, worthier now for having blushed before you, worthier than any heroine in the great role of honor of France. His magnetic voice went echoing along the raptors of the great sordid hall of justice, filling it with the glory it had never known before. His enthusiasm thrilled his hearers. His appeal to their honor and chivalry roused all the finer feelings within them. Still hating him for his treason, his magical appeal had turned their hearts towards her. They had listened to him without interruption, and now at last, when he paused, it was very evident, by muttered exclamations and glances cast at Juliet, that popular feeling which up to the present had practically ignored her, now went out towards her personality with overwhelming sympathy. Obviously at the present moment, if Juliet's fate had been put to a plebiscite, she would have been unanimously acquitted. Merlene, as day-related spoke, had once or twice tried to read his friend Foquat-Tinville's enigmatic expression that the public prosecutor, with his face in deep shadow, had not moved a muscle during the citizen deputy's noble peroration. He sat at his desk, chin resting on hand, staring before him with an expression of indifference, almost of boredom. Now, when day-related finished speaking, and the outburst of human enthusiasm had somewhat subsided, he rose slowly to his feet and said quietly, so you maintain, citizen deputy, that the accused is a chaste and innocent girl, unadjustly charged with immorality. I do, protested day-related lally, and will you tell the court why you are so ready to publicly accuse yourself of treason against the republic, knowing full well the consequences of your action? Would any Frenchman care to save his own life at the expense of a woman's honor? Retorted day-related proudly, a murmur of approval greeted these words, and Tinville remarked unctuously, quite so, quite so. We esteem your chivalry, citizen deputy. The same spirit, no doubt, actuates you to maintain that the accused knew nothing of the papers which you say you destroyed. She knew nothing of them. I destroyed them. I did not know that they had been found. While my return to my house, I discovered that the citizeness, Juliet Marnie, had falsely accused herself of having destroyed some papers surreptitiously. She said they were love letters. It is false. The minister of justice, citizen deputy Umerleen, will answer for the truth of that. It is the truth, said Juliet quietly. Our voice rang out clear, almost triumphant, in the midst of the breathless pause, caused by the previous swift questions and loud answers. They were laid down with silent. Just one simple fact he did not know. N. M. A., in telling him the events in connection with the arrest of Juliet, had admitted to give him the one little detail that the burnt letters were found in the young girl's bedroom. Up to the moment when the public prosecutor confronted him with it, he had been under the impression that she had destroyed the papers in the letter case in the study, where she had remained alone after Meraline and his men had left the room. She could easily have burnt them there, as a tiny spirit lamp was always kept alight on the side table for the use of smokers. This little fact now altered the entire course of events. Tenville had but to frame an indignant ejaculation. Citizens of France, see how you are being befooled and hoodwinked. Then he turned once more to day relayed. Citizen day relayed, he began. But in the tumult that ensued, he could no longer hear his own voice. The pent-up rage of the entire mob of Paris seemed to find vent for itself in the house with which the crowd now tried to drown the rest of the proceedings. As their brutish hearts had suddenly melted on behalf of Juliet, in response to day relayed's passionate appeal, so now they swiftly changed their sympathetic attitude to one of horror and execration. Two people had fooled and deceived them. One of these they had referenced and trusted, as much as their degraded minds were capable of referencing anything, therefore his sin seemed doubly damnable. He and that pale-faced aristocrat had, for weeks now, months, or a year, perhaps, conspired against the republic, against the revolution, which had been made by a people thirsting for liberty. During these months and years he had talked to them, and they had listened. He had poured forth treasures of eloquence, cajoled them, as he had done just now. The noise and hubbub were growing apace. If Tenville and Merlien had desired to infuriate the mob, they had more than succeeded. All that was bestial, most savage in this awful Parisian populace rose to the surface now in one wild, mad desire for revenge. The crowd rushed down from the benches, over one another's head. Over children's fallen bodies, they rushed down because they wanted to get at him. Their wild and favorite, and at his pale-faced mistress, and tear them to pieces, hit them, scratch out their eyes. They snarled like so many wild beasts. The women shrieked, the children cried, and the men of the National Guard, hurrying forward, had much a do to keep back this flood-tide of hate. Had any of them broken loose from behind the barrier of bayonets hastily rised against them, it would have fared ill with Desrelade and Juliet. The president wildly rang his bell, and his voice, quivering with excitement, was heard once or twice above the den. Clear the court! Clear the court! But the people refused to be cleared out of court. A la lanterne le treter, morta derelade, a la lanterne, le arristo. And in the thickest of the crowd, the broad shoulders and massive head of citizen Lois towered above the others. The first it seemed as if he had been urging on the mob and its fury. The strident voice, with its broad provincial accent, was heard distinctly shouting loud of attuperations against the EQs. Then, at a given moment, when the tumult was at its height, when the National Guard felt their bayonets giving way before the onrushing of human jackals, Lenois changed his tactics. "'Tune, c'est bête!' he shouted loudly. "'We shall do far better with the traitors when we get them outside. What say you citizens? Shall we leave the judges here to conclude the farce and arrange for its sequel ourselves outside the Dégroix-Jean?' At first, but little heed was paid to his suggestion, and he repeated it once or twice, adding some interesting details. "'When his free are in the streets, where these apes of the National Guard can't get between the people of France and they're just revenge, ma foie!' he added, squaring his broad shoulders and pushing his way through the crowd towards the door. "'I, for one, am going to see where hangs the most suitable lanterne.'" Like a flock of sheep, the crowd now followed him. "'The nearest lanterne,' they shouted. "'In the streets, in the streets, a la lanterne, the traitors.' And with many a year, many a loathsome curse, and still more loathsome jests, some the crowd began to file out. A few only remained to see the conclusions of the farce." Chapter 26. Sentence of Death. The butane dutrebune rarvoussine now tells us that both the accused had remained perfectly calm during the turmoil which raged within the bare walls of the Hall of Justice. Citizen deputies day relayed, however, so the chroniclers aver, though outwardly impassive, was evidently deeply moved. He had very expressivized, clear mirrors of the fine, upright soul within, and in them there was a look of intense emotion as he watched the crowd, which he had so often dominated and controlled, now turning and hatred against him.  But when the thick of the crowd went pushed and jostled itself out of the hall, that transient emotion seemed to disappear, and he allowed himself quietly to be led from the front bench, where he had set as a privileged member of the National Convention, to a place immediately behind the dock, in between two men of the National Guard. From that moment he was a prisoner, accused of treason against the Republic, and obviously his mock trial would be hurried through by his triumphant enemies, whilst the temper of the people was at bowling point against him. The complete silence had succeeded to the raging tumult of the past few moments. Nothing now could be heard in the vast room, save foquatineville's hastily whispered instructions to the clerk nearest him, and a scratch to the latter's cool pen against the paper. The President was, with equal rapidity, affixing his signature to various papers handed up to him by the other clerks. The few remaining spectators, the deputies, and those among the crowd who had elected to see the close of the debate, were silent and expectant. Merlene was mopping his forehead as if in intense fatigue after a hard struggle. Rope fear was coolly taking snuff. From where day relate stood he could see Juliet's graceful figure silhouetted against the light of the petrol lamp. His heart was torn between intense misery at having failed to save her, and a curious exultant joy at the thought of dying beside her. He knew the procedure of this revolutionary tribunal well, knew that within the next few moments he too would be condemned, that they would both be hustled out of the crowd and dragged through the streets of Paris, and finally thrown into the same prison to heard with those who, like themselves, had but a few hours to live. And then, tomorrow at dawn, death for them both under the guillotine, death in public with all its attendant horrors, the packed tumble, the priest in civil clothes appointed by this godless government muttering conventional prayers and valueless exhortations. And in his heart there was nothing but love for her, love in an intense pity, for the punishment she was suffering was far greater than her crime. He hoped that in her heart remorse would not be too bitter, and he looked forward with joy to the next few hours, which he would pass near her, during which he could perhaps still console and soothe her. She was but the victim of an ideal, a fate stronger than her own will. She stood an innocent martyr to the great mistake of her life. But the minute sped on, Fuqua-Tenville had evidently completed his new indictments. The one against Juliet Marnie was read out first. She was now accused of conspiring with Paul Dayer-Late against the safety of the republic by having cognizance of a treasonable correspondence carried on with the prisoner, Marie Antoinette, by virtue of which accusation the public prosecutor asked her if she had anything to say. No, she replied loudly and firmly, I pray to God for the safety and deliverance of our Queen, Marie Antoinette, and for the overthrow of this reign of terror and anarchy. These words, registered in the butyndy tribunal, were taken as final and irrefutable proofs of her guilt, and she was then summarily condemned to death. She was then made to step down from the dock, and they were laid to stand in her place. He listened quietly to the long indictment which Fuqua Tenville had already framed against him the evening before, and readiness for this contingency. The words treason against the republic occurred conspicuously and repeatedly. The document itself is at one with the thousands of written charges framed by that odious Fuqua Tenville during these periods of bloodshed, and which in themselves are the most scathing indictments against the odious travesty of justice perpetrated with his help. Self-accused and avowedly a traitor, Dayer-Late was not even asked if he had anything to say. The words of death was passed on him with a rapidity and callousness peculiar to these proceedings, after which Paul Dayer-Late and Juliet Marnie were led forth under strong escort into the street. In chapters 25 and 26. CHAPTER 27 and 28 of I Will Repay. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Annie Kirkpatrick. I Will Repay by Baroness Hortzee. CHAPTER 27. THE FRUCTED DOOR RIOTS. Many accounts, more or less authentic, have been published of the events known to history as the Fructador riots. But this is how it all happened. At any rate, it is the version related some few days later in England to the Prince of Wales by no less than a personage than Sir Perciny Blankney, and who indeed should know better than the Scarlet Pempernel himself. They were laid in Juliet Marnie, where the last of the batch of prisoners who were tried on that memorable day of Fructador. There had been such a number of these that all the covered carts in use for the conveyance of prisoners to and from the Hall of Justice had already been dispatched with their weighty human load, thus it was that only a rough wooden cart, hoodless and rickety, was available, and into this they were laid in Juliet were ordered to mount. It was now close on nine o'clock in the evening. The streets of Paris, sparsely illuminated here and there with solitary oil lamps slung across from house to house on wires, presented a miserable and squalid appearance. Then, misty rain had begun to fall, transforming the ill-paid-proofed and amorouses of sticky mud. The Hall of Justice was surrounded by a howling and shrieking mob, who, having imbibed all the stores of Brandy and the neighboring drinking-bars, was now waiting outside in the dripping rain for the express purpose of venting its pent-up spirit-sodden lust of rage against the man whom it had once worshipped, but whom now it hated. Men, women, and even children swarmed round the principal entrances of the Palais des Justices, along the bank of the river as far as the Pont de Chants, and up towards the Luxembourg Palace, now transformed into the prison, to which the condemned would no doubt be conveyed. Along the riverbank and immediately facing the Palais des Justices, a row of gallows-shaped posts, at intervals of a hundred yards or more, held each a smoky petrol lamp at a height of some eight feet from the ground. One of these lamps had been knocked down, and from the post itself, they are now hung ominously, a length of rope, with a noose at the end. Around this improvised gallows a group of women set, or rather squatted, in the mud. Their ragged shifts and curdles, soaked through with the drizzling rain, hung dankly on their emaciated forms. Their hair, in some cases gray, and in others dark or straw-colored, hung matted round their wet faces, on which the dirt and the damp had drawn weird and grotesque lines. The men were restless and noisy, rushing aimlessly hither and dither. From the corner of the bridge, up the Roudou Palais, fearful as their prey be conjured away, ere their vengeance was satisfied. Oh, how they hated their former idol now! Citizen ennoir, with his broad shoulders and powerful, grime-covered head, towered above the throng, his strident voice, with his raucous, provincial accent, could be distinctly heard above the den, egging on the men, shouting to the women, stirring up hatred against the prisoners, wherever it showed signs of abating and intensity. The coal-heaver, hailing from some distant province, seemed to have set himself the grim task of provoking the invuriated populace to some terrible deed of revenge against day-related Juliet. The darkness of the street, the fast-falling mist which obscured the light from the meager oil lamps, seemed to add a certain weirdness to this moving, seething multitude. No one could see his neighbor. In the blackness of the night, the muttering or yelling figures moved about like some spectral creatures from hellish regions. The acoos of Brittany, who called the hoodows about to die, whilst the women squatting in the oozing mud, beneath that swinging piece of rope, looked like a group of ghostly witches waiting for the hour of their Sabbath. It was day-related that the swinging lantern in the doorway fell upon his face. The foremost of the crowd recognized him. A howl of execution went up to the cloud-covered sky, and a hundred hands were thrust out in deadly menace against him. It seemed as if they wished to tear him to pieces. He shivered slightly, as if with a sudden blast of cold, humid air, but he stepped quietly into the cart, closely followed by Juliet. The strong escort of the National Guard with Gaumondant Centaire and his two drummers had much to do to keep back the mob. It was not the policy of the revolutionary government to allow excesses of summary justice in the streets. The public execution of traders on the plassé de la revolution, the processions and the timbrels, were thought to be wholesome examples for other would-be traders to mark and digest. Citizen Centaire, military commandant of Paris, had ordered his men to use their bayonets ruthlessly, and to further overall the populace, to speak to the crowd. But they were late had no such intention. They seemed chiefly concerned in shielding Juliet from the cold.  The eyewitnesses of his memorable events have declared that, at a given moment, he looked up suddenly with a curious, eager expression in his eyes, and then raised himself in the cart and seemed to be trying to penetrate into the cart. And then, à la dentaine was the continual horse-cry of the mob. Up to now, flanked in their rear by the outer walls of the Palais des Justices, the soldiers had founded a fairly easy task to keep the crowd at bay. But there came a time when the cart was bound to move out into the open in order to convey the prisoners along by the Rue du Palais up to the Luxembourg prison. This task, however, had become more and more difficult every moment. It was mad with rage at seeing its desires frustrated by a few soldiers. The drums had been greeted by terrific yells, which effectually drowned their role. The first movement of the cart was hailed by a veritable tumult. Only the women who squatted round the gallows had not moved from their position of vantage. One of these McGarras was quietly re-adjusting a rope, which had got out of place. But all the men and some of the women were literally besieging the cart and now could save David Laid and Juliet from an immediate and horrible death. Amour, amour, à la lentelle traite. Cintero himself who had shouted himself hoarse was at a loss what to do. It sent one man to the nearest cavalry barracks, but reinforcements would still be some little time coming. Whilst in the meanwhile his men were getting exhausted and the mob more and more excited threatened to break through their line at every moment. There was not another second willingly have thrown the prey for which it clamored. And in the year one of the revolution it was not good to disobey. At this supreme moment of perplexity he suddenly felt a respectful touch on his arm. Close behind him a soldier of the National Guard not one of his own men was standing out of tension and holding a small folded paper in his hand. Sent to you by the minister of justice whispered the soldier hurriedly up against the side of the cart where a rough stable lantern had been fixed. He took the paper from the soldier's hand and hastily tearing it open he read it by the dim light of the lantern. As he read his thick coarse features expressed the keenest satisfaction you have two more men with you he asked quickly yes citizen replied the man pointing towards his right and the citizen minister said you would give me two more you'll take the prisoners quietly giving me full instructions you can have the cart drawn back a little more under the shadow of the portico where the prisoners can be made to a light they can then be given into my charge you in the meantime are to stay here with your men around the empty cart as long as you can reinforcements have been sent for and must soon be here when they arrive you are to move along with the cart as if you had thought of reinforcements and glad to be rid of the responsibility of conducting such troublesome prisoners the thick mist which grew more and more dense favored the new maneuver and the constant role of drums drowned the hastily given orders the cart was drawn back into the deepest shadow of the great portico and whilst the mob were howling their loudest and yelling out frantic demands for the traders they were laid in Juliet years as they did so or my orders are to shoot you where you stand neither of them had any wish for resistance Juliet called a num who was cleaning today who had placed a protecting arm around her sent here I told off two of his men to join the new escort of the prisoners and presently the small party scurrying the walls of the Palais de justices began to walk the blackness of the night too had become absolutely dense and in the distance the cries of the populace grew more and more faint Chapter 28 the unexpected the small party walked on in silence it seemed to consist of a very few men of the national guard whom Santair had placed under the command of the soldier who had transmitted to him the orders of the assistant deputies Juliet conscious of a sense of satisfaction and that thought of being free from that pack of raging wild beasts beyond that they cared nothing both felt already the shadow of death hovering over them the supreme moment of their lives had come and had found them side by side what neither fear nor remorse sorrow nor joy could do that the great and mighty shadow accomplished in a trice Juliet looking death bravely in the face held out her hand between them not even a murmur they were laid with the unerring instinct of his own unselfish passion understood all that the tiny hand wished to convey to him in a moment everything was forgotten save the joy of this touch death or the fear of death had ceased to exist life was beautiful and in the soul of these two human creatures there was perfect peace almost perfect happiness with one grasp of the hand they had sought and found one another soul what mattered the yelling crowd they had found one another hand in hand shoulder to shoulder they had gone off wandering into the land of dreams or dwelt neither doubt nor treachery where there was nothing to forgive he no longer said she does not love me would she have betrayed me else he felt the clinging trustful touch of her hand and knew that with all her faults her great sin and her lasting sorrow her woman's heart heaven's most priceless treasure was indeed truly his and she knew that he had forgiven had not to forgive for love is sweet and tender and judge is not love is love whole trustful passionate love is perfect understanding and perfect peace and so they followed their escort with so ever who chose to lead them their eyes wandered aimlessly over the misladen landscape of this portion of deserted Paris they had turned away from the river now and were following the rude arts close by on the right was the dismal little holstery LaCrusca say thought himself vaguely wondering what would become of his English friend but it would take more than the ingenuity of the Scarlet Pimpernel to get two noted prisoners out of Paris today even if HALT the word of command rang out clearly and distinctly through the rain-soaked atmosphere they were laid through up his head and listened something strange and unaccountable and that same word of command had struck a sense of ear yet the party had halted and there was a click the next moment there was a loud cry a moi they were laid to the Scarlet Pimpernel a vigorous blow from an unseen hand had knocked down and extinguished the nearest street lantern they were laid felt that he and Juliet were being hastily dragged in her and adjoining doorway even as the cheery voice echoed along the narrow street half a dozen men were struggling below in the mud and there was a plentiful supply of honest English oaths it looked as if the men of the National Guard and Juliet would have been slower to understand well done Tony good zoops folks that was a smart bit of work the lazy pleasant voice was unmistakable but got in heaven where did it come from of one thing there could be no doubt the two men dispatched by Santerre were lying disabled on the ground whilst three other soldiers were busy pinioning them with ropes what did it all mean love friend Day-Relayed had you not thought I trust that I would leave stood the tall figure of the Jacobin orator the bloodthirsty citizen the two young people gazed and gazed then looked again dumbfounded hardly daring to trust their vision for through the grime-covered mask of the gigantic coal-heaver a pair of Mary blue eyes was regarding them with lazy amusement law I do look a miserable object I know said the law you are amongst friends now who you dane to forgive me Juliet looked up her great earnest eyes now swimming in tears soft those of the brave man who had so nobly stood by her in the man she loved late me began Day-Relayed Mr. Percy quickly interrupted him hush man we have but a few moments remember you or I should have failed I could only succeed by subjecting you and Mademoiselle to terrible indignities our league could plan but won't rescue and I had to adopt the best means at my command to leave you condemned and led away together faith he added with a pleasant laugh my friend Tenville will not be pleased when he realizes that citizen brogarde brogarde shouted sir Percy where is that ass brogarde law man he added a citizen brogarde obsequious and fussy and with pocket stuff with English gold came shuffling along where do you hide your engaging countenance here another length of rope for the gallant soldiers ring them in he prowled along merrily innately kind and chivalrous he wished to give day-related Juliet time to recover from their day's surprise the transition from dull despair to boy and hope had been so sudden it had all happened in less than three minutes the scuffle had been short and sudden outside the two soldiers of Santerre had been taken completely unawares and the three young men and those citizens who felt ready for excitement were busy mobbing the hall of justice a mile and a half away one or two heads had appeared at the small windows of the squalid house's opposite but it was too dark to see anything and the scuffle had varied quickly to subsided all was silent now in the rude arts and in the grimy coffee room the cruise cassette two soldiers of the National Guard were lying in the venturer who had planned this impudent coop we've got so far friends haven't we he said cheerly and now for the immediate future we must all be out of Paris tonight or the guillotine for the lot of us tomorrow he spoke gaily and with that pleasant drawl of his which was so well known in the fashion world assemblies of London but there was a ring of earnestness in his voice as the lieutenants looked up at him ready to obey and Lord Hastings dressed as soldiers of the National Guard had played their part to perfection Lord Hastings had presented the order to Santair and the three young bucks at the word of command from her chief had fallen upon and overpowered the two men whom the common daughter of Paris had dispatched to look after the prisoners so far all was well but how to get out of Paris and to the court they bow madam was they Marnie he said allow me to conduct you to a room which the unworthy of your presence will nevertheless enable you to rest quietly for a few minutes whilst I give my friend day-relate further advice and instructions in the room you will find a disguise which I pray you to don with all your attention and your self-control and your prayer or prayer as soon as the door had closed upon her you once more turned to the men whose uniforms will not do now he said peremptly there are bundles of unbombomable clothes here Tony will you all dawn them as quickly as Four men hastily obeyed. Lord Anthony Dewhurst, one of the most elegant dandies of London society, had brought forth from a daint cupboard a bundle of clothes, mere rags, filthy but useful. Within ten minutes the change was accomplished, and four dirty, slouchy figures stood confronting their chief. "'That's capital,' said Sir Percy Merrily. "'Now, for my name was L. D. Marnie.' Hardly had he spoken a word when the door of the adjoining room was pushed open, and a horrible apparition stood before the men.  A shout of rapturous delight greeted this uncanny apparition. Juliet, like the true woman she was, had found all her energy and spirits now that she felt she had an important part to play. She awoke from her dream to realize that noble friends had risked their lives for the man she loved, and for her. Of herself she did not think. She only remembered that her presence of mind, her physical and mental strength, would be needed to carry the rescue to a successful end. Therefore, with the rags of a pair of tricotues, she had also dawned her personality. She played her part valiantly, and one look at the perfection of her disguise was sufficient to assure the leader of the band of heroes, that his instructions would be carried through to the letter. They relayed to, now looked the ragged sanskilo to the life, with bare and muddy feet, frayed breeches, and shabby, black shag-spenser. The four men stood waiting together with Juliet, while Sir Percy gave them his final instructions. "'We'll mix with the crowd,' he said. "'It is for us to see that that unruly crowd does what we want. Madden Wenzel de Marnier, a thousand congratulations. I intrigue you to take hold of my friend Deirele's hand and not let go of it on any pretext, whatever. "'Law, not a difficult task, I mean,' he added, with his genial smile. "'And yours, Deirele, is equally easy. I enjoin you to take charge of Madden Wenzel Juliet, and on no account to leave her side until we are out to Paris.' "'Out of Paris?' I could day relayed with a troubled sigh. "'I,' rejoined Sir Percy boldly, out of Paris, with a howling mob at our heels, causing the authorities to take double precautions. And above all, remember, friends, that our rallying cries, the shrill call of the seam-yew, thrice repeated, fall it until you are outside of the gates of Paris. Once there, listen forward again. It will lead you to freedom and safety at last. I, outside Paris, by the grace of God. The hearts of his ears thrilled as they heard him. Who could help but follow this brave and gallant adventurer, with the magic voice and the noble bearing?' "'And now, enroute,' said Blakeney, finally, that our centaire will have dispersed the pack of yelling hyenas with his cavalry by now. They'll to the temple prison to find their fray, will in their wake. "'I'm well, my friends, and remember the seagull's cry.' "'Deirele drew Juliet's hand in his. We are ready,' he said. "'And God bless the scarlet pimpinelle.' Then the five men, with Juliet in their midst, went out into the street once more. In chapters 27 and 28